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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Close Encounters of the Blurred Kind

Ivan was parked up in his Mercedes E-Class on Ropemaker’s Fields. Just opposite The Grapes public house, owned by Sir Ian McKellen. From his seat he admired the pub’s classic, frosted glass front door and windows. Ivan wished he were inside as he often was. Enjoying a pint of Guinness in front of the roaring fire. At one o’clock in the morning, it was actually far too late for any customers to be drinking in the pub. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t the sort of pub that did lock-ins. He took a greedy bite of his large chicken shawarma sandwich and chased it down with a hefty gulp from his can of Sprite. Ivan stepped out of the car and pulled his camel hair knee-length coat around him tight. He leaned back against the rear passenger door. With his old army Zippo lighter he sparked up a Marlboro. He lamented how expensive smoking was becoming these days. A packet of cigarettes cost the best part of fifteen quid now. He really ought to quit. The autumn wind bit into his face and in the half moonlight he could see a couple of cat-sized rats. They were chasing each other around the wheelie bins beside the pub. He gagged inwardly at the smell of overdue refuse. The phone on his dashboard chirped into life. Ivan reached into the car and pressed the answer button. ‘Hiya Naz.’ ‘How you doing, Ivan?’. It was Nazneen, the dispatcher at Mithras Cars, Ivan’s employers. ‘I’m doing alright sweetheart, how about you? Bit taters tonight.’, replied Ivan. ‘Yeah. Glad I’m here in the warm. Listen, could you pick up a fare from St Anne’s Church in Limehouse for me? A Mr McDermott?’ ‘Sure. I’m just round the corner anyway. Outside the Grapes on Narrow Street’. ‘Fantastic. He’s going to Fournier Street, Spitalfields way’. ‘No probs Naz’. ‘Cheers Ivan. You’re a diamond’. ‘No problem. Ta-ta’. Ivan ground the cigarette butt out under his desert boot and eased his six-foot one-inch frame back into the driver’s seat. He put his seat belt on and started the Mercedes. Ivan liked the low rumble of its diesel engine. He found it reassuring and reliable.  Moving into gear, he set off slowly along Narrow Street. He headed past a small leafy park on his left-hand side and a row of antiquated Georgian dockers’ cottages on his right. This time of night, Ivan wasn’t too fussy about observing the twenty miles per hour speed limit. There were usually few people out this time of night and those that were, were probably up to no good. Drug dealing and various other nefarious activities probably. He crawled past Molines Wharf on the right. Then past the striking art-deco Duke Shore Wharf. There was a stark contrast in this stretch of Narrow Street. The left-hand side seemed to be all Lego-like housing association blocks. The properties on the right were altogether more salubrious. Mostly developed townhouses. Probably out of his price range though, Ivan thought. He continued along Narrow Street, noting Sailmaker’s House on his right. Ivan loved these old, converted wharf buildings with all their maritime charisma. He also took a while to appreciate the picturesque Limehouse Wharf. At the bright blue converted pub on the corner, Ivan took a left up Three Colt Street. Tree branches encroached from the parks either side of the road. They hung over the entire width of the pavements, lending an air of eerieness. As he passed the red brick 1960s four story apartment block on his right, Ivan experienced an unnerving feeling. A slight sense of foreboding but he didn’t know why. A larger eight story residential block some way up the road on his right appeared to glower down at him. As he steered the Mercedes past another low-rise council block on his left, he glimpsed the extravagant skyscrapers of Canary Wharf looming high above the city. Ivan caught a quick peek of St Anne’s Church steeple some way in the distance. He passed under the futuristic cobalt blue bridge that carried the Docklands Light Railway overhead. Once you got past the bridge, Three Colt Street became noticeably more genteel, the council blocks replaced by affluent-looking converted wharf buildings again. Ivan thought to himself that it was strange the way rich and poor lived cheek by jowl all over the place in this city. He loved this area though. He’d been brought up in Stepney and this, to him, was the real London. The mix of old and new. Grit and glamour. He parked the Mercedes across the expansive gateway of St Anne’s and appreciated the magnificence of the ancient church for a while. Built in 1727 by Nicholas Hawksmoor, its distinctive white steeple and curved windows, criss-crossed with lead, gleamed in the half-moonlight. A family of bats flitted around the church’s ancient gatehouse. The door of a nearby pub, The Brass Monkey, swung open. A shadowy figure lurched out of the orange light in the doorway. The figure turned towards Ivan’s car. Seeming to recognise it as a taxi he shuffled over, moving awkwardly. As the figure got closer, Ivan noticed that he was an elderly gentleman. He wore no glasses and had a slightly hangdog expression. A large aquiline nose dominated his face. He wore an Edwardian dandy style coat with a purple sheen that caught the low light. It made him look a bit like a genteel Teddy Boy. A paisley cravat topped off a white shirt. Expensive looking tan brogues adorned his feet. Ivan thought they looked hand made. ‘Taxi for Mr McDermott?’ inquired Ivan. ‘Yes, that’s right. Thank you.’ replied the man As Ivan held the rear door of the Mercedes open for him, he noticed that Mr McDermott seemed to be carrying some kind of injury. He was moving extremely gingerly. ‘You seem to be injured. Are you OK?’ said Ivan. ‘Yes. I’m OK thanks. I’ll tell you about it when we’re on our way’ he replied. When Mr McDermott was settled on the back seat of the Mercedes, Ivan closed the door gently. He got back into the driving seat and started the engine. ‘You’re going to Fournier Street, right?’ ‘Yes please. That’s right.’ As they rumbled sedately along the narrower reaches of Three Colt Street, Ivan asked, ‘So, do you want to tell me what happened?’ The older man thought for a while, cleared his throat and said, ‘You probably think this is preposterous, but I was abducted by aliens. Again. They’re always quite rough when they deposit me back afterwards.’ Ivan looked in the rear-view mirror and frowned sceptically. The man’s probably three sheets to the wind, he thought. Maybe he sustained a head injury. Perhaps he’d been assaulted. Ivan was convinced he could smell brandy. ‘I’m not being funny, but I think it might be a good idea for you to go to casualty,’ said Ivan. ‘The nearest one is the Royal London, Whitechapel Road. Not too far’. ‘No, No. I can’t go to a hospital.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘The injuries I have. The doctors there simply wouldn’t understand them. It would just confuse them too much. It could lead to significant complications.’ ‘OK. If you’re sure’. Maybe he’s more in need of a psychiatric hospital, thought Ivan. Ivan thought he could recognise a hint of a Liverpool accent, like a more refined Ringo Starr. Slightly incongruous with his appearance. He decided to humour the old man. He had nothing to lose, Ivan thought, and the guy seemed harmless enough. Ivan also had his tactical pen in the glove box. A most underrated tool for insurance and protection. ‘Please can we stop on the way. I need to get some first aid supplies?’ asked Mr McDermott. ‘I don’t think you’ll find any pharmacies open this time of the night’ replied Ivan. The old man thought for a while and said, ‘I know a place. It’s on the way’. Ivan had second thoughts about picking him up as he suspected the man could be delirious. Plus he was starting to make Ivan uncomfortable. And it was nearly the end of his shift. He turned on to the usually busy Commercial Road. Which was almost deserted this time of night. ‘I’m not sure.’ said Ivan ‘I’ve got plenty of cash. I can make it worth your while. There’s an extra five hundred pounds in it for you.’ ‘OK then, you’re the boss’, sighed Ivan. ‘Thank you so much. This means a lot’ They continued along Commercial Road in uneasy silence for a while. Ivan felt like the windows of St Anne’s were watching them. Limehouse Town Hall sailed by them on the left. Ivan then did a U-turn and headed left up Salmon Lane. As they cruised past yet more low-rise council blocks on their right, the old man said, ‘They always seem to be a bit rough when they deposit me back here. I thought about asking them to drop me back at home but I’m not sure I want them knowing where I live.’ ‘So they dropped you off in St Anne’s churchyard this time, did they?’ inquired Ivan. ‘Yes.’, confirmed Mr McDermott. He continued, ‘St Anne’s church crypt is where the aliens have one of their bases. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I fear my tongue has been loosened from a bit too much brandy. I needed it after that last encounter’. ‘I’m helping the aliens as part of a medical trial. It’s almost worth it for the money they pay. It went a long way towards paying for my house.’ Ivan nodded sceptically, slightly nonplussed. It occurred to him that many of these council blocks looked quite extra-terrestrial. As they passed the Museum of the Book, the older man said, ‘Funnily enough, that’s where the aliens have their library’. As they passed the small shopping precinct on Salmon Lane, Ivan found the smell of tandoori chicken and baked naan bread almost overpowering. Salmon Lane curved round to the left as they carried on. After they passed the Prince Regent pub, Salmon Lane became much more genteel. The dwellings had reverted back to pleasant old-fashioned Victorian cottages. Ivan swung right onto Belgrave Street then left into Stepney Way. He then took another left down Jubilee Street and then a last right which took them on to the Commercial Road again. ‘Please take a right into Adler Street’, asked the old man, ‘that’s where I need to get my supplies’. ‘Okay. If you’re sure’, said Ivan. So Ivan took a right, crawling past the graffiti-strewn walls and the modern flat blocks. ‘Would you mind stopping here a moment, please’, said Mr McDermott. Ivan parked on the right, opposite what appeared to be a small Asian convenience store called Malhotra. Signs on the windows advertised various phone cards for customers to call overseas relatives. They also featured various whiskies and rums. The lights were off, and the store didn’t appear to be open. Regardless, the older man climbed out of the car. With some difficulty he made his way over to the shop doorway. He knocked on the reinforced glass door, which was covered in advertising stickers. About two minutes later, a low light appeared in the back of the shop and the door opened. An Indian gentleman wearing an emerald-coloured turban, and sporting a long black beard greeted Mr McDermott warmly and ushered him inside. Even from this distance Ivan noticed something very unsettling about the man’s eyes. A kind of green iridescence. Ivan settled back into his driver’s seat and took his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through the local news websites. He guessed that Mr McDermott would take about ten minutes at most. Half an hour went by and Mr Dermott still hadn’t returned. Ivan started to feel dozy and closed his eyes. He slipped in and out of consciousness. He didn’t know how long for. Suddenly, he saw the light go on in the back of the shop again.  A moment later, the old man walked out of the shop doorway and moved in the direction of the Mercedes. He seemed to be moving much more freely and easily, almost like he was uninjured. He was now carrying what looked like a freezer style cool box over his shoulder. In his left hand he carried a bottle of Courvoisier. As the old man slid into the back seat, Ivan asked: ‘What did the guy in there do? You’re moving a lot better’. ‘It’s complicated. Difficult to explain, I’m afraid’ ‘What’s in the cool box?’ ‘Again. Difficult to explain. But essentially, first aid supplies’ ‘I’m not being funny, but is brandy a good idea?’ ‘Thanks for the concern but I’ll be fine.’ Silence fell again and Ivan coaxed the Mercedes back into life. They carried on up Adler Street, past the grimy industrial units and graffitied steel shutters until they pulled up next to Altab Ali park on the left. Here, Ivan took a left onto Whitechapel High Street. They sailed past various shops, businesses, pubs and a cheekily named chip shop called ‘Jack the Chipper’. Ivan then swung right into Commercial Street. They rolled up Commercial Street, through the assortment of high-rise office blocks, upmarket watering holes and ethnic family businesses. They passed a fascinating pub called the Culpepper. At the Ten Bells pub, which reputedly used to be a favourite haunt of Jack the Ripper, Ivan turned right into Fournier Street. A little way past Christ Church Spitalfields on the right, the slender cobbled street narrowed considerably, until the old man said, ‘Just here, please’. Ivan stopped the Mercedes. They were opposite a small, but affluent looking weaver’s type cottage. Midnight blue wooden shutters covered the outside of the ground floor windows. Mr McDermott got out of the back seat with surprisingly agility. He went to the driver’s window and handed Ivan the twenty pound fare plus the extra five hundred pounds that he had promised. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been most kind’. ‘Thank you. That’s all right. I hope you’re OK.’ The old man crossed the cobbles and disappeared inside the heavy-looking front door. Ivan smiled quizzically to himself as he slowly edged the Mercedes away from the kerb.  As he straightened up, Ivan glimpsed something in the blackness of one of the upstairs windows. He could swear it was pair of eyes. Large, glowing green and almond-shaped with a peculiar iridescence.

o0tgyp

Forbidden Love

“Give me your purse or I’ll shoot you! Now, come on!”  “Please, don’t hurt me!” I block all the exits with burning fire. “It’s my turn to ask you to give me the purse.”  The mugger grunts and fumbles with his gun, emptying his clip at me. I form a wall of fire in front of me, turning the bullets to dust just before they reach me. He’s blown back against the wall in a fiery explosion when I release my fire wall. He hits it with a grunt and slumps on to the floor. I pick up the purse and hand it to the victim.  “Thank you miss, thank you so much!” She exclaims, throwing her hands around me.  I gently peel her off, “No problem.”  I escort her to her car, scold her about going into dark alleyways at night, and propel back up to my perch atop my favorite rooftop. Just as soon as I sit down, I hear a bank alarm sound in the distance. I sigh and contemplate just letting the cops take care of it, but after a few seconds I stand up. If this is who I think it is, the cops won’t be able to take care of it. “Come on Icestrike, pick up the pace, we don’t have all day!”  Icestrike grunts, grabbing handful after handful of cash from out of the vault. “Good boy. You are SO good at listening.” Shift says, chuckling a little.  “At least he’s good at something.” Electrora chimes in. Icestrike’s team burst into laughter, but it’s short lived as I appear in front of them. “Big talk from the witch who knows, what? One spell? You can talk smack all you want after you learn to control your powers instead of them controlling you.”  “Blaze.” Electora hisses. “Electora. Always wonderful to see you! About as wonderful as being bitten by a rabid dog.” She screams in anger, throwing a glowing green orb at me. I dodge it, and it hits the wall behind me, melting straight through. Police sirens sound in the distance.  “We don’t have time for this.” Shift says. “Icestrike, take care of her. And do it right this time.” He grabs Electora and Force’s shoulders, all three of them and the money disappearing into thin air. “Just you and me.” I say grinning, bouncing fire up and down on my palms. “Just the way I like it.” He answers. With a flick of his wrist, an explosion of snow blows me back and covers the entire bank in a sheet of white for several seconds. When the snow dies away, I see him on an ice staircase, quickly rising to the ceiling. I follow close behind, firing knives of fire at him. He crashes through the glass ceiling, sending a shower of glass down on me. I duck and cover my face, the glass pricking my skin as it falls to the ground. The moment the last piece of glass falls past me, I quickly zip out through the hole in the ceiling. I’m blinded momentarily by the sun and Icestrike takes the opportunity. He pushes a wall of ice at me, and, just as I throw up my hands to melt it, it hits me hard, flinging me through the air. Blackness blinks in and out as I try to stay conscious. Just before hitting the ground. I manage to propel myself up, breaking the fall. Stars start dancing across my eyes. I see Icestrike land ever so gracefully in front of me as I struggle to stand up, leaning against a nearby trash can for assistance. A concerned expression crosses Icestrike’s face before leaving as if it had never been there.  I shake my head, clearing it, before puffing out: “That all you got? You must be tired from ass kissing all day because you usually pack a much harder hit.” He shoves me against the wall of the alley and pins my wrists against the wall with cuffs of ice. He brings a dagger up to my throat and whispers in my ear, “I don’t think you want to see how hard I can hit.” My heart skips at least three beats as I stare into his eyes for several tense moments.  “Well now I REALLY want to see that.” I whisper back. “So will you show me or are you going to keep holding this knife at my throat that, we both know, you’re never going to use.”  I burn through my bindings and kick him away from me, swinging out punch after punch, but he dodges every hit. Finally, one connects, sending him stumbling back a few steps. He swings his legs behind mine, knocking me to the ground. We chase each other into the sky in a savage dance, flinging ice and fire at each other, becoming bruised and bloody. After a while, I start to get tired and slow, blocking fewer shots. Icestrike starts forming something big and before I can even catch my breath, hundreds of ice arrows are flinging themselves down on me. I create a bubble of fire around me, noticing a slight jab in my side as I do so. I barely manage to keep my bubble up through the barrage as the jab in my side starts burning like nothing else ever has. The moment I can, I let the bubble up and slowly look down at my side. An ice arrow is sticking out of it, blood oozing down my body. I glance up at Icestrike, who’s frozen in place, staring at my side. We lock eyes just as everything goes black. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- While still staring in horror at the damage I’ve caused, Blaze’s fire burns out and she collapses, tumbling through the sky. I race after her, ice flowing out in front of me faster than ever before. I grab her just before she hits the ground and gently lay her in the grass.  “Blaze? Can you hear me?” I quietly ask as I press my hand down on her wound, trying to stop the gushing blood. Her pulse is barely there. Ever so gently, I place her on my shoulder. Ice flows out of my palms like the blood gushing out of her body as I race against time. I dive for the first hospital that I see and burst in without a second thought.  “Someone help!” I yell frantically. “I need help, please!” A nurse rushes up to me and quickly calls his colleagues over. I just barely hear him ask a question over the thrum in my ears: “What’s her name?” I open my mouth to tell him before realizing something. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her. And I’ll never get the chance to learn.” I whisper.  I hear more talking but a couple of police officers rushing towards me catches my eye. I rush quietly out of the hospital, catching the name of it just as I leave: The Reboyn Memorial hospital. My siblings took her death about as I expected, but to my surprise, they congratulated me with only a few backhanded compliments. Of course, she wasn’t dead. But they couldn’t kill her if she was already dead. For four days of depression and confusion at feeling depressed about almost killing the person who I had tried to kill my entire life, I wandered around the city. Not wanting to go out at all but not wanting my siblings to think that something was wrong. I kept going back to the hospital, too scared to do anything but stand in front of it. I also kept questioning why I was doing this, and why I cared so much about someone I had fought my entire life. Finally, I found myself at her hospital bed.  “Hi. It’s the person who almost killed you!” I awkwardly tell her sleeping body, still the lingering hint of a flirtish smile on her lips. “Sorry about that by the way…” The only sounds to be heard are soft beeping of the equipment and the lull of voices just outside the door. I gently take her hand in mine.  “Our parents fought each other their entire lives. And ever since we were young, we’ve been fighting. You’re a hero and I’m a villain, that’s just the way it’s had to be.” My voice becomes hard. I clear my throat. “But, as time went on, I started to look forward to fighting you. It was the only thing I ever really looked forward to. YOU were the only thing I ever looked forward to. And it has taken you nearly dying, or to be more specific, me nearly killing you, for me to realize that I love you.” I pause to take a deep breath, and feel the world take one with me, “I love you.”  My voice cracks.  Several emotions attack me at once as I realize exactly what I’ve just admitted. Confusion, happiness, guilt. Everything all at once. After a moment of simply gazing at her face, I kiss her forehead, before quietly slipping out through the window. As I’m leaving, I take one last glance back, and I could almost swear that she smiled.  “Where have you been?” Electora demands the moment I enter our hideout. “Out for a walk.” I respond calmly, pushing past her just to be met by my brothers.  “The question was rhetorical, brother. A chance for you to explain yourself.” Shift tells me. Force super speeds at me and punches me into the wall, knocking the breath out of me. And Electora suspends me in air before I have a chance to catch it.  “Why is she still alive?” Shift asks calmly, his eyes betraying his demeanor. “She was supposed to be dead, and yet, a little birdy told me that she is alive and well. And with you by her bedside, kissing her.” He gets within a few inches of me, his breath hot on my face. “I won’t explain my actions to you anymore. To any of you. I want out.” “You can’t just get out of being a villain. It’s who you are.” “No, not anymore. You do not get to say who I am; I get to make that choice.” Shift punches me, and I feel my nose crack.  “You would leave your life, and us, your team and family, for HER?” He spits out the last part like it’s venom.  “I would do anything for her.” I fight with all my might to get out of Electora’s grasp, finally breaking through enough to fire an ice ball at her, knocking her against the wall. Force flings me against the wall again, kicking me over and over as I feel my bones break. In a haze, I manage to create enough ice onto the group to cause him to slip. Shifts grabs my shoulder and I stumble out onto an unfamiliar landscape. He punches me, knocking me down. I try to stand up, only to fall again. He kicks me hard several times. “You’re a villain and she’s a hero. Even an idiot like you can see that you can’t be together.” I sling a pitiful snowball at him just for him to dodge it with ease. “After I’m done killing you, I’ll kill her. And just know that it will be as slow and painful as I can make it. Even though the ugly toad deserves even less than that.” Something starts burning inside of me, making me see red and suddenly feel regenerated. I catch his leg as he goes in for another kick, holding onto it as he tries to pull away. I start serving punch after punch, not even bothering to use my powers. As the red starts to leave my vision, all I see is a bloody, disfigured version of my brother, lying on the ground groaning.  “Please… We’re fam…” I drive an ice dagger through his heart before he can finish his sentence. I wipe my bloody hands off with his shirt. “We were never family.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When I woke up at the hospital the day after the incident, my heart hurt worse than the stab wound in my gut. I had no idea why and yet, I still felt that way. I felt a lot of ways about him, but none of them I could explain. I knew that I needed answers, so the moment I stepped foot out of the hospital, I started searching. Finally, about a month after the incident and weeks of searching, I found him, sitting on the edge of a rooftop. If someone had told me even a few months ago that I would be walking up to my enemy, who had nearly killed me, and I was happy and excited about it; I would have laughed in that person’s face. Yet here I am. I sit down quietly beside him. “You’re ok? All healed?” He asks, staring straight ahead.  “Yes.”  He nods once and clears his throat, “I…” He begins but I kiss him. For a moment, he doesn’t return it. But just as I’m pulling away, he grabs my face and pulls me right back. I break the kiss first, and stare into his baby blue eyes.  “Before we go any further, I need to explain…” He starts, but I put my finger over his mouth and stop him.  “I know. I heard everything that night in the hospital.”  His eyes light up and he opens his mouth, but I stop him once again.  “I love you too. More than I can properly put into words. But there is something I need to know before we go any further.”  “Anything.” “Your name. Your real name.” He smiles, his whole face lighting up in a way I’ve never seen it.  “It’s David.” “Mayuri. Nice to meet you...” I mockingly shake his hand before he pulls me into another passionate kiss. The End.

fivzal

And Out Come the Wolves

Raziel looked down at the knife in his hand. It looked worn. It looked plain, an old antler jammed onto the end of that blade, another way to squeeze out every drop of blood. It looked shabby, a tool near the end of its usefulness. It looked like damnation not salvation. Raziel had lead Shing, Eyla and their two daughters out the Wolves’ village in the dark of the night. They found the small boat hidden on the beach. Raziel and Shing paddled them out past the breakers and within twenty minutes they had hoisted the small sail. By the time the sun spread its sparkling rays across the sea, the refugees could no longer see Wolf Island. They caught a nice wind that sailed them across the channel in less than a day. When they reached the coast of Pacifica, Shing and Eyla took the girls up to the tree line while Raziel did his best to hide the boat. He had just finished taking down the mast when he noticed the blood red sail of the Wolves’ long boat on the horizon. His heart dropped to his stomach and exploded into a swarm of wasps. Their time was running out. They moved quickly through forest and found the old hunting cabin. Eyla burst into tears causing the girls to cry, causing Shing and Raziel to cry. They entered a sobbing motley crew clinging to one another. The cabin was the size of a barn, nestled between the folds of a large hill directly behind it. Next to a neatly made bed they found a basket of dried foods, warm clothing and that damned knife. A low whistle from the rafters snapped Raziel back to the now. The new plan was to take the knife, avoid the Wolves, find and bring back help. It was a lie. No help could make it back in time even if it was found. The unspoken reason for Raziel to run was to get rid of the knife. If any run-away thrall was found with a weapon it was a death sentence for all the adults. And for two little girls with no one to look out for them, it would not be good; it would be very far from good. If Raziel could get far enough away, the others could be spared. He would still be killed horrifically but hopefully his friends would only be severely punished. That was the rosiest of options left. He hadn’t asked for any followers, but how do you say no to a young couple praying for their children to be free? He heard the whistle again. Raziel closed his fist around the knife and stepped out of the cabin. A white mist hung low to the ground, blurring the bottoms of the trees, limiting visibility. The beginnings of snowflakes drifted in the wind adding to the distractions. Maybe there was some hope after all. The first corner he turned killed that hope. One of the Wolves was already at the cabin, peering in through a crack in the wood. Raziel couldn’t see what the big, hairy man was seeing but he knew that Eyla and the girls had been discovered. Maybe if he could silence this man, keep him from alerting the pack it would buy them the time they so desperately needed. Raziel had never killed a man before but he was pretty sure talking his way out of this was out of the question. He switched the grip he had on the knife, like he knew what he was doing. Raziel swallowed (gulped) and began to creep toward the Wolf. Every footstep crashed like a boulder off a thousand foot cliff, every breath roared like the winds of a storm. The distance between himself and his target stretched for miles, so much time to be spotted, so many mistakes already made. He could turn around and run for it. They would probably be okay inside, probably? He swallowed hard again and began to look around for any other option. He was losing his cool, about to bolt when the Wolf turned. Without thinking Raziel clamped one hand over the man’s mouth. The man stopped struggling once he felt the knife tip dig into his belly. Raziel looked into his eyes, dark and wide under a heavy brow. He recognized this Wolf from his village. He was cruel to the thralls, despite or because of his own lowly status. A man looking to make a name for himself. Talking was definitely out of the question. The more Raziel hesitated the less his advantage became. The fear left the Wolf’s eyes, replaced with a smug confidence that this lowly coward could not kill him. The man reached for his own knife. Raziel shook his head vigorously NO, NO, NO he pleaded silently. The Wolf, true to his nature bit the hand over his mouth. Raziel pulled back. The Wolf opened his mouth to howl. Raziel plunged the knife into the Wolf’s gut. He felt something pop under the blade as it found vital organs. Instead of pulling it out Raziel pushed it down unzipping the belly like he was unzipping a jacket that was two sizes too small. He stepped back and stared. The Wolf also stared, his eyes disbelieving, his hands clutching to keep his insides inside. There are times in every person’s life where we stand outside of ourselves, seeing a traumatic event unfolding without emotion. This was one of those times for Raziel. Specifically when the Wolf’s internal temperature met the forest’s rapidly declining external temperature. Steam poured from the wound like a ghost, floating up toward the heavens. Raziel wasn’t particularly religious, but this would make even the most arrogant atheist run scared for church. This along with the blood and smell overwhelmed him. Raziel doubled over retching just as a blade sliced the space where his head had been. The blade thumped into the cabin, stalling the hatchet it was attached to. Raziel slid around and surged up, his mouth drooling bile, the knife stabbed in between the third and fourth rib of his assailant. This new Wolf was dead before he hit the ground. Raziel stood there, his mouth gasping like a fish, the stomach acid still burning the back of his throat, the blood freezing the knife in his fist and tears streaming down his face, not exactly the look of a brave warrior. “Raziel”, he heard his name from above. He looked up to see Shing staring down from the cabin’s overhang. “What have you done?” he whispered with urgency. “Run, please, run!” Raziel ran into the mist. His heart was racing; he could feel his pulse thumping in his temples as he fled blindly through the forest. The manacle on his wrist banged against bone causing him to lose focus and almost run head long into the gnarled trunk of a wicked looking tree. He stopped to try and regain some semblance of composure. That’s when the first howl rose through the trees behind him. Raziel’s blood turned to ice water, He bolted like the scared rabbit he was. Another howl floated in from left, followed by another from his right. The nail in the coffin came when he heard a howl coming from somewhere ahead of him. He cried out in frustrated fear as he ran for his life and the lives of his friends. Still yelling he burst through the trees into a large clearing. He shut his mouth abruptly, his bawling seeming sacrilege here. The clearing was a perfect circle; the trees all lined up without a single branch going over an unseen border, as if in respect or… fear. Even the mist held at the edge of the clearing, swirling like a shark amongst the trees. In the center of the clearing was a large half buried boulder. He moved forward, looking around. Floating menacingly just beyond the trees he saw pair of yellow eyes. Raziel stopped and stared and those eyes stared back. The eyes moved forward and a black nose appeared in the mist. Beneath the nose, a snarling snout with long fangs. Beneath the fangs another Wolf’s face appeared. It looked much like the two Raziel had left for dead at the cabin. Heavy brows and beard under the cowl of a real Sea Wolf’s head and hide. Raziel had often wondered why, if these people honored the Sea Wolves so much as to name themselves after them did they hunt them to extinction then parade around in their skins. He doubted he’d ever know as this one before him had not come to talk. There was movement from the corner of Raziel’s eye and he saw another pair of eyes to the right and another pair to the right of that and another to the right of that. They had surrounded him. Four men that played at being wolves stepped into the clearing. No attack came. They simply stood and stared, each at an equal distance from the other. Raziel had seen this before. He was no longer prey. They knew about the bodies, of course they did. Raziel had been elevated in status from a simple hunt to a man worthy of respect. They lined up to challenge this dangerous killer of their kin. Raziel’s death would mean status and they would not diminish that status by attacking him all at once. He was sick of the role they had forced him to play. Sick he had been forced into their bloody way of life but mostly, he just sick of being afraid all the time. If you want blood, you got it. He strode toward the first man on the left. Much violence ensued. After it was over, minutes or hours later time no longer mattered, Raziel stood close to where he had started. The Wolves lay in heaps connected by streaks of red across the trampled snow. Raziel stood gazing at the boulder but only seeing the flashes of what had just occurred. Muted screams, the knife slashing, stabbing and cutting his victims and with each cut a new furrow was carved into his own soul. He wondered how much was left. Then from deep in the forest ahead of him, Thump. Thump. Raziel’s head snapped up. He looked around. Thump. Thump. Raziel scrambled up the boulder for a better view. Thump. Thump. Raziel peered into the forest in front of him and saw a tiny red dot. It grew as it flew toward him. Escaping the mist the dot became a little red bird bouncing across the air. Raziel had to dodge left to avoid being struck between the eyes. The bird paid him no mind as it soared by, disappearing to the woods behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Nothing moved, not even the air. Thump. Thump.  All hell broke loose. The forest before Raziel exploded with a murder of crows following the little red bird. They screeched and cawed as they flew by. Raziel had to throw himself on the boulder to keep from being swept away in the flurry of beady eyes and black feathers. On the ground below him all manner of beast surged like flood waters around his island boulder. From field mice to elk, all ignored the man clinging to the boulder in their haste to flee. When it was over, feathers and tufts of fur floated through the air. Something bad was coming. Thump. Thump. Then the sound of trees limbs snapping, high tree limbs snapping and falling to the earth. Thump. Thump. Thump. A huge moccasin fell into the clearing like a thousand year oak crashing down followed by another earth rumbling shoe. Raziel looked up, past the pillar like legs, past massive torso and neck and looked into the face of a bear? Raziel shook the cob webs from his brain and looked again. I was a man, bearded and dark eyed wearing skins of a cave bear. The giant pulled a sword bigger then he was from behind his back. He raised this broad sword (perhaps the broadest sword ever) above his head, the tip aimed down to skewer the little man on the rock. All Raziel could do was gape up at his impending doom, too petrified to move. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The giant bellowed his easy victory and stabbed down. Part of Raziel was ready for it, for everything to be over, but the other part, the part that had won each part of this day dodged rolled Raziel off the rock just as the blade came crashing down. The boulder screamed when the blade impaled it. Sparks flew as the stone and iron became one. The mighty sword stopped halfway up its blade and stuck fast. The giant pulled back on the sword, but it did not budge. A flash of panic swept over his face, quickly replaced by rage. He heaved back again with the same result. The giant began to bellow and shriek as he tried to free the blade. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The roar became less intimidating and more pathetic. The beast of a man now had both hands wrapped around the hilt, straining with all his considerable power. His face had turned purple, his eyes bulged. The boulder actually began to lift from its half buried state. Dirt poured from sides that hadn’t been exposed to light in a thousand years, colorless insects scurried for cover. Raziel stood a safe distance away watching with awe. He stood staring at giant’s dismay. He could have easily swatted Raziel down like a fly, crushing him without the weapon, but the giant wanted his sword. Instead of running (which seemed pointless now) Raziel contemplated being a giant boy raised in the violent world of the Wolves. His only purpose would have been to fight, to become the Wolves’ battering ram. He would have been praised when he won, shunned and beaten when he lost. The giant would come to be dependent on the only constant in his life, his sword, his one friend. What would happen if he could no longer win every fight? He would be banished, sent out to face the world alone without his sword. “RRRRAAA…ughhhh” The giant’s roar ended in a gurgled whimper, his mighty hands fell from the sword’s hilt, his arms dropped like felled trees to hang limply at his sides. He went to his knees. Raziel uncurled his fingers from the knife; the top layers of frozen skin were ripped away. He felt nothing and dropped the knife to the snow. He walked toward the giant without looking back. He stopped just out of reach from the big man. Raziel tilted his head to study the giant’s face. Something had popped inside the man’s head. His right eye was the solid red of burst blood vessels, the right side of his face drooped, foamy drool drained from the corner of his mouth. Raziel stepped closer. The giant's left eye streamed tears. Raziel reached out and put a reassuring hand on his would be murderer’s shoulder. The giant let out a tiny whimper. Raziel cradled the giant’s head; he murmured an old prayer and tried to soothe. When the giant began to fall Raziel guided him down to the snowy ground. He laid the massive head in his lap. The giant’s breath became ragged, his left eye rolled back and his huge chest stopped moving. Raziel closed the dead man’s eyes and began to weep. He wept for the giant, murdered by fear disguised as rage. He wept for himself, a murderer by rage disguised as fear. He wept for his friends. He wept for the man he had hopped he was and wasn’t. He may have wept until spring if he hadn’t felt the giant’s head move from his lap. He looked up and saw the face of a Wolf. Raziel did not resist as the Wolf took the giant away from him. He looked over the huge body to see five more Wolves had also appeared from the forest. He looked each man in the eye, some stared back blankly, some in curiosity. One slightly nodded his head at Raziel. Then as one they lifted the giant’s body and disappeared back into the forest. Raziel sat there. His adrenaline was gone. He felt more beaten than ever before. He couldn’t take anymore but there is always more. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Raziel sighed, rose to his feet and turned to face whatever was next. This Wolf was the second biggest man Raziel had ever seen. His headdress’ eyes were ruby against a steely grey fur. The man’s eyes were dark and world-weary; his beard matched the color of his headdress. The Alpha. Without thinking (something he was becoming good at) Raziel stabbed at him with a now knifeless fist. The Alpha caught the fist and twisted it back to reveal the manacle clamped to Raziel’s wrist. The Alpha reached to his waist and produced a key. He stabbed the key into the lock, his eyes locked into Raziel’s. The manacle dropped to the snow much like the knife and like the knife it was left there to rust. The Alpha turned and walked away. Raziel finally began to lose consciousness. As the world faded away he could hear his friends rushing to his side. -Time, a need for heroes and people’s greed have all embellished Raziel’ s story into legend, the legend into lies and the lies into religion. One story had Raziel slaying scores of actual wolf-men with a magical sword pulled from a stone. Another left out the boat entirely and had Raziel walking across the seas carrying his followers upon his broad shoulders. Once a story is told it belongs to the people for better or worse. But you and I know what really happened on that snowy day so long ago…probably. 

977crx

Lost Time

As Charlon laid on the ground, ashy, burnt grass surrounding him, his smoky grey wings spread out beneath him, he lost himself in thought. As he looked at the cerulean sky, painted many colours from the sunrise, he saw memories of his life play out. The first thing he saw was Avelin. He stood up and was back in the pub where he first met her. He was leaning against the wall in the dimly lit corner at the back of the pub, watching her as she stood on her little stage before the patrons, singing, her voice full of passion and vigor, her calloused fingers running across the strings of her lute. He watched her through the entirety of her song, enthralled by her voice, by her mastery of her instrument The next thing he took in was her beauty. The way the dim light of the gas lamps in the pub reflected off of her dark red skin, which was shiny with sweat. Her horns, clearly identifying her as a tiefling, poked out of her short, pixie-cut black hair, extending to the back of her head when they curled upwards. Her slim body made her look small on her stage. As she reached the climax of her song, she closed her eyes, which were pupilless orbs of gold, her tail making smooth motions as she continued her ballad. Charlon followed suit and closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the wall behind him. As much as Avelin stood out in the pub, so did Charlon. His jet-black hair was threaded through with red and gold and pulled up into a small bun at the back of his head. He wore a jade doublet with black antlers embroidered across his chest and shoulders, with holes in the back made for his large, grey wings and wore pants of a matching green. Over his left shoulder, a medallion hung on a silver sash, the circular piece of gold bearing an asp. No one wearing that medallion had ever entered this pub before. The medallion marked Charlon as a member of the Order of the Faded Accord, an order of paladins who served Al’Khashar: the current avatar of Rhodis, the god of judgement. In the kingdom of Kagan, the Order wasn’t exactly well-liked. Though Kagan had a king, he was merely the puppet ruler of Al’Khashar. The Order knew it, and so did the people. Al’Khashar was responsible for an atrocious genetic cleansing known as the Heltarren Persecution, which led to the extermination of most Heltarren people living in the city and caused the living survivors to flee. The Order of the Faded Accord was founded by Li-Bashan, a serf from the fiefdom of Butara, and the first chosen avatar of Rhodis. The Order were made up of paladins of all races and nationalities, all sharing the same drive to achieve order at all costs. Charlon joined the Order after his young daughter was executed in front of him by anarchists in his home village. That day, he learned the dangers of anarchy, and what happens when order is not upheld by strong leaders. Avelin usually frequented a different pub, on the other side of the kingdom, where Charlon had seen her sing a couple times. When he heard that she would be singing here, he found himself unable to resist attending. When the tiefling finished her song, she bowed and received a round of applause and cheers from the patrons of the pub. Charlon clapped from where he stood, opening his eyes again. Spotting him, Avelin put her lute down somewhere and strolled over to where he stood. Many in Kagan were unused to tiefling, and many feared them. But Charlon had seen much horror in his life. In his eyes, there were things much scarier than tieflings. Charlon himself was a member of a race that was seldom seen in many places: a malakh . The malakhim were beings with divine heritage, with distinct sub-races that possessed certain abilities. Charlon was a member of the stormmaker sub-race, and as such could harness lightning and summon epic storms. Some marveled at the sight of him, others feared him. Honestly, Charlon didn’t care what people thought of him. “Enjoy the song?” Avelin asked him as she reached him. This was the first time she had ever spoken to him. Her voice was smooth, like silk. “I recognize you from the Eagle’s Nest.” “I was surprised to hear that you weren’t singing there tonight,” Charlon answered. “I couldn’t miss another great performance.” Avelin crossed her arms and gestured to his medallion. “You must love my music if you decided to show up here. Your Order is not appreciated around this part of Kagan.” This pub was located was once the area where many Heltarrens used to live. Many who still lived there were friends of those who died. Many still held a grudge against the Order of the Faded Accord. Charlon shrugged. “What can I say? Your music is marvelous.” Avelin surveyed the malakh with a curious, devilish gaze, as deciding whether she liked him or not. Charlon found that he cared about what she thought about him. “What’s your name?” the tiefling asked him. “Charlon Saint-Lucile,” Charlon said. “My name is Avelin.” Avelin grinned. “But you already knew that.” As that memory faded from the clouds, Charlon saw a collection of other memories play out from the time he had spent with Avelin. Since that day, Charlon had gone to all of her performances. He learned that she was a member of the Stellars, an organization of people from all races who tried to achieve peace through non-violent means. They also hated the Order of the Faded Accord, Charlon learned quickly. Particularly, Charlon remembered one time when they spoke about the Heltarren Persecution. They’d been on a walk around King’s Square, which was actually a large botanical garden in the center of Kagan. They’d been talking about their differing ideologies about how to achieve peace, which happened often. “What about the Heltarren Persecution?” Avelin asked while smelling a tulip. “Did you participate in that?” Charlon grimaced. “Yes. It was not one of my more fond memories.” Avelin turned around to face Charlon. She was a couple inches shorter than him, having to tilt her chin up to look him in the eye. “Did you think that violence was necessary then?” Charlon sighed. “The Heltarren Alliance were conspiring to overthrow the King,” he said. “They wanted to replace him with a new government. One that had less rules and more leniency for criminals.” “Is that what the Order told you?” Avelin challenged. “It’s the truth,” Charlon insisted. “Huh.” Avelin walked towards a bench and sat down, Charlon following suit. “Would more leniency for criminals be such a bad thing?” “Criminals must be punished for their crimes,” Charlon said, “to deter others from committing the same crimes. Or worse.” Avelin was silent for a moment. And then, “the Heltarren Alliance never wanted to replace the King.” She turned her head to look Charlon in the eye. There was a curious expression on her face, as if she was deciding whether to hold something back or not. “They were trying to replace your leader. They wanted Al’Khashar dead.” “Because Al’Khashar had their leader killed for attempting to tamper with diplomatic talks between the King and the Baron of Ulzara,” Charlon said. Avelin raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You thought I was unaware of my leader’s motive?” “And yet, you still insist that it was the right call?” Avelin asked. Charlon was quiet while he tried to figure out how to word his response. “The Heltarren Alliance wanted to take Al’Khashar’s spot as the King’s advisor. I’ve known ambitious people like them. They wouldn’t have stopped at that. They would’ve always wanted more power, and it would’ve torn Kagan apart.” Avelin looked down at her feet. “Many who were killed weren’t even members of the Alliance. They were just … people. Innocents.” Charlon nodded. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t happy with the way it was executed, and I killed many more people than I had wanted to. But it was necessary to maintain order.” That was the last time they’d visited the subject of the Heltarren Persecution. The next memory that Charlon saw was his favourite memory of Avelin. They’d been at another pub, this time the reason was for Avelin to meet Charlon’s friends. They’d sat at a table off to the side of the pub which offered them more privacy. “Well, well, who do we have here?” one of Charlon’s friends asked. He had brown hair the colour of tree bark and skin as pale as milk. Over his skin, there were cracks, with a faint orange light emitting from them. He wore a viridian tunic and his sash and medallion, identical to Charlon’s. “This is Avelin,” Charlon answered, gesturing to the tiefling, who waved. “Avelin, this is Owl, one of my closest friends.” Owl offered Avelin a small wave. Owl was an aasimar; a planetouched human with celestial lineage. Owl didn’t know much about his family, as he was abandoned at a young age. He and Charlon met when they had both first joined the Order. Being two of the only members with celestial heritage, they’d become quick friends. Next to Owl, Charlon gestured to the man sitting next to him. He had aquamarine skin and turquoise hair. He wore a dark blue shirt with a brown vest and had kind, navy-blue eyes. “This is Ripple,” Charlon told Avelin. “He and Owl are happily dating.” “That we are,” Ripple said, taking Owl’s hand. His voice was smooth, like a peaceful stream. Ripple was a water genasi, another type of planetouched. His father had been a genie, but he’d been raised by his mother, a human woman. When he was older, he’d become a sailor, but had joined the Order after experiencing the chaotic agony of a pirate attack. Finally, Charlon gestured to the short, stocky woman sitting next to Ripple, who had just downed her third beer of the night. She had bright red hair and beige skin. She still wore her armour, her favourite thing to wear, and her large battleaxe leaning against her chair. “And this,” Charlon said, “is Lokara Battlehammer. The finest warrior I’ve ever known.” “You flatter me, Charlon,” Lokara drawled, her voice rough and scratchy. Charlon had known Lokara for the least amount of time. He knew that she had once been a blacksmith, but had enjoyed using her weapons rather than making them. Lokara, he knew, had been involved in deposing a tyrant before leaving her city to join the Order, her goal being to eliminate tyranny. The night had gone great. Avelin got along splendidly with Charlon’s friends, who liked her in turn. At one point in the night, Avelin had decided to sing a song for them and the other patrons in the pub. “She’s remarkable,” Owl said to Charlon as Avelin sang. “She is, isn’t she?” Charlon commented. The pub went silent as Avelin’s voice rose in volume, singing about a couple whose time together had been cut short. The song was full of emotion and passion, and Charlon could’ve sworn he saw a tear well in Lokara’s eye, though she violently denied it when he brought it up. When Avelin’s voice decrescendoed to a whisper and died out, she got a round of applause and returned to sit beside Charlon. Charlon extended one of his wings to cup her back and wrapped his arm around her. “I wish we stay here forever,” she said as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “We wouldn’t have to worry about the outside world. We could stay wrapped up in each other. I could just sing for you and you could tell me jokes. Make me laugh.” Charlon planted a kiss on her head, right between her horns, and they remained sitting there for the remainder of the night. The memory faded into a much darker one. He was standing on a battlefield, clad in silver and green armour. He wore a helmet, with guards the shape of wings and a brilliant green crest. He had his sword drawn, and was standing in an offensive position back-to-back with Owl, who wore identical armour and wielded shortsword in one hand, his other hand glowing with magic. It had been a sneak attack. Traitorous rebels belonging to a conspiracy against the king had attacked the Order’s camp outside the city walls while they met with a diplomat. They’d killed the diplomat and injured Al’Khashar. Charlon slashed at one of the rebels, cutting him across the stomach and felling him. Behind him, Owl killed one rebel with his sword and melted another with a ball of fire. All around him, Charlon could smell the metallic tang of blood and steel, the sound of blades clashing surrounding him. Two rebels charged at Charlon and the malakh dispatched one before spinning, Owl taking his place and beheading the second. The two had fought so long together that they had become a single unit, united in mind and spirit. And then, something had happened that made Charlon’s heart stop. He heard a voice yell. “Charlon!” It was Avelin. “Is that–” Owl began “Why is she here?” Charlon demanded. “She shouldn’t be here!” Charlon whipped his head around in every direction, looking for the girl he so dearly loved, but he couldn’t find her. “I’m going to fly up and see if I can find her,” Charlon told Owl. “There are still more rebels to kill,” Owl argued. “We need to–” “I don’t give a fuck about the rebels!” Charlon yelled. “I will not allow Avelin to die.” Charlon shot up into the air, flapping his wings to keep him airborne as he searched for Avelin. After a moment, he spotted her; a tiefling girl at the edge of the camp. She was surrounded by four rebels, all armed and ready to attack her. She dodged one of their attacks and climbed on top of a supply chest, but she was no match for them. She bore a dagger, but he knew she didn’t know how to fight. In an instant, Charlon was hurtling towards her, lightning crackling around him, thunder roaring. He gathered his magic around him, transforming himself into an unyielding bolt of pure electricity, zeroing in on its target. Charlon landed on the ground before the rebels, the impact launching them into the air or frying them, turning the grass into ash. His eyes became pupiless, replaced by glowing orbs of lightning. He swung his sword at the attacking rebels with incredible strength, launching bolts of electricity at others. In the distance, Charlon could vaguely spot Ripple unleashing great torrents of water at the rebels, drowning them, and Lokara, splitting rebels in half with her battleaxe. And Owl, who was running towards him, executing all in his path. “What are you doing here!” Charlon yelled at Avelin as he fought off the traitors. “I was supposed to meet the diplomat!” Avelin yelled back. “She was supposed to help the Stellars with something!” “Get out of here!” Charlon demanded. “I will not leave you here!” Avelin insisted. “I can fight!” “No, you can’t!” Charlon yelled as he severed the legs of an attacking rebel. “You’ll be killed!” “And what about you?” Avelin called back. “There are too many rebels! You’ll be overwhelmed!” “Then at least you’ll live!” yelled Charlon. Three rebels attacked Charlon at once. The malakh had no trouble slaying the first with his sword, but the other sliced him just under one of his ribs. He cried in pain before summoning a bolt of lightning to smite him. “Charlon!” Owl bellowed. The third rebel struck too quickly for Charlon to react. Before he knew it, there was a sword through his back, protruding through his chest. It missed his heart, but it was still a fatal blow. Charlon hollered in pain, but managed to spin and hit the rebel in the head with his pommel and he pulled the sword from his back. Charlon beheaded the rebel, but fell to his knees immediately after. He looked around him. Avelin was right. There were too many rebels. They had no chance. Left with no other options, Charlon pulled a move that he didn’t even know would work. He drew all his magic inside him, all the lightning and thunder and storms into a singular point deep inside himself. He thought of Owl, of Ripple, of Lokara as he readied himself. He thought of Avelin as he threw his head back and let out a world-shattering bellow that rang through the world. Lightning exploded from Charlon in every direction and, for a long moment, his vision went white, and he saw nothing but electricity. When he regained his vision, he looked around him again. He’d scorched the entire battlefield. All around him were the burnt and disfigured bodies of the rebels and some Order members. Others were in shock, many were injured. But the rebels were all dead. The Order had won. Left completely exhausted and drained, he fell onto his back, his wings outstretched behind him. The sky was peaceful, and he could see red, orange and pink suggesting that the sun was beginning to rise. He could feel his blood pooling beneath him, and he knew he was dying. Avelin ran to him, crouching over top of him. “No,” she whispered, her eyes full of tears. “You will not die today.” Charlon raised a hand to caress her cheek. “Please. Lay next to me.” She did as she was asked. As she laid next to him, he remembered their time together, and he smiled, tasting the salt of his tears. “I wish we could stay here forever,” Charlon said, softly. He could hear Avelin sob as his world grew dark, but he rested easy, knowing she would live.

em75m6

Of Blood and Promises

The young boy led Godfrey over to the shack at the end of the village and began banging on the door with such enthusiasm that Godfrey’s mind wandered home. By now his wife would have already birthed their son, and he would be walking now. Too many years old with no idea of what his father looks like. And his wife, his beloved Maria, was alone with their son while anxiously awaiting his return as he finalized his quest. His grip on his sword loosened momentarily. The others had abandoned the mission, their “guilt” weighing heavily in their hearts. Not him though. He tightened his grip. This was the last one, then he could return home. “Uncle Eamon!” the boy yelled amidst his banging. “There’s a mister out here that wants to see you.” There was a short ruckus inside before the door swung open. A short old man with a bush of a beard peered out the doorway, glancing piercingly from the boy before landing on Godfrey.  “Go back to your mother, kid,” Eamon growled. “Leave me and the mister to talk.” “But Uncle Eamon,” the boy whined, “the mister said he had stories to share with you. I want to listen too.” “Go home!” Eamon snapped suddenly. The boy flinched, then his eyes teared up before he ran home. Eamon watched him leave with a sad look in his eyes, before glancing back at Godfrey with a glare and snorted. “So you’re a liar too, Godfrey of Galavan,” he spat. “I see my reputation precedes me,” Godfrey retorted. “And you must be Eamon the Eternal,” “In the flesh. And you’ve hardly got a reputation to be proud of, slayer.” Slayer was a name that unfortunately stuck on them after they had killed the Queen Vanessa of Westeria. He ignored Eamon’s disgust when he spat out the word. Eamon on the other hand retreated back into the shack, leaving the door open almost invitingly. Cautiously he followed him, into the hardly furnished room that bore nothing more than a bed, a table and a lit altar with the sketch of a woman and a huge spear with a banner tied around the top of its shaft. Eamon stood in front of the altar, a hand on the weapon but not wielding it. “That’s quite the weapon,” Godfrey found himself complimenting. Eamon snorted again. “It belonged to the first defender of this little village. She entrusted it to me decades ago and made me promise to protect this village with my life.” “Did you also give your word to serve the Hateful King?” Eamon took his hand off the spear and faced Godfrey. “Is that what you believed, slayer? Is that why you and your company killed the others?” “I don't care what sort of lies you spout. They change nothing. You still decided to live even after the Hateful King rose to power and waged war on everyone.” Eamon touched his chest momentarily before responding. “I made a different kind of promise for that runt.” “Was it the kind that warrants the death of hundreds while you and your camaraderie live and rule peacefully?” “It's the kind of promise made to help a friend fulfill his desire to be a father.” Godfrey blinked, then shook his head and drew his sword. “You're all liars, and if not, you're just blind.” Eamon exhaled loudly. "Do you even know why we all carried pieces of that runt’s soul? It was because he was dying. Born with a weak heart that wouldn’t even keep till his first moon. His father sought medicine and magic of all kinds and only one offered him a solution. And he begged us to take part in the ritual, to sacrifice pieces of our souls in exchange for pieces of his dying. To maintain the fractions of his with ours.”  It took Godfrey a long moment to find his tongue. “Lies,” he finally managed to mutter. “All of it lies. If it was truly true, none of you would have let yourself live with it.” “Perhaps. Tell me, slayer: do you have a wife? A child? A love worth living for.” Godfrey said nothing. “I thought so.” Godfrey gripped his sword tighter. “No, I do not believe you. You all are supporters of the Hateful King, harborers of his vile soul to ensure his reign is nigh eternal. You all are the monsters, not us. Not me!” Eamon smirked. “Is that what you choose to believe, slayer? Why would I lie to you?” “Maybe you’ve lied to this village for so long you believed it yourself.” “Then I would be a horrible liar if I believed my own ruse.” “It’s already made you a heartless one.” Godfrey noticed Eamon’s hand inch towards the spear, then returned it to his side. “Did you come here to yap your gums, or did you come here to strike me down?” Godfrey responded by leveling his sword at Eamon. “Arm yourself then.” Eamon laughed. “Really? Is that what you told Vanessa when you slaughtered her in front of her children? Godfrey grit his teeth. “Arm yourself,” he repeated. “Or did you say that to Alexander when you attacked him in his own court?” “Arm. Yourself.” “Or perhaps you said so to Everette, before you and your company hunted him down in his domain. Where is your company by the way? Where are the dreadful slayers? Did they abandon you, oh Godfrey of Galavan? Did they have a change of heart, their guilt weighing on their hearts? Did they finally grow a conscience, something you can’t seem to grasp the concept of?” Eamon laughed again, then slammed the altar with a startling force. “Is that what you told them when you left their kingdoms and home defenseless against attack? Left their families in grief? Is that what you told them, slayer?” “Shut up and arm yourself!” Godfrey screamed. In his anger he slashed at Eamon, who tried and failed to muffle a cry. The old man fell to the floor, his back against the altar. The slash left a gaping wound across his chest, and his breathing became sporadic. Godfrey took a step back, his shaking hands dropping his sword to the floor with a clang. He stared at Eamon’s gaping wound and screamed out. “You bastard!” he hollered. “Why didn't your arm yourself?” Eamon, amidst his pain, smiled weakly. “What? You finally grew a conscience?” “Shut up already!” Godfrey snapped, fuming, prancing. “Why didn’t your arm yourself?” “Because” he coughed, wincing painfully, “I made a promise” Confusion turned to realization in Godfrey’s eyes. “I would never.” “Are you sure? After all you’ve done thus far, do you truly believe that lie?” He laughed again, weakly, coughing blood. “You really are a liar, Godfrey of Galavan.” Then his body went limp against the altar. Godfrey watched the limp body of Eamon for a long minute before picking up his sword. He rubbed his head trying to drown out Eamon’s words. The old man was a liar, there was no doubt about it. They were all conspirators, allies. Godfrey and his company were charged with eliminating them while Galavan and their allies rallied armies against the Hateful King’s forces. His company however grew more hesitant with every kill, until even his protege Nina abandoned him. And now this? No. He will not believe them. They were not innocent, not after everything. Making his way for the door, he let out a sigh of relief as he reached forward to push it open. It was over, he thought. He was done. All the bearers of the Hateful King’s fractured soul were now dead, and he could finally return home. The face of his wife flashed in his mind. He imagined her waiting for him at their home, their baby in her arms. It brought a smile to his face. He pushed the door open and stepped out, the winced as a rock struck him above the eye. He grit his teeth as he peered at his assailant through one eye, the other eye blinded by blood and a growing pain and was shocked to see the entire village outside Eamon’s shack. Armed with sticks, stones and spears their faces wore the looks of shock, grief and hate for the man that stepped out of Eamon’s shack with a bloodied sword. His assailant, the young boy Eamon had snapped at, stood in front of them all, a slingshot in hand and tears running down his face as he stared hatefully at Godfrey. “You killed him!” he screamed, as he reloaded his slingshot and fired it again. This time Godfrey blocked it with his sword and returned an exhausted and stern stare at the boy. “Go home, boy,” he growled. “Don’t you tell him what to do!” A man behind him - probably the boy’s father - howled brandishing a machete “You killed Eamon.” The man charged at him, followed by another wielding a pitchfork. Expertly, Godfrey parried the pitchfork away with his blade, throwing the wielder into the woodwork. The boy’s father swung the machete down, and Godfrey stepped out of the way in time for it to barely miss his head. He followed up with driving his knee into the father’s jaw, before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him forward and aiming his sword at his throat. “Drop it!” Godfrey commanded, then at all bystanders he added, “All of you drop every stick, stone and blade before I kill him!” They obeyed, hesitantly, including the boy whose eyes darted from his father to the bloodied sword at his throat with dread. Godfrey saw the fear in the child’s eyes, then glanced at his stained weapon before throwing the boy’s father to the ground. Then, brandishing the sword he called to the enraged mob. “Let me pass, all of you. I will not hesitate to kill this entire village if you get in my way.” And his heart ached as the words left his mouth, Eamon’s words resonating in his mind. Had he truly become such a monster. He banished the thought immediately and gripped his sword with both hands threateningly. The villagers stared at him horrendously, before slowly parting to make away for him. Godfrey passed through them, blade at the ready, his eyes darting from man to woman to child, his eyes perked to every sound behind him. And he heard everything, every twig, every twitch, every insult hurled at him. “You monster.” “He killed our beloved Eamon.” “Ma, why did he kill Grampa Eamon?” “Because he’s a monster. An evil monster working for the Hateful King.” “How could he? Lord Eamon was innocent.” As he drew closer to the village gates, keeping a particular eye on the sentry with a bow aimed at him, his mind began to stray. Eamon’s words, the villagers’ reactions, the disgust of his former companions when they, no he had finally killed Everette the Centaur and the Queen Vanessa of Westeria, the compilation of all his quest. He wasn't wrong. The bearers of the Hateful Kings soul pieces had to be killed in order to rid the surrounding lands of this bloodlust. And anyone who was willing to live and strive in such a world knowing they held a piece of him capable of defeating him needed to die…right? The wails of Vanessa's daughters rang in his ears momentarily, and the cries of King Alexander's wife only worsened the pain in his head. He had done right. He had done what was necessary. But has he done wrong too? Surprisingly, his threat had worked and soon he found himself climbing the hill that overlooked the village. Godfrey glanced back at the village and saw them surround the home of Eamon and torch it, breaking into a dirge that whistled solemnly up the hill. He exhaled loudly then turned around to find a shadow looming over him. Glancing up, sword at the ready, he faced this owner. “Was it worth it?” The woman stood with her arms crossed, looking down at him from the hilltop. “Have you accomplished your “destiny”? “Nina,” Godfrey acknowledged. “You know it had to be done.” “Did it? Do you even know the truth about why they -,” “It's nothing but lies, Nina. I thought I taught you better than that.” Nina stared at him with disbelief. “How is any of this right?” she questioned, pointing back at the village. How has anything we’ve done made us any better than him? Was it worth it to leave all those kingdoms defenseless? Their loved ones in grief?” “It had to be done!” he repeated. “It’s what we were ordered to do -,” “So what?” Nina snapped. “I asked you a question: was it worth it?” Godfrey said nothing. Instead, he continued his ascent as he walked by Nina. In a fury, Nina grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Godfrey responded with equal rage, whipping around and leveling his sword with her throat. Nina did not flinch. “So you would kill me too, Godfrey,” she muttered sadly. “Damn it, no!” He yelled. “But it had to be done. We had to do it. There was no other way to end this. So yes, it was worth it!” Nina looked at him, then bowed her head. “Then you really are a liar.” Godfrey opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. A sudden weight in his chest weighed down his tongue through his throat. All he could do was scream and in his anger, he planted his blooded sword on the hilltop. Then yanking himself away from Nina, he stormed off. Nina watched him go, then glanced back at the village as white smoke rose up the sky amidst the villagers’ song, her eye tearing not just for herself but for all the lose they had caused. End.

oyx5h9

Shifting gears

Karen rushes back from the kitchen to answer her cell phone ringing on her desk, she cautiously slips and slides into her wool socks, comes to rest in her office chair, and swipes to answer. “You got that piece for the well? We also need the FOB, BOB, and JPEGs; remember this is on spec! And that over the transom piece you sent me was a big help, it was just thick enough to take the wobble out of my keyboard,” her editor George Barnes of Romance Writer’s Weekly orders while chuckling. “Yes…” she begins to reply but hears him disconnect. Karen sets down her phone knocking over what her editor would call a slush pile, a mound of rejected query letters. Her head falls to the desk in exhaustion, despondent she wearily takes a bite of her bagel and continues to lie there regretting what she thought was her dream job. “Oh, sweety you need to quit this job, it will be the death of you,” her mother suggests standing in the doorway of her home office. “I know Ma.” “You were up until three in the morning last night working, you have to give yourself a break!” her mother complains. “I know Ma.” “What you need to do is find you a good man to take you away from all this, so you don’t have to work so hard,” her mother suggests, “Lance was at synagogue last night.” “Who?” “That young man I was telling you about, he's a lawyer and volunteers at the food bank. He's a catch, but you had better hurry. Men like that don’t stay single for long!” “Okay, Mom! I get it! You want your overworked, atheist daughter to hook up with some religious zealot so you can have your office back! I told you I am trying to find my place in the world of writing, but I am not having much success, and the one steady job I do get is too demanding!” Karen rants her feelings into the wooden desk wishing for once she could catch a break, or for someone to think her writing is as good as she thinks it is. “Well, excuse me for wanting my daughter to be happy, with the way the world is today maybe they will let you marry that desk of yours and you can finally be happy! Here’s your mail!” her mother yells throwing her mail on the floor. Karen pops the rest of her bagel in her mouth, slinks to the floor, and crawls pathetically to her pile of mail. She plops over, sits with her legs crossed, gathers her mail, and begins to go through it as she eats the remainder of her bagel. With the only long fingernail she has left she slices open the first letter, a bill goes in a pile to her left. The second is a rejection letter, it goes in the pile to her right. The third letter is a bit thicker and piques her interest, she notices the sender. Remote Getaways magazine, but she can not remember having correspondence with them. The most remote she has ever been is living in the Hamptons with her bitchy Jewish Mother after her parent’s divorced. Leaving her childhood home in New York City was like pulling a hungry puppy from its mother's teat. Poverty will make you subvert your principles faster than any other calamity, but she made peace with it. “I only hope I am paroled soon,” Karen mumbles. “I heard that!” her mother screams from the other room. “Of course, you did, Jewish Mothers have superpowers for snooping. I’m surprised my mail hasn’t been read and redacted for my safety!” Karen jibes back. She opens the third letter and pulls out a letter and a check. It’s telling that whenever a check comes in the mail a person will always look at it first before they find out what they need to do to earn it. Unfolding the letter she reads of a great opportunity for a young aspiring writer, two weeks alone in a remote cabin in the Adirondack mountains. She sets down the letter and raises the check. Ten thousand dollars to live in a cabin for a month, what’s the catch? She thinks. She sits thinking of her shit life, her stressful job, and her unfulfilling sex life. "You know your life sucks when you are too tired to masturbate! she says laughing out loud. “Fuck it! She screams jumping off the floor and storming away to her room with the third letter flopping back and forth within her grasp. A couple phone calls later she is unemployed and headed for Five Ponds Wilderness in upstate New York. The tourism board has launched an effort to get more city dwellers to brave the wilderness and get out of their comfort zone, and they are willing to pay handsomely to have a writer camp and write about their experiences. She had been chosen along with three others being sent to various remote areas of the state, the articles will be published in multiple magazines and newspapers with a coordinated push in the spring to entice camping and the outdoors for even the most inexperienced. Driving the two hours to a small town in upstate New York and arriving at the Quality Inn has given her time to question the rashness of her decision. Then after sitting in a conference room and hearing about all the ways a person could get hurt or die in the wilderness, her depression begins to take root. Once again she thinks she may have made a horrible mistake she will inevitably have to call her mother to save her. Growing up in the city with a Father as a lawyer, and a mother as a professional enabler, she thought she had chosen a path far away from them, but she had no idea of the ways of the world outside of New York. Later that day in the woods behind the hotel Matt gathered the four of them for instructions. She sucked at everything her trainer Matt showed them to do, but at the end of an hour session with him, he felt confident enough to push her out the door of his van and drive off leaving her covered in dust. She looked up and witnessed the sun setting in the west and knew she only had a few hours to set up camp, which was a mile hike into the forest near a small pond according to the map. She hitched up her backpack and started the trek into a wonderful two-week vacation or her version of a female Deliverance remake. Every morning she had walked the four blocks to the local Starbucks to get her morning iced Mocha, so when she told them she walked every morning she may have led them to think she could walk miles in the forest and hills. As the sky grew darker and the forest became the nightmares of her youth her campsite was still nowhere in sight. When the only light she had was a sliver of what the moon could provide she stopped within a group of trees and set up in a spot barely big enough to accommodate her tent. In the morning she would find her campsite and get about earning the bonus money for a completed stay. The tent was not assembled to factory specifications, but it was up, exhausted she crawled in and went to sleep. That first night she was completely worn out that a bear could have fondled her and she would not have woken up. Only the morning light illuminating the fabric of her dwelling brought her out of slumber and the realization that it wasn’t just a bad dream. After eating a Powerbar she had stashed away for the trip she climbed out of her tent and looked on in amazement at the beautiful view only fifty more feet to the west of where she had made camp. “Son-of-a-bitch, I almost made it.” Karen packed what she could and dragged the rest into the clearing, she couldn’t help but stand in awe of the view once again, and it was at this point she knew why they wanted more people to see this. An hour later in good light with her campsite complete she began the arduous process of trying to catch a fish for lunch. She was surprised at the amount of knowledge she remembered from the training class, she had found a stick, tied a piece of fishing line with a hook to the end, and caught a nice-sized fish within a couple minutes. This early success gave her the confidence she needed to strike out and explore her surroundings, to see nature in its most pristine state, and most importantly find something to write about. Later that day she sat fueling her fire and passions as she attempted to write words that would do justice to the awesome beauty of her surroundings. Five crumpled pages from her notebook have made it to the fire, her writer's block stems from difficulties in describing how animals here are curious and take food from her hand. The fear civilization has instilled in animals near the city isn’t as prevalent in remote areas like this, and the joy of existing alongside them is a joy to be experienced. The next couple of days fly by, and her wilderness experience is turning out to be a great success. Her writing would be too if she could find the right words, the right words that will entice city dwellers to abandon having everything at their fingertips and see and experience all of creation. That evening as she lay down in her sleeping bag, the thought came to her ‘I like it here’. It’s strange to think that a simple phrase can be so powerful, her worldview had been shattered. Dusk settled over her campsite and that is when she could hear a low growl off in the distance, she didn’t give it much thought, only every waking minute. The next morning, she awoke to the site of her campsite in disarray, she poked her head out of her tent and scanned the area as if eight mil. nylon fabric could save her from a five-hundred-pound bear. Reluctantly she came forth from the safety of her dwelling but was a cautious and nervous wreck all day. The next few nights went the same, her nightly visitor would come into camp looking for food, not realizing it was only a tent away. The fishing was bad, and she was on her last Powerbar with two nights still to go, she knew she had to do something the next day, like take a bath, she could smell herself. The next morning she slept in, something so pure she could never get away with at home. Food and cleanliness were on the agenda today, and she remembered a trick Matt had shown everyone in training. Burn some fern leaves and then take the ash and wash with it, it is supposed to be an antibacterial soap. Karen walked down to a small stream she had played in a few days before, she began to take off her clothes but stopped. Even out here all alone her shy nature prevents her from revealing her naked body. With only her t-shirt and panties on she used her makeshift soap to clean herself in the stream. At first, the cold water was a shock, but then it grew to become refreshing. She enjoyed feeling clean again, so much that she fell asleep on the bank of the stream and woke as dusk began to take hold. She woke to the dance of lightning bugs over her head, but she noticed the night sky, dark and cloudy. “Shit! I slept all day,” she cursed herself, cognizant that she needed to find food before it got too dark, and by the looks of the sky, she only had an hour at most before it would be too dangerous. She gathers her clothes and runs back to camp to get her fishing pole and try to catch something before it gets too dark. As she crowned the top of the hill by her camp she is confronted by her nightly nuisance, five feet to her front stands a large black bear, very much a proud male. “I bet the lady bears love you,” is the last thing she remembers saying before the lights go out. The next morning Karen wakes to a different intruder in her campsite, but this time it is welcome. Matt has returned to pick her up and has driven the bear away. Finding her lying in the grass in her shirt and panties he brought her back to her tent and watched over her through the night. “I bet you’ll be glad to get back to the city and become a big-time writer,” Matt says kneeling over the fire and cooking a couple fish he caught. “Actually no, I've come to love it here.” Matt begins to laugh and then moves over so she can gather around the fire and stay warm. “Why did you laugh just then?” she asks. “I warned them this might happen." “What?” she asks eating a piece of fish. “That being exposed to all this would change a person, and out of the four of you it seems to have happened to you and Jake,” he explains. “I have to go back though, how am I going to make a living out here?” she regretfully asks. “Come back with me, I write for the local paper, and we are looking for someone like you?” he suggests. “Do you think they would hire me?” Karen asks desperately hoping this dream could come true. “I have some pull with the owner,” he teases. “It’s you, isn’t it?” “You’re hired!” he offers. "Am I dreaming, or did that bear kill me?" she wonders. "I watched you top the hill and meet the bear, when you fainted it scared the hell out of him and he took off," Matt explains laughing. "Some badass I am," Matt reaches over and takes her hand to comfort her, she has been through a lot. She had courageously cut her ties to city life and found a new path. His hand holding hers feels as right as her new love of nature, maybe this atheist experiencing God's creation has led her to new love.

he27ms

The Rattler and The Hawk.

Under the blazing Arizona sun, the highway seemed to stretch endlessly across the desert, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the barren landscape. The heat shimmered in the distance, creating mirages that danced tantalizingly on the horizon. This was the domain of two truckers, rivals by necessity and enemies by choice: Hank “Hawk” Turner and Mike “Rattler” Rodriguez. Hawk was a grizzled veteran of the road, his face weathered and creased from years of sun and wind. His truck, a gleaming red Peterbilt, was his pride and joy, polished to perfection and roaring like a lion when he hit the gas. Hawk had been driving these roads for over three decades, and he knew every twist, turn, and truck stop from Phoenix to the California border. Rattler, on the other hand, was relatively new to the scene. His truck, a black Kenworth with silver flames painted along the sides, was as menacing as its owner’s reputation. Rattler was younger, fiercer, and had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon. He drove with a reckless abandon that both fascinated and infuriated other truckers. Their animosity began when Rattler first appeared on Hawk’s route. Hawk prided himself on punctuality and reliability, and he couldn’t stand the thought of a newcomer encroaching on his territory. Rattler, eager to make a name for himself, saw Hawk as an obstacle to be overcome. They clashed over clients, competed for the best parking spots at truck stops, and even raced each other down the highway, their massive rigs thundering side by side. One scorching June afternoon, fate decided to intervene. Both Hawk and Rattler received an urgent job from a major logistics company to deliver critical supplies to a remote mining operation in the heart of the Arizona desert. The catch? The supplies had to be delivered within 48 hours, and the only viable route was a treacherous stretch of dirt road through unforgiving terrain. Hawk arrived at the pickup point first, scowling as he saw Rattler’s Kenworth pulling in behind him. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Great, just what I needed.” Rattler stepped out of his truck, flashing a cocky grin. “Looks like we’re headed the same way, old man. Try to keep up.” Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “Just stay out of my way, kid.” They loaded their trucks in silence, the tension between them palpable. As they set off, the rivalry simmered just beneath the surface, each driver determined to outdo the other. The first day passed uneventfully, the trucks roaring through the desert, plumes of dust trailing behind them. As night fell, the temperature dropped sharply, and the desert took on an eerie, almost otherworldly quality. Hawk pulled into a small clearing off the road, intending to rest for a few hours. To his irritation, Rattler pulled in right behind him. “Can’t even let a man rest in peace,” Hawk grumbled as he climbed out of his cab. Rattler shrugged, leaning against his truck. “Safety in numbers, right?” Hawk ignored him, setting up a small campfire and heating a can of beans over the flames. Rattler, to his surprise, did the same. They ate in silence, the only sounds the crackling fire and the distant calls of coyotes. As the fire died down, Rattler spoke up. “Why do you hate me so much, Hawk?” Hawk glanced at him, surprised by the directness of the question. “I don’t hate you, kid. I just don’t trust you. You’re reckless, always pushing the limits. Out here, that kind of attitude gets people killed.” Rattler bristled. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve got my reasons for driving the way I do.” Hawk raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what might those be?” Rattler hesitated, then sighed. “My dad was a trucker. Died in a crash when I was a kid. He was careful, just like you. But it didn’t save him. I guess... I guess I figured if I drove fast enough, pushed hard enough, I could outrun the same fate.” Hawk was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I’m sorry about your dad. But driving like that won’t bring him back. It’ll just put you in the same grave.” Rattler stared into the dying embers of the fire. “Maybe you’re right.” The next day, the terrain became more challenging. The dirt road was narrow and rocky, with steep drop-offs on either side. As they navigated a particularly treacherous section, Hawk’s truck hit a loose patch of gravel and skidded dangerously close to the edge. Rattler, seeing the danger, acted without thinking. He pulled his truck alongside Hawk’s, using his own rig to nudge the Peterbilt back onto firmer ground. Both trucks came to a stop, their drivers shaken but unharmed. Hawk climbed out, his face pale. “Thanks, kid. That was quick thinking.” Rattler shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Guess I owed you one.” They continued on, a grudging respect growing between them. The road became increasingly difficult, the heat oppressive. When they finally reached the mining operation, they were exhausted but relieved. They delivered the supplies on time, much to the relief of the miners. As they prepared to head back, Hawk extended a hand to Rattler. “You did good out there, kid. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.” Rattler grinned, shaking his hand firmly. “Thanks, Hawk. You’re not so bad yourself, for an old man.” The journey back was different. They still drove fast, still pushed their trucks to the limit, but there was a newfound camaraderie between them. They shared stories, laughed at each other’s jokes, and found that, despite their differences, they had a lot in common. One evening, as they camped under the stars, Rattler looked over at Hawk. “You know, I always thought you were just a grumpy old man stuck in his ways. But you’ve got a lot of wisdom. I’ve learned a lot from you.” Hawk chuckled. “And I always thought you were a reckless punk. Turns out you’ve got a good head on your shoulders when you use it. You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.” Rattler raised an eyebrow. “You were a hothead too?” Hawk laughed. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the stories. I did some crazy things back in the day. But I had a mentor, just like you do now, who set me straight.” As the days turned into weeks, Hawk and Rattler became an inseparable team. They still competed, still pushed each other to be better, but it was a friendly rivalry now, built on mutual respect and trust. They shared the road, looking out for each other, and became known as the best trucking duo in the Southwest. Their journey through the Arizona desert had transformed them from mortal enemies into lifelong friends. They had learned to embrace their differences, finding strength in their diversity. And as they roared down the highway, the sun setting behind them, they knew that they could face whatever challenges lay ahead—together. Their bond grew stronger with every mile they covered. They took on more challenging routes, trusting each other to navigate the toughest terrains. Hawk taught Rattler the art of patience, while Rattler showed Hawk the value of taking calculated risks. Their combined skills made them an unstoppable force. One sweltering summer day, they found themselves facing their biggest challenge yet. A sudden sandstorm swept across the desert, reducing visibility to near zero. The storm was so fierce that it threatened to bury their trucks under mountains of sand. Hawk and Rattler knew they had to act quickly to survive. Hawk’s experience and calm demeanor helped them stay grounded. He communicated with Rattler using hand signals and short radio bursts, guiding him through the storm. Rattler’s quick reflexes and sharp instincts kept them from veering off the path. Together, they navigated the treacherous storm, emerging on the other side covered in dust but unscathed. As they took a moment to catch their breath, Hawk looked over at Rattler, a rare smile playing on his lips. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” Rattler grinned, his teeth white against his dusty face. “Yeah, we do. Thanks for having my back out there.” Hawk nodded. “Always.” Their bond wasn’t just forged on the road. During long hauls, they shared their dreams and fears, their past mistakes and future hopes. Rattler confided in Hawk about his aspirations to start his own trucking company someday, while Hawk shared stories of his family and the sacrifices he had made to provide for them. Hawk’s wisdom helped Rattler see the bigger picture. He encouraged him to pursue his dreams but to do so with caution and foresight. Rattler, in turn, reignited Hawk’s passion for the open road. He reminded him of the freedom and adventure that had drawn him to trucking in the first place. Years passed, and their friendship only deepened. They became legends in the trucking community, known not just for their skills but for their unbreakable bond. They trained new drivers, passing on their knowledge and experience, ensuring that the next generation of truckers carried their legacy forward. One day, as they sat by a campfire under the starlit desert sky, Rattler turned to Hawk. “You know, I never imagined we’d  end up like this. From enemies to friends… it’s been one hell of a ride.” Hawk smiled, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “Life’s funny that way. Sometimes the people you least expect turn out to be the ones who change your life the most.” Rattler nodded, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. “Thanks for everything, Hawk. I wouldn’t be where I am without you.” Hawk reached over, clapping a hand on Rattler’s shoulder. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, kid. Here’s to many more miles together.” As the fire crackled and the desert wind whispered around them, they sat in comfortable silence, two men who had started as mortal enemies but had learned to embrace their differences. Their journey had been long and arduous, but it had led them to a place of understanding, respect, and friendship. In the vast expanse of the Arizona desert, under the watchful gaze of the stars, Hawk and Rattler knew that they had found something truly rare and precious—a bond that would endure through every storm, every challenge, and every mile of the open road.

rmmfb2

Echoes of indifference

Days of angered fighting had marked the border clash between Aethoria and Sylvaria, a monument to the long-standing hostility between the two countries. The sound of steel hitting steel and spells roaring filled the valley, echoing like the distant thunder of a storm on its way to invade but the storm never came. Elara Windrider, a fierce warrior from the highlands of Aethoria, guided her group with remarkable intensity. Her family's sword flowed through the air with deadly accuracy; every blow was well-planned and devastating. Her tight braided auburn hair billowed behind her in the breeze akin to a banner. Kael Thorne, a wizard from the verdant forests of Sylvaria, weaved natural spells throughout the battlefield, his magic blending with the terrain to push off the invaders. His eyes were a rich emerald green, radiating the strength that was flowing through him. Wind gusts deflected arrows and spells away from his friends as vines sprung up from the earth, entangling warriors. The paths of Elara and Kael met in the twisted fate of war. As steel and magic met, sparks flew, each fighter representing the pride and strengths of their people. Kael matched Elara's slick swordplay with quick incantations. Despite their fierce combat, no one was able to take the upper hand. They were separated by an abrupt explosion, which left them both hurt and trapped far from their respective troops. Elara woke up in a strange forest, her blade lying a few feet away and her head pounding. Her warrior training taking effect, she reached for it out of instinct. Kael was close by, his chest continuously rising and falling, asleep but alive. Fearful of the mage, her survival instincts took over while she cleaned her wounds. Kael started to cast a spell when he stirred, but the agony stopped him. Their hatred was evident as they gazed at one another. Elara snapped out of her quiet, saying, "We need to survive first." "Then we can kill each other." Despite her suspicion, Kael nodded. "Agreed." The forest was treacherous, filled with creatures and traps. The trees seemed to whisper secrets, and the underbrush rustled with unseen dangers. They journeyed through the dense foliage, relying on Elara's combat skills and Kael's knowledge of the land and its magic. The mage's spells shielded them from danger while Elara's sword defended against beasts. Their forced cooperation gradually became a necessity they begrudgingly accepted. They came upon a pack of wolves on their travels, and their eyes glowed with a wild hunger. With a flash, Elara's blade sliced through the air with accuracy, while Kael's magic created wind gusts and prickly obstacles to push the monsters away. They had never battled with each other before, but despite their hostility, they moved surprisingly in unison. Weeks passed while they made their way through the dangerous terrain. Their mutual hostility started to wane and was replaced with a grudging respect. While they were camping beneath the stars one night, Kael told them the tale of his country's battle to keep Aethorian encroachment on its natural areas. The ancient and sacred woodlands of the Sylvarian region were brimming with energy and magic. Elara listened, his remarks challenging her viewpoint. "My family was assigned to guard our borders," Elara answered in a tone that was noticeably quieter than normal. "We were told Sylvarians were aggressors." Kael scowled. "It seems we've both been fed lies." As their talks progressed, more details about their lives and the values they upheld emerged from each other. Elara talked about her legacy, her family's honor, and the pressure to live up to expectations. Tales about Sylvarian customs, the connection his people had with the natural world, and the magic that permeated their culture were all told by Kael. They learned of a shared past tainted by dishonesty and manipulation. A long-ago prophecy predicted that a warrior and a magician from rival countries would unite to bring peace to Valoria. They were shaken by this realization and began to wonder if their quarrel was really that serious. As they journeyed, Elara and Kael stumbled upon an ancient ruin, its walls covered in cryptic symbols. The air was thick with a sense of forgotten history, the weight of time pressing down on them. Kael deciphered the symbols, revealing the existence of a third party that had orchestrated the feud between their nations. This enemy sought to control Valoria by keeping Aethoria and Sylvaria at odds. "We've been pawns in their game," Elara said, her voice filled with anger and determination. "We have to stop this." They continued, their friendship growing stronger as they were determined to find the truth. They faced additional perils, yet came out stronger every time. Together, Elara's fighting prowess and Kael's magical abilities made for a dangerous team. They had to navigate dangerous terrain, which ranged from perilous cliffs to eerie, magical wetlands. With every obstacle they overcame, their bond grew stronger and more impenetrable. They found hints that took them to the dark stronghold tucked away deep in the mountains, the center of the enemy's territory. The trip was difficult, full of setbacks that tried their resolve and their developing mutual trust. They came into guardians from long ago, relics from a bygone era, and riddles that needed both of their abilities to solve. They reached the centre of the secret enemy's territory as a result of their journey. The ominous stronghold with its imposing walls loomed ahead. An overpowering magic pervaded the air, a physical representation of the evil that had been controlling their countries for generations. Long believed to be a myth, a formidable sorcerer had been directing the battle from behind closed doors. As he faced Elara and Kael, his eyes blazed with cunning knowledge. The sorcerer scoffed, "You dare challenge me?" "You are nothing but pawns." Elara and Kael did not waver in their commitment. "We are more than that," Kael steadily answered. "We are the future of Valoria." In the climactic battle, their unity was their greatest weapon. Elara's sword strikes, infused with Kael's magic, broke through the sorcerer's defenses. The final blow was a testament to their cooperation and newfound friendship. The sorcerer fell, his plans unraveled. Elara's blade, glowing with a magical aura, struck the sorcerer down as Kael's spells bound him in place. Their combined power was unstoppable, a fusion of might and magic that symbolized the potential for harmony between their peoples. With the enemy defeated, Elara and Kael returned to their people, armed with the truth. They faced resistance and skepticism but their unwavering determination and the evidence they brought swayed their leaders. A historic meeting was arranged between Aethoria and Sylvaria, with Elara and Kael at the forefront. The peace talks were tense, but their personal journey served as a powerful example of what could be achieved through understanding and cooperation. Slowly, the animosity between the nations began to thaw. Trade routes were established, and cultural exchanges blossomed. Elara and Kael recounted their voyage and the realities they had discovered while speaking fervently about their experiences. Many were moved by their remarks, which planted the seeds of change. Inspired by the bravery and solidarity of the two, the leaders of Sylvaria and Aethoria decided to work towards a permanent peace. Conclusion Elara and Kael stood at the newly drawn boundary, which now represented unity rather than division, years later. In their own time, they had become legendary, and their tale was passed down to motivate coming generations. They had gone from being bitter rivals to lifelong friends as a result of their adventure, demonstrating that even the greatest gaps could be closed with compassion, teamwork, and the guts to question the current quo. Elara and Kael witnessed the dawn of a new day that would bring prosperity and peace to Valoria as the sun rose overhead. Their lasting legacy was one of harmony and hope, serving as a constant reminder of the value of appreciating and respecting individual differences. In the years that followed, Elara and Kael continued to work together, leading joint initiatives to foster cooperation between their nations. They established schools where children from both lands could learn about each other's cultures and histories. Festivals celebrated the unity of Aethoria and Sylvaria, with Elara and Kael often seen as honored guests, their presence a reminder of the power of their bond. Their story became a beacon of hope, inspiring countless others to set aside their differences and work towards a common goal. Statues were erected in their honor, depicting the warrior and the mage standing side by side, a symbol of the enduring friendship that had changed the course of history. As they grew older, Elara and Kael found solace in the knowledge that their efforts had paved the way for a brighter future. They spent their remaining years in a peaceful village at the border, surrounded by friends and family from both nations. Their legacy lived on through the generations, a testament to the transformative power of understanding and unity.

4f78sr

The Fire Within

People often say that anger is a destructive force, a wildfire that burns everything in its path, leaving behind only ashes and regret. But what if anger could be transformed into something beautiful, something powerful? What if, instead of consuming us, it could fuel creation and bring people together? This is the story of Akira, a girl who harnessed the fire within her to create something extraordinary. In the heart of a small village nestled among towering mountains, Akira was known for her fiery spirit and her remarkable pottery. Her life had been marked by hardship and pain, but she refused to let her circumstances define her. Instead, she channeled her anger into her art, turning her inner turmoil into creations that brought peace and beauty to her community. Akira’s childhood was a tapestry of turmoil. She grew up in a society where women were seen as inferior, and her father, Haru, was a harsh and brutal man. He ruled their household with an iron fist, often taking out his frustrations on Akira's gentle mother, Hana and sometimes Akira. The sounds of Hana's cries and the sight of her bruises became a painful part of Akira's daily life. But while these experiences could have hardened her heart and created a hatred, anger and resentment towards her father. She didn't take the part, instead she used the anger to fuel are art works. Akira found solace and strength in her art. Her workshop, a modest structure filled with the scent of fresh clay and the soft, rhythmic sound of her hands molding the earth, was her sanctuary. Each piece she crafted was a testament to her resilience. The villagers often marveled at her creations, which seemed to pulse with life and emotion. "Akira, your work is truly magical," Hana, her mother would say, her voice filled with pride as she watched her daughter at work. "Your hands create beauty from nothing. It's a gift my dear daughter." Akira would smile, her eyes remaining focused on the clay. "It's the only way I know how to deal with everything, Mother. When I'm working, I feel like I can control something, make something good out of all this anger." Hana would sigh, placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Your anger can either consume you or empower you, my child. You have chosen the latter, and that is a powerful choice." Then came the day that shattered the fragile peace of their village. A group of bandits descended upon it, destroying homes and crops in their wake. Akira's heart pounded, the pot of water she was holding fell from her hands and broke as she saw the flames rising and heard the cries of her neighbors. She rushed to the scene her eyes scanning the chaos for her mother. Her breath caught in her throat when she found Hana's lifeless body among the ruins. Overwhelmed with grief, Akira's anger burned hotter than ever before. Instead of succumbing to despair and taking revenge on the bandits that killed her mother, Akira retreated to her workshop. She locked herself in, tears mixing with the clay as she worked furiously.  She was determined to create something that would honor her mother and protect the village. Her hands moved with purpose, shaping a magnificent dragon. Its scales glinted in the sunlight, each one meticulously crafted. As she worked, she felt her anger slowly transform into something powerful and beautiful. When the dragon was complete, Akira carried it to the town square. The villagers, still reeling from the attack, gathered around, their eyes wide with awe. Some villagers murmured in amazement, their eyes fixed on the magnificent dragon sculpture in Akira's hands. "By the gods, that's the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship I've ever laid eyes on!" one villager exclaimed, his voice full of wonder. "The intricate scales, the fierce expression, the way it seems to breathe fire... it's as if the dragon might come to life at any moment!" The villager's words sparked a chorus of agreement from the crowd. "Indeed, it's a masterpiece!" "The girl's hands are truly blessed by the gods!" "I've never seen anything like it!" Akira's face flushed with pride and happiness as she smiled, her eyes shining with joy. She had never felt so accepted and appreciated by her community before. The villagers' praise and admiration warmed her heart, and she felt a sense of belonging and purpose that she had never felt before. Akira placed the dragon in the center and addressed them, her voice steady and strong despite her grief. "My anger has created something beautiful. Let yours do the same. I know deep down the gods blessed each abd everyone of us with this gift. I would like to teach everyone here how to create" she declared, her words echoing through the square. Akira's voice thundered through the village square like a mighty drumbeat, igniting a fire of determination in the hearts of her people.  "This sculpted dragon, our mighty protector, shall stand watch over us from this day forward! If those marauding bandits dare to threaten our village again, it shall unleash its fury upon them like a tempest, reducing them to naught but ashes and dust!" The villagers' faces lit up with a fierce resolve, their eyes blazing with a newfound sense of courage. "Who among you shall join me in unleashing the dragon's wrath?" Akira cried out, her arm outstretched, her hand beckoning like a warrior summoning her comrades to battle. "Me!" a burly blacksmith exclaimed, his deep voice resonating through the square like a mighty bell. "Me!" a young apprentice echoed, his eyes shining with eagerness like a star bursting forth in the night sky. "Me!" a grizzled elder chimed in, his gnarled staff at the ready like a seasoned warrior preparing for battle. But one villager, a skeptical old man, spoke up, his voice dripping with doubt like a cold rain shower on a winter's day. "But Akira, the dragon is not alive. It's just a sculpture, a mere decoration." Akira's smile was enigmatic, her eyes glinting with a knowing light like a wise sorceress revealing a hidden truth. "Ah, but my friend," she said, her voice low and mysterious, "you would be surprised at the power of art and imagination. .This dragon may be just a sculpture now, but I know that when the bandits come, the gods will breathe life into it, and it will rise up like a phoenix from the ashes, its wings beating fiercely as it defends our village with all its might." The villagers looked at each other uncertainly, like travelers lost in a dense forest, but Akira's conviction was infectious, like a wildfire spreading rapidly through the underbrush. They nodded, one by one, like soldiers swearing allegiance to their commander, and joined her in her quest to create something truly magnificent, a work of art that would be remembered for generations to come. Inspired by her words, the villagers began to create. They painted, they danced, they sang. They turned their anger into art, music, and unity. The village, once fractured by fear, found strength in their collective creativity. As the days passed, the village transformed. Murals of hope and resilience adorned the walls, songs of strength filled the air, and dances of unity brought the villagers closer. Akira's dragon stood as a symbol of their collective strength and determination. However, unbeknownst to Akira, her father, Haru, was among the bandits. He had been watching her from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. One evening, as the villagers celebrated their newfound creativity, Haru snuck up behind Akira and grabbed her. "You think you can defeat me with your little pots and dragons?" he sneered, his grip tightening. Akira's anger flared up, but she refused to let it consume her. Instead, she used it to fuel her creativity. She began to mold a pot right there in her father's grasp, her hands moving with a speed and precision that left him momentarily stunned.  The pot began to glow brighter and brighter, until it was like a small sun in Akira's hands. Haru shielded his eyes, and Akira took advantage of the distraction. She broke free from his grasp and ran to the dragon in the town square. The dragon began to glow, its scales shimmering with an inner light. The villagers watched in awe as Akira's creation came to life. Haru, blinded by the light, stumbled backward. Akira stood tall, her eyes blazing with determination. "Your anger destroyed, Father. Mine creates," she declared, her voice ringing out clear and strong. The dragon roared to life, and Haru was consumed by the light and fire. When it faded, he was gone, defeated by Akira's creativity and determination.  The villagers cheered, and Akira knew that her anger had been transformed into something truly beautiful—a legacy of love and peace that would live on forever. **** Years later, when Akira was old and gray, she looked out over the village she had helped to build. She saw children playing, laughing, and creating.  And she knew that her anger had been transformed into something truly beautiful—a legacy that would live on forever. But there was a twist. Haru had not been defeated by the light. He had been transported to a different dimension, a place where he was forced to confront his own anger and learn to harness it into something beautiful.  In this dimension, Haru faced trials and challenges that mirrored his past actions. He saw the pain he had caused, felt the weight of his anger, and struggled to find a way to transform it. Over time, Haru began to change. He learned to mold his anger into something constructive, creating works of art that reflected his journey towards redemption. He was no longer the man who had caused so much pain but a man transformed by his own struggles. One day, as Haru worked on a particularly challenging piece, a portal opened before him. He stepped through, uncertain of what awaited him on the other side. To his surprise, he found himself back in the village, standing before Akira's dragon. The villagers, who had once feared him, now looked at him with curiosity and hope. Akira, now a revered elder, approached him. Her eyes, once filled with anger, now held a deep understanding. "Father, you have returned," she said softly. Haru nodded, his voice trembling. "I have faced my demons, Akira. I have learned to transform my anger, just as you did." The villagers gathered around, sensing the significance of the moment. Akira took her father's hand and led him to the town square. Together, they stood before the dragon, the symbol of their shared past and newfound hope. "Anger can destroy," Akira said, her voice carrying through the square, "but it can also create. It brought us here, and now it will lead us forward." The villagers, witnessing this powerful reunion, embraced Haru as one of their own. Akira and her father worked side by side, blending their crafts and stories, turning their pain into a legacy of love and peace. The story of Akira and her father became a legend, reminding everyone that anger is not something to be feared but something to be harnessed.  The power to transform it into creativity, unity, and love lay within each of them, waiting to be awakened.

szht7z

Land, ho!

George looked out over the ocean. As far as he could see, there was nothing but deep gray sea, teeming and rolling under equally gray, cloud filled skies. He felt his spirits plummet. He had hoped to see faraway, distant shores, some sort of mark on the horizon. The mark of Terra Firma. Mother Earth, land. It wasn’t to be. At least not yet. He didn’t know exactly when that momentous occasion would occur. The moment when one of the sailors on board would yell triumphantly “Land, ho!” George had almost forgotten what day it was and how long he had been at sea. If his calculations were correct, and he believed they were, he had been on the ship for about two months – two extremely long, grueling, suffocating months. He felt like the voyage would never end. The ship’s crew was housed in small cabins above deck, while George and his fellow passengers were consigned to the “gun deck” or lower deck, a suffocating windowless space between the main deck and the cargo hold below. The ceilings below deck were no more than five feet high, which forced him, and everyone else, to stoop until they were permanently and prematurely, bent over and aching. Old before their time. Below deck, it was also freezing cold. George was convinced that living below deck was akin to being in one of the seven circles of hell – if hell were to be the opposite in temperature – deathly cold and not a fiery, burning place. The cold seeped into George’s bones so deeply that he feared he would never be able to shake it. His whole body had turned into a block of ice. Moreover, it was so crowded below deck that one could barely move. The passengers were packed in as tight as sardines in a can. Cold, damp sardines. Besides the extreme temperature and close conditions, the stench of vomit, unwashed bodies, and human excrement permeated the air. The few slop buckets resting on the wooden plank floor were overflowing with human waste. At first, passengers had regularly hauled the teeming buckets above decks and dumped their contents into the ocean. Gradually, however, over the course of the voyage, most passengers became too ill and exhausted to be bothered. Instead, they huddled miserably under coarse woolen blankets in close proximity to the overflowing buckets, suffering from a combination of hunger pains, seasickness, putrid smells and frigid temperatures until they feared they would go quite mad. With the unsanitary conditions coupled with their meager diet of hardtack biscuits, salted pork, dried fish and other preserved meat, washed down with beer, it was miraculous that only one passenger, an indentured servant named William Butten, had died during the voyage. In a twist of fate, to compensate for that one death, a healthy baby boy had also been born during the crossing. The baby had been named Oceanus, in honor of the ocean voyage. The voyage was not for the faint of heart. The only thing that kept most passengers going was the thought of a better tomorrow. A fresh start in a new land. Like the baby Oceanus, the ocean voyage represented a birth – new beginnings in a foreign land. That birthing process, however, like most, had been long and arduous. The Mayflower and its sister ship, the Speedwell, had originally set sail from Southampton, England on August 15 in the year of the lord 1620. Unfortunately, the Speedwell had proven to be unseaworthy and soon sprung a leak. Most of its passengers were then transferred to the Mayflower, although some had chosen to stay behind. Less than a month after departing Southampton, the Mayflower and its added passengers, had once more set sail, departing on September 6 from Plymouth Harbor. The added burden of the Speedwell's extra passengers soon led to the aforementioned unsanitary, crowded conditions. For the most part, the passengers accepted the sacrifice. They considered their hardships aboard ship a necessary evil, a cross to bear for the promise of a better life – free from the tyrannical rule of their mother country England. George Soule was a lowly indentured manservant to a gentleman named Edward Winslow. George was one of approximately one hundred passengers from all stations of life, high and low, undertaking the voyage. As an indentured servant, he labored under a staggering debt that would take him countless years to pay – that is, should he decide to remain in England. His future in England was bleak – years of servitude loomed in front of him with nothing to show for it, nothing beyond mere survival. In America, however, his future seemed bright. He could work off his debt much sooner and become a landowner, a respected citizen in his own right. He would no longer be forced to be a manservant to anyone else. He could be independent. Free at last. It was a future too tempting to pass up. As a young, strong single man, he had nothing to lose. No one and nothing tied him to his mother country. With the thought of freedom and adventure coursing through his veins, he decided his fate lay in America. He tried to hold onto that optimism, despite the grueling conditions aboard the Mayflower. Looking forward to a better life was the only way to preserve his sanity in the midst of an interminable, miserable voyage. As of late, it seemed that the Mayflower was not even progressing forward in its journey. Stormy weather and rough seas often caused the ship to veer off course and even blow backwards, making the journey even longer. George prayed that this pattern would not continue. Soon, he hoped the ship would barrel forward, back on course. Although passengers had been strongly discouraged from going on deck, and faced the possible wrath of the Mayflower captain and his crew, George decided nonetheless to venture out of his cabin one day to see if he could gauge the ship’s progress. Were they still going backwards or were they now back on course? He wondered to himself. He just had to find out. He emerged from below decks and stepped onto the wooden deck, shuffling towards the ship’s stern. Having suffered several bouts of seasickness since the beginning of the voyage, he walked somewhat gingerly, fearing that his embattled stomach would soon start rolling and churning like the seas beneath him. To his surprise, his stomach was at last calm. He also noted in jubilation that it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, and fluffy white clouds pillowed the sky. The air was light, fresh, and warm – a welcome respite from the habitually cold, damp stink of below. He felt his spirits rise in tandem with the gentle breeze that stirred the air. He heard the mournful cooing of some kind of bird and glanced up. He saw a white albatross flying above him. He squinted his eyes and strained his neck muscles to look as high up in the sky as he was able. What was the bird carrying its mouth? To his astonishment, he noted that it was a branch. A branch that appeared to have green leaves on it! He could scarcely believe it! It must be a sign. Like the dove carrying the olive branch of peace, the albatross carried a fresh, living branch – or at least one that had been attached to a live tree a short while ago as its leaves were still a bright green. The branch and its leaves must be a sign. A sign from God. A promise. The end was in sight. Land would soon be present ! His thoughts raced. They were almost there! They had almost made it ! He could scarcely contain his excitement. He just had to go back and tell the others. He turned around and walked hurriedly back towards the hole cut into the deck that led to the wooden ladder that descended to the gun deck. On the way, he saw the first mate, a forbidding looking, unpleasant man who seemed to have a perpetual sneer on his face. “Pray pardon me, good sir,” George said excitedly. “Has thou seenest the bird flying o’er us? A bird, large and white, with a living branch in its mouth? Does thou not thinkest that bird be the harbinger of good news – land ahead and the end to our voyage?” Surprisingly, the grumpy man smiled. “The albatross! Thou must have seen the albatross! Tis an old sailor’s omen. A good omen, praise be. Land indeed beckons! Spread the good word, my fellow!” George could scarcely believe it. He was ecstatic. He had been the one to discover the bird with the branch, and the first mate had agreed with him. Land was soon to arrive! The first mate sped off to alert the captain of the harbinger of good fortune that had been spotted. Seafaring men were a superstitious lot and they believed in omens and signs. If an albatross with a branch had been spotted, then it must mean land was soon forthcoming. Navigational equipment was not something the Mayflower crew had, beyond an ancient sexton that did not work very well. Using the stars to navigate was also not without fault. Sometimes navigating a ship was nothing more than a wing and a prayer. And this time, the wing had literally been spotted. The wing of a bird, a bird carrying a branch, a branch that had grown on dry land. Land that was surely not far away . . . Descending into the foothold, the next person George encountered was his master, Edward Winslow, accompanied by his wife. “Good morrow, sir,” George said, bowing. “I am happy to announce that land has been spotted!” In his excitement, George had embellished the story – a feat that he didn’t do deliberately but rather, subconsciously. Land had been spotted. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but his disheartened brain and spirit had long resided in the dark dungeon of the ship’s underbelly. When he finally saw light and promise in the form of a branch carrying bird at the end of that proverbial long, dark tunnel, he couldn’t help but leap to the logical conclusion that land had indeed been spotted. “Indeed?” his master Edward Winslow replied. “Actual land? Splendid, splendid. Thank you. I must share this good news with the rest of my family.” George continued walking towards his designated spot in the below decks cabin, taking care to bend down, lest he hit his head on the low ceiling, something he had done too many painful times. Along the way, he stopped and told everyone he knew about the land he had seen. Pretty soon, the whole ship buzzed with excitement. Rumors spread like wildfire. The voyage was almost over. Land was in sight. They were almost there! “I heard that whales were also spotted. Swimming in the water by the shoreline . . .” one man told his wife. Another man said that on the beach where they were sure to dock, face painted, bloodthirsty savages riding all white horses were lying in wait for the passengers, bows and arrows at the ready. The Mayflower passengers would surely be shot on sight by Indians and their quivering, sharply pointed arrows. Another passenger claimed the waters near the shoreline were infested with man-eating sharks. The Mayflower captain and his crew would therefore be forced to somehow run the large, unwieldy Mayflower aground onto dry land before passengers could safely disembark. Stirred by these and other similar rumors about what to expect on shore, the passengers, who had previously been too ill, exhausted and disheartened to stir from their squalid berths, were now gathering their tattered, dirty belongings in fevered excitement. The previously gloomy atmosphere below deck was now a cacophony of noise and movement, as passengers readied themselves and their children for their long anticipated, but potentially dangerous arrival. Soon, there was a stampede of scurrying feet headed towards the ladder leading to the ship’s deck. Skeletal, dirty, exhausted passengers began climbing the tattered rope ladder leading up to the ship’s deck, one right after another. Everyone wanted to stand triumphantly at the ship’s rail and spot the long awaited land. They wanted to hear those long awaited magical words, “Land ho!” Once on land, George felt he and the others might even sink to their knees and kiss the sand. Everyone strained to see that promised land, but so far, nothing had been spotted. Several long minutes passed until finally, an indignant buzz of voices began to rise. At last one man yelled hopefully above the din, “Starboard! The land must be on the starboard side!” After those words were uttered, there was a thunderous rush of feet on the wooden deck as everyone ran to the starboard side of the ship. With the ship’s weight now unevenly distributed, the ship tilted precariously to one side. One passenger, John Howland, who, like George Soule, was also an indentured servant, had been hanging over the railing trying to get a bird’s eye of the long anticipated land. Suddenly, he tumbled headlong into the water and landed with a resounding splash. “Man overboard!” called the first mate, throwing a worn rope to the hapless man, flailing helplessly in the water. Howland grabbed the rope in vain before it slipped out of his slippery grasp. His head then bobbed in the water, and he looked like he might soon go under, never to return. The throngs crowded on deck let out a collective gasp. The first mate then grabbed the rope back again before once more letting it fly back towards the struggling man in the water. This time, Howland reached one feeble hand towards the rope and finally, closed his fingers around it in desperation and tightly held on. The crew pulled him back in with the rope, before grabbing him under his armpits and heaving him over the rail where he at last flopped on the deck like a landed fish, spitting and sputtering out water. “Back to your quarters!” The captain cried. “Land is not yet near! We need to travel further still! Everyone below deck! Our time is not yet nigh!” The passengers grumbled in defeat, George being the one to feel the worst. He had been the unwitting bearer of false news. He was afraid everyone would hold it against him. In self chastisement, he almost felt he deserved a public flogging. Still, with the speed that rumors had spread all throughout the Mayflower, no one seemed to know where they had originated from. George was therefore safe from public humiliation and punishment. Nonetheless, he felt ashamed. He was also downhearted, beaten, and discouraged. He was beginning to lose all hope. The Mayflower would never reach America. They would be at sea forever. Forever trapped in the stifling, airless, putrid, freezing cabin in the ship's bowels. He silently cried salty tears and finally fell into a troubled, restless sleep. When he finally awoke, he didn’t get up from his wooden cot. What was the use? He was tired of being filled with false hope and promise. They were never going to get there. The bird with the branch in his mouth must have been an optical illusion. Some sort of sea going mirage. He was surely delirious from lack of food and sunlight. Just as he was thinking those bitter, defeated thoughts, he heard the clanging of a large bell and the blowing of a bullhorn. What could that possibly mean? Suddenly, he heard the captain’s booming voice, “Land, ho!” He realized with elation that the Mayflower had finally, blessedly arrived. He noted the date in his yellowed, water stained journal. November 9, 1620. The Mayflower had finally reached its destination. America. Home at last. His new life had begun. Author’s note: This story is loosely based on the Mayflower’s voyage and passengers aboard who actually existed. There is a rumor in my own family that we are descended from the Mayflower passenger George Soule, the indentured servant who is the main character in the story. My great grandparents' last name is Sowls, which supposedly is a derivation of the last name Soule. Whether or not this is true and I am related to George Soule, I don’t know, but nonetheless, it's an interesting rumor and gave me the idea for this historical fiction story. Other possible descendants of George Soule include Richard Gere, Dick Van Dyke, and Melvil Dewey. Or maybe that's just a rumor?

of4xzs

Superhero or Ghost

Some call me a ghost. Some don’t believe in me at all. Me? I call myself ‘Time Man’ Yeah, okay I get it not the greatest name in the world but all of the good names are taken. Besides what else could I call myself? Oh right, you don’t know anything else about me. My name is Kyle Vase. My superpower is time manipulation. I can freeze time. Cool right? When I first discovered my powers I thought I had died. I knocked a glass of water off the table and went to catch it but it stopped. It just floated there. I was confused. I looked around and saw that everything was frozen around me. I stood up and walked over to where my mom was in the kitchen. She was mid-slice cutting some brownies. “Mom?” I asked. She didn’t respond. I looked back at the TV and I could see something fuzzy around the screen. I walked over and touched it. It felt weird like being shocked but not hurt. “Whoa,” I continued to walk through the house and outside where my Dad was mowing the lawn. I know I should have been the one doing it but I was seventeen at the time. The one thing that took me a minute to realize was how quiet it was. The lawn mower wasn’t making a sound unless my Dad didn’t have it turned on. I made my way over to him and waved my hand in front of his face. No reaction. The neighbor Ted was taking out a trash bag and putting it in the bin. The bad was in the air. I walked over and put my hand on it and pushed. The bad started to move down. I kept pushing it until it was on the ground. I backed up and bumped into something. I turned to see it was a bird mid-flight. I grabbed it and held it in my hands. Just then everything went back to normal. The bird started to flutter in my hands, the garbage bag hit the ground and Ted said something I can’t remember. “Kyle!” My Mom shouted from the house. My Dad stopped the lawn mower and looked at the front door. He started to walk towards the house when he looked back and saw me on the sidewalk. “When did you get there?” He asked. “Uhm… Just now?” I didn’t know how to answer that. My Mom opened the front door and looked at my Dad. “Steve, Kyle is gone, he…” She stopped and looked over at me. “What the hell? You were just in the kitchen. I heard the glass break and you were just, gone.” She said. I just shrugged and said. “I was out here.” I looked over at Ted who had one hand on his hip and the other scratching his head as he looked at the bag of garbage. I went to school the next day and when up to my friends and told them what happened. Emma was the only one to believe me. Bill and Phil just laughed at me. We went to our math class and listened to the teacher. She was going on and on about something, I don’t know. Math wasn’t my greatest subject. Well, I wasn’t really good at any subject to be honest. I sat there bored, tapping my pencil on the desk when it happened again. Time froze. I looked back at Phil and Bill to see if they froze as well. They did. I got up and went over to them. I pushed their desks together then I took Phil’s finger and put it in Bill’s nose. Then took Bill's hand and put it on Phil's head. I burst into laughter. Then I looked at the teacher and walked up to her. I ripped open her shirt exposing her bra. Okay I know that was a douche thing to do. I was seventeen with the power to stop time. Who wouldn’t have done something like that. I sat back in my chair and waited. It wasn’t an instant thing for the time to go back but I wasn’t sure on how to use my powers just yet. I snapped my fingers and it just happened. Everything happened at once. Bill slapped Phils head and they freaked out as they noticed Phils finger. Everyone laughed at them and the teacher. She quickly closed her shirt. The next few days I practiced my powers. No one knew except for my friends that I told. One day I was sitting at the park and saw an older couple walking. A dog had come loose from the leash of a woman walking him. The dog was big and was running straight towards the couple. I watched the dog run and knocked over the older lady. I was quick to snap and freeze time. I ran over and was able to help the woman from falling. I moved her so she would be back on her feet. I stepped back to watch. The lady was able to stay on her feet. The dog walker ran over to check on her. Both of them were visibly confused. They looked at me and I snapped. I was in a panic and ran away. As I was running, I saw a car accident that was just about to happen. I jumped into action and opened the door of the car that was just about to be hit. I pulled the driver out and put them on the sidewalk. I went to the other car and looked at the brakes. I went and grabbed a large rock and placed it on the pedal. Before I snapped back and unfroze time I thought to myself. Is this really going to work? What would happen when they just see a rock appear out of nowhere? I came up with a secondary idea. I opened the car door, grabbed the rock, tossed it over my shoulder, and pulled the e-brake. I ran back over to the sidewalk. I snapped and unfroze time. The car was able to stop before hitting the other car. The driver I pulled out stood up and looked at his car while scratching his head. The driver of the first car got out and ran to the the other car and saw it was empty. I walked away from the scene and went home. I sat in my room in silence. I worked on a class project and when I finished I turned on the news. They were doing a report on the near acident. They were saying a ghost saved everyone. From that day forward I decided to use my powers for good, as long as they just think its a ghost. I spent the next few years using my abilities. Stopping bank robberies. Saving people from falling. There was also one time where there was a maniac inside an office building holding them hostage. I went in and pulled him out, cuffed him, and handed him over to the cops. After years of doing this, there wer only a few times that someone caught on. Including one where a CCTV footage shows me standing in one spot then in a split second it shows me across the street. There was a whole series of YouTube videos and podcasts trying to debunk or come to a conclusion on the phenomena. The day came when I decided to come out and tell everyone. I was the superhero. They mocked me. I was angry and snapped. They froze and I walked away. I wandered around and looked at everything around me. Something about this time it looked different. The trees greener. The sky was open and beautiful. Then I saw her. The prettiest woman I had ever seen. She was looking right at me. I smiled. Then she smiled back. I went pale. She raised her arms up and yelled “Wait!” I snapped again. Time went back to normal and she stopped. She was frozen now. I snapped again and she was able to move. We began to talk and get to know each other. We started to fall in love. What would have been over a decade for us was only a second for everyone else. She explained to me that a few years ago there was solar storm that apparently affected both her and me. She was frozen and I was the only one who could help her. She was diagnosed with cancer. We learned that when she was frozen the cancer stopped spreading. But when wasn’t frozen, she was dying. We decided to spend whatever time we had together until she was gone. The moral of the story is it doesn’t matter if you can control time. You still need to find it to spend on the things that really matter. Im writing this as I as well am in my final moments. The next snap will be my last. *Snap*

ldw8n2

### Gossip Central: The Hottest Scoop in Starlet City

### Gossip Central: The Hottest Scoop in Starlet City **Headline:** Love, Lies, and Longing: The Scandals Rocking Starlet City Dear readers, hold onto your hats and clutch your pearls because today's edition of Gossip Central is sizzling with the latest juicy tidbits from the glamorous yet tumultuous lives of our beloved celebrities. Grab your coffee (or maybe something stronger), and let's dive into the chaos, heartbreak, and drama that make Starlet City the talk of the town. **1. Star-Crossed Love Affairs:** It seems that Cupid's arrows have been striking with questionable aim lately. Our sources have confirmed that the dashing heartthrob, **Ethan Rivers**, and the sultry songstress, **Bella Monroe**, were spotted sharing an intimate dinner at Le Rêve, the swankiest restaurant in town. While Ethan is technically single after his high-profile breakup with supermodel **Victoria Lane**, Bella is still very much linked to her on-again, off-again beau, rocker **Jaxon Storm**. Eyewitnesses reported steamy glances and even a discreet kiss! Could this be the beginning of a new power couple, or just another chapter in Bella's tumultuous love life? **2. Betrayals and Backstabbing:** In a shocking turn of events, our inside informants reveal that **Tessa Hart**, the darling of daytime TV, has been betrayed by her closest confidante. Tessa's best friend and stylist, **Mila Bennett**, has been leaking details of Tessa's personal life to the press for months. This bombshell came to light after a series of particularly personal stories surfaced, each eerily detailed and undeniably true. Tessa is reportedly devastated and has severed all ties with Mila. Trust is a fragile thing in the world of fame, and Tessa's heartbreak is a harsh reminder of the cost of celebrity. **3. The Great Escape:** In a dramatic twist worthy of the big screen, action star **Derek Steele** has vanished from the public eye following a messy divorce and custody battle with ex-wife, actress **Chloe Kensington**. Rumor has it that Derek has fled to a secluded island to escape the relentless paparazzi and rebuild his life away from the spotlight. Sources close to Derek claim he is focusing on his mental health and reconnecting with nature. Meanwhile, Chloe is left to navigate single motherhood and a challenging career without Derek’s support. Will Derek make a triumphant return, or is this the end of his Hollywood saga? **4. Rising Stars and Fallen Idols:** Not all news is scandalous, darlings! Our very own **Lila Rose**, the sweet and talented breakout star, has landed a lead role in the upcoming blockbuster, *Celestial*. This role could catapult her to A-list status, and we're all eagerly watching her rise. However, not everyone is thrilled about Lila’s success. Her former mentor, veteran actress **Vivian Blackwood**, has been vocal about her disapproval, calling Lila “ungrateful” for allegedly ditching her after finding fame. A classic case of jealousy, or does Vivian have a point? Either way, we can't wait to see Lila shine on the silver screen. **5. Scandalous Reunions:** Fans of the once-popular band, **Eclipse**, are in for a treat as whispers of a reunion tour circulate. Frontman **Ryan Knight** and guitarist **Liam Hayes** were spotted together at a secret recording session, sparking hopes of new music and possibly a tour. This news comes despite their infamous fallout years ago, which led to the band's breakup. Can Ryan and Liam put aside their differences for the sake of their fans, or is this just a fleeting moment of nostalgia? **6. Hidden Addictions:** The seemingly perfect life of reality TV queen **Sophie Sterling** is crumbling as reports of her secret battle with addiction come to light. Insiders have revealed that Sophie has been struggling with substance abuse for years, hidden behind her glamorous facade. She has checked into a rehab facility under an alias to avoid media attention. This revelation is a stark contrast to the image Sophie has always portrayed. Her fans are left in shock, hoping for her swift recovery and return to the spotlight, clean and stronger than ever. **7. Fashion Faux Pas:** The annual Starlet City Gala, known for its dazzling display of fashion, was not without its blunders this year. The usually impeccable **Fiona Frost**, renowned for her chic and sophisticated style, made headlines for all the wrong reasons. Her choice of a bold, avant-garde gown was met with mixed reviews, some calling it a masterpiece, others a disaster. Fashion critics and fans alike were divided, and Fiona's risky choice has certainly stirred the pot. Love it or hate it, Fiona remains the talk of the town. **8. Business Ventures Gone Awry:** It appears that not all that glitters is gold in the business world of Starlet City. Entrepreneur and former child star **Jasper King** has seen his latest venture, a high-end vegan restaurant, fall into financial turmoil. Despite the star-studded opening and rave initial reviews, the restaurant has been plagued by management issues and declining sales. Insiders say Jasper is scrambling to keep the business afloat, even considering selling off personal assets. Can Jasper turn things around, or will this be another failed project in his portfolio? **9. Secret Babies and Hidden Relationships:** The rumor mill is buzzing with whispers that actress **Grace Delaney** has been hiding a secret baby! Grace, known for her private nature, has kept a low profile recently, leading to speculation about her mysterious disappearance from the public eye. Sources suggest that she gave birth in secret and has been focusing on motherhood away from the prying eyes of the media. The identity of the father remains unknown, but rumors point to a high-profile director she was linked to last year. Will Grace confirm the news, or will this remain one of Starlet City's greatest mysteries? **10. Redemption and Comebacks:** In a heartwarming twist, comedian **Max Turner**, who faced a career downfall due to a scandal two years ago, is making a remarkable comeback. Max has been performing at small comedy clubs, rebuilding his reputation and winning back the hearts of fans. His sincerity and raw talent are shining through, proving that everyone loves a good redemption story. Max’s journey from disgrace to grace is a testament to resilience and the forgiving nature of the entertainment industry. There you have it, dear readers—today's hottest scoops and scandals straight from Starlet City. As always, we'll be keeping our eyes and ears open for more gossip, intrigue, and sensational stories to keep you entertained. Stay tuned, because in this city, there's never a dull moment! Until next time, Gossip Central ✨

iwjh9n

The Assignment

I make my way slowly to the bar, trying to hide my discomfort as I sidestep men and women in fancy dresses and suits. These shoes are taller than anything I've ever worn, and painfully opposite to the high-top sneakers I usually wear. I find an open stool at the bar and carefully seat myself, smoothing my long silk dress in my lap. I glance around at the high-class party goers as they sip champagne and laugh amongst themselves, probably about country club gossip and insignificant tax hikes. The bartender approaches me and raises his eyebrows, silently asking what I'll have. "Sapphire Martini," I say, as if it's my normal drink. I've never had a martini; usually when I approach a bar it's to half-drunkenly request another round of green tea shots for the group of friends I somehow encountered only five minutes before, and would likely never see again. The bartender makes a quick mix in a martini glass, tossing in a fancy spiraled orange peel, and sets it gently in front of me on a small, square napkin. I nod in thanks, and shift sideways so that the drink is visible to the rest of the room. My instructions provided few details. They simply told me to sit here with a Sapphire Martini, and wait. I stir the drink slowly, and notice my hand trembling. In an effort to calm my anxiety, I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip. I quickly have to hide my disgust. I hate gin. I scan the room again, wondering who the mystery contact is, and why I am meeting them. Is it the slender brunette in the floor-length red gown? Is it the gray-haired man leaning back in his seat as he listens to the rest of the table chit chat? Is it the bartender? I sneak a glance at the young man as he mixes a drink for another patron at the opposite end of the bar. He seemed relatively uninterested in me when I ordered my drink. If he was my contact, I would think he would have made it known. But, then again, I've never done this before. I am the amateur. Despite my Department training, I have limited field experience, especially unmonitored. My contact has probably met up with thousands of messengers. He knows how to fly under the radar. Distracted by my analysis of the bartender, I almost don't notice the handsome man who has seated himself beside me. "Sapphire Martini," he says, "I thought I was the only one." He nods toward my drink, then meets my eyes with a soft smile. He is incredibly good-looking, with greenish brown eyes and dark hair swept across his forehead. He is wearing a neatly pressed black suit with a white shirt and gray tie, and his sleeve reveals a shiny silver watch as he leans forward on the bar. He raises his eyebrows slightly, and I realize that I have not yet responded to him. I laugh nervously. "Yes," I say, "I suppose I prefer to stand out from the crowd." What a dumb thing to say. I'm here in secret, to meet a contact. My instructions may have been simple, but they were clear enough that I should know not to advertise my purpose for being here. "Well," the man says, "I don't think you need a drink to do that." I can feel my face grow hot, and my hand instinctively moves to my cheek to hide it. He laughs, and extends his hand. "Peter," he says. I panic. The instructions didn't give me a name to use in this situation. Do I make one up? Do I give him my real name? I don't even know the purpose of my meeting, will I be making myself vulnerable if I divulge my true identity? "Don't worry," he says quietly, leaning toward me, "you can give me your real name. I never drink these things either." I breathe a sigh of relief, and return his handshake. "Evelyn." He smiles brightly, and somehow becomes even more beautiful. I force myself to look away from him. This is a job, I can't go falling for my contact. I probably won't even see him again. The lights in the ballroom dim slightly as slow, steady music begins to play. Party goers make their way to the center of the room, finding the rhythm as they embrace. "Care to dance?" Peter asks. I look at him for a moment, then nod, taking his hand as he helps me off of my chair. He leads me to the center of the room, in the midst of the growing crowd of people. He turns to face me, and pulls me in close. He holds my hand to his chest, and I am worried that he can feel my heart pounding. Not only am I unsure of the reason for this meeting, but I feel a pull toward him that I can't make sense of. His other hand is pressed firmly against my back, holding me close to him. "I'm not supposed to tell you this," he says into my ear. I hardly move, except to follow his swaying movements to the music. "This was a setup," he says. His tone and demeanor have changed. He is no longer gentle and flirty, he is rigid. "What do you mean?" I ask quietly. "You weren't sent here to meet a contact. You were sent here as bait, to be used as a pawn in a war. The people who hired you sent you here under the impression that you would be receiving intelligence from an inside source, someone deep in the organization that I work for. "My organization doesn't have inside sources. It's a manipulation. They wanted your organization to send someone important, someone with strong ties to the operation. Instead, they hired you. Someone...disposable." His words twisted inside of me. Disposable . I took this job out of desperation. After being laid off from the Department, and coming up empty in my tedious search for temporary work, I was willing to do anything to keep a roof over my head. Now, it's made me disposable . I feel the rage boiling inside of me, and my grip tightens in his hand. He looks down at me with authority. "I was the one sent to dispose of you." Time stops. Everyone around us moves in slow motion. My knees feel weak. Do I run? Has he effortlessly pulled me into his grasp, trapped me in his deadly embrace? We are silent, unmoving, for what feels like forever, until he says, "I'm not going to do that." "Why?" I ask, finally finding my voice. He could be lying, this could be some elaborate scheme to make me feel safe, only to then be blindsided. "I saw you the moment you walked in," he says. "You're not great at the undercover thing." He smiles slightly, but I don't reciprocate. Now is not the time for lighthearted banter. "I have my own personal contacts, people I work with independently of my organization. They are all around us. They looked into you, before I ever approached you. They checked your history, your family, your experience. Everything." I suddenly feel watched, like there are eyes on me from every corner of the room. "That's when I learned that you meant nothing to your organization. You aren't even part of the organization. You were a bait hire, nothing more. "I also learned that you have skills. Important skills. You scored top of your class at Quantico, you accompanied a Special Ops unit in Bahrain. You've trained with the best, and were offered the best. Until they betrayed you. Let you go. Budget cuts, right?" He scoffs. As wrong as it feels, I agree with him. I was trained for exclusive details, high-profile work. From the moment I learned about the Department, I was committed. I sacrificed relationships, friends, family, and countless hours to become the best. Then, once I was the best, they released me with empty promises and minimal resources. My loyalty was worth nothing. Disposable . "Instead of eliminating you, I have an offer for you," Peter says defiantly. "I think you'll like it." I glance around us, thinking, then look up at him. "Tell me." "Build my empire with me," he says, his gaze into my eyes unwavering. "You're what I need." "How?" I ask. "I wasn't the only one with high marks in my class. I'm not the only one with my skill set. What sets me apart?" He smiles. "The Sapphire Martini."

77eo61

Promises – based on a true story

When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter. Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops. Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him. He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie. Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads…?” “Yeah. What is that?” “A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.” “Hilda? “She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.” “Wow.” “Been here since before I was born.” “She’s old!”       They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends. The ducks dispersed. Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.” “Really?” “That’s what he told me.” Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear. A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water. The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.” “Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.” “Birds do.” “But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.” “But how…?” “Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.” “What am I made for?” “Good question. What are you good for?” Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer. He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair. “Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.” Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed. He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest. Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games. One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game. Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary. Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?” “Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play… To keep from getting sacked.” “But it worked. We won the game…” “There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.” “Why did we win if everything went wrong?” “Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.” “I know, Dad. But Friday?” “Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.” The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples. Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.” “Let’s hear it.” He unfolded a paper, “’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park. And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark. There the ducks live in trees, The crows do as they please. The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark…’ He looked up. Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.” Cliff laughed. “It is?” Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?” “No. I just wrote it.” “Then I love it.” “You do?” Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.” The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day. He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.” The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table. He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn. “I heard them talking about the train.” “The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?” “Not sure. What’s three hours away?” Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass. Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.” “What’s up?” “Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.” “Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...” “That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.” Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs. Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly. When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.” “I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.” “And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.” Roger and Donna exchanged looks. He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here… What if… I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this. ‘Why? Why? Why…?’ Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’ He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys. “Drive around. I don’t know… Look between here and Grand Central… I’ll scout the Garden.” He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out. Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?” The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man… freakin’ tourist…” Dead end. He had been so sure. Now what? Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed. People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance. “Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long… I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if… or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe… You can’t… please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got… I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week… every day. Just bring him back safe. Please…” Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands. His cell phone rang. It was Roger. “We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42 nd , at Bryant Park.” Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face. Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.” The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that…” Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out…” The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding. Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that. Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises…’ He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.

rovn8k

All We Have Is Time

All We Have Is Time ©2024 Ellen Bennett            Verdant pastures spread panoramically, dotted with scarred, red-wooded barns, squat doublewides or old homes in various stages of disrepair. Along the way, an invisible wall surrounds me, like I’ve entered a balloon filled with thick humid air. It stops me at once. I dismount the bicycle and straddle it between my knees, catching my breath. JOURNAL ENTRY: BICYCLE TRIP, JUNE 4, 2024 A pole barn with its open doors is strewn with equipment both inside and out. Flanking the open doors are two small windows, their frames of rotted wood barely holding shards of broken glass together.  An overwhelming loneliness sweeps over me, settling deep inside my gut. The edges of the defined glass look like they could cut through any excuse.            A rusted tractor sits outside of the barn, framed in the brilliant azure sky. It is surrounded by tall weeds and overgrown grasses, their rough thorny slivers poking through rotted floorboards and around the engine housing. The now-defunct lift bucket lays dormant, like a dinosaur who gave up the fight. It bakes in the midday sun while accumulated layers of pollen, road and mower dust, bird droppings, hay, old oil, and grease disguise the rich history buried beneath age-old fingerprints. Working hands once controlled the levers that carried soil, rocks, manure, hay, and bags of feed, like clockwork against nature’s shifting weather. It has been left to decay, like everything else we humans choose to ignore.             Several black cattle and two Paint horses graze lazily in the nearby fields, a gentle breeze whispers through the thickly leafed towering maples and elms. Such old trees, their secrets safely stowed within their massive branches, trunk, and sturdy roots. I think about putting my palms on the trunk to absorb their knowledge, but I don’t move because to move would disrupt the clarity of the moment.            There is an undertow scent of recently spread fertilizer. Dark tractor lines crisscross the road coming from the field with the livestock and into another almost barren field which is in the process of being sowed. After a few days, the once pungent, eye-watering—almost nauseating—odor of freshly combined, composted fertilizer becomes not at all unpleasant, almost sweet with the clean air curling in from nearby Lake Michigan.            Black Gold!            A flutter comes from the top of one of the trees, a twitter and a call. A red winged black bird shoots from the cave of the leaves with a rustle and a snap as he calls to the others, possibly to join him in something delectable, or to throw them off the scent so the bounty will be all his. Do birds have this sense of propriety like their human counterparts? Do birds leave things behind to rot? When their offspring fall from the nest, do they save them?            They don’t.            Other birds of varying breeds zip in from different directions and bury themselves in parts of the trees. Their chatter blends in with distant cow moans and constant traffic on the highway which is located behind a thick line of trees. A heavy-sounding vehicle runs along the rumble strip then rights itself, and one of the Paints blows air through its nose as it flips its hay mound around into strewn piles. I watch the strands settle like pick-up-sticks. The aroma of sweet feed from a nearby tub is heady, the horse version of fresh-baked apple pie on a windowsill!            The mailbox at the end of the hard-packed dirt and gravel driveway leans toward the road. The post is fading, it’s green paint flecked and hanging in slivers around a chipped and unbalanced base. The door to the box is jimmied with gate clips. It doesn’t close all the way. There is a stack of weathered flyer mail sticking out of the top. The house number is hand-painted on a piece of wood, which is crookedly fastened with nails sticking out of the back of it having missed the thickness of the post. I wonder how it stays on in the wind.            A loud rustling from my right demands my attention and I swivel my head. Whatever it is, it is big. It sounds tangled within the trees and scrub. Then the sound settles, and a doe rises to the street from a shallow ditch, her hooves clattering lightly on the hard-packed dirt and gravel of the edge of the road. We come face to face, her mandibles working slowly on something she must have just picked off a tree. She is most gentle-looking, non-confrontive. I whisper to her twitching ears, “Hello beautiful, I am not going to hurt you, sweet momma.” She snuffles quietly through her nose and continues to slowly move the food around in her mouth, assessing me. Her front legs are slightly bent to accommodate the thrust of her back legs in case she needs to flee. I wonder if she has her babies tucked safely in the woods. Her dark eyes are steady on me. Perhaps she can smell that I am not a threat. When she sighs and calmly turns to go I tell her, “This is your land. Not mine. Thank you for making this moment count.”            As I watch her white tail recede back into the safety of the woods, I wonder if I have somehow stopped time. But I know that time is involuntary, like the beating of the heart, or the push of the diaphragm and expansion of the lungs! What would life be without the gravity of time? Where would history go to be discovered, surely repeated? If we embrace it, time gives us room and breadth.                                                                          ***            I take a sip of water and remount the bicycle.            The road continues curvy and hilly as I click into gear.            This pause has refreshed and nourished my soul; the scene permanently imprinted on the part of my mind that collects precious moments.            With the sun on my back and my eyes focused forward, I say quietly, “All we have is this, right now. All we have is time.”

qfmjyp

Aurora's Dive

The sunshine warms my back as our small rowing boat comes to a halt. After glancing skyward one last time to ensure the weather holds, I lift the rock tethered to the boat. It is heavy, cool and smooth in my hand. Carefully, I inspect every knot, running my fingers along the length of the rope, ensuring its strength. Not only my success but also my survival depends on it. With only a touch of hesitation, I release the rock overboard and watch its descent, my stomach a tight knot. All preparations are complete. It is up to me now to prove my worth. My goggles secured, I take a last deep breath and dive in, following the rope now connecting the boat to the ocean floor. The tropical water envelops me like an embrace, filling my body with tranquillity. My heartbeat slows and my stomach relaxes. There is no need for thought; every movement is well-practised and fluid. The muscles in my arms and legs flex and relax as they have done a thousand times, propelling me into the deep. I swim past schools of fish, flashes of blue, red and yellow, each following their purpose as I follow mine. Always staying close to the rope, I descend deeper into the abyss. With every metre, the pressure intensifies, and the water becomes colder and darker. When I reach the point where the ocean’s push turns into a pull, I am drawn deeper with little effort. Weightless and free, I soar through the water. The ocean draws me in, the pressure in my lungs and on my body becomes stronger. And then I see it—the dark rock, contrasting with the sandy bottom it rests on as if it belonged there. When I reach it, my bare feet touch the cool sand and send small clouds up into the water that dance and settle around me. My mind expands as my eyes lose focus, immersed in the vastness of the underwater world. Down here, I feel humble, awed by the life and space stretching in every direction. Sea animals and plants of all shapes and colours surround me. I am one of them, a creature of the sea… Every living cell, every drop of water, every rock and grain of sand is a part of me, as I am of them. We are all merely specks of dust in this universe, insignificant yet essential to the whole. Nothing exists but emotion—total serenity. A gentle touch on my ankle brings me back into my body. I watch a group of sea cucumbers slowly drift around my feet. Aware of my body and its needs once more, my lungs are drawing my attention, signalling the need to breathe soon. So I snatch two handfuls of the animals and stuff them into the bag I wear strapped to my waist for that purpose, making sure to close the buckle thoroughly. Pride ripples through me, but I know I cannot dwell on it, this is not yet done. Pushing off the ocean floor, I begin the arduous swim back to the surface, following the rope. This is the most challenging part, physically and mentally: swimming against the tug of the water, the pressure still pushing into me. Doubts start to creep in, as they always do at this point. My insides are starting to moan, soon they will be screaming. I do not have much breath left. Will it be enough? I stop myself; following those thoughts would lead me into a rabbit hole of panic, using up my remaining air much too quickly. I focus on my movements. Arms, legs. Arms, legs. My mind zeroes in on the way my limbs push me up through the water, the way I was taught. One moment at a time. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Every movement now requires conscious effort. There is no way out but through. I will not give up. I pass the floating point, and suddenly I am gliding more easily. The tension in my mind and body eases a little, the ocean supports and guides me now. Yet my lungs are increasingly straining, the urgency to breathe becoming nearly unbearable. I cannot allow it yet, there is still water where my lungs expect pure air. Focus. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. I spot my support divers further up in the water, waiting to guide me safely to the surface. Nearly there. A brief pause that I need to avoid getting sick, then my body streams upwards again, I have turned into an arrow flying towards its goal, precious air. When I see sun rays dancing around the other divers, I briefly close my eyes to remain focussed. Another stroke. And another. Each getting me closer to survival. I can do this, just a few more… Suddenly my head breaks through, I am out. My mouth opens and my body sucks in the air greedily. The life force rushes into my nose and mouth, runs down my throat and floods my lungs. I feel them expand, swelling more with every breath, while my feet kick to keep me up. My senses start tuning into the new environment, impressions bombard me, stun me. The surface world seems alien for a few seconds. Bright light after the dimness, noises after the near quiet, air rubbing across my skin after the velvety water, the warmth of the sun and coolness of the wind in my face, sea smells invading my nostrils. My shirt billows around me, following streams of the water I am no longer intimately connected to. I inhale and exhale, slowing my breath, deeply appreciating every exquisite bit of air. I close my eyes and savour it all for just a moment. Then, smiling, I swim over to the boat. My support divers have already climbed back aboard. I grab onto the side and pull myself up, too. As soon as my legs touch the wooden planks, I untie and triumphantly lift the bag containing the sea cucumbers. I have completed the challenge. Finally, I am one of them, a member of the Divers, the providers of our village.

2o26aj

K2

'All right, mate, thank you for these days together, they have been simply brilliant.' 'Likewise, Manuel, as I can see you haven't changed your mind, gonna leave us today,' said Nika coming towards Manuel to give him a last friend hug. 'Yeap, unfortunately, I gotta go.' 'Job won't be waiting for you, huh?' 'True, don't wanna be fired, Nika, not all of us are artists like you.' Nika smiled. They hugged each other and Nika patted him on the back. 'So fifteen days for China, and after straight to my home.' 'Fifteen days, I still think it's an awfully small amount of days for this country,' said Nika 'I still don't wanna be fired, so fifteen days for now. The next year we will see.' 'Too many rush as for me, you better stay with us here,' said Nika 'Tickets have been bought, I wish I could though.' 'You love this place I know it.' 'Yes, for sure, hope to take a look at your drawing after. They will remind me of these mountains.' Nika nodded. 'All right, so I am leaving, say goodbyes for me to ...,' Manuel stumbled. 'To Ross' 'To Ross, yep, sorry always forgetting.' 'Just wait for her, she'll be here in a minute, she's off to the village,' said Nika 'I can't, just can't. Need to reach the town or the bus would leave without me, terribly sorry, Nika.' 'Oh, hell with you,' smiled Nika and waved his hand. 'A man of business.' 'It's not me, it's a schedule, you know it,' concluded Manuel, and then they shook their hands. He started off walking towards the small woods beyond which there was a small road to a settlement. Nika didn't look at him leaving due to the morning routine which he got used to do here every morning since they had discovered this spot. The small plateau, where was their camp, was genuinely shining under the morning Sun. Of off this spot, the whole valley was at his palm; at the distance, the chain of tremendous, old mountains was seen. The snowy and ancient peaks had been silent witnesses of all events of these lands. "Gorgeous and intimidating at the same time," thought Nika sitting at the edge of the trunk of his car, packing up his sleeping bag and reorganizing the space of the car from his bedroom to the kitchen and workshop. 'No eggs for today, guys,' said Ross, coming towards the car from the hood side. Nika looked back and waited until she reached his side then said, 'No eggs? Why?' 'She was trying to explain something, she didn't speak English, only Urdu and Balti, so I didn't get her at all. She was pointing out at the clock and telling me something.' 'Probably she meant the eggs would be later,' said Nika 'True, this is what I think too,' said Ross and showed her bag. 'Anyway, we have potatoes and water.' Nika picked it up and started putting out the goods. 'Where is Manuel?' 'Left.' 'Already?' said Ross. 'Nor goodbyes, nor even breakfast?!' Nika smiled. 'He has a flight and all that jazz.' 'Gush, I mean.. that was too fast.' 'That was too fast,' concluded Nika. For a few minutes they were sitting silently, each went to its thoughts, then Nika put out a gas balloon and connected it to a gas stove, he was humming some words of a melody "hm, hm the road goes ever on and on", then took out some veggies. 'These seem not so fresh, let me sort 'em out,' said Ross. 'Sure, neither they nor even we had the plan to stay here for two nights,' said Nika, preparing some water to boil. 'And seems like we stay here for two nights more.' Nika continued humming the melody: 'Now far ahead hm hm the road is gone hm hm' 'Today's weather is so amiable,' said Ross looking at the distance. 'Especially for the peak of K2.' The highest mountain in the world, well, the second highest had decided to show his incredibly fresh peak. For almost four full days dark clouds were making a new haircut for him and now it was time to show it to the world. It was in the middle of summer, so some high areas of his were unusually clean off of the snow; the best moment for his new haircut or rather some receding hairline considering his age, but nevertheless, he was simply gorgeous. The blue sky was the perfect background for this giant. Such a unique combination of things made this handsome look awfully beautiful. The rest of the gang of the others "hills" and "knolls" were standing aside. It could seem that their only existing was to be compared with and then skipped for the sake of. K2. 'Manuel would miss the world today with his leaving,' said Ross. 'We agreed that I'll make the drawing for him,' smiled Nika and started slicing cucumbers. 'Oh, have you really promised him to do that? You'd rather clam him up,' laughed Ross 'You do it better than anyone I know.' 'Wait, I'll do all the veggies stuff,' said Ross. 'All right, I'll handle the potatoes.' 'And you handle the potatoes.' Nika picked up his Swiss knife and started peeling off the potatoes. 'I'd really love to stay here for another two days however how do you feel about it, Ross?' said Nika. 'You have a flight from Karachi soon too.' 'Not so soon I'd say, but still.. why should I run forward if I like this place.' 'You wanted to spend some more days on your way back to Karachi, is that what you said to me before?' She finished sorting out all the veggies and started slicing cucumbers and leaves of salad. 'By the way, why do you want to stay there some time before your flight? I remember you saying you had spent there two weeks and now you want more. Is that such a lovely city?' asked Nika. 'It's a good question, Nika. I don't really know how to explain it.' 'Take your time, it's all good.' The water was about to boil and Nika had finished peeling off the potatoes. 'Four is enough? asked Nika. 'And should we boil them or fry them?' 'Some Nika.' laughed Ross. 'Why do you keep the water boiling if we're gonna fry it?' 'Oh, silly me.' They laughed. The gentle, summer wind had blown in their way. It was the mountain wind, that had never meant to cool someone's tanned bodies but on the contrary, his mission was to remind that ones are still up in the mountains. 'We had better to make some tea as well,' said Nika. 'Take my stove, let's do it at mine.' He had finished putting all the potatoes into the saucepan and reached out a sack with Ross' kitchen stuff meanwhile Ross was off setting up chairs where they would have breakfast, contemplating cloudless and look-younger-than-he-is Mr. K2. When Nika had handled with the second stove he looked at Ross, she was staying there, long hair, tall and beautifully thin, wearing shorts, barefooted, looking at the distance, ruminating. 'Hey, Ross,' he said but she didn't answer. 'Hey,' said Nika and walked up to her. They were staying together at the end of the plateau close to folding chairs, for a few minutes, only the restless wind was playing in Ross' hair. 'You know, Nika.. before I came to Karachi I had dreamed about it since my sixteen. Old and bizarre city that is riddled with rickshaws and bustle, overcrowded streets with people from every corner of the country. I knew I would strive to get there as soon as possible. But now..' 'What? smiled Nika. 'You've been there.' 'Now, years later I have finally visited Karachi, and it would sound funny but almost all cities have the same atmosphere here. And.. and I..' 'You don't feel happy? You aren't happy in a way you thought you would?' 'Yes.' It seemed as though this word was falling into the empty abyss of her soul, which had been always full of bright energy and cheerful ideas until this moment. 'Once I knew the story about a fish,' said Nika. 'He swam up to the old one and said to him, "I am looking for the thing that is known as the ocean. Where can I find it?". "The ocean!?" asked the old fish. "The ocean is where we are right now." "No, this is water. What I want is the ocean!"'. There was a silence for a moment and then Nika smiled and patted her on the shoulder then came back to the cooking process where potatoes were leaping up and down in the hot water, almost ruddy, awakened and looking forward to being eaten right away, from the saucepan into the mouth. He started to fork them down, carrying them from the saucepan to his plate where the fresh veggies were lying at the edge of the plate. He did the same process with Ross' plate and then leaned forward to turn off the second stove but suddenly Ross's hand was ahead of him. She turned off the stove and added two tea bags to the hot water. Nika was looking at this process. A kind smile was on his face, that sort of smile that people would have when they are genuinely glad and feel happy for someone they know. He walked up to the two folding chairs, which Ross had set up earlier. The outstanding view of the valley under the blue sky with boiled potatoes that had been boiled as much time as it was needed to cook ideal ones. Ross came up right after Nika and brought some tea. It was awfully good milk tea, that was a present from a local lady here in the mountains. Ross had made it just perfect. The proportions of milk, sugar, and the tea itself. 'What I know for sure is, that this is definitely one of the best breakfasts of my life,' said Ross, forking down a potato ball, and the way, how smoothly the ruddy ball was caving in, letting the fork went deeper to the core, soft and slow, was speaking for itself. 'Yes, indeed. It is.' The tea was standing aside on the ground, steaming like some Wild West train. 'And why one of the best?' asked Nika. 'Which are the others?' 'Do you mean what is the best one?' Nika nodded and tried to sip some tea, but it was hot even for these mountains. 'Well, one of the best was near the Indian Ocean.' 'Karachi?' 'Naturally, Karachi. We were having breakfast at that eatery, that was almost on the beach.' 'Cannot recall the name but it was not so close to the ocean, wasn't it?' said Nika 'Still, you couldn't see any water off of there, but it was pretty close,' said Ross trying to chew a hot potato, so it was dancing from the left side to the right of her mouth. Nika laughed. 'No, Ross, not a whole one at a time, break it in two pieces at least.' 'Too late,' said Ross with her mouth full of potatoes. 'Some Ross, just go on with your story,' smiled Nika and looked at her. 'Well, it was the best paratha I have ever eaten.' 'A cheese one?' 'Exactly, Nika, they brought a hell of a big paratha with ketchup and milk tea on top of that!' 'I know this place, however never been there,' answered Nika. Now Ross patiently pushed down with her fork on a potato and took one small piece. At this moment one could notice that the edges had no difference with a potato's core. The whole inside was boiled and cooked at the same level. 'It's literally melting right now in my mouth, thank you so much, Nika,' said Ross. ' Thank you , Ross,' answered Nika and threw a leaf of salad into his mouth. 'So, we came at that eatery in the morning, without the heat, without crowds of people, without that Karachi things . Only the sound of our bites of crispy parathas was being heard at that moment, and after we went to the ocean side which was calling us by the light morning breeze..' 'It's quite a breakfast, I must admit,' said Nika. 'A wonderful one.' Ross sighed. For the moment the silence again had made a visit to their spot. Forcing all words to be quiet and respect her short-time presence. 'Thank you for those words about the water, and the ocean,' said Ross. 'Now the whole situation has started to be slightly different in me.' 'Always try to catch a moment when it's up in the air; enjoy, savor it,' said Nika 'And we will,' said Ross with a smile. 'So will you bring the paints, dost ?' 'Out of question, we have to capture this scenery.' 'Take some pencils and gel pens for me. He looks so.. serene today.' 'I agree, Ross. And no oil paints today?' 'No, don't feel like that,' said Ross, putting aside her plate and sipping the tea. 'All right, did you finish the meal? I am gonna take the plates away off to the car.' 'Yes, for now, I'm done,' said Ross. 'But.. let's do it but..' 'But?' 'But just in five minutes, okay? Let's sit for a while, the view is mesmerizing.' Nika nodded silently. The wind had blown a little stronger, leaving no space for words or thoughts and K2 looked just fantastic.

xyanel

Invitation Only

The invitation stipulated the attire. John was never a fan of formal dress. Comfortable anywhere other than a suit and the places where a suit gained entry. To John, a suit was armour and he was a lover, not a fighter. He aimed at loving pursuits, not that it got him anywhere. He consoled himself with the avoidance of the fight. Even the prospect of conflict left him cold. Sometimes, he wondered whether he was a coward. He didn’t feel any cowardice trembling in his blood, but then people became desensitised to their sins, telling themselves that they were comfortable in their failure. It was the mask that left John nonplussed. The mask was too close to the truth in so many ways. His truth. An impostor, John always tried his best, hoping that this would prevent his exposure as a fraud. It didn’t help that he had found the invitation. Found was a euphemism for stolen, and he knew it. The ornate card had been laying there and he couldn’t help but pick it up, and once it was in his hand there was no letting it go. There was no name on the invitation and that sealed the deal for him. That and a series of helpful untruths that John told himself, the gist of which was that he deserved this. He didn’t get picked. He’d never been picked even when his arm shot up first to volunteer his services. All the same, he’d worked hard and done well, but the rewards for his swimming against the stream never quite stacked up with his efforts. He’d waited and waited for his big break, and he was still waiting. A fool on a train platform who had read the timetable and knew there were no more trains due to stop here, but still he waited in hope. His heart lifting every time a train approached, only to fall heavily, not even attempting to break its fall, seeking out the sharpest rocks as partial punishment for such stupidity. Well, sometimes you had to take a thing. People made their own luck. John had heard that reference to impossible alchemy so often that it had to be true. That there were those who had discovered the secret formula. This ball was a gathering of such people. Being in the proximity of successful creators of gold could only be a good thing. John had seen his opportunity and he had seized it. This wasn’t to say that this random act of bravado had magically imbued John with levels of confidence that he’d only ever dreamt of. Self-doubt put paid to that. However much he told himself that his impulsive moment of thievery was a courageous act, he always failed to truly believe it. And so the three weeks between the theft and the ball were torture. The pressure of his out-of-character sin built and built. This was not who he was and it weighed heavily on him. Thankfully, there was a part of John that had become embittered towards who he had become and that part gave voice to one of John’s truths; you don’t like who you are! That was what had driven him to snatch up the card, and that desire, that wanting to be something bigger and better, was what he needed to embrace in order to go through with the theft. Another, colder voice, joined in with the beating John administered to his self. This voice reminded him that the substance of the theft was the ball itself, not a paltry rectangle of card. It accused him of being weak and cowardly. He’d done nothing. Yet. So why all the unnecessary angst? John could have cried as his internal war escalated. He struggled to imagine himself walking through the door of the venue. Just the thought of the evening made his bladder flutter in a foreshadowing of how he would feel on the day. He was reduced to the awkward little boy he had been, incapable of mixing it with the other kids, let alone self-assured and hulking adults waving their appendages around for all to see. John’s impotence shamed him and as each day passed the likelihood of his attending the ball waned. And yet, every evening he slid his fingers gently over the embossed writing and caressed the card. He’d close his eyes, this was the loving touch that created a connection, fingers tracing the pattern of a hip, stroking a thigh. Despite his fear, John knew he had to do this. That this was one of those times in a life when not to follow through and at least give the thing a go would damage a person in untold ways. To fail before beginning would unleash the beast of regret and on an occasion such as this, there was no going back. That beast would wreak a terrible, ongoing vengeance. It would take life as a result of a person not attempting to live theirs. Three days before the event, John Googled the venue. The search was not quite a Googlewhack, he established the location, but beyond that he drew a blank. On Maps, he switched to street view only to see an anonymous lane, the likes of which usually led to a farm. He tried the satellite view and encountered a glitch that must have been a one in a million. There was nothing there. Not a field or woodland. A patch of map was blank. Intrigued by the lacklustre results of his search, he looked up instances of maps not capturing images. This was unusual, but more common than he would have thought. His mind boarded a rollercoaster of imaginings. The protection of the privacy of the established rich. He looked sideways at the invitation, in its place upon his dining table. The lack of a name on the invite added to his intrigue. This absence creating more than any presence. Now his curiosity was peaked, he had to attend. He had to know. This was exclusive. A once in a lifetime chance not only to see an alien world, but to experience it. He had a suit, but now the date was almost nigh he panicked at the thought of his cheap wardrobe. Worse still was his knowledge of what was required at such a do. He’d heard stories of men being ignorant of the number of buttons they should have on the cuffs of their jacket. One plummy mouthed commentator had called it a dead give-away, that someone didn’t have a clue. Not all that long ago they would have been more forthright; had no class. The following day, John finished work on the dot and went shopping. He knew he was late in the day and having a suit tailored for the event was not an option, but then that was only ever a theoretical option. His bank balance told him as much. Nonetheless, a decent dinner jacket was a must. His eyes watered when he lifted the lapel and registered the price tag attached to the inside pocket. Reminding himself that this was a one-off, he bit the bullet and actually tried the jacket on. As he shrugged his shoulders so the jacket sat right on him, he smiled despite the highway robbery that was about to take place. The forthcoming transaction was penance for his own robbery. Karma was thankfully swift this time around. Taking his medicine like a good boy, he added a good quality shirt to his suit, a black cummerbund and a bow tie. The latter required tying, he didn’t want to cheat even though he’d never tied a bow tie in his life. At the last moment he’d grabbed a cheat version. Just in case. A belt and braces approach so that he was not found lacking. He’d had to leave his haul on the counter as he went in search of braces. Again black. He did not have the wherewithal to pull off anything fancy and he certainly did not want to stand out from the crowd. “Does sir have shoes?” asked the aging man behind the counter. John was confused at the way he had been addressed, let alone the question itself. In the confusion of the honorific he glanced down at the shoes on his feet to confirm that, yes, sir did in fact have shoes. He paused, head down, as the purpose and nature of the question at last hit home. The man was validating the completeness of his selection barring that one item. Shoes. As he further examined his current footwear, he knew the man at the counter would have appraised John. Seen his cheap, worn work attire and the state of shoes that were acceptable in his workplace, but would have dragged his appearance towards Charlie Chaplin if he’d not attended to this detail. John shook his head and suddenly felt inexplicably forlorn, surely he wasn’t morose at the lack of suitable shoes? The shoes were symbolic of John’s life and he didn’t want to look that full in the face right now. He wanted the chance to dress up and be something different. Someone different. “No, I don’t,” he hadn’t meant to sound sad and small, but that was exactly what he conveyed. The older man smiled kindly, “let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?” The sudden display of warmth almost overwhelmed John, but as he reeled away from it he came back to himself, disarmed by the unexpected kindness. At the rack of shoes, the old man considered the selection and picked up a shoe from the display that John noticed was in keeping with his budget. This man was as astute as they came and the warmth he displayed, entirely genuine. Here was an ally. Someone who got John and was encouraging him as he embarked upon a foray into new lands. A time served squire helping the new knight at his very first tourney. As John drove home, he understood that the man had seen many newcomers in his life. That he was providing a service and putting people at their ease. All the same, the old man had chosen to be an ambassador for what waited ahead as opposed to a discouraging gatekeeper. John loved him for that. The last couple of days dragged however hard John pulled at them. Covered in barbs, they dug into the present and refused to become the past. This was of course a trick that time sometimes played on unsuspecting fools, and in the blink of an eye, John was finishing work and heading home to get ready for the ball. His simple mask had arrived in the post the day before. So nervous was John that he’d torn at the plastic wrapping, opening the box with shaking hands to ensure the contents were as expected, and then he’d left the box next to the invite. He would not don the mask until the very last moment prior to his attendance at the looming event. He showered in the hope he could wash away his nerves together with all of the other emotions brawling within him. The ritual of dressing calmed him to an extent, but he remained all fingers and thumbs. It was as he put his shirt on that he realised he had made an omission with his purchases after all. There were slits in the cuffs that required cufflinks. He groaned at the sight of the missing jewellery and bemoaned his incompetence. Nothing for it now, he carried on dressing, adding the jacket last. Turning to the mirror he saw himself afresh. “Not bad,” he nodded at his new and improved self, “not bad at all.” He was a question and the question was; why had he never done this before? What had prevented him from striking further out into the pool of life? The shameful answer was that it was him. As he turned from the mirror, he felt something in the inside pocket of his jacket. He sat on his bed and paused before reaching in, eyebrows another question. Fingers slipping down into the pocket to secure a box. Reaching in again to pull out a card. He examined the card first. It was a business card from the gentleman’s outfitters. Turning it around he saw handwritten in careful lettering; Enjoy. No exclamation mark. Nice touch. Opening the box, John slumped. The cufflinks were beautiful in their simplicity. Gold inlaid with black onyx. They were what John would have chosen. It was the act of kindness that got to him. This wasn’t a sales ploy. Wasn’t just discretion. The old man had gone beyond what was expected. John cried, and as he cried, he felt something break within him. There was a sound to it and he experienced a loss, but that loss freed him. As he rose from the loss he realised that he was letting go of something that he’d carried around with him for far too long. A burden that was never his. Automatically, he mirrored that feeling of rising. He got to his feet and left his home with a feeling of purpose that he would not have conjured had it not been for the gift of the cufflinks. He drove. He’d considered getting a taxi, but the presence of his car afforded him a contingency in his plan. A quick getaway. He was glad that he was in a more positive frame of mind now. Determined. The car no longer presented the option to quit at the very last minute. The box on the passenger seat next to him sat quietly throughout the journey. A challenge to his resolve. The mask within was a pending transformation that would test John’s mettle. Wearing it would lay him bare. His preference was the mask he’d always worn. Nearing the lights and sounds of the ball, he parked a little way from the front of the house, finding a quiet spot from which he could walk. He didn’t want anyone to see his mundane and well used car. Expected it to be a pumpkin amongst carriages. The cars arrayed on the gravel carriage drive were a strange disappointment. There was a grandiosity to them, but the kind of statement made by someone who was trying too hard. These were the vehicles of people with newly acquired wealth. Conspicuous consumption that screamed they were something other than what they were desperately trying to be. This should have made John feel more welcome, but his brand of misfitery was far away from this vulgar display. He was Cinders. These were his brutish sisters. He pushed on by the barking motors. A spring in his step. He was better than this lot. They were an inversion of what really counted. There was a righteous indignation rising up within him, born of these people robbing him of his moment before it even arose. His was no longer a golden ticket. Now he no longer had anything to lose. These people may be wannabes. Gangsters playing at being landed gentry, but he no longer feared them. Their derision could only be validation. At the door there was no one to take his invitation. To the left of the grand entrance hall was a cloakroom. The night was warm and he had no coat and so no reason to stop there. His mask fit only too well in this company. He was Zorro and there was crime and injustice all around him. Entering the ballroom itself, he spied an unattended table festooned with drinks. He took a tumbler. The flutes of champagne were uninvitingly wrong as far as he was concerned. Sipping the amber liquid he discovered it to be whisky and a good whisky at that. His nerves had largely abated and with them the urge to drink the liquid down and follow it with more until he was suitably insulated from this endeavour. “Shall we?” He was taken unawares, and before he could compose himself, she had taken his hand and was leading him onto the floor. Her hand was cool, almost cold, he registered that as he took her in. She was wearing a long black dress. The significance of the dress began to come to him as they stopped in the midst of the other dancers. Dotted around him were women in the exact same dresses. Seeing this attuned him to the uniformity in some of the men’s dress too. That he could see the uniformity in the men disturbed him. A feeling of unease chilled him, compounded by the woman encircling him with her arms. Three weeks to prepare and no consideration of his total ignorance when it came to formal dancing. She lead. He went with it. Moving around the floor effortlessly. He felt her eyes on him. She smiled, then drew him closer, whispering in his ear so clearly he couldn’t mistake her words or their meaning, “you weren’t invited,” she said simply. “Why would you say that?” he countered. “Because that is the simple fact of the matter,” she told him. “What gave me away?” he asked, deciding honesty was the best policy now that he was here. “Plenty,” she said, “everything,” she added, “you came alone. You’re not like the others.” “How so?” he asked. “They’re criminals. The dregs,” her voice had a hard edge to it now, “they will not be missed.” A chill ran up his spine as she pulled him closer. “You could say we provide a service and that no questions are asked,” she smiled a hungry, lupine smile and John knew then that he’d made a grave mistake in lifting the invitation and coming here tonight. Suddenly, the music stopped mid-flow. All around him the partygoers froze. Then as one, the uniformed dancers lunged, biting down on the necks of their partners and feeding upon them…

w6mgbf

A Ring for the Fugitive Princess

It was a night of velvet and desire. Faris sat with his palms twisting frantically in his lap. He had escaped the palace and wandered listlessly through the garden. The air was thick, and he breathed in the faint sweetness of midnight. Faris's hands shook as he untied his turban, fingers clumsily tugging at the fabric. He ruffled his hair, undoing the crusting gel that itched him so. He was tired, and she was not there. Faris did not belong here. He was not truly a prince. Faris’s wife, Nova, had disappeared a few months prior. They lived in a holey tent that swayed violently in the wind. Some nights it would tear away from them, but it did not matter to Faris. He would hold her through the chill. If the tent loosened and flew, he would build another in the morning. They married in the sun, and he’d given Nova his mother’s ring. It was ruby and glinted by shards of light. They had no priest, so God was their witness. Their love was sacred to them, and they meant it when they sang, “Till death do us part.” Faris remembered the white strands...almost golden, and how Nova’s eyes were revealed. He saw her in segments. Her skin was dark and silky like the moonlit tide. How it spilled secrets and retreated to receive another’s depths. Nova’s hair in the sun was salty and divine. God loved her, and the earth knew to manifest His favor. You could tell by how she was outlined by the afternoon haze. Nova was a sacred gift from Heaven. “He who finds a wife, finds a good thing,” gleamed Faris. When Nova looked at him, a single tear shimmered beneath her copper iris. She watched him in awe as one does a vast anomaly. A beautifully rare commodity. From afar they seemed to be clothed royally in linen, but they were draped in rags. They said their vows: That no matter the circumstance, they would always find each other. Always.  *** And it was all just yesterday that he was holding her, but now she was gone. Faris remembered the night he awoke to an unnerving screech. He jumped up immediately, and saw his wife flailing chaotically...kicking, punching, but her punches were all but pats to the men who carried her away. Faris tore what was left of his rags and began to suffocate the stranger who held his wife. But he did not reckon that someone was standing behind him, and just as quickly Faris was stabbed in the abdomen. But as he bled...he refused to surrender. Nova’s cries were muffled now. She fought frantically, though she was no match for the muscle that had locked her in his arms. They stole her out of the tent and ran. Faris sprinted behind them... “NOVA!” His vision flew into a frenzy of darkness. There were no clouds, no stars, no Nova. There was only a tormented cry in the distance, and the grief of his failure to reach her. “I will find you, Nova,” he hiccupped, “Just as I promised.” Faris gasped and then fell into black. *** Achingly, Faris awoke to an empty light. A fuzzy figure revealed itself in a blur. He tried to rise, but there was a tight sting to his movement. He fell back into helplessness then rose again. A hand laid outstretched on his chest. “Stay down.” “My wife,” he quivered. “I know. Get some rest.” But Faris fought. He had vowed. She was the only thing he had. All his life he was penniless, but without Nova, Faris was truly poor. He was a forgotten man, and the one who promised to remember him was gone. “My wife,” he cried. “You must rest, or you will die before you find her.” “Or she will die before I wake.” “She will not die. I know where she is. I know what you must do.” Faris rose to meet his gaze, but once again fell quickly. “Rest,” the voice commanded. Somehow, Faris felt safe, slowed his resistance, and reconciled with his aching body. Finally, he drifted off into sleep. *** A couple of days later, Faris blinked his eyes into focus. He sat upright on a prickly mat and was attracted to the smell of steamy cassia. A honey-tinted liquid shone in a clayed cup. There was still a sharp sting in his abdomen, and he went to scratch the wound but met a stained cloth instead. A figure sat out of the corner of his eyes. Faris turned to see a muscular man with a disheveled beard. He was rough and dark. “How old are you, boy?” the stranger questioned in suspicion. His eyes were cold yet sincere, and he did not turn his gaze from Faris. “Well?” he repeated. “Tell me who you are first.” “I’m the man who’s going to help you find your wife,” he laughed and scratched his beard, revealing a glistening ruby jewel in his fingers. “How? How did you get that?” “You answer my questions, and I’ll answer yours,” he watched Faris authoritatively, “So, how old are you, son?” “I’m twenty-one.” “What is your name?” “Faris.” He was leery. “I’ve been watching the two of you for a while, Faris. You collect scraps from the marketplace. You sleep beneath a flabby tent. God knows how you do it!” “Who are you?” “My name is Adobis. I was the king’s guard in the palace. ‘Nova’ is not who you think she is...They have been searching for her for years.” “What? Excuse me, but how have you obtained her ring?” “Simple. It was lying in the sand when I discovered you.” This worried Faris more. What might they have done to Nova? Why did they abduct her? “Faris,” he alerted, “Your wife is Princess Ezra. Daughter of our King Eshrad. The fugitive princess.” There was deep silence. Adobis observed how the news was being digested. This was such random information that Faris was almost dumbfounded by how ignorant he was perceived to be. “You expect me to believe that?” “Tell me where you met her.” “In the fields one day. She told me she had run away but from a poor man’s farm. She couldn’t return, and there were tears in her eyes.” Faris suddenly realized how strange the story had sounded. “How long has she been missing?” he asked. “Six years.” And that convinced him. It had occurred to Faris that he had not met Nova until six years ago. Prior to that...she was nowhere to be found. He recalled the night they met. There was something in the way she watched him. It was as if she trusted him with her life. “You will see ‘Nova’ again. I know just the way.” Faris turned to Adobis in urgent curiosity. “Because the princess has been found, the King will be impatient for an heir. He will have a celebration that will invite every suitable prince from each province, so that Ezra may finally have a child.” Adobis examined Faris. "If you truly wish to be reconciled with your wife, you must pose as a prince.” “How?” “I know what King Eshrad desires. I will train you to become that.” “Why is it you care so much to help me?” “I hope to convince the king of my loyalty to him. Only you are correct...I ask for one thing in exchange.” Adobis retrieved the ruby ring from the table and twirled it in his thick chubby fingers. His eyes were as cold and assured as when Faris first awoke. “May I keep this?” ‘That is all?” Faris thought. He was expecting a limb...a large sum of money at least. However, the ring was the only relic he had of his mother before she passed away, but for his wife this was necessary. “It’s yours,” he struggled. Adobis enclosed his fist around the ring and winked, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” *** For the next few months, Adobis taught Faris the way of a true suitor. King Eshrad was deeply concerned with matters of nobility, honesty, and courage. He was only hard to impress if one was insincere. Faris had no issue with this, there was an unspoken chivalry to him. The only practice Faris struggled to hone were the proclivities of a royal. He did not understand that there were specifics to bowing. “There is a method to this?” he complained as he overarched his back. Adobis shook his head. *** “You must win the favor of the King before you are given to the princess. You will wear my old garments to display the prestige of a military man,” Faris was engulfed in the clothing, but he learned to present himself with a measure of royal arrogance. Adobis taught him when to fight, how to properly use a sword, and when to draw it. Faris was clever and learned quickly. Before long, an invitation to the palace made its way through town. “We rejoice in the return of our Princess Ezra. You have been invited to her homecoming celebration.” Faris and Adobis travelled on foot for three days to the palace of King Eshrad. They were welcomed by the otherwise hostile bronze bars of the palace. There were guards aligned standing with gleaming spears and unblinking eyes. Columns of cedar revealed themselves further along their walk. The air seemed sweeter here, and the earth kinder. Palm trees towered above glassy pools of water. Women draped in jeweled veils and embroidered sashes waved branches before the entrance to the ball. Faris truly wondered what had caused his wife to flee from such a place. He followed Adobis in an indigo robe and ruby tunic, his eyes nearly obscured by the weight of the turban on his head. Jewels on his breastplate shimmered like his mother’s ring. Adobis wore a servant's garments: sandals, a turban, and a robe, though less splendidly adorned. He blended in quite well. *** Eventually, they halted and stood within the palace. “Remember the plan? You must remain silent. Answer no questions. I will leave you to enter, Your Highness,” he bowed. “What?” Faris became unsettled and eyed his master with great confusion. “You no longer need me. I will send for you when it is time to greet the king.” “Adobis, I cannot do this alone,” Faris pleaded. “But you will,” he replied, “I know you are capable.” *** Music swelled and a crowd of royals entered from outside of the ballroom. Faris took a deep breath, said a prayer, and approached the celebration. Upon entering, a mosaic of bodies swayed to the progression of a royal harp. Eunuchs, princes, and wealthy women were divinely entertained. Faris had not noticed the silence that greeted his entrance; he was a new face. “Who are you?” asked a young lady draped in red. But Faris did not respond. She stood awkwardly, eventually leaving to gossip of him with her companions.  Soon after, a group of princes approached him. "You are the new mute prince we have heard of." they mocked. Faris kept quiet as Adobis had instructed. “What brings you here tonight? Do you expect to win the favor of the fugitive princess? Will you dance for her if you cannot speak?" they taunted, but still Faris stood quietly. He escaped to the gardens and sat miserably. He was no prince, and his darned turban itched. “Faris?” came a gentle voice from a shadowed corner. It was familiar and uttered by the same lips that had once caressed him. He sprinted to the shadows. “Nova?” he called, breathless. A figure emerged—it was her. He pulled her into his arms, tears streaming down his face. She kissed him with the vigor that comes from finding one whom you thought you’d lose forever. “Nova,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “You must call me Ezra here.” He lifted her chin and wiped her tears, kissing each one away. She leaned into him as if to say, “I’ve missed you.” “Faris, if only you had known.” “I know now,” he smiled gently. “Adobis sent me to fetch you, but you must go.” “I have come here for you. I am not leaving without you.” “I know, but my love... Adobis is not to be trusted. He is the reason I left the palace.” “What?” “He convinced my father that he would make a good husband, and when I refused, he turned him against me.” Faris did not understand, but before he could think, she pushed him away. “No, Ezra.” “They will kill you.” Suddenly, a shout came from behind them. The princess screamed for Faris to go, but he did not budge. Adobis stood beside the king, pointing to where they were hidden. “This man is an adulterer. He seeks to marry the princess, when he has a wife himself.” A crowd began to gather around the commotion. “I am no adulterer!” Faris protested, but he could not reveal that Ezra was his wife. A sharp voice cut through the crowd. It was the woman who had questioned his title in the ballroom. “He is my husband,” she shrieked, “He has bedded me and given me this ring.” She held it up for the crowd to see. It glistened crimson in the obscurity of moonlight! Ezra gasped and turned to him. “You gave Adobis the ring?” “I bargained it so he would bring me to you.” Faris looked at Adobis, who smirked deceptively, and the king looked at Faris in disgust. “Behead him!” commanded the king. “Father!” screamed Ezra, but he did not listen or care; he was protecting his daughter from an unclean man. Faris wielded his sword as the guards approached him. “Go,” he urged Ezra, but she clung to him. Faris fought as best he could. Adobis smiled, as the violence made him look worse. Men were slashed, and they bled on the palace floor. This enraged the king further. Ezra was torn away from her husband as they threw him to his knees. “Adobis,” glared King Eshrad, “You do the honors.” Faris watched the man he had trusted lift the sword to his neck. He was reminded of the night his wife was stolen. “NO!” came a guttural cry. “NO!”  It was Ezra. Eshrad’s eyes softened at her scream. He motioned for her to step away, but she did not. “If you kill him, you kill me too!” “Ezra,” Faris struggled. Adobis did not mind beheading the princess; he had tried it long ago. He lifted his sword once more. “STOP!” yelled the king. “That is my daughter.” Ezra coughed, attempting to yell, “Faris is my husband!” Everyone stood in shock. “I will not leave him, even if it means you must kill me!” “Ezra!” cried Faris. “No!” He struggled as the guards pulled him away, his life depending on it, while she was prepared to die. The king was a hard-hearted man, but this image moved him. He watched a prince struggle painfully for his daughter, a man unconcerned with the crowd around him. “Adobis, hold your weapon,” he sighed and walked to his daughter. “Is this true?” She turned to him, tears spilling from her eyes. “Yes, Father.” The king demanded the ring from the woman who claimed Faris was an adulterer. She obeyed and did not meet his eye. The ring still shimmered; deeply engraved was the initial “F”. It was almost hidden. “Let the boy go.” As Faris fell to his knees, the king grew angry with Adobis. “What have you to say for yourself?” “I should have killed you when I had the chance. Your detestable daughter and that crown were mine.” “Do away with him,” gestured the king, seeking to exile Adobis. *** When the chaos subsided, King Eshrad called Faris and Ezra to his throne. They entered, nearly trembling, fearing his wrath. “Sit down,” he commanded. Faris kept his head bowed; he was not accustomed to royal ways and did not know what to do in this situation. “Look at me, son,” Eshrad ordered, and Faris obeyed. “I apologize to both of you on behalf of the kingdom. Though I am disappointed that Ezra did not tell you the truth.” “I was afraid it would be dangerous, Your Highness... And I was correct.” Faris turned quickly to embrace her. The king’s heart warmed. “Faris,” he said, “I admire your courage and resilience, and I am in need of an heir.” They both looked up in shock. "I see how much you love my daughter, and how much she loves you," King Eshrad said. "I could send you away, but it wouldn’t matter as long as you are together. What good would that do, huh?" He laughed, then quieted himself to observe them. "Stand," he ordered. They stood hesitantly, fearing the king's wrath. "Faris... I want you to give me an heir. You will marry my daughter and be titled King beside her." They stared in awe, as if to say, “Really?” And King Eshrad officialized it with a nod of his head. Not long after, a royal wedding took place. It was more magnificent than any previous celebration. Representatives from all the kingdoms came to wish the couple a happy matrimony. The runaway princess had been found and reconciled with her lover. Even the Prince of Persia attended. "Princess Ezra, daughter of our beloved King Eshrad, and our new Prince Faris, I royally pronounce you husband and wife," declared the officiant. Faris slid a ruby ring onto Ezra's finger, and they kissed so fervently that the audience fell silent. "They’ll have an heir in no time," someone remarked. No longer did they live in want or beg for food. By love, they were reconnected under God, a testament to many countries that love endures all things and never fails. "You see," said Faris, "I told you I would always find you." And they kissed once more. 

pzbeie

Through The Wardrobe

I have journeyed far beyond what I previously thought possible. Walked right up to the edge of the world and simply leapt forward with reckless abandon. And yet, when death chimed in my ears, when it called out my name, I was unprepared for my own ending to be written. Unwilling to give up on exploring existence and the realm that wardrobe had lead me to. After dreaming through my childhood of this very passage, from our world into another, I had found the path forward. Had found my very own key to the world, but now found myself hesitant to continue to use it. Because what was I actually doing? What dangers was I inviting not just into my own world, but into the shared reality of all the ones I loved so dearly? I was four years old when the dreams began. Strung together epics that felt more like playing back memories than any dreams I’d ever heard tale of. As a small child, I simply excepted these journeys into my own mind. There was no trepidation, for I did not know better. I simply assumed everyone dreamt the way that I did. But as I grew older and found a friend I could confide in like the sister I had longed for the majority of my life, I began to realize I was different after all. That once again, my mind was not stitched together “right”, or so I was told by anyone who wasn’t Catlin. She was my rock. My home away from home, and in far too many ways, the only family I had ever truly known. But we were as different as different could be. For starters, she had lived several lives already before meeting me, a secret I held so deeply enveloped within my own soul, it too often felt as though I forgot I knew the truth of her existence at all. But that was the promise I had made her. An unbreakable vow that was meant to keep her safe and allowed me to know what it was like to be loved, to be seen by another soul. I’d longed to know more about how it was she could have lived so many lives, and yet still seem to age right along side me, but I didn’t dare to prod for fear of losing Catlin all together. And that was just where our differences began. Where I was so eager for someone, anyone to know me, Catlin would rather swallow glass than let another soul in further than necessary. Perhaps it was all those lives she’d lived, or maybe it just took one debilitating heartbreak for her to decide keeping all her cards clasped to the vest was the best way forward. Either way, I found myself having to constantly play a track of reassurance on a loop within my own mind. “She loves you, Sadie. She wouldn’t keep you around if she didn’t care”, I’d tell myself in the moments my own insecurities and overwhelming fears of being abandoned would take hold. What I couldn’t have known, was that those differences were going to be what saved us both, the fateful night we ventured through the wardrobe. Catlin had always cautioned me against the room with the wardrobe. She’d told me it belonged to her great grandmother and was important to her family, but that she could not and would not divulge anything further. Most people would have simply left it at that, because who really cares about an old wooden wardrobe? But something kept nagging at me to investigate. To delve as deep as I dared into unraveling this physical manifestation of all the secrets Catlin kept from me. All the unanswered questions, most of which I never even dared to ask her. As much as Catlin kept me at arms length, Gillian was far more insistent and cared very little for sparing my feelings in the process. She had never taken kindly to my intrusion upon their lives. At first, I’d thought she simply didn’t wish to share her younger sisters’ affections and attention, but as time passed it felt so much more personal. It wasn’t that Gillian didn’t want to share her sister with anyone. She didn’t want to share her sister with me. I was the thorn in her side, the proverbial elephant in every room that Gillian entered, and she had no qualms about letting it be known how very much she wished I would simply disappear. And as any good friend would, Catlin attempted to spare my feelings, weaving tales of how Gillian simply needed more time to get to know me, to truly trust me. But it had been ten years, now. An entire decade of me practically living under their roof part time, and Gillian had not softened at all towards my presence in their lives. That fateful day had begun innocently enough. I’d come over to go through a set of dresses Gillian had picked up from some distant, nondescript relative for Catlin to choose from for an upcoming family gathering. A gathering that Gillian had made abundantly clear I was not invited or welcome to attend. And so I settled for helping my best friend look her best for what seemed to be making her a level of nervous I’d never seen in Catlin. To be quite honest, I’m not sure I’d ever truly seen Catlin nervous at all. She just wasn’t the type. She had been sure about herself from birth, and only grew more certain with each lifetime, of which she was now on her fifth. I’d surmised that something must be special about that fifth lifetime to garner an all out extended family gathering. People were traveling in from around the globe to ring in the full moon with them in two nights time, and I could feel Catlin growing more distant with every hour that ticked by. I was laying on her bed writing another one of my stories that never quite seemed to go where I wanted them to, my feet in the air as I worked, when Gillian came marching into Caitlin’s’ room. She of course ignored my presence all together, as though I could not hear the two of them speaking. “I hope you recall our discussion about this evenings festivities, Catlin Grace. No exceptions, and I mean it.” Her voice was firm but a softness could almost be felt creeping in when she would speak to Catlin. Gillian was a wall with everyone I ever witnessed her interact with. Everyone except for Catlin. “How could I forget when you’ve reminded me every hour, on the hour, oh wise one.” The laugh that seemed to reside within the inflections of Catlins’ voice were almost impossible to resist. I found myself biting the inside of my cheeks more times than I could count, in a futile effort to render myself invisible to Gillian. “But yes,” Catlin continued, “I remember that Sadie isn’t allowed to attend, in spite of being just as much my sister as you are.” I tried to hide my smile at this inclusion, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Catlin was where I felt the most at home in this world and over the past year or so, she had started to openly express her love for me in return in a way I’d dreamt of for far too long. But my smile must have lingered a moment too long, or beamed a bit too brightly for Gillian’s liking. Because in the next instant, I could feel her immense need to strike me down where I lay. “You’re smiling now, but this isn’t a laughing matter, Sandra.” And just like that, the warmth I felt vanished. Gillian knew I hated being called Sandra. Knew that it was a reminder of the woman I was named after. A woman who never wanted to be my mother to begin with, but was forced to carry me to term and then vanished at the first moment the watchful eyes of my Aunt Becca and Uncle Dom weren’t trained upon her. And it wasn’t that I blamed her, not really. I’d lived through a version of what she had endured in growing up under their roof. The constant monitoring, the never being quite good enough to be trusted with freedom, of movement or your own mind. It was suffocating and my mother simply longed to be free. I could not fault her that, but being named after her by Aunt Becca and Uncle Dom, like I was her replacement, never did sit right with me. I’d given up on winning Gillian over just as I’d given up on getting my aunt and uncle to see I was not my mother. “Sandra, have you even bothered to pay attention to what I’ve been saying the past few minutes?” I looked up to see Gillian had moved herself over to stand directly above where I was laying on the bed. How long had I vanished into my own mind while she was lecturing me? It was something I’d always done. Disassociating, retreating into my mind without a moments notice, only to reemerge, akin to breaching the surface of the water after sitting too long on the bottom of the pool as a child. I’d do my best to not let anyone see me sputtering back to life, but there wasn’t much that escaped Gillians’ observation. “I um, I heard you say something about the ceremony being private, which Catlin already told me so I—“ my voice trailed off as Gillians jaw began to clench so hard, I was certain it would break. “Look Sandra—“ Catlin suddenly turned in her seat at the vanity to lock eyes with her older sister. The long silent pause was heavy but clear and I watched as Gillian adjusted her approach to me accordingly. “Right, Sadie…this needs to be a night about family. It isn’t personal, just the way things must be done. If you’d like to stay, all I ask is that you respect what this day means to our family. What it means for your best friend.” “I’ll be invisible, as always, Gillian. You don’t have to worry about me embarrassing you in front of them, though I do have to say I think your great aunt Charlotte did take a liking to me last time she was here.” Catlin snickered and turned back to the finishing touches on her makeup at the vanity. She knew better than to laugh openly at my rebellion towards Gillian, but we used our humor to get by. We were both just girls who didn’t feel at home in our own families, but had found one in each other. Gillian never understood that. Why Catlin would align herself with a human when we are such fragile, mortal beings. Knowing she would lose me to time and go on to live yet another life. But we both realized what Gillian never seemed to grasp. It was better to have one another in this life, than to live in fear of love and miss the chance to feel its warm embrace all together. And so as the procession of relatives and gifts began to arrive, I gazed down from my little nest in the attic bedroom I’d come to call my own. Watched as one relative after another embraced Catlin, gave her gifts I’d assumed had been passed down through generations before reaching her, and made their way into the room with the wardrobe. The one room in the house I was forbidden to enter, though I’d of course wandered in more than a time or two when I was alone and curiosity had gotten the better of me. I sat in my little nest and waited, like a caged bird longing for permission to soar once more, as the day rolled into night. i must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, Gillian was shaking me awake, a desperation in her voice I’d never heard in all the years I’d known her. “Sadie…Sadie please, you have to get up. We need you.” I shook off the daze of the dream I’d been having, forgetting it all the moment my eyes opened and settled on Gillians’ face. “What happened? Why are you up here? You never come in—“ Were those tears building in her eyes? All at once, I didn’t know what to do. Gillian was a rock. Nothing ever unsettled or disturbed her enough to change the timber of her voice, let alone to bring her to tears. “Please, Sadie. You’re the only one that can go in after her.” It clicked in that very moment. Something had to have gone terribly wrong with the ceremony. Whatever this night was meant to be about, Catlin was in trouble and that was all I needed to know. I flew out of the room and down the two flights of stairs to the second level of the victorian home where the forbidden room with the wardrobe was located. A procession of people filled the hallway on either side of the door, their faces twisted and distorted by what seemed to be grief. It was as though they had all given up and were mourning Catlin, wherever she was now. Gillian shoved me through the open doorway, careful to not cross the threshold herself, a desperation across her face that left me more than a little worried. “Step into the wardrobe, make your way through to the back and the portal should still be open. You have to find Catlin. I’m…I’m ashamed to say I have no idea where she could be or what the inside of her realm might look like. I can’t help because I don’t know her as well as you do, and I can admit that.” My head felt like it was spinning on its axis. “I don’t understand, Gillian. Her realm?” “We really don’t have time to go over this, Sadie. She only has a few minutes in our time before the portal will be sealed forever. Just….You know her heart. You know where she would go if she was afraid and she has to be terrified right now.” I stepped forward towards the doorway, reaching to rest my hand on Gillian’s arm to comfort her but she stepped back before I could reach her. I sighed, “I’ll find her. I promise”. And as quickly as I’d entered the wardrobe, I was whisked away into another world. It was just as we had dreamt it. From the white picket fence down to the sunflower filled garden that bordered the entire cottage. This was the home away from home that Catlin and I had longed for, and there she was standing in the beautiful bay window we had always said we would spend our days curled up in, reading through more books than we ever had before. She didn’t look scared, confused, or alarmed by the world or by my entering it. She looked like she had been waiting for me all along, meeting me at the front door with a smile broader than any I’d seen back in our own reality. “Your sister is kinda freaking out back there, Catlin. She thinks you’re in here lost and cowering in a corner somewhere.” I tried not to let the smile in my voice at her obvious peace in this place, creep onto my face. “Do I look terrified and in need of saving to you, Sadie girl?” She quipped back to me, the smile on her face beaming back at me. “My sister wants me to be the next holder of the torch for our family of phoenixes. Wants me to give up my life and the one person I love more than anything in order to do so, but why do any of that when we can have our very own happily ever after here, through the wardrobe?” I suddenly realized why Gillian knew it had to be me to come through to get her. It wasn’t because of any special ability I would have. It was simply because this was what Catlin wanted. A place where we could be together, away from my family who wanted to move me across the country come the new year. We could hide here, be ourselves here. We could be in love here without fear of the outside world that still couldn’t grasp that love could come in all shapes, sizes and genders. She told me that time would pause for us within the wardrobe. That we could be together here until it was safe again to leave for good, and without a second thought, I accepted. In this realm, I would age at the same rate as Catlin. It wouldn’t be a perfect happily ever after, but it would be a start, and it was Gillian who gave us this chance to be happy. Gillian, who I was so sure hated me more than words could ever convey, had put her sisters’ happiness first and by extension mine. On this night of the full moon, in Catlin’s fifth lifetime, she finally got what she had always wanted more than anything else. She got to be loved as fiercely as she had longed to love another. And I was proud to be the one to fulfill that dream, for both of us. 

htxjwk

MorningStar’s Advice

‘Twas the night before I lost my right arm. Ok that might be a slight exaggeration but for all intents and purposes the exact truth. I sit with a stuffed turtle given to me by a feral young woman who pulled it out of her backpack and insisted I needed it. We had never met before but she told me she’d dreamed about me and that she was told to give me her turtle. She told me her name was Morning Star and that it was time for me to listen to her turtle and that his message was, “Slow down!” We both cry as I hold her in my arms. We each understand that we’ve been brought together by some force much greater than either of us. I know that I must heed the message this broken creature had brought to me. I know that my strength is to be sorely tested and I believe that I will heed her advice. Sometimes I go back to a place I remember from a long time ago. My body is young and strong. For several years, my mother had watched my graceful maneuvers and decided to enroll me in ballet. Somehow she found the money to buy a gorgeous pink tutu and the ultimate prize, a pair of genuine ballet shoes with steel points in the toes. I was beyond ecstatic and lived in anticipation of my weekly lessons. I was four, maybe five and would put those shoes on every day, dancing and twirling around the house and outside until my mother caught me and forced me back inside. I loved to balance on one foot, toe to floor, leg stretched taut while I would swirl around in circles, my long wavy hair flowing like a cloud around my head. I remember hearing people talking about how graceful I was. Once I heard a friend of my mother’s whisper, “It’s like her feet aren’t even touching the ground.” I was fearful that she noticed something I believed myself to have imagined. There were many times that as I moved across a solid surface, I would look down and swear I was up in the clouds. That place, miles above what often seemed like a battlefield, was a place of safety for me. Over the years, each time I descended into the war zone, I sensed danger all around me. I was a rather slim child, mostly due to chronic tonsillitis that left me unable to swallow food. I had the tonsils removed at seven, filled out a bit more but retained my gracefulness and still loved to dance. What I did gain was access to physical strength that had been somewhat compromised by my many years of illness. People began to speak, somewhat in awe, of how strong I was. Apparently that strength left other children a little fearful of displeasing me, especially if I felt the need to protect vulnerable creatures. When I was in grade 1 there was a boy I adored. His name was Ian Tetlock and though by today's research he would most likely have been diagnosed as autistic, he was labeled “retarded”. He was teased ruthlessly by most of the other kids. My father once told the story of my friendship with this boy and how I rose to his protection against playground bullies, even those older and bigger than me. Someone questioned why they didn’t come after me as well. My father went to answer, pensively paused for a few moments and then replied, “I think they were afraid of her!” And so they should have been. For even though I could probably have taken them on in a physical altercation, it was my tongue they were most afraid of. I had a gift for discerning a person’s most vulnerable weakness and then stabbing that spot with a sharp comment that seemed to have the effect of a steel blade. I used this gift carefully and deeply appreciated that it gave Ian and I the freedom to be left alone. While most of the others played their little games, the girls swinging and dancing about while the boys tried to see up their dresses, Ian and I would wander off into nearby fields. This boy was amazing in his observations of minutiae. I watched him carefully and listened intently as he explained all the details of the many creatures that inhabited the world of our playground. We would lie quietly in the grass as ants carried found bounty across great odds to their private domain. Ian taught me to use my sense of smell to detect where these homes were. To this day, I can still taste that acrid odour produced by ants and am led to the portal entrance of their home. Several years passed, my family moved a few miles to a newer farm and I went to another school. I lost touch with Ian and yet, almost 70 years later, if I close my eyes I can still see the pair of us lying quietly watching ants work. My next school was run by nuns and ruled by a priest who did their best to indoctrinate me into one of the largest cults in existence. The indoctrination, though fascinating, did not quite reduce me to becoming a faithful follower. I endured the attempts til I was old enough to refuse further brainwashing and wandered out into the heathen world. To be honest, some of the fear of what I’d been taught stuck to my conscience. It took many years to trust that the deity I’d been told was 1.a man, 2. Somewhat demanding and 3.quite vengeful, didn’t really exist. It took much strength to resist the scolding and harsh warnings about the place I was going if I didn’t smarten up and tow the party line. My eternal gratitude is that strength came to me through the loving guidance of a Creator that seemed both gender less and forgiving by nature. I was able to find much peace and serenity as I surrendered more and more to a Higher Power whose strength far surpassed my own. Sadly I still had many lessons to learn. As I became an adult my physical strength increased and I found myself able to do what few women could and many men also. I reveled in the arrogance of this reality, doing my best to use it to my advantage. Sadly, I injured my body in ways that laid the way to much future pain. By the time I was 50, arthritis had begun to attack my joints. By 60 I had to concede to the humiliation of using a cane. At 70, my pride took another blow and I added a walker to my arsenal. Did I slow down? I hear the snorts of those who know me well. Slow was not a word in my vocabulary and once again I began to pay a heavy price for not heeding the many warnings that came my way. I did my best to practice slowing down and to some extent was successful. Then came the medical verdict. I needed two new knees, work on my left hip and the most urgent work to be done required the total replacement of my right shoulder. I took this diagnosis in stride, arrogantly believing I’d quickly recover from each operation, becoming an older version of the bionic woman. I received the news that my operation was scheduled. I attended all the pre operation meetings and began to realize that recovery was going to be much more complicated than I’d ever imagined. At 75 I would need to forgo the use of my dominant hand, relying solely on the other and this process would be weeks, if not months before true healing would be finished. I’ve done my best to prepare for the operation. My paperwork is all in place, I’ve endeavored to make peace with all my near and dear and I am ready to face whatever comes my way. And so I sit awaiting the morning. I’ll be driven by a friend to the hospital. I’ll be operated on two hours later, hopefully with my right arm intact. I believe I WILL make it off the table and I pray fervently that my mind will finally grasp what my body has been so desperately pleading for. My deepest wish is that I finally understand, it is OK to slow down. My tears fall upon the head of the sweet turtle given to me by MorningStar and in his eyes I see complete belief that I can do it. I gently wrap my arms around my body and whisper…Namaste🙏 

lerh7u

The Three

Content warning: Mentions of death “Oh, that someone would give me a drink from the cistern that is by the gate of Bethlehem!” Shammah’s eyes darted up at the words. David was looking disconsolately at the contents of his water jug. The ruddy-haired young man had spoken before about how good the water from the cistern at the gate of his hometown tasted. He went back to eating his meal, but an idea had been planted in Shammah’s mind. By the time he got up, a plan had sprouted like a bean blossom. He kept an eye on where two particular men headed after the meal. “Ishbaal!” The man turned back to see who had called to him.”Shammah?” “We need to get Eleazar. There’s something I need the two of you for.” “ Need us?” Knowing sparked in Ishbaal’s eyes. “Both of us particularly?” “Yes,” Shammah said, keeping his expression solemn. Ishbaal hurried after the last member of the trio. “Eleazar!” Not long after, the three set out from the cave of Adullam with shields hanging on their backs and weapons in hand. Eleazar and Shammah carried naked swords, while Ishbaal carried a spear. In his other hand, Ishbaal held a water jug. The sound of the encampment died away as the trio headed west. Despite their reputations as individuals and as a group, they probably wouldn’t be missed until it was too late to stop them. With his spear, Ishbaal had slain many of his people’s enemies, the Philistines, single-handedly in one battle. Everyone else had fled, but he did not, and when the rest had returned for him, there were three hundred bodies to be stripped. Eleazar had also been abandoned during a fierce fight. He had kept on fighting his enemies for so long that when there were finally no more to kill, his hand was cramped around his sword hilt. A fellow warrior had to pry his fingers free. Shammah had done his great deed in a field of lentils in Lehi. Philistines put the rest of the army to flight, but he went only as far as the lentil field before he stopped and held his ground. Shin-deep in the green stalks that were quickly trampled down, he fought off his enemies until there were no more to defend himself from. The Three, they were called. They had fought as part of the army of King Saul, first king of Israel, beside his great warrior David son of Jesse of Bethlehem who, though only a youth, had slain the giant Philistine Goliath of Gath. King Saul had promised freedom from taxes and marriage to his daughter for any man who could kill the Philistine in the single combat offered by the giant. Only David had dared to try, and he had knocked Goliath cold with a single stone from his sling. Then he had run right up to the monster and used Goliath’s own enormous sword to cut off the enemy’s head. David afterwards killed two hundred Philistine men on his own and brought back…a very particular proof of their deaths as the bride price for Michal, King Saul’s second daughter. The price King Saul named was one hundred. Among the men of the army, it was thought that David had been very shrewd in adding an extra hundred to the king’s number, seeing as the king had already reneged on his promise of his oldest daughter Merab’s hand by giving her to another man. King Saul couldn’t possibly refuse David’s right to Michal once he’d gone above and beyond in that way! Saul did give Michal to David, but soon had another bone to pick with his greatest warrior: he accused his champion of treachery against the royal house. David escaped out a window and fled to the priests at Nob. Though suspicious, at David's tale of Saul sending him on an urgent mission of utmost importance, the priest Abiathar gave David the sword of Goliath, which had been kept in Nob as a trophy. He also gave David the Holy Bread, reserved only for priests, once David had reassured him that he had not been with women or been in contact with any unclean thing. After that, David fled from Saul's wrath, and now he had come to the cave of Adullam, where every day more men were joining his cause. His own brothers and their sons, his nephews, were among them. David's family had spread through the camp the fact that before David slew Goliath, Samuel—the best-known prophet in Israel, and the one who had anointed King Saul and then declared that God had taken the kingship away from him—had anointed David as the next King of Israel. All were waiting for David to make war against the ruler turned tyrant. Some of the four hundred men who had joined David had grievances against the current king, but others were just angry, worthless rabble looking for trouble. David welcomed any man who came to him, so long as they obeyed whatever rules he set out for them. The Three left Saul's army after news spread about how Michal had told Saul's personal guards that David was sick, and Saul had responded by ordering that David be brought to him on his sickbed so he could kill him immediately. The story unfortunately had the opposite of the effect Saul wanted on the troops: The Three joined David. It seemed that only Saul truly believed that David would betray him. Even the king's son, Prince Jonathan, was sure David would never raise his hand against his father, even if it meant gaining the kingdom. Yet David continued to fight the enemies of the entire country, taking his army to battle against the Philistine raiders. The Three set their course for Bethlehem, where a clan of Philistines were encamped, raiding the harvest fields of the House of Bread. It was an insult to David, the champion against the Philistines, but there were not yet enough men in his private army to drive them away. Interestingly, King Saul had not sent what was left of the royal army to defend his disgraced son-in-law's home. It was evening by the time The Three covered the thirteen miles to Bethlehem. They waited for darker night to fall and watch fires to be lit before they put their plan into action. Ishbaal, Eleazar, and Shammah stole through the camp until they reached the cistern. Ishbaal quietly, carefully lowered the cistern's bucket to the water below. Hand over hand, he pulled it up again as Eleazar and Shammah stood behind him with their swords raised. Slowly, Ishbaal poured the water into the drinking jug he'd brought. The noise seemed tremendous, louder than he thought it was possible for pouring water to sound! Ishbaal finally hefted the jug and turned around, still gripping his spear with his toher hand. "Do not drop it," Shammah whispered. They picked their way back through the camp of sleeping enemies who would kill them if they woke. Safe on the other side, they turned East, and set out for Adullam to finish their twenty-six mile round trip. "God forbid that I should do such a thing! Could I drink the blood of these men who risked their lives? For at the risk of their lives they brought it." David was clutching the drinking jug full of the water he had wanted, looking ill. "I pour this out as a sacrifice to the Lord," he finally said, and did so.

y6uxlv

They Are Out to Get Me

Last night, I hardly got any sleep.  It was earlier that day that I became aware that I was being observed as I was working out at my neighborhood gym club. Not watching me in a blatant manner. But in order to keep an eye on me, they are employing secretive tactics. A few fleeting glances in the wall mirrors looking at me. Sly looks at me when they believe I am unaware of what is happening. Yet they seem under the impression that I do not know of their surveillance about them checking my whereabouts.  Haha, ha-ha, I am not someone who is foolish, yet they believe that I am.  After completing my usual workout and walking the short distance to my apartment I became conscious that I am being followed. With the intention of deceiving me once more, they are employing a woman of middle age who is walking an annoyingly yappy small dog. I am able to see her since I have stopped twice to pretend to tie my shoelaces, and I know I am being followed  She maintains a discreet distance from me, but I am able to see her. Also, I feel that she is focusing her attention on me, even if she is acting as though she is engaged with her dog.  Right now, I am staying in my apartment. I can view the surrounding area below from my balcony, which overlooks the quadrant. There are crossroads, and gardens, and a portion of the tented night market which are all visible to me from the fifth floor.  Since the early hours of the morning, a man with a frightening appearance has been loitering close to the main corner, appearing to be focused on his phone while simultaneously  I believe keeping watch for me to leave my location.  Although the man is wearing a cap and dark glasses, I recognize him as one of those who was slyly peeking at me at the gym yesterday.  After lingering around for almost an hour, he is eventually replaced by a guy who appears to be very distinct and menacing with a different appearance.  Hey, I am the type of person that lacks patience.  In addition, I do not possess the willingness to permit anyone to intimidate or try to put fear me. It is a serious form of stalking, to put it mildly, to be watched and followed by unknown individuals. That is something that I will not tolerate at all. I pull a loaded pistol from the medical compartment of my closet, which I have been keeping for some time. Immediately, I am ready to make use of it without any mercy. I prepare myself to confront these criminals, villains, or whatever they are by placing the gun inside the pocket of my jacket and getting ready to go outdoors.  Phone calls to anyone, even the police, will not accomplish anything at all.  Throughout our lives, we are frequently required to carry out significant tasks on our own and without assistance.  As an alternative to taking the elevator, I use the stairs leading down to the exit. Wearing a face mask, goggles, and motorbike helmet I make my way down the stairs. As I descend to the fourth floor, I do so in a steady and self-assured manner, resolutely refusing to give any individuals the opportunity to attempt to intimidate me or fear me to death  Who could possibly be the source of all of this worry for me? I am pondering this question over and over again. It's not my ex-wife because we divorced many years ago and have maintained a cordial relationship ever since. In any case, she and her new spouse have relocated to a different country.  Yet, hold on . I have always had a skepticism regarding her brother. Unusually, he would always look at me in a peculiar manner. It's possible that the brother is the one responsible for this.  As I make my way down to the third floor, I find myself asking 'Maybe it is because of my previous work that I am being treated in this manner?' But then I remember that everything was going well in my firm, and I sold it to a respectable company that has demonstrated that it is comprised of trustworthy personnel. This company has taken over my business and has managed to keep it operating well. But one of the new directors was frequently really odd and would treat me poorly. Could it be that he is now up to no good?  When I finally make it to the third level, I inspect the revolver concealed in my jacket. I am walking slowly but diligently. The use of it is to protect myself and get rid of this menace to myself which is something that I am completely ready to do.  I can't help but think if some of my close pals are plotting anything against me. So, who might it possibly be? Is it my new girlfriend Emily? Is she doing this?  However, despite the fact that I am not the easiest person to get along with, she has demonstrated a great deal of patience and understanding toward me, so surely not her.  My thoughts continue to wonder who the person is who is causing me this discomfort as I make my way down to the second level. It is possible that none of my pals have any resentment toward me; however, it is also equally possible that they have reached a point where they have had enough of me as a group. And are conspiring against me . At this point, I have reached both the first floor and the ground floor, and as I leave the building, I am able to see from not so far, or at least it appears that I can see, the creepy individual who was outside earlier and who was also watching me at the gym the day before. He is walking in my direction.  He has a fixed gaze on his face. As he gets closer to me, I put my hand in my pocket to grab my gun.  To prevent him from killing me, I will have to shoot him in the head. If I don't, he will kill me. At the same moment that I am ready to pull out my gun and fire it at the creepy one, my phone rings. It rings quite loudly, as if it were trying to snap me out of a trance. Instead of the firearm, I pull out my mobile device and hear the call which says: "This is Nurse Emily Please do not forget to take your medication,"  Oh, my goodness: I forgot to take my medications for today! The creepy person then walks by me without giving me a second look. I was able to tell then that he was not the person who was in the gym. Furthermore, he is wearing a uniform from the local government, which indicates that he was on duty ensuring that the fire hydrant at the intersection was functioning properly. Suddenly, it occurs to me that perhaps I have made a mistake in my decision. I slump down seated on the nearby pavement. Fortunately, I am in possession of my medication which was in my jacket all the time, and I gobble it down and then realize that I have no gun and probably there never was one.  When I finally start to appreciate what's going on, I'm holding my head in my hands. My mind seems unable or unwilling to distinguish reality from fantasy and obsession. I pause for several moments contemplating everything. Suddenly a light goes on in my head:  Is Nurse Emily attempting to poison me?

7c9syu

The Maple Tree

One would never guess that Maxine Ravenwood was in her mid sixties at first glance. With long, wild black hair and smooth, freckled skin, she looked the same as she did when was in her late thirties. Maxine plaited her hair so it was away from her face and sighed, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat sitting atop her head. She thought the hat, cloak, and birchwood, orb-topped staff were a little too on the nose for her place of work, but it was her last day before retirement, so she decided to ignore her costumed appearance for once. She grabbed her quilted tote bag- equipped with jars of ingredients, potion bottles, and her matching birchwood wand- and reached for the leatherbound spell book laying on the side table next to her bed, but hesitated. She always knew this day would come. For the past ten years, retirement had been a looming presence; an omnipotent being that was neither benevolent nor malevolent. Other witches her age were excited to be done with the coven, to finally leave the archaic rules of their group behind and sequester in a secluded cottage far away from prying eyes, where they could practice their magic in peace. Maxine, on the other hand, loved the archaic rules and the prying eyes. A knock sounded on Maxine’s bedroom door. With a flick of her wrist, Maxine willed the door to open. A stout woman with cropped red hair and a silver-threaded cloak walked over the threshold, a tear-filled smile alighting her features. She immediately enveloped Maxine in a bone-crushing hug. “Hello, my dear,” Maxine muttered, rubbing her hand consolingly on the young witch’s back. “I-I’m going to miss you so much!” The young woman sobbed. “Now, Gertie,” Maxine said, disentangling herself from the woman’s ironclad hug, “I’ll only be a short drive away.” “Yes, but it’s not the same, Blessed Mother.” Maxine flinched at the title and took a minuscule step back. Blessed Mother was a title reserved for the most powerful and wisest witch in the coven, and those chosen for the role oversaw the entirety of the group. They were considered royalty among witches, and even though Maxine was retiring, she would never quite shake the reputation the moniker had bestowed upon her. “Today is my last day as the Blessed Mother. Please, call me Maxine.” “Yes, Ble- I mean, Maxine,” Gertie replied, still whimpering. Maxine patted the young witch’s head affectionately before leaving her bedroom behind. The house where Maxine and Gertie resided- along with a slew of other witches- was the largest home in the coven’s community. Hidden in the middle of a nameless forest and protected by a large, wrought-iron fence, the community, known as Starwood, was the biggest in the United States. And soon, Maxine would be leaving Starwood behind, forever. Maxine passed a handful of doors as she made her way toward the grand staircase. One by one, they opened, as if the witches behind them could sense their Blessed Mother’s presence. All of the witches that resided in Maxine’s home were her past apprentices. A knot lodged in her throat as the witch took in all the familiar faces. Maxine quickly descended the steps. At the bottom was a flamboyantly dressed, brightly-colored witch. Wearing a neon pink witch’s hat and a contrasting traffic-cone-orange cloak, the witch stood out in all the wrong ways. She flashed a gap-toothed smile as Maxine joined her at the bottom of the stairs. “Good morning, Max,” The witch said. Maxine’s left eye twitched at the use of the hated nickname. “Hello, Taffeta,” Maxine said curtly. “What a joyous day!” Taffeta exclaimed, and her loud voice caused Gertie to shrink. Maxine raised an eyebrow, “yes, quite a joyous day. Is the car ready for me?” “Not so fast, Max,” Taffeta said, wagging her finger teasingly, “there’s still the ceremony to be performed. Trying to leave us already, eh?” Maxine sighed. No, just you , she thought. The ceremony in question wouldn’t take too long though, merely a ceremonial passing of the crown to the next Blessed Mother. Speaking of… “Has the Oracle decreed who the next ruler will be?” The oracle was a crone of a woman, older than the world itself, it seemed. She was the only witch able to see into the future and foretell who the Blessed Mothers will be, according to the already-written future, or something like that. Maxine was never able to wrap her head around the concept. Taffeta smiled widely again, “The Oracle foresaw that I, Taffeta Brown, will be the next Blessed Mother of Starwood.” It took a mere second for Maxine to compose herself and not sink into immediate panic. Taffeta Brown, of all people? All of the reasons why that was a terrible idea flooded into Maxine’s mind. When Taffeta was an apprentice, she refused to learn the combat portion of the spell book, claiming to be a pacifist. All of her potions were brewed terribly; the ingredient portions were always off. Not to mention, when there had been a zombie outbreak three years ago, Taffeta had been the cause of it. Maxine thought a mandrake root would make a better Blessed Mother than Taffeta Brown. “What a lovely surprise,” Maxine replied, folding her hands together to keep them from shaking. Gertie stiffened next to her. “Speaking of the Oracle, I would love to meet with her before the ceremony.” “Do you doubt the Oracle’s decision?” Taffeta asked, her smile turning plastic. “Oh, not at all, my dear,” Maxine replied airily, “The Oracle was immensely helpful during my time as the Blessed Mother. I simply want to thank her.” Taffeta hesitated. The large smile was still plastered on her face, but her eyes held a wariness to them. Maxine wondered if her request would be denied, but then Taffeta moved to the side and allowed her to pass. The Oracle lived in the woods surrounding Starwood. No one knew where precisely. The Oracle always seemed to make herself known when she was needed. As Gertie, Taffeta, and Maxine neared the edge of the wood, Taffeta gasped. She patted down her cloak and then gasped once more. “What’s wrong, Taffy?” Gertie asked, her eyes wide. “It seems I left my spell book behind. Oh Gertie, would you be a dear and fetch it for me?” Gertie frowned, confused, “why do you need your spell book?” “It has the words Max and I must speak during the ceremony. It’s important. Please, Gert?” Gertie glared but nodded. Taffeta waited until Gertie disappeared back into the house before turning back to Maxine. “Shall we?” “We aren’t going to wait for her?” Maxine said, “we need a witness for the ceremony.” “Oh, she’ll catch up,” Taffeta said assuredly. Maxine raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Taffeta entered the forest. The woman was acting strangely, though. The two women made their way through the overgrown undergrowth, the large trees blocking out most of the mid-morning sunlight. Maxine thought it weird that they were venturing so far into the forest. Usually, the Oracle would have sought them out by now. Maxine stared at Taffeta’s back, but nothing about the way she was carefully making her way through the woods gave away that anything was awry. Still, Maxine tightened her grip on her wand. Eventually, they made their way to a clearing, and Taffeta stopped, her back turned to Maxine. “This should do,” she said cheerfully. “Isn’t it odd,” Maxine said carefully, “that the Oracle has not found us yet?” “No, not at all,” Taffeta replied, “considering the Oracle is dead.” And then, Taffeta struck. The magic hit Maxine in a bright green flash, and quickly the spell started working. Maxine’s feet turned into roots that burrowed themselves deep into the soil of the Earth. Paint laced up Maxine’s legs, and she bit back a curse as they hardened and turned to wood. “What have you done?” Maxine panted. “I can’t have you interfering with my plan, Max,” Taffeta said, “I’m sorry that it had to come to this, but I have no other choice.” “What...plan?” The magic had fully transformed Maxine’s legs and torso and was now hardening her hands and arms. “The plan for witches to take what is theirs,” Taffeta explained, “the world.” “And why wouldn’t I agree to that?” Maxine bit out. “Because the mortals will have to die in the process.” Before Maxine could respond, the spell was completed. Maxine’s jet-black hair grew long and green, morphing into smooth leaves. Branches sprouted from Maxine’s arms and legs and reached high into the sky. Where Maxine was standing now stood a tall and beautiful maple tree. Taffeta clicked her tongue sympathetically as she caressed one of Maxine’s leaves, “it’s such a shame that you won’t get to witness the rise of the witches, Max. But, once I have what I want, perhaps I will think about saving you.”

k31154

Whispers of the Oasis

The relentless thrumming of the city had become a forgotten memory. Here, on the sunbaked savanna, the only music was the rhythmic rasp of wind through tall grasses and the mournful cry of a lone fish eagle circling overhead. Amina dug her toes deeper into the cool, ochre sand, the scent of sun-warmed earth filling her senses. Beside her, Kwesi stretched with a sigh, his face turned towards the relentless sun. They had been wanderers for years, ever since the Great Drought had choked the land, leaving behind skeletal trees and parched earth. Villages became ghost towns of crumbling mudbrick, and nature, once a provider, became a harsh taskmaster. But Amina and Kwesi, alongside a ragged band of survivors, found a fragile solace in the nomadic life. They learned the whispers of the wind, coaxed sustenance from the grudging land, and navigated by the constellations that blazed like scattered diamonds in the night sky. Today, they stumbled upon a place untouched by the wrath of the drought. A hidden oasis nestled in the crook of a sandstone escarpment, its emerald heart seemed to pulse with life. Crystal-clear water shimmered in a sun-dappled pool, fringed by swaying reeds. Lush palms stretched their fronds towards the sky, casting cool shadows on the parched earth. It was a scene ripped from an ancient myth, a defiant splash of color in the desolate landscape. Amina watched a lone dhow glide past the distant horizon, its sail a crimson stain against the blue. A flicker of longing ignited within her. They were so accustomed to the relentless search for water and grazing land, that the idea of settling felt alien. Yet, this oasis whispered promises of a life beyond mere survival. "Isn't it beautiful, Amina?" Kwesi's voice was a gentle murmur, breaking the comfortable silence. Amina nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the captivating oasis. "It's hard to believe such a place still exists." "Maybe we've been searching for the wrong things," Kwesi mused, his voice thoughtful. "Maybe security doesn't lie in numbers or fortified walls, but in finding a place like this." He reached for her hand, his fingers strong and familiar. "I wish we could stay here forever," he whispered, his voice thick with a yearning that mirrored her own. Amina squeezed his hand in return. The thought of leaving this paradise was a bitter pill to swallow. But the memories of cracked earth and desperate faces were etched too deeply. "We can't," she said, the echo of regret in her voice. "We have others to look after, remember? They need us to find a place like this, a haven from the drought." Kwesi sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his eyes. He understood, of course he did. The responsibility of their small nomadic group weighed heavily on them. They couldn't afford the luxury of self-preservation; their survival was intertwined with the fate of the others. The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the sandstone cliffs with streaks of fiery orange and red. The oasis seemed to shrink around them, transforming into a world of its own, a world where the harsh realities of the drought seemed to dissipate. A sudden splash broke the quiet contemplation. A young girl, no older than ten, emerged from the water, her dark braids clinging to her back like wet ropes. It was Aisha, a mischievous spark of life in their otherwise hardened existence. "Amina, Kwesi! Look what I found!" Aisha held aloft a smooth, polished stone, its surface reflecting the fading light like a gem. Amina smiled, a genuine warmth radiating from her. The sight of Aisha's unbridled joy was a stark reminder that finding a future wasn't just about survival; it was about hope, about creating a world where children could laugh and play without fear of thirst. As dusk settled, casting long shadows across the golden sand, they huddled around a crackling fire, sharing stories and laughter. The oasis seemed to shrink around them, transforming into a world of its own, a world where the harsh realities of the drought seemed to dissipate. Later, as Amina lay awake beneath a canopy of stars, Kwesi's words echoed in her mind. "I wish we could stay here forever." Perhaps, she thought, forever wasn't an option, but maybe, just maybe, they could make this haven a temporary home, a place to heal, to gather their strength, to remind themselves of what they were fighting for. With this newfound resolve, Amina drifted off to sleep, the gentle gurgling of the spring a reassuring lullaby in the night air. The future was still uncertain, fraught with dangers and the unforgiving grip of the drought. But for now, in this hidden oasis, they had found a flicker of hope, a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity, The next morning, a council fire crackled in the center of the oasis. Amina and Kwesi shared their discovery with the weary faces gathered around it. Relief and a cautious optimism flickered in their eyes. The elders, their faces etched with the hardships of the drought, listened intently. "This place is a gift," spoke Mama Zahra, the oldest and wisest of the group. Her voice, though raspy, held the authority of a desert wind. "But remember, gifts come with responsibility. We must tread lightly here. The water must be shared, the date palms nurtured." A chorus of agreement rose from the group. They knew Mama Zahra's wisdom was hard-won. They couldn't afford to squander this precious refuge. Days were spent in a flurry of activity. Men repaired the crumbling walls of an abandoned settlement that sat at the edge of the oasis. Women, guided by Amina, carefully transplanted wilted seedlings from their meager stores, coaxing life back into the parched soil. Children, like Aisha, reveled in the cool water, their laughter echoing through the palms. Weeks turned into months. The oasis, under their care, flourished. The once-skeletal date palms hung heavy with plump fruit. Gourds, coaxed from resilient seeds, began to sprawl across the sandy ground. A sense of community, absent for so long, rekindled within the group. Stories were shared around the fire at night, dreams were whispered under the starlit canopy. One evening, as Amina watched Kwesi teach the young boys how to spear fish in the pool, a lone figure emerged from the shimmering heat haze at the edge of the oasis. A weary woman, her clothes threadbare and her face etched with hardship, stumbled towards them. Fear gripped Amina momentarily. Were they not safe in this hidden haven? But Kwesi, with a gesture of welcome, invited the woman to their fire. Over a shared meal of roasted fish and dates, the woman, her name was Nala, shared her tale – a tale of a village ravaged by drought, their wells dry, their livestock dying. A somber silence descended upon the group. They understood Nala's plight too well. Mama Zahra, her gaze steady, spoke. "We have been blessed, Nala. But we cannot turn away from those in need." A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Though their supplies were limited, they knew what they had to do. The following morning, Amina and Kwesi, alongside a group of strong men, set off with Nala, guiding her back to her village. The journey back was arduous. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the landscape was a desolate wasteland. But the knowledge that they were bringing hope, a lifeline to a desperate community, sustained them. Reaching the village, a ghost town of crumbling mud-brick houses, they were met with hollow eyes and skeletal figures. Tears welled up in Nala's eyes. Yet, when they shared their meager provisions, a spark of life flickered in the villagers' eyes. Hope, however faint, began to bloom. Amina and Kwesi stayed for a few days, teaching the villagers the water-harvesting techniques they had learned during their nomadic years. They showed them how to identify edible plants in the harshest terrain. As they prepared to leave, a frail old man, the village elder, stopped them. "You have shown us kindness, strangers," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps, together, we can build a future here. Perhaps, together, we can find other oases." Amina exchanged a glance with Kwesi. They had a decision to make. The hidden oasis had been their haven, a sanctuary. But maybe, just maybe, their purpose lay beyond its emerald embrace. Maybe their role was to become a beacon of hope, helping others find and rebuild their lives. With a heavy heart but a renewed sense of purpose, Amina and Kwesi bid farewell to the village. They knew the journey ahead would be long and arduous. But the image of the hopeful faces they left behind, the flicker of life in a dying village, fueled their resolve. They were no longer just nomads seeking a haven. They were builders of hope, a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity in the face of drought and despair.

wnfj4g

The Nitwits Around Here are Such a Bore

A castle keep is all that remains of an ancient crumbling castle. It overlooks a valley centered on a tiny island surrounded by dragon-infested mountains. The shadow elves brought the Eye of Duran, which they stole from King Moreland of Selwyn, to this keep for safekeeping. The shadow elves allied with the fire-bolt dragons because the Selwyn navy wouldn't have a prayer to follow. The fiery barrage from the dragons would obliterate their ships before they spotted one palm tree. A messenger dragon sent from their fleet out at sea had warned them that Lady Nimmo was possibly on her way, so they positioned themselves throughout the island. When the underwater boat landed with Lady Nimmo, Jor, and Trungen, they knew it and watched. When the time was right, they emptied the keep of troops and marched to the cave. Timgar, the illustrious leader of the shadow elves holding the keep, killed time with an intellectual conversation. "It's one of the things I hate about 'good.' It always finds a way to stop 'evil,'" he signed air quotes for good and evil. "Now you're just being obstinate," Captain Arrow James said from behind his prison bars. "Do you think a two-legged pirate can't see? Your air quotes clearly indicate you don't believe in the concepts of 'good' and 'evil.'" The captain mimicked air quotes. "You see right through me. It's so nice to have a fellow intellectual to converse with." Timgar was leaning back in his chair, oblivious to the events outside the keep. During his conversation with his prisoner, Lady Nimmo and her stumpers had imprisoned most of his troops and sent spies to ascertain the keep's remaining strength – which wasn't much. Timgar continued, "The nitwits around here are such a bore, always talking about swords and whips. Blah, blah, blah. Never about amoralism or the merits of nihilism. I've been so inspired and lifted to heights of enlightenment that I'm honestly beginning to believe our conversation doesn't exist. You know what I mean?" "Absolutely." The captain stood and grabbed the bars. "Now I've been thinking as best as I can, being handicapped by these two legs of mine. These bars? Do they exist? If not, those keys hanging above your head don't exist either, so you couldn't throw them to me even if you wanted to." "That's what I'm talking about. Genius! You are the only one who understands. Your right," Timgar grabbed the keys, "These can't exist if your bars don't. How can we test our theory?" "Oh, I don't know. How about throwing the keys in here." "Great idea! I can't throw them to you if they don't exist." "Right. So, toss them here." Timgar made to toss the keys when one of his elves entered. "Sir!" Timgar looked as guilty as a kid near a broken window. "Were you about to throw the keys to the prisoner?" "How dare you! Me? Throw the keys? That may or may not exist! Ridiculous!" The elf shook his head. "We haven't heard back from our troops, and stumpers are sneaking around the keep." "What! That can't be." He stormed out of the dungeon, leaving the elf and captain alone. "Really!" The elf said. "Stop messing with him. I can overlook the first two times, but three, seriously!" Timgar and his remaining elves searched the valley from the keep's battlements. They spotted stumpers everywhere. "This means we lost. Inconceivable!" Timgar said. "Didn't our spies say she lost her power to create stumpers?" "They did, sir." "Then why are there stumpers?" The five remaining elves looked towards each other. The answer was so obvious they didn't know whether it was a rhetorical question. One elf finally broke the confused silence. "She found it." Timgar stared down the elf who had just spoken and then surveyed the valley again. "Oh, that makes sense." "Sir, over here!" They saw over a hundred magical stumps led by Lady Nimmo and Trungen, armed with swords, whips, and bows. "Should I blow the horn?" "It's time. Blow the horn," Timgar ordered. A high-pitched blast that sounded like an eagle filled the valley. The stumper army heard it, and so did the dragons. Dozens of fire-bold dragons flew from their nests and converged on the wooden army. "They're coming, just like Jor told us," Trungen said. "Now that I see them, I wish my father was wrong," Lady Nimmo shivered in fear, her adrenaline pumping fiercely. "Give the signal." Trungen rose above, waving her staff in patterns. The stumpers in the open field moved into square formations. Trungen waved toward the forest behind her, and stumpers hidden by the forest waved a flag in acknowledgment. Trungen descended, "We're ready." Dragons aren't the brightest torch in a room. They had no attack strategy, nor did they have a leader. They paid no attention to the square formations and didn't notice the hidden stumpers. They recklessly flew straight towards the enemy with mouths blazing. The first wave of dragons reigned down fire bolts, hitting several stumpers and igniting them on fire. They immediately dropped and rolled into the center of the square formation. They continued to roll, dousing the flames. The dragons dived closer, continuing to spit their bolts, hitting a few more. Meanwhile, the outer edge of the square formation used their whips and aimed for the dragon's necks or wings. A dragon felt a whip wrap around its neck. It crashed into a formation of stumpers, and they turned the fallen beast into a pin cushion of swords. Seeing one of their own killed, the wing of dragons ascended higher. However, the distance tremendously hampered their accuracy, and the stumpers found the bolts easy to evade. Seeing the dragon's reluctance for close combat, Trungen rose and signaled the stumpers in the forest. In a synchronized line, they emerged from the forest edge, aimed their bows, and fired into the wing of dragons. The dragons' attention was on the army in the valley; they never saw the arrows coming. The dragons took arrows in the wings and body. A few suffered mortal wounds. The dragons were surprised. They were told by the shadow elves it would be an easy battle. They discovered the stumpers were anything but an easy foe. They wanted nothing more to do with these magic trees. They limped back to their nests, no longer fighting, no matter how much treasure those stupid elves offered. Lady Nimmo and friends lay siege to the keep. They sent a stumper with a message calling for their surrender. After some time, a figure emerged from a small door. Everyone was expecting a shadow elf but was shocked when a man in fancy breeches, a tan silk shirt, and a red velvet coat walked toward the messenger. His hat signified the rank of captain, but the markings betrayed him as a pirate. The messenger returned to Lady Nimmo. "He says he represents the elves and requests to parley with you face to face, my Lady." "Tell him we agree." The pirate, Lady Nimmo, Trungen, and a dozen stumpers met in the middle. Lady Nimmo couldn't help but notice how swashbuckling handsome he appeared. He exuded confidence despite being outnumbered and surrounded. "My Lady, I've heard so much about you, and yet it all pales compared to your dazzling beauty," he bowed. "A lowly two-legged pirate is undeserving of your presence." "I've also heard much about you, Captain Arrow James." "You know my name?" The pirate was unable to hide his surprise. Lady Nimmo carried the book from the cave she had discovered in a previous adventure, which is sure to be remembered by all. "Is this your book?" "Oh, you found it. You don't know how happy I am to see that again," he reached out for it. "I thought the shadow elves destroyed it after capturing me." "I will return it, but first, tell me what a parley is. And how did you end up on the elves' side? From your book, you don't strike me as one who would keep their company." "No, no! I'm not on their side," Captain Arrow raised his hands in surrender. "I was forced to parley with you. Oh, forgive me, I forgot I was dealing with landlubbers. You call it a negotiation." "I see." Lady Nimmo sighed internally. "Well, regarding negotiations, we want the Eye of Duran and all shadow elves to leave this island." "Timgar told me to ask about their weapons." "They will leave in disgrace. Not one weapon will be returned," she squared her shoulders. "They fought dishonorably, hiding behind an old man and dragons. They deserve the shame." "I will give them your terms." Captain Arrow turned to leave. "Wait. I have one more term," she couldn't help but smile. "You are to be released into our custody." He bowed, "Thank you, my Lady, a two-legged pirate doesn't deserve your consideration." He returned to the keep. Timgar was outraged by the terms but relented. The stumpers marched the prisoners to their ship docked in a nearby bay. Before being allowed to board, Trungen destroyed the ship's catapults and archer towers. "Lady Nimmo, we will not forget this humiliation," Timgar held his head high. "We will meet again." They watched as the elves' ship rowed out to sea. The tension eased. Stumpers teased, Trungen's light dimmed to a more relaxed hue, and Lady Nimmo and Captain Arrow started conversing about his book. "You kept using the term "two-legged," throughout your book. What do you mean by it?" Lady Nimmo asked. "It would be a very sensitive subject if it weren't so noticeable. Since I can't keep it to myself, I make sure everyone knows that I know everyone knows that my two legs are a shameful burden." He kicked a rock and was unable to lift his head. "It's a fact every self-respecting pirate has one leg. But, alas, I've been cursed to have them both still." "You mean to tell me you're ashamed of having two legs?" "I don't know how you can bear to walk with a two-legged pirate. Your kindness will never be forgotten. I promise." She laughed inside, refusing to dishonor the captain by making light of his blight. She felt so happy, although she didn't know why. She thought, "It had to be the victory. Right? Sure, that's why I feel this way. It's the victory."

vy38mx

Wish Away

In the pursuit of success, Dan had found a state where all his needs were taken care of. There was not one need that he could muster that was not already catered for. The identification of a need that required attending to became something of an obsession for him, and in time he began to suspect that he was becoming bored with life itself. That he’d bested the final boss, and there was nothing left to play for. He'd even toyed with an array of wants. Wants however, were substandard needs. Dan was wise to that from the outset, and so this variation of the game was short-lived, and didn’t even have the decency to shine brightly. A grey pebble masquerading as a jewel. “I’m bored, Jones,” he whined as he reclined on his custom made leather sofa, drinking the finest of liquids. This a rare red that he’d secretly outbid a sheik for and had flown in earlier that day. “Really, sir,” said Jones in his public school boy drawl. Jones was another item in Dan’s collection. The man was originally destined for great things. Marked as a future prime minister. This meant that he was readily bought and so Dan had acquired him with precious little haggling. Dan knew the price of everything. He also had a fair idea of its value, which was entirely a different thing. “Yes really,” Dan snapped like a turtle that would remove any fingers dangled too close to his beak. Jones nodded, an affectation that denoted demurement. Bread was buttered on the upper side and Jones had learnt to keep a beady eye on it from that moment forth. It would not do for the bread to fall upon the spotless tiled floor. There were messy consequences when such unfortunateness occurred, “would sir like me to ready the car for him, perchance?” Dan eyed Jones with annoyance. This was the natural dynamic between them. There was always scope for antagonism and Jones was a sitting target. The easy meat here was that the car referred to a garage full of cars. It was for Dan to select the car in question. Once, Jones had had the temerity to suggest the Aston. Not the unbuyable new concept car that Dan had nonetheless acquired, but the DB5. Dan had been incensed by this encroachment. No one was ever to transgress in such a way. Second guessing Dan was a one off, and painfully expensive life lesson. Jones would never know that he was on the money with that choice. Dan hadn’t driven the DB5 ever since. Neither had he sold it. It’s absence would have grated on him more than its presence. “May as well,” said Dan. Jones nodded again, “what colour will sir be requiring today?” Dan didn’t miss a beat, “black, to match my mood.” Then he added with a reproachful look, “the Roller.” “I will make the arrangements, sir,” and with that, Jones marched silently from the room. Dan watched him go. Supposed he should shower. He was fastidiously clean. His third shower of the day was all about the transformation from one state to another. He would select a different water temperature to suit the mood he wished to step out of the shower in. Then he would pick a cologne to enhance that mood. Leaving the half-drunk glass of wine and the open bottle to be quietly discarded, he shed his clothes and set the shower before walking in. Five minutes later, he stood naked before his bed and allowed Jones to help him on with his clothing. White shirt. Black suit. Perfectly polished brogues. Dan knew that Jones outsourced some of the chores, and he indulged him in this deception. But the shoes Jones polished himself, taking an intense pride in his work. Dan liked the man for this one thing. Had watched him on numerous occasions, on one of the many video feeds he had in every one of his residences. Dan liked to watch. There was much to learn in watching others. Humans were built to learn this way. Climbing into the expansive rear space of the Roller, Dan sat quietly for a moment. He felt Jones’ eyes upon him via the rear-view mirror as he considered what it was that he needed. The moment stretched out and he lost himself in the expanse of his mind, scrolling and scrolling, further and deeper. Then it came to him, and as it did, he smiled, “did you ever read The Prince and The Pauper, Jones?” he said to the mirrored eyes. “I’ve seen the film, sir,” Jones replied. “Which one?” “The Errol Flynn version, sir,” Jones smiled. “You don’t read enough, Jones.” “That has been said, sir.” Dan sighed, “don’t you ever wish for a different life?” Jones chuckled, a pleasant sound that Dan never had a problem with. Jones could chuckle without ever causing offence, “Matron told me that you should be careful what you wish for, very careful indeed, sir,” he said solemnly. “And which Matron was this?” asked Dan, smiling wickedly, for he knew the answer, but wanted to hear it all the same. It was a routine that the two men had. A welcome distraction. “The only one I didn’t sleep with, sir.” Dan nodded, he’d known as much. That Matron was the closest Jones had ever got to having a mother. The brutal thrashings that Matron had administered had forever changed Jones, and his predilection for certain entertainments in specialist clubs in Soho had lowered his market value quite considerably. “I have decided that what I need is a change,” Dan announced. “They do say that a change is as good as a rest, sir,” said Jones. “Who is this they that you sometimes speak of, Jones?” asked Dan. Jones smiled ruefully, “a small band of witless ruffians who know precious little about anything of worth, sir,” he replied. “Friends of yours?” asked Dan. “One and all, sir,” Jones agreed. Dan removed his tie and discarded it on the seat next to him, opening the top two buttons of his shirt, “I have decided that what I need is adventure.” “Adventure, sir,” said Jones neutrally. “Yes,” confirmed Dan, “now get out of that driving seat.” “Sir?” enquired Jones. “You heard me.” “But where shall I go, sir?” asked Jones. “Good question,” answered Dan, “you can think about that whilst you sit in the back of this Roller and I chauffeur you to any destination of your choosing.” “Right you are, sir.” As they met each other at the expansive flank of sleek, black Roller, Dan snatched Jones’ hat from his head, “I’ll have that!” he announced, “ sir,” he added as he passed Jones and slotted into the driving seat. Pressing button one, the seat moved and moulded itself to his requirements, just as the world always did. Prior to starting the engine and embarking upon his novel adventure, Dan turned in his seat, “twenty four hours. Roles reversed. You inhabit my world now, Jones. And I yours.” Jones smiled an inscrutable smile, “you’re sure you want to do this?” No sir this time. Jones was already transitioning. Trying the suit on for size. “You know me,” replied Dan. Jones did. Jones knew Dan better than anyone. He’d had a ringside seat to Dan’s life for over a decade now. Silently, the hulk of the Rolls Royce exited Dan’s underground lair. A huge cave of a place with nods towards a certain two superheroes. But there were no bats lurking in this cave, and no iron suits. “Well?” asked Dan as the Roller stalked the night time streets of London. He eyed Jones in the mirror and was rewarded with a questioning raise of an eyebrow. Remembering himself he added, “ sir.” Jones nodded slowly. A different nod, for a different character, “I fancy a visit to one of my uncle’s old haunts,” he said with a glint of something novel in his eye. “And where would that be, sir?” asked Dan. “Head for Watford, Smithers,” grinned Jones, “I’ll guide you the rest of the way once we leave the M1.” “Right you are, sir,” said Dan, trying not to laugh at the nom de plume that Jones had selected for him. Enjoying the anticipatory thrill of the forthcoming adventure. Jones nodded, pressing a button to reveal cut glass tumblers and a decanter of the finest single malt laying within the central armrest to his right. Dan watched Jones pour a generous measure of the fine, smoky amber liquid, barely resisting the urge to break character and tell him to stop. Already, this was proving more difficult than he could ever have expected. The requirement for silence was obvious. The discordant noise within threatened to overwhelm him. He looked away, attending to the pressing matter of the drive. Shamed by this strategy. Busying himself with what he could do and ignoring what was occurring over his shoulder. Pretending it wasn’t happening and hoping that it would go away. The world he now occupied was smaller and he was feeling claustrophobic. This wasn’t what he had expected. He’d wanted simplicity and an escape via a lesser way of being. A lightening of the load. He’d thought this would be easy, but the problem was that he was too big and he didn’t fit properly. Be careful what you wish for, Dan felt the words pass through him. A chilling premonition. A dark warning. He wasn’t for ignoring it. Saw it as fear. He’d never backed down. Fear was a challenge that he’d always been equal to. This was the path he’d chosen and he would walk it with his head held high. Be careful what you wish for, those words would not be denied. They stood before Dan and cast a shadow upon him. There was more at play than fear here. A challenge. A question aimed at bringing down the entire paradigm of a life. Dan had hit a wall in this life. It wasn’t that he’d fulfilled all his needs. That wasn’t it at all. Be careful what you wish for, was Dan’s last chance saloon. His Hobson’s Choice. This was all that was left to him. A roll of the dice with everything he was at stake. Now the genie was out of the bottle, nothing would ever be the same again. He felt this with every fibre of his being, and with that feeling was a fear he hadn’t experienced since… He didn’t want to think about that. Wouldn’t go back there. This was stage fright was all it was. Not even an echo of a time long past. Another time. Another life. That life had ended a long time ago, and in the death of that life, Dan had risen. The road ahead glimmered with the blues and purples of neon. As those ghosts departed, Dan felt the city at his back and an invitation to a foreign land. He pressed his right foot down and smiled as the huge engine of the Roller burbled happily as it consumed the open road. The car was a brute in a suit. A threatening statement. An exclusive club on wheels. The silver witch goddess figurehead at the front of this vessel wasn’t there for protection, she was a Valkyrie at the vanguard of an onslaught. Dan felt that power now. Felt it coursing through him. He’d made his wish. He would be equal to the trials and tribulations that awaited him at this journey’s end. Jones sipped at the warming whisky, a smile playing upon his lips as he experienced his own transformation. His eyes were focused on a faraway place that he’d dreamed of often, but had thought forever lost to him. A life that lay beyond a silk veil. A land of lost promises. The Roller tore through the road before it and in no time at all they were peeling off the motorway. Jones instructed his chauffeur to make right and left turns until they were heading down a pockmarked single track towards a makeshift carpark. Oil drum braziers provided an eerie light to the proceedings. The hungry licking flames illuminating motors that did not belong in these surroundings. Instead of the battered Mercs and BMWs Dan had expected, there were a group of pristine vehicles in the midst of which the Roller became almost anonymous. “What is this place?” Dan asked Jones. Jones raised a finger of admonishment and awaited the correction. “Sir,” Dan added grudgingly. Jones nodded by way of reward and then sat in expectant silence. Dan stifled a sigh. This was the way of it. Jones owed him no explanation. The tail did not wag the dog. He centred himself and became the character he’d wished to be. Only he knew more and he was more. The challenge was not to let his light shine too brightly. Opening the door for Jones, he stood to attention and waited for his master to exit the car. “Thank you, Smithers,” said Jones as he stood clear of the open door and surveyed his surroundings with an imperious bearing that was shockingly natural. Smithers. Dan wanted to rid himself of that ridiculous moniker. It was a joke that had turned sour and now that joke was on him. The word was a travesty and it made him feel uncomfortably small. He said nothing though. He wasn’t in a position to change anything. The power was no longer his to wield. Before them was an agricultural building. All concrete and rusted metal angles. On the other side of the wall were bright arc lights and the sounds of men baying and shouting. Dan could smell the testosterone and cigar smoke from here. Could taste the copper of blood. There were bears beyond that room. Chained bears baited by vicious and unhinged dogs. This was an ancient gathering. A celebration of the darkness within. The magic of blood and violence. Dan could feel the pull of it. It excited and appalled him in equal measure. Rounding the corner, the side opened up to a crowd of people Dan had seen a million times before. The rich. The successful. The greedily ambitious. He’d never seen them like this though. He’d only ever glimpsed this, his speculative thoughts pointing to debauchery and animalistic satiation of dark desires, but he’d never gone this far. This didn’t at all fit with his reckoning of the world he inhabited. Two chipped and well used men nodded them through. Big dogs who knew the smell of money well enough. Dan and Jones walked shoulder-to-shoulder towards the crowd. Just as Dan thought they were heading to a suitable spot to spectate, Jones spotted someone and changed their course, “come,” he commanded, and Dan followed, no remnants of resistance littering his path. They stopped at a folding table festooned with cash. There was an ordered chaos here. The weasel behind the table knew where every banknote belonged. An accountant keeping his beady eyes on the flow of funds. Ebbing and flowing. A larger and larger residue left behind in his coffers. Some would win big tonight, but the weasel always took his margin. “This your man?” asked the weasel. Jones nodded curtly, “he is.” “Doesn’t look much,” observed the weasel. Dan bridled at this. Stood up straighter. Made himself look big. A physical statement; don’t you know who I am? Jones chuckled his affable chuckle, “sometimes they don’t.” The weasel stroked his chin, then he shook his head, “unless he knows origami, he’s a lamb to the slaughter. Sure you want to do this?” Jones nodded, extending his hand. The weasel took another look at Dan, shook his head again, “his funeral,” he shook Jones hand, “you’re up next.” No money exchanged. Dan noted this. Wondered at the nature of the transaction that had been agreed upon as Jones led him around the crowd. Dan kept his eyes on Jones and where they were going. Heard the sound of meat on meat and the roar of a crowd gone wild on blood and violence. He knew what was coming. Numbed himself to it. The first he saw of the sordid arena was as they dragged a shattered and bloodied body through the sand and sawdust. The man still standing was in poor shape. The two of them having gone at each other hammer, tong, tooth and nail. Jones grabbed Dan around the shoulder in an almost fatherly manner, “do us both proud out there, son!” Jones was grinning as Dan looked askance at him, he couldn’t help but ask the most obvious of questions, “I’m fighting?” Jones raised an eyebrow, “be a poor show if you didn’t.” A question pushed its way to the fore. The  question. No money had exchanged hands. Dan needed to know what was at stake here. Not what he’d win, that had ceased mattering to him a long time ago, “what happens if I lose?” “Ah,” said Jones as the next fight was being announced by a small man in a tuxedo, “then you really will get what you wished for, sir .” As Dan stepped into the ring, he saw the loser of the previous fight being handcuffed and dragged to a small group of men in a cage. That was when he understood. Felt Jones’ presence behind him. The tables truly turned. He’d bought the indebted Jones, title and all. Enslaved him. Provided him a lifeline, but only a semblance of a life. He’d deprived Jones of his freedom. Dan was fighting for his freedom. He was fighting to survive. The gatekeeper to Dan’s freedom loomed up before him. A scarred and heavily tattooed obstacle to his wish raised sledgehammer fists aloft and roared. Dan was deaf to that and the sound of the leering mob, he was back in a small room, and he was smaller still, as his uncle  stood framed in the doorway, unbuckling his belt…

ejehr0

The Cynic Clinic

Silas Romanov , head of pharmaceutical giant Cytech , the world's leading anti-depressant and anti-psychotics manufacturer , took a long draw of his Cuban cigar , exhaled steadily and looked down on the rest of Manhattan , smiling. Ironically , the glossy black of the surrounding tower blocks reminded him of the shiny onyx tombstone he'd picked out for his father. Death was final and fruitless , and more importantly , sickeningly unprofitable. Everything was going according to plan , as long as the human race remained self destructive , Cytech's fortunes would continue to soar. Today's trading announcement , another trading record of $170bn for the year, up 18% on the previous and turnover of $564bn , was satisfying. The mental health economy was worth $2.5tn globally so there was still scope for improvement and Silas , with the old man in the ground , could now divert more capital to biogenic research and the human race potential. As if to coincide with this thought , his watch tracker indicated Cytech's prototype was approaching , on foot , at speed , 40km an hour to be precise. The prototype had completed a circuit of Manhattan , leaving Midtown heading north to the George Washington Bridge , then south to past the Brooklyn Bridge and looped round back to Midtown and Cytech headquarters. Entering the building , the prototype always ascended the stairs and the 99 stories to the penthouse office suite at the top. It always impressed Silas to see each floor in the stairways negotiated 2-3 seconds at a time , not that he would share that sentiment , he had to guard against complacency. It always made the record attempt that little bit more exciting , though. The record for this feat , to leave the penthouse , lap Manhattan island and ascend to the 80th floor was 2hrs and 1min. At that moment the oak double doors barged open , and the imposing figure raced to the centre of the Penthouse and hit the timer on a marble dias there. 'Titus , my boy!' Silas boomed. The figure had collapsed against the timer dial, heaving huge gasps of air desperately. Rivulets of sweat poured from his forehead and his eyes closed slowly , dreading the debrief.     'Father , I ............'          'Silence!' Silas yelled ,'It feels like we've been here before , eh? Your broke the record , Titus! 2 hours and 57 seconds , very good...........'        'Thank you, father....' Titus trailed off.   '...............for a mere human. Get up!' Titus daren't do otherwise , he raised himself to his full height , towering over his patriarch , shuffling to his feet despite the pain in his legs , his arms , his heart , his soul. 'Is that all you are Titus? Human? Does a mere human receive $70m in biological science advantages , blood research , adrenaline supplementation? Transplant?? Two hours is superhuman , we've discussed this. And you know why I need these results, yes? The science supports these benchmarks , Titus , so I have no choice to assume YOU are the weakness. YOU are my failure.' ''Father , no , I can do this , I can make two hours , I know I can,' Titus pleaded. 'We can present to the military as planned and I'll continue with the time trials'. 'This is the last time , son' Silas said. Titus filled with familiar despair , he was only referred to as a son in the worst circumstances. 'Maybe , what we need here is the proper motivation.' Silas produced a beautiful golden Beretta from his pocket and stepped toward Titus. 'No,' Titus protested hands ahead of him , trembling , as Silas held the gun dead ahead. Slowly , Silas turned his forearm towards his own face and Titus shook his head , comprehending the sudden change in intent. Silas locked eyes with his son and squeezed the trigger. A short thud echoed in the studio as Titus screwed his eyes shut and shrank into his shoulders , sweating in fear now. He opened his eyes , perplexed as no shot rang out and there was a small flame at the end of the pistol as Silas began relighting his cigar again , grinning. 'Had it delivered today , Berreta made it for me specially', Silas quipped. Embarrased but somewhat , relieved , he turned in anger and strode to the doors. As he turned towards one door , latticed with iron and lead and four inches of thick timber , he closed his left fist , pumped it , felt his anger , felt the adrenaline's surge and thrust the closed fist at the heart of the door , splintering a hole through to the other side. He pulled his shoulder back out of the hole , as the rest of the wooden slab began to fall from the hinges. Titus looked at his hand , quickly pump flexed his fingers - no bruising , no cuts and above all , no residual anger. 'Report to Dr Cronenberg!' Silas yelled as Titus waved back but kept walking to the elevator. Titus knew the diagnostics would reveal the same metrics so it was time to change the game and raise the stakes.    'Ah , Titus , just in time , I have your performance data,' said Dr Cronenberg.     'Let me guess , three thirty minute splits and a slight blowout for the last split? With the stair climb?' Cronenberg lowered his head and peered over the rims of his glasses , nodding sheepishly. Titus strode through the laboratory and slumped into the diagnostic chair, 'I need something more Crone-Borg!' as the Dr frowned disapprovingly at the sleight but his hurt turned to panic as Titus leaned forward grabbing the lapels of his lab coat in one hand and pulled him face to face ,'He pointed a gun at my head - DOES THAT COMPUTE! CAN YOU ASSIMILATE THAT!!!' Again the Star Trek sledge wasn't lost on Cronenberg but as the tips of his feet were barely touching the ground he nodded co-operatively and , after a brief second , Titus' powerful arm slowly lowered like a crane and the good Dr was back down to the flats of his feet again. As the Dr pressed his lab coat flat again and composed himself he said,' I might have an innovation that will help you , Titus' Titus leaned back and clasped his fingers in front of his broad chest , elbows propped on his knees and fixed Cronenberg with a hawkish glare. Dr Cronenberg stammered into his presentation 'AAaaaaaaahhhhhmm , what I am proposing is a graft onto to each of your adrenal glands which will produces Hype Adrenaline . The way it works is when your natural adrenaline levels have peaked at optimum , we see 30 minute splits every ten miles , so two hours in total. If we stimulate the Hype Adrenaline release in the last phase in the circuit , say two miles from Cytech , it will give you an incredible surge of testosterone at the end which will shorten your last split.' 'Sounds a bit 'Warp factor 9 , Scotty' to me , Doc. How does the Hype stuff release? What's it gonna do for my times , I have to make 2hrs flat or its no good.' 'Well , its in an experimental phase so we don't exactly know I'm afraid , but I can guarantee you one thing , Titus. One dose of Hype and a New York cab won't be able to catch you. The release level is 10,000nm/l so you must be very careful to pace yourself and not exceed 40km/h for more than a minute or your adrenaline will hit the release threshold , the dose will release and we cannot guarantee you will be able to finish the race if its released early. I have a wrist monitor for you to wear to keep track and I'll be able to talk to you during this race' 'OK , where do I sign up?' 'Well , you see Titus its a small operation , twenty minutes max but.....erm..........in order to avoid any side effects , we cannot use anaesthetic.' Titus sprung out of the obs chair and snatched a length of lead pipe from a laboratory bench top on the way to confront the doctor. He held the pipe horizontally between his outstretched hands and could see the terror in the thin doctor's eyes as his forearm strength alone was enough to bend the rigid pipe like rubber hose until Dr Cronenberg's face was framed like bagel filling. The Prototype stepped slowly forward and wedged the semi circle over the Dr's head , held the two pipe ends again and gently pulled them slightly closer together. The Dr grabbed the pipes ends trying to separate them , but fruitlessly , he winced and gasped as Titus leaned down to his face , grabbed the pipe ends and levelled the Dr's eyes with his.  'Pain is only a state of mind , Dr Cronenberg , and something I long ago learned to ignore. But hear this , you may operate now , you may provide your tracker , but understand - this is literally your life's work,' he separated the pipe and it dropped behind the Dr on the hard marble floor. 'Two hours or under , or you will be fondly remembered only in the minds of those who care.' Titus opened his eyes in the dojo , as he sat , cross-legged ready to start his mantra. The operation was a quick success , the only evidence a surgical patch over the navel. He inhaled for eight seconds continuously and exhaled the dark yoga mantra: I am my only asset , I need no other Strength and fight are my only allies Others are a weakness and a burden to strength I am a Cynic and this is my decree Death is dishonour Power is Glory As Titus stood outside Cytech , rain gently kissing his black running suit he felt an emanating confidence. 'You ready , Cronenberg?  'Affirmative , Titus , commencement in 30 seconds. Adrenaline at 200nm/l,' the wrist monitor replied. This was it , but it felt different , more assured , more intense , angrier? He recalled the Dr's advice about pacing and not exceeding the threshold , he looked down at the shiny wet plaza at his feet , composed himself , drew the wrist monitor in front of him .......... 3....2.....1 , and set off explosively , heading north as always. Manhattan was typically busy but he also drew one or two startled looks at the speed he sprinted past at. Their looks of disbelief. Cretins , if only they knew the half of their own potential. 'Speed . 39.8km/h, Adrenaline rising rapidly , still under 10,000. Maintain your current pace , Titus' Titus felt comfortable , gliding through the streets , a predator with prey in his sights. There was an ease and grace in his intense speed tonight he wasn't accustomed to. Dr Cronenberg looked up at the data bank on the laboratory wall , nervously watching the adrenaline counter as it surpassed 9000. Titus had been maintaining pace for twenty minutes and was tracking well , but he was still aware of the threat imposed on him and the unknown side effects of the surgery. Performance was one thing but stroke , heart attack , haemorrhage were all real risks without testing. Back on the 99th floor , Silas turned to his subordinate and offered, 'Whisky , General. My very own Romanov 12 year old single malt.' 'Perhaps its best we keep a clear mind until we see some results , Mr Romanov.' 'Hmmmm. Well, lets just say , if my results blow your mind - what's the difference' The General gave a small nod to acknowledge the point , and Silas began to pour from a decanter on his desk. He clasped the two glasses and walked around the expansive oak antique , sat on the edge and offered one to the General. 'Power and Prosperity' toasted Silas and drank a large mouthful. 'Romanov crystal, you know.' General Macklin leaned forward , noticeably uneasy with the extravagance and said,' Mr Romanov , you need to understand that superior athletic performance is one thing but what about the other matter? This is a $40bn contract and Senate are pressing me for answers.' 'Patience, General. Take in the view , you will have your answers within the hour'. As expected , Titus had completed the first three splits in 30minutes even and this time , felt revitalised. He could see the imposing tower of Cytech in the distance and willed himself onward. He'd show them , he'd show them all a performance that would shatter all expectations , Father included. 'Titus? Its time , Titus , I need you to accelerate you have been tracking between 9800 and 9900. There are two miles left of the circuit plus the stair climb and you have 10 minutes to complete.' 'Affirmative,' Titus replied and began to kick harder , lengthening his stride , gritting his teeth together in determination and suddenly his running began to flow , his arm and leg rhythm seemed independant of his consciousness and he accelerated past motorcycles and cars as they swerved and honked as the black figure bulleted through streets and intersections and disappeared towards the Cytech plaza. The entry camera recognised him and started to open the glass sliding doors but couldn't do so fast enough as Titus's shoulders crashed through the entrance and glass shattered across the wide entry vestibule. Silas rubbed his eyes as he watched the thermal image of the stair climb on his wrist monitor. 'Can't be right , he's ascending each flight in two strides , and the speed??'' 'Technical problem , Mr Romanov?' the General intoned and as Silas raised his head , the enormous collossus bounded through the open doorway and slammed the timer before either could follow its movement. One hour , fifty seven minutes and 50seconds , the record had been destroyed! But Titus , chest heaving and hitching felt boiling hatred , piercing pain began to bolt through his head. He lurched forward at Silas who stammered a trite 'well done' as he backed against the desk. Titus raised his arms forward , vile hatred contorting his face and Silas hand felt cold metal on the desk. As he raised the gold Beretta , Titus grinned at the novelty gun but a shot rang out and Titus right shoulder flew backwards as his right knee collapsed beneath him. He lay groaning , not comprehending as Silas came into view and leaned down over his son. Titus mouth trembled at the care and concern on his father's face , but this was only momentary. Silas grabbed the Titus's collar and shouted 'Get over here , you!' as the General shifted into view. Silas pulled the collar away from Titus' trapezius muscle where a bullet hole had hit a bulging vein there but the blood had drained away from the wound already and started to dry. 'See , General , the coagulant is working already.' And to the wrist monitor 'Dr Cronenberg , bring a medical team to my office , rightaway'.

hoobk0

The Escapades of the Wild Hunt

Cohnal walked through the aisles of bookshelves in the Sylvan Archives, searching for some new reading material. Just to be in the building, Cohnal knew, was an immense privilege. Most Sylvan were lucky if they could stand on the front steps of the Archives and not be killed instantly by its wards. Cohnal had been granted special permission to access the centuries-old building as he was an official scholar of Gwyn ap Nudd. Cohnal often marvelled at the fact that he’d managed to achieve such an honourable position under the King of the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk. Most Sylvan were simply subjects of the king, never elevated to such high positions of favour, but Cohnal was different. Cohnal’s hooves clacked on the marble floors of the Archives as he perused the shelves, not looking for any particular title. Cohnal looked like most Sylvans; he wore no shirt, displaying golden skin to the world, had the bottom half of a goat, and two small horns on his head. His curly, chestnut brown hair was streaked with silver, matching the fur on his goat legs. Unusual colours for the satyrs among the Sylvan. As Cohnal exited the aisle, not finding anything of interest, he saw Taredd Valzeiros, an elf of the Fair Folk and a general in the King’s army. “Didn’t find what you’re looking for?” Taredd asked, his voice smooth like honey. “Not yet,” Cohnal responded. When he first began his service to the King, Taredd had unnerved him, scared him, even. However, Taredd was, Cohnal learned, one of the nicer elves in the King’s army. And besides, Taredd had taken a liking to Cohnal. “Did the King send you here to supervise me?” Taredd smiled as he unfastened his long sword from his back and placed it on the main desk of the Archives, to the annoyance of the treefolk head librarian seated at the desk. “Actually,” Taredd said, approaching Cohnal, “I heard that you were searching for a book. I came here to help you of my own volition.” A slight blush crept onto Cohnal’s face. Taredd was a whole head taller than Cohnal, his pale skin marking him as a native of Annwn, the realm of Gwyn ap Nudd. Up close, Cohnal could smell Taredd’s beautiful scent of milk and honey. His face hot, Cohnal forced himself to look away from Taredd and began walking to the staircase that led to the second floor of the Sylvan Archives. He looked over his shoulder at Taredd. “You coming?” Taredd followed Cohnal as the latter led them to one of the first aisles of bookshelves on the second floor. “So, what exactly are we looking for?” Taredd asked. Cohnal shrugged. “Anything that looks fascinating.” Taredd grinned. “Taking advantage of our unrestricted access to the Archives, are we?” Cohnal picked a book off the shelf. Its cover was made of brown leather, its spine worn and stained from so many hands holding it over the centuries that it had surely been in the library. “I prefer to consider it ‘creative research.’” After flipping through a couple pages of the book, Cohnal closed its cover and put it back on the shelf. After a couple hours of searching, a book bound in polished wood caught Cohnal’s attention. It had been millennia since the Tylwyth Teg had used wood as book covers. This book must’ve dated back to before the reign of Gwyn ap Nudd, which was impressive considering that the Faerie King had been in power long enough that there were few among the immortal Fair Folk who remembered a time when he wasn’t king. Cohnal carefully took the book from its spot on the shelf, cautious not to damage the relic. Cohnal’s heart skipped a beat as he read the title, which had been engraved in the wooden cover in gold. The Escapades of the Wild Hunt . Cohnal looked at the name of the author: Iijin D’amara dos Hås. He didn’t recognize that name, but he was intrigued and mortified in equal measures by the contents of the book. “Find anything?” Taredd asked as he entered the aisle that Cohnal stood in. Cohnal faltered. He trusted Taredd, but he didn’t know if he wanted to show him the book. The Wild Hunt was somewhat of a forbidden topic to speak or learn about in Annwn. The Wild Hunt, Cohnal knew, was a legion made up of elite Faerie knights who held allegiance to no one other than their general. There were many Wild Hunts, all ruled by different generals, but the most notorious one and the largest one was led by the Faerie general known as Herne the Hunter. It was common knowledge that Gwyn ap Nudd had previously held connections to the Wild Hunt millennia ago, the official reason for his separation from the legion being a disagreement between him and Herne the Hunter. However, in Annwn, there were always rumours. Some said that there were more sinister reasons for Gwyn’s leaving the Wild Hunt. This book could hold the long, believed to be lost, answers. Deciding that he could trust Taredd, Cohnal showed him the book. As he read the title, Taredd paled. “Should we read it?” Cohnal whispered. “Not here,” Taredd said. He gestured for Cohnal to follow him, and led him out of the Sylvan Archives, down a couple shady sideroads of the city, and into a hovel. Taredd’s home, Cohnal realized. He’d forgotten that Taredd chose to live in his own house, rather than the barracks with the other soldiers. As Cohnal entered the small hovel and placed the book on the small wooden table in the middle of the room, Taredd shut and locked the door. “We just have some privacy here,” Taredd said finally. “Now, let’s see that book.” Taredd sat in the seat next to Cohnal, close enough that their shoulders touched. Forcing himself not to turn his head and gaze into the general’s gold-flecked hazel eyes, Cohnal opened the cover of the book and positioned it so that both of them could read its pages. Both men were silent as they beheld the tales told on the ancient pages. It was told in the perspective of the author who, he explained in the opening pages, wrote the book in the years following his retirement from being a knight of the Wild Hunt. The author, Iijin, was quite trusted by Herne the Hunter, often referring to him as a friend. Herne had made Iijin his most trusted confidante, often conferring with him before making any major decision. Iijin spoke about Herne’s exploits, his hunts, his legendary battles which, as interesting as they were, was not what caught their attention most. About halfway into the book, Iijin speaks about Herne taking in a young Faerie knight he calls Macrath, meaning the son of prosperity. A young faerie who would go on to be known as Gwyn ap Nudd. For Iijin to have known Gwyn when he could be considered young, when he was known by a different name, just proved how extremely ancient he and his book were. Iijin describes Macrath as a promising young male, an innately talented soldier, and a promising diplomat. After just five years since joining the Wild Hunt, Herne had appointed Macrath his lieutenant, and trusted him as much as he trusted Iijin. Herne has treated Macrath like his son. Had honed him into a fine, lethal knight, and a true diplomatic leader. At one point in the book, Iijin’s tone when speaking of Macrath changed. Specifically, when he began to become known as Gwyn ap Nudd. Seventy years after first joining the Wild Hunt, he took on his now notorious moniker. He was appointed the Light General of the Wild Hunt and began to wear armour with blinding white plating and a circlet of thorns. The very same circlet that he wore to this day. Gwyn became more and more powerful, both in terms of military might and magical power. But as Gwyn grew stronger, his ambition also grew. Iijin spoke of one particular incident which sparked the beginning of Gwyn’s falling out with the Wild Hunt. During one battle, Herne had ordered his knights to wait until dawn broke to attack an unsuspecting Faerie king whom the Wild Hunt had been paid to kill. The king was sleeping in his war tent just outside his city’s walls, as he had begun to build defenses against the army that he expected to arrive in two days. In open defiance of Herne’s orders, Gwyn had taken a group of knights and charged the king’s camp during the night. They sacked the camp, killing all those in their path and burning their tents. Gwyn had personally tortured the Faerie king before killing him, mutilating his body, and displaying it in the camp for the city to gaze upon. “By the ancients,” Taredd muttered in horrified awe as they continued reading. According to Iijin’s account, Herne was absolutely furious at Gwyn’s act of open disobedience. He had been so livid that he’d executed all of the knights who had aided Gwyn. Slowly, Gwyn began to grow apart from his former mentor and father figure. To replace those he lost, Gwyn had taken to reaping the souls of the dead along their battlefields, bringing them back as Faerie knights and creating what Iijin called the Dead Hunt. As his forces grew, Gwyn eventually left the Wild Hunt in favour of his Dead Hunt. Iijin transcribed one conversation that he’d had with Herne following Gwyn’s defection: “Why has he done this?” the Horned King had asked me. With no definite answer for my beloved friend, I told him, “He is no longer the boy we once knew. The friend we once loved. He has traded in his old name for a new one, one that carries with it a new reputation, with no ties to you, nor to the Wild Hunt. He is no longer Macrath, he is Gwyn ap Nudd, the general of the Dead Hunt. But without your firm guidance, he will fall.” My words did not seem to comfort the Master of Winter. He sank into his chair, exhausted and pained by the abhorrent betrayal of our once loyal friend. “Mark my words, Iijin,” said Herne the Hunter, “as long as I live, Gwyn ap Nudd will know no peace. I will be the death of him. I, who taught him how to hunt. I, who honed him into a worthy knight. I, who gave him a life, will take his new one away.” Iijin’s writing changed once again in the last stretch of the book. It became more hurried, more worried, as if he was expecting something awful to happen. He spoke of Gwyn’s change in attitude. He’d traded in his bright white armour for crimson armour. His Dead Hunt had expanded to match the numbers of the Wild Hunt. While Gwyn’s notoriety increased, so did Herne’s hatred for him. The former mentor and student had become mortal enemies, constantly at each other’s throat. The two had clashed in a conflict that Iijin labelled the War of the Hunts. Cohnal was absolutely speechless at the fact that such a long, bloody war had apparently been forgotten, hoping to find the answer as to why in the final pages of the book. Cohnal and Taredd now sat huddled over the book, clinging to every word as they read. Iijin described the final battle of the War of the Hunts in precise, brutal detail. He called it the Battle of Misthollow. Gwyn had had the upper hand in the war by then. He’d employed every bloody, nasty military technique he’d known in the war, dwindling Herne’s Wild Hunt down to a quarter of its original size. Cohnal balked at the possibility. Exhausted and suffering, Herne had fled with his Wild Hunt to the city of Misthollow, where Gwyn had already known they would go. Iijin had been sent by Herne to speak to Gwyn, the Wild Hunt general, hoping that Iijin’s diplomacy would convince Gwyn to back off. Despite Iijin’s expert diplomatic skills, Gwyn would not be deterred from his original plan to attack. Left with no other choice, Iijin had employed a last ditch plan: he convinced several of Gwyn’s knights to betray him, bribing them with promises of high-ranking positions among the Wild Hunt. The next day, as the Hunts got into formation across from each other on the battlefield, Iijin’s agents fulfilled their part of the plan. They fired at Gwyn and his knights with elf-shot – arrows that were lethal to Faeries. One of the elf-shot arrows had grazed one of Gwyn’s ribs, enraging the general. However, Iijin had failed to spot Gwyn’s hidden reserve force, which closed in, killing his agents and charging at the Wild Hunt on Gwyn’s orders. After two hours of bloody carnage, and heavy Wild Hunt losses, Herne had halted the fighting and proposed a deal with Gwyn: He would duel him to decide the winner of the war. Gwyn had accepted the proposal. The epic duel between Herne the Hunter and Gwyn ap Nudd had lasted three days and three nights. Iijin remarked that he could hear the sounds of ringing iron and their grunts of pain in the centuries that followed that day. Eventually, after Gwyn had fought Herne into an inch within death, Herne had surrendered. The two had agreed on a deal: Gwyn would leave the Wild Hunt alone, but in return Herne and his Hunt would be exiled from these lands, forced to retire to a Faerie land far away. And as for Iijin, Gwyn wanted him executed, but Herne refused to allow it. Instead, Gwyn forced Iijin into exile, where he’d written his book, awaiting the day that Gwyn would come to finally kill him. As the two finished reading, the door to Taredd’s hovel was burst open. The two froze in fear. Standing in the doorway was Gwyn ap Nudd, King of the Tylwyth Teg. And he was angry.

216z7m

Til Dusk Do Us Part (Revisited)

Caul appeared ageless like a painting of nobility, yet his eyes betrayed his flawlessness. For beyond the carved complexion, an ancient weight sunk below his brows. Blood tinted irises separated the void of his pupil from the darkness in the blacks of his eyes. His graceful gaze fell on the smatter of gore at his feet. The remnants of the grey flesh shuddered in the wind, clinging limply to ashen bones. The discordant array of sinew in the field of crimson could not be recognized as having once been human. Bile polished Caul’s shoes as innards fertilized the ground he stood on. The stench of death billowed around him; A vile perfume to pronounce his coming. His hands dripped with red honey. His fingers weighed heavy with sticky residue. Within the utter stillness of the forest, drops splashing in the pool of expired life echoed with fateful finality. Moonlight hid itself in clouds so as to avoid Caul’s gaze. The trees began to creak in mourning, the wind howled its cries. The grass trembled in hushed sobs and the sky brought forth a downpour of tears. Caul could muster only a sigh. He would need a shovel. Caul stepped aside the mound of organics. His eyes could not escape from the trail he left behind. One mound would have been enough, yet the meadow had become a feasting ground for ravens. Brushstrokes of blood painted pathways between bodies and limbs. A horrid warmth steamed rain into a rising fog. Meadow became odorous bog shrouded in the fleeting heat of the once living. In the pattering of rain, in the hissing of vapor, Caul’s ears heard the whispers of screams. Phantom shrieks of the deceased resounded in his memory. Curdling cries thundered through time to catch up to him. Could trembling hands be pennant enough if as they shook they coated the land in blood? Would shallow breaths be deep enough for the graves needing to be dug? Caul drew back his head, letting rain trace lines on his face where tears could not. His voice fled him and the inward shadow crept back at the sight of candlelight. A flame burned within his gut. It scalded his veins in search of blood to boil. Heat stretched his shriveled ventricles, seeking a place to set ablaze. Hellfire raged in his heart, but it could only scorch stone. Laughter danced in the woods. Sickly happy cackles, wheezing within depravity. Caul glanced down to see a porcelain fixed smile splintering spiderwebs of cracks across a plastered expression. Too many teeth grinned behind a mask’s grin. Swirling shadows stared back at him, searching for a soul that didn’t reside within. “My, my,” The spindly figure said. “Well done! Very well done!” Caul had no reply to give. The masked man pressed something into Caul’s hand. Frowning Caul recognized it as the currency that humans used. Sighing, he let the money fall to the ground and began to walk away. The laughter continued. “Should a man not be paid for his work?” Caul stopped for a moment, but didn’t give the statement the dignity of a reply. He could hear the words not being said, and he walked away. The rain washed the blood from his hands as he trekked to his home. His cottage stood as a proud but simple thing. A perfect balance between ordinary and elegance. The rain continued to pour, and so Caul took a seat just beneath his roof. He watched the water trace his shoes and trickle down the stairs. Untightening the tie at his neck, he let it hang loose. It swayed as a fashionable noose failing to properly condemn him. The voices continued to scream in his mind and his fingers began to twitch in torment. Shrieks tore at his mind, flowing steady like blood gushing from wounds. He grunted and felt his face contort. The rain continued to pour and Caul continued to carry the dead in his memory. As each voice spoke, his skin pricked with pain. As each spark of hatred joined the furnace within, nails scraped skin from his arms. Clawing at his head, he let fingers impale his scalp. Dragging scars down his face, Caul inhaled an unsteady breath. Yet as he attempted to leave another mark, a hand clung to his wrist. A delicate hand, smooth to the touch. “Forgive me, love,” Caul muttered. The hand did not let go, but another hand rolled up his sleeve. He winced as his self adorned judgment breathed fresh air. Caul could see the crimson of her dress rippling in her shaking. “Why?” his wife asked. Her voice echoed with enchanting beauty and command. Caul’s explanations and excuses melted together and drained from his lips. He had nothing to say that would not cause more hurt. Hanging his head, a hand lifted it back up. She turned his head so that his eyes would meet hers. The truth stumbled out of his mouth as he stared at the starless void of her eyes. “It was my own doing,” He said. She nodded. “Not just-” “I know,” She said, cutting him off. Her words lashed at him with a whip crack of anger. He shut his eyes. “Don’t.” He opened his eyes again. “I know you,” She said, her eyes searching his face. “I know what you are.” Caul writhed, but did not let his gaze waver. “Til dusk do us part, my darling,” She said. “As we promised.” Caul felt his stomach lurch with the words, but he nodded. She let go of him and he strained against the urge to shrink away. She had to visibly calm herself and Caul felt his heart crack at the sight. “Or daybreak claims my soul,” Caul said. She looked at him and Caul couldn’t place what emotion she felt or what thought passed in her mind. “Did they come for you?” Caul blinked. “Yes.” His wife gave a discontented expression. “Self defense.” “But-” She cut off his words with a single frown. He sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. “The night is young,” She said. “Don’t waste it.” She began to walk inside, but Caul stopped her. Rising to his feet, he held her hand. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. Words wouldn’t say what he wanted to say, so he squeezed her hand and despite everything, she gave a small smile. He said his thanks with his eyes and she nodded. “Come on,” She said before entering the house. Caul took a breath that steadied him ever so slightly and flowed after his wife.

zm9xmp

He's Following Me!

He’s Following Me!            Lisa looks behind her. He’s still there! Why is he following me? He keeps getting closer and closer! I cannot believe I am out here alone. Why are there not more people on the trail? I never should have let Erika and Monica go back without me. Why was I so stupid! It was a warm, sunny, and clear morning – a perfect day for a hike. Lisa, Erika, and Monica decide they will head out on the Blevins trail.            “It’s just over three miles,” Lisa says, “You will make it just fine, Monica.” Monica was hesitant to do such a long hike as she was still getting over a sprained ankle from her last hike where she had slipped on a rock. She had not gone to a doctor, but she knew it would be best if she stayed off it for a while. But she had listened to Lisa, go-getter, full speed ahead Lisa and now here she was. Monica looked over at Erika, pleadingly.            “I’ll be with you. You can lean on me if you don’t think you can make it.” Erika says.            “Can’t we just do Merkle? It’s only a mile around and that way I can quit after a mile if my ankle starts bothering me too much.”            “Nonsense,” Lisa says. “You will be fine. We will both be with you if your ankle bothers you too much. You can just lean on both of us. It’ll be fun!”            Monica sighs and the three head west on the Blevins trail. About a quarter of the way through, Monica wishes that she would have at least brought her hiking poles. “ Why did I not think to bring them with me?” she wonders.” Stupid!”            “I have to go back,” Monica says. “My ankle is bothering me too much and I cannot believe I forgot my poles. I never should have let you talk me into this Lisa.”            “Oh, ya big baby!” “Fine, why don’t you turn back. Erika, why don’t you babysit her back to the trailhead. I’m going to keep going and finish this hike.”            “I’m sorry Lisa, I just can’t keep going. I knew I was taking on too much. I probably need to give my ankle another week or so.”            “Sure, whatever. You two go. I’ll meet you back at the car. It won’t take me long.”            “Are you sure you’re okay to hike alone,” Erika says.            “I’ve hiked alone many times. I’ll be fine,” says Lisa.            Lisa watches as Erika and Monica slowly make their way back to the vehicle. At the pace their going, I’ll beat them back to the vehicle, she thinks to herself.            Lisa continues her way through the Blevin’s trail. Though she has taken the trail many times in the past, she always marvels at the beauty of the desert. The majestic saguaros are in full bloom along with the barrel cacti with their yellow flowers. The Brittlebushes are simply gorgeous, and she stops to breathe in the rich fragrance. It is then that she notices a tall man coming over one of the peaks behind her. She doesn’t think much of it at the time – just another hiker on the trail, but she keeps it in the back of her mind that there is a male hiker behind her.            As she hikes on, letting her mind wonder a bit, but also taking in her surroundings and also being ever aware of the possibility of running into the local wildlife – snakes in particular - she decides to look back. This is when she notices that the hiker is even closer than before and indeed appears to be sprinting towards her. When he sees her looking at her, he stops sprinting and appears to be casually hiking.            “That’s odd,” Lisa murmurs to herself. Why would he stop sprinting when he thinks I am watching him? And why the heck is this trail so deserted?”            At this point, Lisa decides that maybe she had better pick up her pace. She is trying to calculate in her head if she can outrun him and get to the trailhead where her friends are. From where she saw him, he looked rather tall, so she probably could not outrun him. If only she could run across some other hikers or mountain bikers or trail runners or something!            Lisa remembers that she does have a lipstick stun gun/flashlight deep in her backpack and wonders why she didn’t have it where it was more easily accessible. She also has a device on her backpack that will let out a shrill noise if the bottom is released, but who will hear it if no one else is out here?            Lisa glances back again and the man stops sprinting. What the heck!  She turns and starts to run while also trying to find the lipstick stun gun in her backpack. She cannot find it and starts to pull other items out of the backpack in her attempt to locate it.            “Damn it! Where is it!”            She throws out her compass, her tweezers, her pee funnel and her wet wipes in her attempt to find the stun gun. Lisa is now running at full speed as she looks back and sees the man running at full speed towards her. Finally, she finds her stun gun and her alarm device. She drops everything and decides to turn to stand her ground to face him as she knows she cannot outrun him.            At first, she does not see him. Where did he go? Is he going to try to ambush me from the side or something? She decides to keep running, leaving her backpack and all her belongings along the trail. She just wants to make it back to the safety of the trailhead and her friends. She runs with all the speed she can muster to get back before the man can catch her.            As she runs, she can see the trailhead in sight and is so grateful, but just then, she trips over a rock and drops her stun gun. As she is getting up, she turns and, in the distance, sees the man running towards her with something in his arms. Without a thought, Lisa gets up and proceeds to run though at a slower pace now, to the opening of the trailhead. She still has her alarm device in her hand, and she pulls the bottom. A loud shrill emits from the device as she is coming into the open. She sees Erika and Monica at a picnic table waiting for her. Their heads swivel at the sound of the alarm. They see Lisa running towards them, yelling for help.            Both women run towards Lisa who is so out of breath that she can barely speak. She simply points in the direction from where she came. As all three of the women look towards that the direction, the man emerges with all of Lisa’s belongings that she had dropped in his arms.            “Hey, are you okay,” he says. “You dropped all these things out there. Did something scare you out there?”            Still trying to collect herself, Lisa breathlessly says, “I thought you were following me. You were running sometimes and other times you would stop. I thought you were trying to catch me.”            “Oh, I’m sorry I scared you. I was just doing sprints, you know, sometimes I run and sometimes I just walk fast. I’m sorry that I scared you.”            Lisa looks at him dumbfounded.

1t5phf

Darkness

DARKNESS By Andy Pearson © 2024 Darkness was on my side. I knew the house. The owners of the footsteps didn’t. When the lights went out, I knew they were finally here. I didn’t know who they were, but I knew they were here.  I spotted the followers a week earlier. Perhaps they were there earlier. Probably. Who knows. I know I spotted them on Friday. I saw the first one at the gas station. With my arms draped over the side of my truck bed, sticky with sweat from the afternoon humidity, I listened to the pump whirring, as I pondered the gallons going into my tank at a lower speed than the dollars exiting my wallet. I turned my head to look at the misery on the digital readout. He was watching from behind the window display advertising the three-dollar Big Gulp and hotdog meal. Honestly, I only later made the connection because of his hat. His was Oakland A’s green and gold. I wouldn't have noticed if he’d been wearing a Cubs hat. There are Cubs fans everywhere. Watch a Yankees / Red Sox game and you’ll see Cubs fans sporting red, white, and blue team colors, but never a green and gold Oakland A’s cap in Harlan, Iowa.  Maybe a Twins cap, certainly a Royals cap, but an A’s. Never. The moment I noticed him, his face was cemented in my memory. On Saturday I stopped at Bomgaars,  looking for some new lures for bass fishing when I saw him. He was standing at the end of the aisle, at the fishing pole display, waving an Abu Garcia pole. He wasn’t wearing the hat. They’re not that stupid. No hat, but the mustache from yesterday was real. Neatly trimmed dark mustache sitting under a bent nose bookmarked by scarred ears. All of this was supported by a neck that was so thick it was almost missing. He’d earned a face through the university of hard knocks. Possibly a PhD from the looks of things. This was a man who’d been in some fights. Judging from his thick arms and legs, I surmised he had a winning record. He saw me make the connection. He dropped the pole back onto the display and disappeared around an endcap. I raced along the back wall to the fishing aisle and saw his brown jacket and short hair turning the corner near the cash registers. With some more hustle, I made it to the front of the store and saw him dive into a dark Suburban. I stopped at the cash registers still holding the silver fiberglass minnow I had hoped to use on Sunday at Lake Manawa. I didn’t want to get hauled in for shoplifting. The suburban turned left out of the lot. Bent nose got into the passenger seat, which meant there were at least two of them. On Tuesday, I found two more. I was in a window seat at the Milk and Honey diner for breakfast. I’d just gotten my M&H eggs benedict, which for Iowa are pretty darn good. I was thanking Stephanie, the server, when two men slid out of a dark suburban in the lot. The new Carhartt jackets they were sporting as local camouflage among the morning breakfast crowd didn’t sell. I finished my meal ignoring them while not ignoring them.  They ordered coffee and toast. Another giveaway. The food is too good at M&H for just toast at two dollars a serving. The coffee at M&H is pretty good, so maybe if they’d just ordered coffee, but nobody orders just toast. I knew why they did it. They wanted something fast, but something to make them look like they were regular Joes just stopping in for food before hitting the job site. Camouflage is about patterns and behaviors. They’d missed both. I paid and left while watching for the dark vehicle in the lot. It was not in sight. This meant some communication link with the team inside. These guys were starting to worry me. The lights went out at 9:45 on Wednesday night. I was in bed reading with a small light clipped to my hardback when the ceiling fan slowed and stopped. I looked up at the still blades and realized I needed to dust them. Later. I clicked off the booklight and the room went into darkness. While my eyes slowly dilated, I waited and listened. Nothing. I tossed the blankets aside and eased out of bed.  At the edge of the window, I looked out over the driveway. I’ve seen the blackness of night in the mountains, but that’s broken up by darker jagged peaks. The rocky summits give contrast to the blank night sky. In nowhere Iowa, there’s just darkness. The Mid-West prairie is a uniform black that surrounds you in every direction like you’ve fallen into a well. I waited. I heard the board on the front porch squeak quietly. I’d never fixed that. My wooden alarm system was working perfectly. They were coming slowly, otherwise, I would have heard doors crash open, windows breaking, and running footsteps. Moving from the window, I slipped on the jeans I’d tossed to the end of the bed and pulled on my Nikes rather than boots.  A solid shoe is a blessing in combat, but stealth and speed would make the difference in this problem.  The air pressure changed in the house. A door must have opened. It’s the little things, like how the air changes in a house when a door opens, that count as home-field advantage. I opened the door to the hallway and waited with a hand on the knob. They hadn’t mounted the stairs yet.  If it were me, I’d clear the bottom floor first and then post someone at the stairs while moving upwards. Top-down is also a good tactic, but in rural Iowa, Blackhawks and fast-roping swat teams might be noticed Sliding out the door into the hall, I moved to the bathroom. The window was already open. It led to the roof above the front door. Sliding out the narrow gap, I settled onto the asphalt shingles. They were still warm from the day’s sun and felt comforting.  I waited for three beats to check a new theory I had. Report movement. Get clearance. Center reticle. Time for me to move. I slid to the edge of the roof as the muted crack of a subsonic round from a suppressed weapon hit the roof where I’d been. Yep. I also would have left a sniper somewhere to provide cover and watch for a squirter.  A squirter. A runner. Me. Everyone heard the shot. Suppressed rounds are just that. Suppressed, not silent.  There’s still the sound of gunpowder deflagrating violently inside the chamber, the sound of a small object moving quickly through dense Iowa humidity; and the impact of the small object on a wooden roof.  It all makes a sound. Now, I’d have to fix that roof. Rolling off the shingles, I landed in the dense shrubs I‘d planted there two years ago. In the city, shrubs hide burglars. In the country, they cushion falls. A bit scratchy, but enough to prevent injury. I hoped I’d sold that move to the sniper. He’d be reporting the fall at least.  I rolled under the porch and kept rolling to the house's foundation. Two quick movements of elbows and knees, I was at the corner. Peering around, I didn’t see anyone. With two more quick elbows and knees, I was at the basement bulkhead doors. Gently opening one, I slithered down the steps as I heard footsteps pounding the front porch. The door slid shut quietly on its thin hydraulic arm. I knew I had a few moments inside the basement before the pursuit got moving.  When they didn’t find a body in those bushes, they’d start looking with speed, noise, and light. Bright booming lights.  I grabbed the edge of the standup freezer and slid it sideways. The hidden door gleamed dull grey. Six numbers in the keypad and it opened inward with a quiet flow of air pushing against it. Positive pressure. Always a good plan. I slid the freezer back and clicked the door shut.  The battery-powered lights in the room came on dimly. No need to blind myself.  I walked to the desk and clicked a few buttons on the keyboard. Monitors came to life. The men in black were moving quickly. I counted four, but I surmised the sniper was still out there. Ok. Four to deal with in the house. One, maybe two outside. I could kill them. It wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps, I could convince the powers that started this evening not to do it again. I liked that plan. I like Iowa. It’s usually quiet. I enjoy that. So how to disable four guys, and send a message? They were moving as teams so it would be two at a time. Hard, but doable.  Taser? Tasers don’t knock you out. They knock you down. Not out and not incapacitated. Down can be good if the fight is one-on-one, but not two-on-one where the other guy is carrying a rifle. I stared at the screen. Body armor? Yep, they were wearing body armor.  But like a turtle or Achilles heel, armor isn’t everywhere. A plan opened up. Turning around, I opened a wall locker. Several rifles gleamed quietly. The twelve-gauge Benelli shotgun is a very good shotgun for this type of work. Gas operated so no need to run the action. Solid frame with a deep tubular magazine. Stuffing shells into the weapon and my pockets, I paused and looked at the inventory in the locker. I grabbed a Glock pistol in a clip-on pancake holster in case my nice plan didn’t work.  Turning back to the screens, two black-clad men started up the stairs while the other two moved through the lower rooms. They’d get to the kitchen soon. I needed to hurry. I quickly climbed the stairs to the kitchen door. I eased it open and slid through. Passing the sink, I grabbed a plastic bottle of dish soap. Easing to a stop beside the refrigerator, I turned and tossed the soap dispenser down the stairs.  It clunked quietly on the treads. I waited. The kitchen door came open and the two moved into the room. The gaping door into the cellar caught their eyes for just a moment. When clearing a room, clear the room first then address other threats. If you don’t, this is what can happen. Boom.  Boom. Two bean bag rounds from the Benelli to two different hamstrings. I was much too close according to the manufacturer-recommended seven-yard standoff to prevent serious injury. They dropped in pain and shock as though they had been shot. Moving quickly, I hit each with the butt of the rifle. They stopped moving. The Benelli has a solid stock. It is also very loud. The two upstairs heard it. I imagine the sniper heard it. I moved out of the kitchen to the living room and waited. “Team two,” I heard a quiet voice say above me on the stairs. “Team two,” I heard again. Then quiet. I waited silently. I could imagine the hand signals upstairs. Hand over head.  Cover me. Fingers walking- I’m going down the stairs Point-fingers walking- you come down. A nod in agreement and then a tighter grip on the rifle. I waited while the pantomime show took place. Finally, I saw the leg just touch the last stair. Boom. A scream and he dropped. One more to his black helmet and he stopped moving. Silence. Now upstairs man had a tactical problem. He could call in the sniper, but that’s a risky move. The sniper would have to make a room entry by himself and that’s dumb. Upstairs man could try and rush the stairs, but that’s a no-go. I let the silence go a few more minutes to really let him soak in the problem.  A few minutes is a long time, but I’m patient. I live in Iowa. Our calendar is at the pace of the growing season. “Hello, upstairs,” I said. No answer. “Hello. I know you’re there. Let’s discuss this,” I said conversationally. Still nothing. “Come on buddy. Your friends aren’t dead. Well, I hope not. That bean bag to the head might be dicey. The other two are just out for now. If this takes too long, they might wake up then there’ll be some on-purpose killing and I’d rather not,” I said to the quiet stairs. “Come on man. I know you’re not calling in the sniper. I’ll bet he’s the driver too, isn’t he? So he’s got the car right?” I said to more silence. “Dude seriously. I’m getting tired of the silent treatment. Your boys need to see a doctor.  Look, I’m going to toss something up the stairs, ok? Just take a look and get back to me,”  I said. I took a bean bag round from my pocket and tossed it up. I heard shuffling and then a voice. “What do you want?” said the voice upstairs with a slight twang. “What do I want? I want y’all to come over for breakfast,” I said mimicking the twang.  “What the hell do you think I want? I want you to collect your buddies, get out of my house, my town, and leave me alone.” “Can’t do it,” the upstairs man said. “Even if we leave others will come.” “Sure you can. Tell your boss at whatever alphabet you work for that if I see anyone again, not only will there be killing. Killing that won’t end here in Iowa, but even worse, there’ll be news stories. Lots of news stories in lots of papers with really good quotes from an inside source. I’ve kept my mouth shut for this long and I’ll keep it shut, but Iowa is off limits. Tell them that,” I said. “How do I know you won’t shoot me?” upstairs man asked. “There are no guarantees in this line of work. You know that. But I won’t and that’s all you get. Sling your rifle, snap your holster, come down, and get your buddies. Call your friend outside to bring the ride up. I’ll be watching so don’t get stupid,” I said. I worked my way around the bottom floor and waited. The suburban pulled up slowly.  I heard faint talking and the process of moving their friends out. I waited in the darkness as the lights faded onto Highway 191. Lowering my shotgun, I stood in the quiet of the inky mid-west prairie. In the distance, I saw lightning. Dang it- rain coming and I’ve got a hole in my roof. I turned with the shotgun cradled in my arm and went looking for my tools.

cdr63x

Kindly's Boys

The young recruits were in a ragged state, bunched together in the wood-paneled great room of the guild hall. Their shirts were more potato sack than tunic, and there wasn’t a shoe in existence among the lot of them. Dirt covered and starved as they were, these were now Kindly’s boys. All twelve had, just today, surrendered their future to guild service in exchange for hot meals and a bed, and it was now Kindly’s job to make thieves of them. He’d never been a troop master before, as he was just a young rogue himself, but Kindly’s tenure with the guild meant he was due for increased responsibility. He stepped forward with his shoulders squared and lengthy curls pulled back, attempting confidence. “Right. So, I’m Master Kindly. You may call me that or Master, your choice.” He swallowed, pausing for a moment, “and for the next two months, I own you.” None of the boys stirred at this. Instead, they all held a steady gaze toward him, each of them holding a different story behind their eyes. Some flashed brilliantly in anticipation, others held wide eyes in fear of what was to come, and a few stared distantly, still harboring the wariness of the streets and unable to focus on anything Kindly had to say. Maybe they were too young to understand the gravity of Kindly’s words. Either way, he pushed on, trying his best to avoid thinking on the circumstances that brought these boys to the doorstep of the guild house. “Now head to your evening meal. Return to this room within the hour for your first lesson. Afterwards, you may rest in preparation for tomorrow’s training.” Kindly turned sharp and strolled away from gathering in the great room, hearing the murmurs build as he progressed further out of earshot. … The first lesson with his boys ran closely to what Kindly had expected. The boys took no notice upon his arrival to the great room and continued laughing and jostling in small huddles, spirits evidently lifted from full bellies. This lot with no discipline, raised by the law of the gutter, couldn’t be expected to hold themselves attentive to an authority figure. Though that didn’t mean Kindly had any responsibility to cater to them. Instead, he used their distracted state to find his first mark out of the bunch. Kindly began talking over the troop with a firm voice, quickly reigning them in to silence. “Now you may think my name to be the product of my demeanor,” he meandered through the crowd toward a rather portly boy who was entirely occupied with plucking pieces of tonight’s meal from his shirt, “but please do not operate under such delusions.” He swiftly chopped the poor boy in his thick jowls, sending him flopping to the wooden floor with a yelp. “It is true I earned this name from my ability to reel in my mark with charm, but my intentions are never kind.” He stared down his nose at the lump on the floor, portraying a sense of disgust he did not feel. “You will listen when I am talking, and you will remain attentive as though the words from my mouth are honey to your ears. I demand it.” The group stood silent now, each boy chancing a look from the corner of their eye to glimpse the lad sprawled on the ground. Externally pleased with his demonstration, Kindly kneeled down beside the boy, “And by the gods, let’s hope you have some great merit, or we will be forced to leave your name as it stands, Crumbs.” Kindly stood now, addressing the room. “I am your father but also your master. I am here to help you succeed, but you are here to make yourselves useful to the guild. Now help your brother up and head to the bunks. We start again tomorrow at dawn.” There was no argument as the boys shuffled silently to pry Crumbs from the floor and made their way down the corridor to their room. … The weeks passed, and the trainees progressed through their basic lesson in thievery. They built the mind with practice in observation, strategy, and debate while also flexing the well-known physical traits of fast hands and sleuthing. Each boy began to show signs of possessing valuable skills, which Kindly took note of, mentally filling out the guild ranks with fresh blood as he watched on from the corner of the training hall. He hated the whole of it—the allotment of young souls to tasks in the underbelly of society. Kindly had begun a bad habit of caring for the boys, wondering what they could have been if left alone. They could be successful merchants, he thought , or healers or even patrolmen. He liked the irony of that. However, he always came back to ground himself in a less rosy and sobering conclusion that these boys may have been dead by now had they not joined up. The truth was that these recruits were handed an opportunity not only to survive but to have a home and pick up a trade along the way. However immoral it was, these boys were making something of themselves. Kindly had been skeptical of the guild when he was a fresh recruit himself, always thinking about the outside world and whether he’d made the right choice to accept this devil's bargain of food for work. This guild was a means to stay alive, no doubt, but did he truly make his own way? Here he was, still toiling under the thumb of the masters. And these boys, was this the best future for them? Kindly shook the fog of memory from his head as he focused in on the boys looking to him in silence, “Sorry Crumbs. Come again?” “Well, master. We was wonderin when it was we were sposed to learn about knife work.” A few of the boys flashed eager grins at this. Kindly sighed a bit and took on a stern look. “Knife work, lads, is a last resort. In fact, you’ll not be learning any of the killing arts under me.” The faces around him fell a little at that. “There’s a subtle way in which the arts of thieving come together to function properly, and you lads will have to master this before you even think about a knife. Until then, using force just makes you a bruiser. And that’ll get you killed just as quickly as the miserable lives you left in the streets would have.” He punctuated his last point with a bit of a snarl, letting the heat escape his tongue. Moving along with the lesson, Kindly regained his easy face and reached in to pull on the collar of another boy's tunic. “I see the seamstress fitted you all well. A good first step in convincing someone you mean no trouble is to look the part. Then,” he came away, draping a locket over his neck, “you manipulate their emotions whilst also manipulating their pockets.” “Hey that’s me mums,” cried the boy. “And you’d be clueless had I not revealed it.” Kindly walked back to the center of the great room, “ Violence, ” he said, drawing out the word in a hiss, “will grant you a few coins and an expedited date with death, but true, artfully crafted theft will pay you forever.” … The boys lay gasping on their cots. A few covered in blood stared in shock at the ceiling, and the others looked wide eyed back at Kindly. “What happened?” He shouted. He had heard the commotion of their return from their first outing exercise. They lay ragged before him, and by his count, they were one short. “And where is Crumbs? Did I not teach you to look after each other?” The boys traded glances, all afraid to speak up. Kindly plopped down on a cot and looked to start raging again when Smalls, face covered in blood, stammered, “we got found out, but we were trapped in the inn. Teeth had to gut that lady who saw. Then we ran” “And Crumbs,” asked Kindly. “And they got Crumbs. Couldn’t keep up. We didn’t see what happened to em, but,” the boy looked down at his trembling hands, managing a hoarse whisper, “he stopped screamin before we turned the corner.” Kindly fought away hot tears in his eyes, turning instead to anger. “Dammit boys! You left him to die?” He jumped up from the cot, staring them down and waiting for a reply, but nothing could be done for now. He left them distraught in the bunkroom, slamming the door on his way out. … Kindly wept that night. All his fears were coming to pass. These boys, not even teenagers, were facing down a life of risk and possible death in the trade. Sure, many may go on to be successful and happy thieves, but some won’t. Crumbs didn’t belong in this thieving guild any more than he belonged in the king’s court. How many more would he let die while trying to bolster the ranks for the guild? That night, he decided. None was the answer. At least not unwilling. He walked soberly, but uncertain down to the boys’ room. He’d brought towels, water, and bandages in the hopes it would set their minds on recovery. Opening the door, he found them scattered, talking in hushed tones or sitting in corners alone. They looked so broken—so lost. “I’ve left loaves in the kitchen and five silver stashed inside each.” He laid the towels out on a bed and walked the water jugs to the middle of the barracks. “I’ll not be the judge of you. Nor will I attempt to stop your leaving if this life is not what you want for yourself. Now, it isn’t much of an offering, but you deserve a choice in it. You’ve likely never been given one, and had I received the same opportunity, I would have thought hard on it.” The boys stared back in silence with tears in their eyes. Just boys , he thought, willing himself to remain impassive in front of them. He didn’t know if any would trust him or take the opportunity, but they deserved a chance to choose. So, Kindly gave a gentle nod and left them to decide. … The next morning, Kindly stood firm in the guild master's office. “That’s right, sir. Half of the dozen left in the night. Must have popped the locks—quick learners they were.” He smirked, which was bold given he’d lost half their recruits. “We still have a healthy bunch, though, and more resources to devote to their training. The boys left are dedicated, and I’ll see to it we make good thieves of them.” Kindly left after a long scolding from the master of thieves, but he didn’t wear sagging shoulders. He stood upright and couldn’t hold back the thin smile curling on his face. He finally felt he’d done right, and now he was back to teaching a group that he knew chose to be here out of their own desires and not some trade on their life. Maybe , he thought with a sense of warmth, there is more to my name than just my talents. Though I won’t mention it .

v8mtt7

The Feathered Obsession

Warren Spinster started his day off like any other morning. He began by listening to the sounds of birds outside his apartment window. This was something that he used to sooth himself while drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper. Thinking to himself that the feel of the paper led him to believe he was living in the wrong time. Warren continued and started reading his books about birds that helped to identify the different animals. When he found different birds that he wanted to photograph he would identify a plan and mark possible locations on the map. Once he had the day’s locations scouted, he would head out and set up camp. One afternoon after hearing about a new species that had been spotted near the ridge, Warren determined it was one that had not been seen in the area before. The bird was roughly the size of a cardinal and identified by the red head and red mohawk. After heading out to the ridge and setting up camp, Mr. Spinster singing the Woody Woodpecker theme to himself thinking that the bird he found was a Pileated Woodpecker. Realizing it was not any species of woodpecker he says to himself, “I need to identify and document this bird for everyone in the area to see.” As he dangled from the cliff trying to get a clear picture of this animal, he heard the ropes start to part. Upon hearing the loud crack, as the ropes snapped, he found himself falling, landing on a plateau a mere five feet below where he was hanging. Hearing the camera smash below him, cursing the red mohawked bird. Feeling moderately lucky that the plateau was able to break his fall. Sitting recounting how this obsession almost cost him his life. But also looking at the fact that there was a missed opportunity to document a little know bird for people to see. The rarity of an animal rocking an adorable little red mohawk. Determining that there was not a way to climb up as the ropes had been severed, he went about trying to figure out if there was a way to rescue himself. Diffing through his pockets he noticed that his cell phone was in his pack on top of the cliff. Checking his pockets to see what was available. Finding the flint and steel that was in his cargo pocket he pulled it out and laid it on the ground near his feet. Scrounging up tinder and other fuel for the fire from around the small plateau that he found himself. Lighting the fire not only for warmth but also hoping the green wood that was now placed on the fire would signal any hikers or rangers that may be nearby.  Checking himself for any further injuries and realizing that there is nothing but scratches and some bumps that will bruise in time. Dusting himself off to gather additional firewood, preparing to hunker down for the night. Hearing the rustling around above his head as hope filled his soul thinking that it was someone that could help him or get help for him. Instead, it was the adorable red mohawked bird. “Ah this bird is torturing me now.” Said Warren allowed. Sitting on this plateau watching the fire burn as the sun was setting. Making a vow to himself that if he makes it off this plateau that he would identify this bird and the take a giant leap back from this fondness for birds that almost got him killed. It was this landing that saved his life. Feeling the pull of sleep as darkness fades, he stokes the fire and sets himself up to doze off for a small time before the fire needs stoking again. As the sun falls upon his face, he hears rustling and voices above his head. As they shuffle around trying to figure out where the equipment and pack came from. He opened his eyes and called out to them to let them know where he was lying. They called down asking if he was injured with a response of “I do not think so.” The rangers started assembling rescue rigs to assist Warren and raise him back to solid ground. As the rangers were heaving around to bring him up the side of the cliff the red mohawked bird landed on the side of the litter that help Warren. Once he reached the top and was laid on the ground next to his pack and what was left of his camera equipment. The rangers began their series of questions. “How did you end up down there?” “What are you doing out here alone?” “Are you going to need medical attention?” The answer to the first was simple “I was climbing over the edge to try and capture a picture of a bird with a red mohawk that I have never seen before.” Said Warren and continued, “I am out here alone because it gives me the best chance at quiet to capture the shots that I am looking for and no I do not need medical attention.” After the hike out Warren got to his car and started the short drive home. H was now on a mission to identify this bird that tortured him during his ordeal. This now has become an obsession to research and identify this bird.  Diffing through the books it was determined that was no such bird in the Northern Hemisphere.  Expanding his search to look throughout South America. Ruling out woodpeckers and traditional Northern Cardinal. Starting to narrow down the search he noticed a picture of the one red mohawked bird that has haunted his dreams over the last several months. The bird was none other than a Red Crested Cardinal. Sporting his bright red head and bright red mohawk. Realizing that this bird was not rare in the southern hemisphere but had never been spotted in North America. Thinking to himself that this bird must have gotten lost or rode the wrong thermal. Feeling satisfied that he had overcome the obsession with the red mohawked bird. Realizing that this had almost killed him and then in turn drove him very close to insane he decided that he was going to watch birds with binoculars from afar and stay in safe places to observe and document.   

ypga1h

Stay Forever

As I sit in the sand on the shore of Inchydoney Beach looking out over the ocean and feeling the cool sand between my toes I can’t help but reflect on the entire trip. Tomorrow I’ll be heading back to Dublin to catch a plane and go home - home to midwest, farm town America. I know without a doubt I’ll be back here as this has been the most amazing eight days of my entire life. ……………………………………… The first day of exploration led me to a small town called Kilkenny where I toured an 800-year-old castle, walked the brick streets, perused beautiful handmade art from local artists at a farmer’s market, and devoured a traditional Irish breakfast of over-easy eggs, baked beans, cooked tomatoes, pork sausage and blood sausage. The learning curve on what different things were called in Ireland led to some laughs that first day. For example, I asked someone where I could find a restroom and received a puzzled look. I then said, “bathroom?” and the gentleman said, “oh, you want the toilet, do ya?”.  On my second day in Ireland, I did a tour of the Ring of Kerry. This circular route is 179 km (just over 111 miles) and gives way to some of the most stunning scenery I’ve ever seen. About twenty miles into the trip the driver was coming around a corner and to my right I looked out at the expanse of ocean while to my left all I saw was mountains. To say it was breathtaking is such an understatement! I’ve never been so taken at the beautiful creation of our world. In that moment uncontrolled tears filled my eyes and I held my breath hoping that sight would never go away. I found myself uttering the words, “I wish I could stay here forever”, over and over again. As I wound my way along the Ring of Kerry there were such great experiences to treasure. At a scenic overlook there was a man with his donkey and blind dog making traditional Irish stars out of a grass that legend has it brings blessings to all who enter a home where it’s hung. I saw the overlook named “Ladies View” for the ladies-in-waiting to Queen Victoria in 1861 who admired it so much. I took a look into the past and saw how they lived in the 18th Century at Bog Village. I took in the view of the sky-blue water of the ocean while enjoying the antics of the wild sheep at a cliff side restaurant with traditional Irish stew and brown soda bread for lunch. I prayed in an old 19th century church adorned with stained glass. I was so incredibly thankful for this gift I’d been given! On day three as I walked the path that I knew eventually led to the Torc Waterfall (which I’d been aching to see since I started planning the Ireland vacation) I realized all the hustle and bustle of home, kids, and job had faded away within twenty-four hours of being in this idyllic place. Everything I’d known my whole life was an ocean and many land miles away. More than just being physically away though, I had been able to be mindfully present in every moment here. All the stress and difficulty of everyday life was put into perspective. I felt free and alive and authentically me for the first time since I was a child.  I ran my hand along the leaves of the beautiful and oh-so-green trees. I took slow, deep breaths and could smell the freshness in the air. With my eyes closed I stood still for a moment and just listened. I could hear the birds chirping in the branches above, the rustling of brush where small animals played nearby, the trickling of water from the stream down below, and the faint sound of laughter and rushing water where the other tourists looked at the majesty of the waterfall I had not yet seen. I continued along the path and came to the spot where the bottom of the waterfall met the stream and wound down the mountain from there. I looked up and saw the top of the cliff where the water started to flow down. It was about seventy feet to the top and watching that water come down the rocky cliff was magical. The power it displayed was exhilarating! On days four and five I explored two more castles, wandered through botanical gardens, ate in old Irish pubs, and danced with strangers to Irish jigs. The laughter and joy was palpable - the peace and belonging incredible! The people were one of my favorite things about this trip. I’d never met more humble, respectful, fun humans! Day six was spent along the coast driving the Slea Head Drive from the town of Dingle. I meandered my way along this very windy and very narrow road. This twenty-four-mile loop can be done in an hour without stops, however, there is so much to see along the way. There were stops at beaches, taking a moment of silence at the White Cross, exploring the Blasket Islands Museum, having lunch, taking a moment to admire the Ceann Sibeal viewing point (where some of Star Wars: The Force Awakens was filmed), seeing the centuries old bee huts, and pondering the local legends at the Gallerus Oratory that say if someone can make it through the single window that lights the structure that person would be guaranteed access to Heaven. With these stops it took me five hours to complete. Yesterday (day seven) was all about exploring the Cliffs of Moher. Standing on the top of those cliffs looking down 700 feet to where the Atlantic Ocean crashed its waves upon the bottom, I knew this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Everything I’d been through in my life seemed to float away as I felt the wind in my hair and the purest form of gratefulness washed over me again and again. And I found myself whispering again into the wind, “I wish I could stay here forever!” This morning I started my day by going to Blarney Castle, climbing to the peak, bending over backward on the ledge, and kissing the Blarney Stone. Legend has it that kissing this stone gives one the power of eloquent speech and the gift of persuasion without causing offense to others. Now, in the afternoon on day eight, as I sit on this beach in Cork listening to the waves lap against the shore and thinking over all I’ve seen and experienced, the overwhelming feeling is utmost gratefulness. Not everyone gets to have this. Not everyone gets to have what I have at home. So, as much as I wish I could stay here forever I have to go home and that’s okay because this place will be with me in my heart and in my mind forever. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll come back, buy a little home (probably in Killarney) and I actually will stay forever.

uux4b2

Maybe We Will

Clara spoke for the two of them when she exclaimed “I wish that we could stay here forever. We are newly retired now, and we could do it if we wanted to.” Frank replied by saying “We have wanted to go to Iceland for years, and now we are here, and it is more beautiful than I had even imagined it would be. And it seems that everyone we meet speaks English. We hadn’t anticipated that. Then there is the yogurt – Icelandic skyr. The skyr is the limit. And then, of course, there are the elves and their houses. There are no elves in Canada that I know of.” Early in their time in Iceland, they had met and listened to a woman who claimed to be an ‘elf whisperer’. She had told them that the ‘Elf Royal Family’ had lived at the base of a cliff, and that they should go there. Clara and Frank had been staying at a hotel in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, but now they were headed west for the harbor town of Grindivik (they had learned that -vik meant ‘bay’), which was not far from where the alleged home of the ‘Elf Royal Family’ had lived. They just had to see that for themselves.  Right now they were in a beautiful area with mountains, fields with black soil that was once lava, and where they could see the roving herds of horses, cows and sheep grazing. They had taken many pictures. Both coming from farming families, they had stopped to get their pictures taken alongside the relatively small Icelandic horses (they had been originally bred from ponies brought to the island by early settlers). Their fields ran up to a gate by the road. Two of the animals were very friendly, making the couple wish that they had brought some hay or horse treats to feed their new friends. And Then Things Began to Change            And then things began to change. It started when the couple suddenly saw high rising, bursts of fire in three directions, coming mainly from the mountains. This made them realize that the volcanos that had been active a few months before, and had eventually stopped were now active again. It was both awe inspiring and terrifying. Clara and Frank knew that they had to get out of the area as quickly as they could before they became volcano victims. They ran to where they had parked their rental car, just around the corner of a mountain not too far away. But they were quick to see that lava was just about to engulf the car, so it would shortly become a death trap for them. Frank, who expressed his warped sense of humour even in the very worst of situations, which this certainly was, exclaimed “I guess we should have got volcanic insurance for the car, Clara”. Neither of them laughed or even smiled. They both decided to head for the highway, which they hoped would lead them to safety, even though their escape would be much slower now that they had no car in which to drive away from the threat that was coming ever nearer. Maybe they could hitchhike to Grindivik, or some other place of safety, if such existed in this part of Iceland  The highway was a short run away from where they had been, and they approached where they had encountered the horses. They soon saw that the animals were in danger, as the lava was flowing rapidly towards the other side of their field, and would in a distinctly possible matter of minutes devour the poor helpless animals if nothing was done to help them. The couple soon decided to open the gate nearby, to give the horses at least some chance to run away from hot, flowing death. Most of the animals ran away quickly. The two that they had befriended stuck around. This gave them an idea. Maybe they could ride these two horses along the highway, leading them in a direction that did not seem to have flames leaping out of the mountains, and creeping across the fields. But that was not to be. The two horses soon fled to join the rest of their herd down the road which could well mean safety for them, but possibly none for the human couple who could only move more slowly. They then felt that their only option now was for them to walk along the highway, hopefully being able to hitchhike to safety. They walked and walked with absolutely no success in the hitchhike area, and instead of their getting closer to safety, the lava was getting closer and closer to them. They began to feel that they were doomed to die. Then they began to hear a strange sound other than that of volcanoes. It came from the sky. They looked up, and much to their surprise and utter joy, they saw a helicopter. They soon became aware that the pilot had seen them, as the rescue plane landed on the highway not very far in front of them. They could not believe their sudden good fortune. They made their way into helicopter, which then lifted up into the sky. From the vehicle they could clearly see that the lava had been approaching them from three different directions. If the helicopter had come even as short a time as an hour later, they would have been almost literally toast.            After a relatively short flight, they landed in the small airport in Grindivik, and offered the pilot and his assistant some money which their rescuers refused, saying that they were just doing their job. Clara and Frank quickly made their way to a local hotel/bar, where they booked a room, after which they sat at the bar and began to drink rather heavily. They entertained others sitting nearby with their story of near woe. Drinks were bought for them as they told of their adventure. As others left and they stayed, Clara said to Frank, “For a while there I was thinking that “maybe we will”, you know, “stay here forever”, never to be found.” Frank said that he had experienced the same thoughts, but did not want to say anything to that effect, as it would be too depressing for both of them. “So what shall we do now Frank? Do we still want to pick up stakes and live here for the rest of our lives?” Frank replied, “Only if we can find a place in this town that is very close to the ocean, to the airport and to this bar.”

z7zemj

Sink

The seas were taking a heavy toll on The Captains vessel tonight. Though the seas were typically rather volatile even on a good day, he couldn’t help but think of just how vicious and unforgiving they were in the days before. Heavy swells lapped up against the side of the hull heaving him around his ship unforgivingly. The Captain had found himself in a storm that he had foreseen. He had observed all the warning signs and alerts that a storm was to be expected but headed no mind as to what was to come, reasoning that it was unlikely that he, a cautious and considerate man, could be affected by the inevitable. The Captain bashed from side to side on the forecastle of his vessel, scrambling madly to secure his cargo and precious possessions. All the fish he had caught from the sea would surely have fetched a pretty penny at home. His wife and child needed the money that he had procured from his expeditions to keep his family fed and the bill collectors paid. He was currently on his way back from his excursions. He had been away from the tender embrace of his child and loving stares of his wife for two months, 26 days, 14 hours and some change when the waves began to crash. As a seasoned sea captain, he paid attention to the mornings weather reports routinely. The weather seemed to become slightly worse by the day since he had begun his voyage. Little by little, the swells became larger and the wind more ferocious as the days went on. Though he had become accustomed to the rocking of the seas, he spent most days wishing for a break in the cycle of the unnerving seas. His only recess from the vexatious disturbances of the choppy waters was to work. He seemingly worked around the clock, frequently missing meals and sleep in favor of the work that he had convinced himself needed doing. He could count on both hands the number of hours he had slept in the last four days. The Captain scrambled from the weather decks to the engineering spaces below deck to continue his mad scramble of securement and preservation of his belongings. The ship was listing heavily to the port side and he found himself standing at a near fourty-five degree. As he stood waist deep in the fridged waters of the Pacific, the reality of the situation began to sink in: the ship was beyond saving. The wind howled against the skin of the ship and the water submerged the decks as The Captain stood and stared at the wreckage that surrounded him. His livelihood was floating around the ship like driftwood and the vessel he had called home for so long was held captive by the seas. For reasons unknown to himself, he couldn’t move. He just stood and stared at the wreckage surrounding him thinking about all that he had lost. His ship was sinking and his possessions were beyond saving, meaning he would be going home empty handed and unable to support his family. Only as an afterthought did he even think that he would not be able to see his family again. His wife would receive a phone call from God knows who that her husband had driven himself into a storm and that a search and rescue mission had begun. His wife and his daughter would wait with bated breath by the phone day after day until hope would eventually fade that he would be found alive and would give way to overwhelming grief. A memorial service would be held, and kind words would be said like “he was a great captain” and “he died doing what he loved”. Feelings of guilt and fear ensnared his thoughts so much so that he didn’t even register the light shining down from the open ladder well to the decks behind him. He couldn’t even hear the speaker from the Coast Guard chopper that had arrived on scene that help had arrived. The captain just stood and stared. He had been so careful and thought that he was so smart only to see the beautiful mess that he had made staring back at him like a bruise. Like a monster that was waiting in the shadow for the opportunity to strike, he had let himself come to this moment in time when everything that he had was lost. Though not all was lost. Visions flashed though his mind of his wife and daughter standing on the docks with tears in their eyes waiving him off for the umpteenth time. The feeling of leaving them always filled him with anguish but still he went, telling himself that he would be back after a short time and everything was fine. He always made the same promise that everything would be alright and all would be the same when he got back and now the day of reckoning had arrived. Nothing was alright and everything wouldn’t be fine. He was sinking in his own hubris and selfishness. The waves continued to crash around him and help had arrived but all he could think of what was lost and how badly he had failed. Suddenly, he felt his head clear. With images of his family passing though his mind and remembrances of the promises he had made, he felt himself moving toward the light at the top of the ladder well. The Captain stood and stared at the spotlight from the chopper from the flooded decks of his ship and watched as the rescue diver repelled down to him. The rescue swimmer loaded him into a basket and the operator winched him skyward and into the side door of the rescue helicopter. After the rescue swimmer had hoisted himself into the chopper, the pilot began to maneuver in the direction of what The Captain knew was shore. As they fled the scene, The Captain had time to take one last look at his vessel. The aft end of the ship was completely submerged and the forward end was soon to follow. The ship and the job that had defined him since the day he first cast off the docks had been lost forever. The Captain couldn’t help but smile.

upve7j

Work First, Show Tunes Afterwards, Capisce?

It's easy hours in the city that never sleeps, and the after midnight crowd lingers along the shadows of its broken down bars and alley's. A couple of well greased drunks spill from the corner saloon where they shadow box a lone car as it passes. It's trash night, and the rats are feasting on the refuse of the masses. That’s my New York! On a good night, you can mask its acrimony with a stiff drink and night out with your girl. But, tonight, as it turns out, is not one of those nights. My name is Jake, Jake Tolliver, and an hour ago, I was standing outside my girl's apartment waiting on a call from her bookie about tomorrow's games. I love football – Teams, coaches, players, stats – I love it all. What do you want to know? Deon Sanders? He's an eight-time Pro Bowler with 53 career interceptions and ranks second in NFL history with 25.1-yards per interception return on average. Did I mention that I have a photographic memory? I live and breathe stats. I have to credit my dad for that. He helped me develop a mind for the game. It was one of the few relationships that seemed to flourish in my life, especially in the weeks leading up to football season. Here's the angle that I was working tonight. The Oakland Raiders have one of the highest injury rates in the league and they just signed Davonte Adams to a five year, hundred forty million dollar contract, to join their organization. Thing is, the Raiders don’t have a player problem, they have a coaching problem. The team has a weak offensive line, which will in all likelihood end up costing the Raiders a butt load of money in contract fees, while still ending the season without a Super Bowl bid. I know this because, from draft to preseason games, my dad and I pour over everything we can find on each team's players and coaching staff. After sifting through all that data we make our predictions. Lots and lots of predictions. Dad writes them down before each game and then afterwards we analyze game stats with our stats to see where our calls are right or why we got it wrong. It's all up here in my head. I could totally coach, but I don’t really have any connection to the game. I never played in school and got cut as a walk on in college. Then, a few years ago, my dad died. It's been hard without him. I didn’t have anyone else to connect with and no outlet for all this information floating around in my head. Then, one night about six months ago, I was feeling restless. So, I went out for a walk. Next thing I know, I’m in a bar in Queens watching the Cowboys play the 49ers. I start a tab with the bartender and plant myself at the end of the bar. I neatly placed five napkins around me. On the first, I jot basic player matchup stats and with the second, I keep track of downs per drive and used play calls. The third is for those pesky little poker tells players have that indicate a particular play call. With my fourth, I keep track of fumbles, blitzes and Sacs and with the fifth I make future call predictions. All these stats start swirlin' and connecting in my head and I’m talking out loud to myself and yelling at the coaches on the television set behind the bar. I’m four beers deep and five minutes into the fourth quarter when this chick, Cheryl, gets up from her seat in the corner and sits down on the stool next to me. She places her hand on my wrist and gives it a squeeze and says, “Hi, I’m Cheryl.” She makes small talk while I’m working out the game in my head. Then she casually says, “So you like football.” And I say, “Yeah, I guess it shows.” Next thing I know, she's asking me questions, like she’s interested in the game – or me – or both. Turns out, Cheryl's a gambler who likes to bet on better than even odds. We hit it off like clockwork, and now we’re going out every night; midnight boat tours on the Hudson, Crazy Golf, at “Swingers." rooftop bars and live jazz in Greenwich Village. This city comes alive at night for those who can afford it, and that's no problem for me, cause I’ve got Cheryl, and Cheryl’s got a bookie. That’s where it started anyway. We kept our betting's small to avoid big losses or attracting the attention of bigger fish. Next thing I know I’m driving a Beamer, living in a million dollar apartment and Cheryl's my girlfriend. Thank you brain! I’ve got one small problem though, which, as it turns out, is really a big problem called, “The Mob!” You see, Cheryl told a few of her friends about our betting, who with Cheryl's help, started ghost betting larger bets on my bets. And because it’s gambling, and since the Mob isn’t in the business of losing money – well, here I am, standing in a bucket at the end of the East Atlantic pier with my hands tied behind my back. Goodbye apartment – goodbye Mercedes – goodbye Cheryl. You can’t win them all! Actually, that's not true, I did – which is why they’re mixing the cement. “Frank, who’s Cement Shoes talkin' to?” “I don’t know Nico, maybe he’s saying his prayers or something. Or, maybe he’s figured out the winner of the super bowl, eh Nico? Now that would be a game changer! Ha! Game changer – see what I did there? Hey, Nico, help me mix this cement here, will ya?” A couple of regular Hammerheads. Excuse me while I work things out. “Listen boys, I'm starting to lose the circulation in my hands. What do you say we loosen these ropes and talk about how we can make this right?” “Nico, I think Cement Shoes is talkin' to us.” “Yeah, I heard him, Frank. Ain't a hammerhead a kind a shark?” “Nah, I think he’s referrin' to us in the derogatory.” “That ain’t very nice Shoes. Just for the record, Frank and me, wants you to know that this ain’t personal!” “Yeah, we wouldn’t even be doin this if we could find us a better way to make a living right Nico? Thing is, Nico and me got a gift for making money we learnt in the 4th grade. You could say we was ‘playground entrepreneurs’. At least, until the principal caught wind of us. Back then, we had these kids we would squeeze for their lunch money. Then one day, Nico here, was feelin ‘entrepreneurial,’ and says to me, ‘Hey Frank, let’s put the squeeze on all of 'em!’ Remember Nico, that was the day all of 4th grade showed up to the cafeteria without no lunch money.” “Even then, no one ratted. Frank made sure of that, right Frank. You see, Shoes, there was this kid that rode our bus, and Frank gave it to him every day in the back seat where the bus driver couldn't see him. Everybody knew it, and ‘nobodys’ wanted to be that kid!” “Hence, everybody kept their trap shut. We gets older – word spreads, and now Nico and me – we got no problems findin' work. In fact, after we finish here, we got a little ‘cash flow’ problem up in Harlem to fix.” “Okay Frank, enough talk, time to pour the cement in the bucket.” These guys! Anyway, like I was saying. I know sports. But, I also know the people, like these ball breakers, who are associated with sports betting. They’re a very habit forming group of people. Learn their little habits and you develop some insight into how they play their game. Watch for those habits and you start seeing patterns. Watch for those patterns, and you can predict the outcome. So, right now you're probably wondering what my chances are of getting out of here alive. Well honestly, not too good, but I like a long shot. The payoff is… “Nico, what’d ya knock him in the head for?” “He was creepin' me out. It was like he was narratin' a story to somebody out there.” “To who - would he be narratin'? There's nobody out here but us, and the fish.” “That’s what was creepin' me out. It was like he was – Hey Frank, I think you were supposed to say, ‘to whom!’” “Nico, stop jawing and help me pour this cement!” “You said, ‘to who’ but I think you shoulda said, ‘to whom’” “Nico, are you correcting me?” “I’m Sorry Frank. I just thought you might want to improve yourself.” “Nico, I don’t think a guy who got kicked outta 6th grade should be giving English advice to me or nobodys!” “Hey, I didn’t drop out! I was expelled on account of my car stalled out on the way to school.” “Okay, that’s not what happened and you know it. What really happened was this! Nico and me was supposed to skip school and hang out at the movies with Genevieve Pincerini.” “Frank, who you talkin' to?” “Shadup Nico, I’m tryin' to tell a story here! I was sayin', we ‘borrows’ the neighbors four speed, only it stalls out in front of the police station cause Nico here, can’t reach the clutch, and see out the front window at the same time, on account of he’s a shorty.” “Frank! You’re not going to start with that again? You know, young people these days find them kinds of references offensive.” “He can't help it. It's in his genetics.” “It ain’t in my genetics and I’m just as tall as you or anybodys else!” “Yeah, if anybodys else is size elf!” “Frank! I’m warning you. Stop telling people I’m short!” “People – what people? There ain’t nobodys out there but the sharks, right? Oh, look, Shoes is gettin' his wits back. Sorry about that little headache there, you was creepin Nico out, so he gave you a conk on the beanie.” “Guys, is this really necessary? I mean that waters gotta be like 50 degrees, and did I mention I’m allergic to sharks? There’s gotta be some way we work this out here!” “Hey, Frank, Shoes here says he’s allergic to sharks. Perhaps we coulds sooth him with a little Broadway tune. Whadda ya say? I’ll start!  Oh the shark, babe, has such teeth, deer and he shows them pearly white. Come on Frank, it's ‘Mack the Knife,’ one of your favorites.” “Not now, Nico, we got cement to pour.” “Awe, come on, Frank. Why can’t we have a little fun? Anyways, what's it matter to Cement Shoes here if he gets to breathe air a little longer. He’ll be swimmin' with the fishes' soon enough. Hey, remember that job last week up in SoHo, where we sang ‘New York, New York,’ from the eleventh floor balcony while that fat lawyer took a leap. He just missed that guy carrying groceries. Remember that Frank?” “Yeah, I remember. He made a real impression!” “Ha! That’s a good one Frank! Whaddya says we send him off with a little New York ‘pizzazz.’ Hey, Shoes, watch this! Frank and me does this dance routine – we could be on Broadway, right Frank?” “Okay, Nico, but you gotta call out the steps on account of my two left feet.” “Sure Frank, it starts with two jazz squares, followed by - step together - rock - step and repeat it the other way – then, we holds our hands together high in the air – dainty like - and do a grape vine to the left on our tippy toes. Watch out for the edge of the pier Frank, you don’t want to end up shark bait like Shoes back there. Okay, now we bring it home with a grapevine back to center, and – jazz hands – way out to the side while I spin around for the big finish. Well – whaddaya think Shoes? … ah, Frank?” “Not now Nico, I’m holdin' for applause!” “Frank, I think Cement Shoes is gettin away.” “Dammit Nico! This is your fault!” “My fault? How come it’s my fault?” “Because show tunes always gets you distracted. If I said it once, I said it a thousand times – work first, show tunes afterwards – Capisce?" "Sorry Frank. Looks like the sharks is goin' hungry tonight. You think boss is gonna be angry?” “Come on. It's still early. Maybe we catch him again before he makes trouble for us.” Psst. I’m down here – hanging off the pier. I untied my hands while they were dancing and used the rope to get out of sight. So, what do you think of my odds now? Getting better huh? I wish we could stay here forever , but it seems like a good time to take a little vacation – Perhaps somewhere where the fish ain’t bitin'? Whaddaya think?

jfytqv

Stumble If You May

Hulworth Meredith was the sort of holier-than-thou fella that had lost his way more times than I could count. He’s long been dead, but I hope that his story and ideas live in so many hearts and minds.. I’m nothing but a simple fellow, a scribe who records the histories and deeds and memories and derring-do of other, more qualified men and women, cats and dogs, so take note of the man behind the words rather than the wordsmith himself. I aim to entertain, enlighten, and inspire, but refrain from staring at the ghostly man behind the curtain. Instead, look to the ghosts that had done beautiful, dangerous, and always eye-opening things that I can’t help but talk about without dropping my jaw down the furthest ravine. We start our tale with the aforementioned higher-than-the-tallest-grass kind of forlorn soul turned forlorn ne'er do well in the city of Great Beginnings. It’s a town in the middle of a forest, a small village with only a few tradeworthy items and ideas that often gets overshadowed by the hustle and bustle of Winding Road to the west, and the rustle and tussle of Lost Your Way to the east. Hulworth was born to unknown parents who had died in a nondescript war between two unimportant gangs in an uninteresting year of the unimpressive past. What is of note is how quick little Hulworth took to the streets. He moved west from Great Beginnings to the crooked and narrow streets and black buildings of Winding Road that lapped at the sun’s light like starving dogs. He became a ragamuffin kid with a heart full of cold that stole not from the vendors and places of business from the hard-working citizens of Black Road, oh no. He took to stealing from the other ragamuffins that stole from the vendors, without so much as a guilt string plucked. He stole more than what would get him by, like steaks, cheeses, juices, muffins and the like. He had purloined purses, burglarized belts, buckles, buckle shoes, and all other things in between. He made quite a name for himself as the Jacker of All Trades. And it was in these troubled times that Hulworth the bandit boy turned into Hulworth the bandit king, who was also now a man. The hardened streets peppered his black beard with gray when he was no more than 25. Winding Road's forces of good that aimed to remove him from their burgeoning society were too little too late, as the young Hulworth had no intention of sticking around in the cracked sidewalks and blistering summer suns of Inkwell. He turned to an even bigger and somehow crookeder city known as Lost Your Way. Therein lies at the center of this artistic bastion a fountain of marble, crystal clear water, and stone-cut streets that gave the grand plaza such a great glow to Hulworth. It was here that he would undertake his greatest challenge yet. There was a museum that housed old-as-sin paintings, ready-to-crumble pots, and older still sculptures that Hulworth had his eyes on. He didn’t think he was the best of the best, he knew he was the best of the best. So his only problem was finding capable gents and ladies who could be as dastardly as him. This proved difficult to the point of impossible, so he gathered what ragtag group of ready ruffians he could. It was not enough, and the director’s cast was caught after just one hour. But the director himself left the stage. He fled the museum, fled the guards and good samaritans and onlooking stares, and straight to the front gates he waltzed out. He was dressed as a man who had not committed one crime. He hadn’t changed his clothes in the slightest, but he had the demeanor of such a man, of such an innocent man, that they let him out of the winding streets of Lost Your Way without so much as a second glance. He turned further east, to Toughest Climb, the highest peak in the longest mountain range. When urban hovels turned into the rural countryside the further east he went, he pivoted south to the oldest city of them all: The city of Turning Point. It was at this point that the now 30-something Hulworth Meredith, the Jacker of All Trades, Master of Run was getting tired of running. He was fond of wearing blue jackets and jeans at this time, and in the red city of Turning Point, of red brick buildings, dirt road slums, and universities of time immemorial, he stuck out like a sore thumb. But it was in the city of Turning Point that he found himself in another transformative alley. He stared at a mural on the wall that had all the colors of the rainbow plus 10 other colors besides. And they came together to form the outline of the city. Hulworth poked at the red section of the mural that encompassed the very alleyway he was in. But he was hoping for something as he kept poking at it, even if he didn’t know it. “You’re being followed.” a voice said. Now what did the Master of Run have to say you might wonder? “.” Nothing of course. He thought he was hearing things, the wrong things, or not a thing at all. But the voice kept at it. “You’re being followed.” “Huh?” He looked to his right, and to his left. He turned around to see the behind, and he turned back to the mural. He wondered to himself ‘was it the mural?’ There was no one else, and no noise besides the same trappings that Turning Point and any other city might have. It was total, urban silence. “Hello?” He poked at the mural again. “You’re being followed, Hulworth.” He gasped, stepped back and nearly fell over for his efforts. Some time passed as Hulworth looked around again, and sure enough, he heard the voice once more. “You’re being followed. Better get moving so they don’t catch up.” He looked disturbed past the point of despair, but instead of moving, he pressed his ear against the mural. “It’s not the mural! Move!” He jumped at the voice’s curt tone and so he did as he was told. It echoed in his head, as spacious as an ocean, as fast and cutting as a raging river. He thought it best he skipped town, for the wonderful world of Turning Point no longer held a candle to Mr. Meredith’s fear. So our man went yet further south, to a small town known as End of the Road. It was renowned in towns over for its hot springs and so he decided to take a dip. He still had a nice amount of fortune to his name that lined his cerulean pockets, so getting anywhere and everywhere was still easy for the man. It was in the bath however that he heard the voice again. “You’re being followed.” He no longer thought the voice was a mere illusion. It was real, and it had with it his name to prove it. Hulworth got out of the baths immediately and stormed out of the building.. “You’re being followed. You better run!” He had no intention of standing still. He had to get moving, onto the next town. Even further south revealed the vastness and quite frankly uncrossable nature of a sea without a boat, and he did not want to be stuck on a ship where his follower could follow him to a dead end. He steered himself west, and eventually, he stumbled upon Stumbles. It was a tinier town than End of the Road but was home to a nice lake and a nice craggy cliff with a quite nice view. He was beat like batter, and he hoped that the small inn he found could rest his weary bones. However, much to his dismay and the dismay of a poor young lad who was sweeping dust nearby, a voice emanated through Hulworth’s head. “You’re being followed. You don’t have time to rest!” Hulworth yelled at the top of his lungs, and yet louder still. The sweep ran to his room, and asked what was wrong, but Hulworth would not answer. He just bolted out of the room, covered in sweat and paranoia. It was then that Hulworth thought his strategy was off. The smallest town couldn’t hide him away from the biggest tormentor. He had to go to a big city with big plans, with big, strong men that he could ally himself with. So he headed furthest north, past Black Road, past Last Your Way, and to the largest city of them all: Hero’s Fall. Here small people got considerably larger and smarter. They became the heroes in their great, unsung stories, and Hulworth was aiming to find one of these heroes. But as luck wouldn’t have it, he came across a bounty hunter instead who wore nothing but black clothing, with black gloves and a black hat and silver, shiny stirrups on his black boots. Hulworth thought him to be the perfect person wrangler to wrestle him free of his troubles. “What’s your name?” Hulworth said. People simply called him the Shooter of Dreams, and he said so with sulfur teeth surrounded by a wide smile. And so it was like that for a while. In those times, Hulworth was getting a sort of strong reputation as a cutthroat cowboy himself. Together The Shooter of Dreams and the Gunslinger of Hope ravaged Hero’s Fall and the surrounding county from hill to shining hill and Hulworth even forgot that he was being followed. But he was, and sooner rather than the much preferred later, they would catch up.  For a full year, Hulworth didn’t hear that voice. But it came back, told him he was being followed, that sort of thing. But Hulworth was tired of running, so he didn’t want to hear it. “You’re being followed.” The voice said. Hulworth was sitting all comfortable like in his bandit’s den. He tossed a half-eaten apple at his soiler-in-arms. “You say something?” But The Shooter of Dreams was in a dream himself, so he was going to be of no help. Hulworth paid the voice no mind and closed his eyes. “You’re being followed.” He shrugged it off like water right off his now well-rested back. “You’re being followed, and you should exit the company of the Shooter of Dreams.” “What?” “You’re being followed. Best get going. Alone.” This was too specific for the Gunslinger of Hope to ignore, and after a few noggin wracks and brain searches, he remembered why he was in Hero’s Fall in the first place. He almost screamed, but the voice told him to keep quiet, pack his things and shove off. So he did, with shaky hands and silent breaths. It was close to this time that Hulworth was running out of money. He no longer stored it like his frugal old self once did. He and the Shooter of Dreams blew through all their stolen gains faster than a firework enters the stratosphere. He slipped through the gates of Hero’s Fall and headed south again. He was now close to forty and close to giving up. After a few more inn stays, a few more times of the voice saying he was being followed, he could no longer take it. After the last bit of his money was spent on a nice suit, a nice hat, and some nice pants (there was simply not enough for nice shoes), Hulworth Meredith, The Master of Run, could run no longer. He went to the middle of the desert in the middle of nowhere, and he turned around. He was eager to look the man in the face, the one who had been following him all these years. “You coming out or what?” He yelled. “I ain't got no money left, no dreams, no will to live. So I want you to kill me dead in this dead place. Free me of my misery, cuz you know what? It’s been a long time coming!” “You’re being followed.” The voice said. “I know! So stop following and start shooting!” “You’re being followed by someone who wants to help you.” Hulworth pulled out his ole six-shooter that had gotten him out of more than one scrape. “The hell? No, you don’t! You want to torture me with the psycholgies, and all the evil whatnots and tear me down until I am nothing! Well, you got me! Get it done with! And I’d be obliged if I didn’t mention that one year ya gave me in Hero’s Fall. It was pure paradise.” The wind blew sand into his face, and nothingness filled his rickety, wooden ramshackle heart. “You’re right. I had to rip you down to your foundation so you could build something new. Don’t you feel the rot? Don’t you understand that feeling all too well?” “Just shoot me dead and stop talking fancy words!” “You have a great mission to complete. You are far from worthless, just broken. You can still fix yourself.” “I said kill me goddamit!” Hulworth shot 6 times until his faithful companion was as empty as he was. “That was my every last bullet! It’s your responsibility now! Do it, and do it quick!” “I can’t. And If I could, I wouldn’t.” Hulworth looked at the quiet desert in horror. “Just who the hell are you? Why can’t you let me die!” It was the first time since Hulworth was a small child in the city of Inkwell that he had cried. That was the beginning of his regretful, twisted journey, and today, in this grand moment, was the end of that journey, and the start of a new one. It was time the man realized it. “I have no body, Hulworth. I’m neither alive nor dead because I was never alive. I have been the wind carrying you from place to place for decades now. You can call me Destiny, or Fate, but more importantly, I’m the angel in your closet that wants to be let out. I know you have good in you, but it was robbed from you, wasn’t it? Like so many other things. “No! I don’t want no lesson, just. Just…” Hulworth dropped the gun to the windswept desert floor and knelt down. “I just don’t want to run no more.” “And you won’t, but only if you put the work in. You can change the world with your potential. Did you know that?” Hulworth stayed silent. “You can and you will if you have the will. You understand that, right?” “Do I?” He paused for a moment, and he looked toward the ground. “I don’t know if I do.’ “You do Hulworth. You can create so many great things. You can create better things.. You may not have the mechanical skill, but you will get it. You might not have the brains and intuition, but you will foster it. All you need is the idea, and you will find it. “What?” “Discover it for yourself, but time shows that you must. Go from town to town, city to city. In one of them, you may find your answer. “But why? Why me?” “Why not you? Wouldn’t you agree it’s better than giving up?” Hulworth scratched his chin, picked up his six-shooter and felt the heavy hunk of metal in his hands for the first time. It was no longer what he wanted, I could tell. He tossed it to the side and got up. A small scorpion that sat beside his feet looked poised to strike, but I blew it away. It was not his time. “And you call this desert a dead place, but don’t you know that a desert still aches with life? From the bugs to the beasts, it still carves out a place for living things. And one day, it might change, become a grassland. Oases are proof of this. Show the world that you are an oasis, Hulworth. Show the world the proof that things can change.” Hulworth nodded, but he was still confused. “That’s all great, but who are you? Why not choose someone great, someone better?” “I told you who I was-” “No, you didn’t.” And I wasn't about to. “And the answer to your other question is this. For a long time, I gave great people great ideas, and it was too easy. Those individuals didn’t need me. These men and women didn’t need inspiration. But people like you do. It’s not too late. I want to give terrible people great ideas. I want them to change the world, with just a little help. You aren’t rotten to the core, you’re only rotting to the core. You can stop it. You know how, or you will.” “Just go from place to place. Doing what? No, don’t answer that. But it seems like I’d be running again.” “You won’t be. You’ll be walking, with no destination or goal in mind. But you will find it.” “So you say. Goodbye, I think.” “Yes. Goodbye.” I blew away from Hulworth Meredith, away from the world, and out into places unseen. It was time I got to work. His tale had to be told, and there are so many other stories yet unsaid. And I will find them. I will find them all. And I will leave you with this. Stumble if you may, fall if you must, but get back up I trust. Get back up you must.

swq3ak

I Think I'm Being Followed

It all started a few days ago. I do not want to tell anyone, as they will think that I am being paranoid, or just plain crazy. I do not think that I am the first, possibly the second for other reasons. I just want this issue to be resolved. On Monday, I had my first ‘vision’ as I now call it while I was walking back home from work as I always do every afternoon. It’s only about three miles between workplace and home and I can do with the exercise. But it is mainly because I like walking, as it is the best stimulus for my thinking processes. I don’t think much when I drive, as I have to concentrate on my driving. My mind can very quickly drift away into thinking far away from driving practicality. I was told that I was hired for my advertising job because of my “creative thinking.” That is both a blessing and a curse. My brain can and often does take me to places to which I do not want to go. My current situation might just be one of those places. The First Day How did this all start? I was crossing one of the several roads that I pass by on my way back home from work. I looked to see whether there was a car coming, something I have to consciously remind myself to do when my thoughts are imagining in full flight, which they often are.  I do not want to be a traffic accident martyr to my creativity. What I saw was an old woman who suddenly stopped walking, almost falling over forward as she did so. She was staring at me like her eyes were weapons.  I wasn’t wearing anything strange, and my fly wasn’t down.  I am careful to check that when I leave both home and workplace, both preceded by a necessary pee after too much coffee early in the morning and late in the afternoon. Anyway, I don’t think she would be able to see whether it were down or not. She was too far away. But she was definitely staring at me. It was spooky. I had to tell myself that I should not let my imagination get the better of me. It is a powerful force for good and bad. After all, I had just a week ago written the plot of a television commercial in which the hero had people stare at him as he walked by as he was wearing a new and flashy brand of hat, triangular in shape.  I had the company that made them retrieve the ancient name of tricorn for this new trend.  I wasn’t wearing such a hat this afternoon, although I had done so when I had my picture taken for the local newspaper. I would not ever wear in public the free one they gave me. I don’t like to draw attention when I am trying to think creatively. The Second Day The next day, when I was walking back home after work, I looked for the old woman where I had seen her last (as if she would stand in the place all day long just waiting for me, I’m that special). But, of course, I did not see her there. Then, on the next street down the road, I was to see her again. This time she did not stop when she saw me. In fact she sped up into what was probably her highest walking gear. So did I, at a much faster pace. I needed my brain for the next advertisement plan. I very much needed to not be distracted when I was thinking on that subject on my walk home. It was no time or place to be followed by someone, with all the distracting imagination such an event would entail. The Third Day Then there was the next day. This time she appeared when she was only two streets away from my house. She was definitely getting closer each day. I didn’t think that she could be a break and enter specialist, or was the front woman for a group of such people, but I still felt like I was being followed for some evil purpose unknown to me. It unnerved me. I did not tell my wife about any of this. I tried to hide my glances out the window to see if my pursuer was in sight.  Fortunately, Mabel did not appear to suspect a thing. To her I was safe, not being tracked like a wild animal. The Fourth Day On the fourth day, as I was nearing home after not seeing my pursuer, she suddenly appeared seemingly coming out of nowhere. The old lady walked up to me, as boldly as she could, and said an amazing, and initially unbelievable thing. “I used to be your mother, Brad. And you used to be my son. I saw your picture in the local paper concerning your crazy advertisements for those equally crazy triangular hats for men. And then I saw you on the street on Monday. I just had to meet up with you.” “Okay, how does that ‘used to be my mother’ scene work out” I asked her. “I will tell you right now,” she declared. I invited her to sit beside me in one of the two chairs that were on the front lawn.  She told a tale of giving birth to me, and that not long afterwards she and her husband, the man that I knew to be my father, broke up as a married couple. And because he was a lawyer who fanatically didn’t drink, and she was known to have her fair share of alcohol, when they divorced, he was able to have her judged as an ‘unfit mother’. Shortly afterwards he met and married the woman that I had all my life to this point believed was my mother. The Present Now both of us, my birth mother Martha, and I have a different kind of walk from my workplace. She does not have to follow me anymore. We often meet outside my office building and walk together. This turned out to be good for several reasons, not just the emotional beauty of becoming closer to my birth mother, and learning about her life both before and after my birth. She had been in advertising too, before she married. She suggested to me that I communicate with the triangular hat people, telling them that maybe old women might make a new and profitable market for them. They quickly bought the idea, and my mother became the star of the local t.v. commercial selling the product, even though she dislikes triangular hats as much as I do. 

kxia5t

Be Careful What You Wish For

The professor at my university was getting excited. One of his famous authors was writing a new book. Agatha was writing it by hand and producing a manuscript. No one knew what the story was about or anything else about it. But every time Agatha wrote a manuscript, it became a hot property. The last three manuscripts had made millions from having the book published. This time seemed no different. Agatha had been working on her book for three months. It had gradually been growing. It now contained over six hundred pages, all carefully written by hand. No one knew what Agatha was writing about, but it kept her busy every day. Bristol University was very proud of Agatha. She had done her degree in creative writing at their university. Then she had continued to produce book after book that all became best sellers. People hoped this one would be no different. But in the university were three spies for other universities who wanted to get their hands on Agatha’s manuscript. One from Japan, one from Austria and one from Brazil. All of them wanted to have the money that they could generate from the manuscript. It would help their university to generate a lot of money that would cost them nothing. Bristol University had this earner from the manuscripts that they had become used to. That night, Agatha announced she would finish the manuscript in another three days. She locked the manuscript away as she always did and went home to her little house for the night. In the morning Agatha arrived at the usual time nine am, unlocked her office door and went to her desk to get out her manuscript, only to find that there was no manuscript. There was a loud scream from Agatha. A passing lecturer found out what the problem was and phoned the rector. The rector arrived, asked Agatha a few questions, then said, ‘get me Arthur Ratcliffe, he will know what to do.’ Arthur Ratcliffe was a lecturer in the university, who was very good at solving problems. He had helped the university many times when things had gone missing. A short man, five feet five and a half inches, with black hair and very handsome. Arthur was in his classroom giving a lecture when the rector’s secretary and a replacement lecturer arrived at his classroom. ‘Arthur, you are required by the rector,’ said the rector’s secretary, Mable. ‘Must be important or you would not have brought a replacement lecturer,’ replied Arthur. ‘It is and you must hurry,’ replied Mable. ‘Give me a few minutes to hand over to my replacement lecturer,’ replied Arthur. After a few minutes, Arthur had handed over and he left, accompanying Mabel. Arthur rushed to the rector’s office. ‘Come in Arthur, I have a problem for you to solve,’ said the Rector. He explained about the missing manuscript. ‘Leave it to me, I will get it back,’ said Arthur. ‘I hope this will help establish me as a private detective. That is my wish.’ The rector smiled. He knew Arthur wanted to become a private detective. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Arthur, since it may become true.’ Arthur first went to see Agatha. But all she told him was, ‘I locked it in my desk last night and this morning it was gone.’ Arthur observed signs around the lock, showing that someone had tampered with it. ‘Agatha was the desk locked this morning when you came into your office?’ asked Arthur. Agatha replied, “Yes, I found it locked.” ‘Has someone tampered with any of your room?’ asked Arthur. ‘Let me have a look around,’ said Agatha, and rummaged through her room. She replied, ‘Yes, someone has moved some of my things. It looks like they looked through all of my books looking for the manuscript.’ ‘Who else knows about your manuscript?’ asked Arthur. ‘You do, plus several of the people in the class I teach.’ ‘Do they know how much money that we make out of it?’ asked Arthur. ‘Not really. They know I guard it and keep it under lock and key and do not let anyone else look at it.’ ‘I will check out the pupils in your class. That is where I think the culprit may come from.’ Arthur went off to ask a few contacts. Agatha prepared for her class at ten o’clock. All of her class arrived on time, except the one from Brazil. Agatha started to teach her class and sent a message to get Arthur. Arthur knocked on Agatha’s door, and Agatha excused herself from her class. ‘Santos from Brazil is missing from the class. No one has seen him today. He is normally always on time,’ said Agatha. ‘How many pages approximately was your manuscript?’ asked Arthur. ‘Oh, that is easy,’ replied Agatha. ‘It was 612 pages. I checked it last night.’ ‘Thank you,’ replied Arthur. Arthur got the key for Santos’s room in the university halls. He opened the room. It was easy to see that he had left in a hurry, with clothes scattered all over the place. He kept on checking the room but could find nothing else. Arthur had always wanted to be a private detective. Now was his chance to show what he was capable of. Arthur contacted one of his many contacts who said he would check on the flight records out of the London Airports yesterday and this morning. His contact was back quickly. Santos flew out of Heathrow to Rio De Janeiro. He was on loan from the University of Rio De Janeiro. Arthur checked the flights, then booked himself on the next available flight to Rio. Then he went to see the university admin officer and found out all about where Santos was based in Rio. That evening Arthur took off for Rio, with all the addresses and contacts he required. The flight took fourteen hours to reach Rio. On landing Arthus booked into his hotel he had booked in advance and slept, glad to get his feet back onto Terra Ferma. The following morning Arthus went to the university to find Santos’ supervisor. He explained about the missing manuscript. The supervisor, Carlos, replied, ‘I saw Santos going to the university this morning. We can check his room while he is out.’ They made their way to Santos’ room. Hidden in his suitcase under the bed, Arthur found the missing manuscript. He replaced it with the one he had created that had 612 pages and an identical cover and first few pages. The rest of the pages were old papers Arthur had picked up. On leaving the residence, Arthur made his way back to his hotel. Packed his few belongings, booked himself on the next flight back to London that night. On arriving back in London, Arthur delivered the manuscript back to its owner. Then went to see the Rector. ‘Thank you, Arthur, we have decided to give you a cut of the profits of the book you have just rescued. This will enable you to establish your own private detective agency, which the university will be affiliated with. We can provide you with facilities, and it will contribute to the teaching of criminology.’ ‘Thank you so much,’ replied Arthur. ‘I told you to be careful what you wish for,’ said the rector, smiling.

iquqiz

The Noise Upstairs

Teri looked in the bathroom mirror, realizing this would likely be her last time ever doing so. She poured as much of the nearly full bottle of her mother’s Ambien in her hand and then into her mouth and washed it all down with a four-ounce glass of Pinot Grigio. She been plagued by a certain darkness for most of her 35 years. Like a smokey thunder cloud hovering over her life and in her mind most days. It was often hard to see the positive in things. Her glasses weren’t rose-colored—they were more of a dingy, cracked rust. That was what the world and life usually looked like through her eyes. The stress. The anxiety. The overwhelm. It felt like it was constant. Her mind so often at work. She found herself thinking…a lot. And the more she thought, the more stressed, anxious, and often depressed she would become…and often remain. Where was her joy? she would wonder. Where was her inspiration for pushing on? For sunnier days to look forward to? There seemed to be none. And she was over it. She was sure that cocktail would take effect pretty soon. After about 20 uneventful minutes passed, what she had believed was her final heavy feeling of disappointment earlier had in fact turned out not to be the last she would feel. Here it was again. I can’t even kill myself right , she thought to herself. She walked back into her childhood bedroom, which was up the hallway from that of her parents—or, her mom and stepdad—who were both at work. She didn’t plan for it to happen here. Here just was where she happened to find herself once she reached the point where her mind was finally made up. When she felt she couldn’t take it anymore. She found herself glancing at everything in sight—wondering what she would see and think, what would happen, next, after this succeeded. Soon, the furry skin of the stuffed animals neatly situated at the foot of her bed began to blur. Her eyes became heavier, followed by her body. Lights seemed to flicker, as if someone were playing with the switch in the room. Her thinking became jumbled and then distant. And then, nothing. Her eyes fully closed and her body dropped, sending a vibration through the floor. There was silence for what felt like a few short moments. And then, her eyes opened…wide. She still lay on the floor, but as she looked around, she saw it was no longer that of her bedroom. Or even anywhere in her parents’ house. It didn’t look familiar at all, but oddly, she sensed there was something about it that felt familiar, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. She lifted herself from her belly, sat up, and looked around, turning 360 degrees to try and take in the full scene. The one thing she could see was that this place was vast. It seemed endless. No boundaries. And it was brightly lit and mostly colored in a faded red—a sort of dull pink—that she couldn’t identify. She slowly rose to her feet. “Am I dead?” she whispered. “Where am I? What is this place?” She wondered if she might be in Heaven or…the other place. She also noticed a weird sensation of neutrality—something she was very much not used to feeling in her life. It was like her head was empty, as if she had no thoughts! So, maybe this is Heaven , she pondered. Surveying the vast space again, her eyes saw nothing in their view but a large door. Reluctantly, she slowly approached and then opened it. Immediately she noticed in nearly every direction: Thousands upon thousands of books. They were stacked on hundreds of parallel bookcases. As far as she could tell, all the books looked the same. They were all black, about a foot long, and an inch thick. And all hard-backs. It was like the world’s largest Encyclopedia collection. As she walked closer, she also noticed their covers all had similar, big, boxy, white lettering, although she couldn’t yet tell what they read. The books did not look like anything special, and yet she found herself inexplicably transfixed by them, drawn—so much so that she didn’t notice above each of the shelves the one thing that seemed to set them apart: a sort of numbered categorization. She walked over to one of the shelves and picked one out and was surprised by how much heavier it felt than it looked. She was so anxious to see what was inside that she immediately opened it to a random page. “I need to blow my nose,” was the first line she read on the top of the page. “Where’d I put the tissue?” the next line read. “Oh, there it is,” the one after that. She stood there for a moment, her face in a contorted expression. “What is this?” she asked aloud. She flipped to another page and began reading the middle of it. “I can’t believe I missed the bus. Mom’s going to kill me,” it read. “Hmm, how else can I get to school without asking her for a ride?” “I guess I could try walking…” It continued. “No, that would be too far.” “Or would it?” “I wonder if Shirlene’s gotten to school yet.” “Shirlene…” Teri said aloud as she read the name. Her still-contorted face gradually morphed into one of disbelief, her mouth parting into a full circle. Teri had known a Shirlene. She was her best friend in high school. And the name wasn’t exactly a “Mary” or “Chris” that you come across every day, so it definitely stood out. She hurriedly flipped to the book’s cover and finally read the big white lettering. Teresa Eileen Wiser. Tuesday, November 27, 2001. She couldn’t believe it. This was her name— her full name . But why? What was this? And she didn’t understand the date. What happened on November 27, 2001? She briefly wondered, still incredulous that her name was on the book. She opened it again, to another random page—this time, towards the end. “Go to sleep, Teri,” another random line read. Teri’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe what she was reading. “Go to sleep!” It continued. “Go to sleep!!!” “Stop thinking about that Christmas gift, Teri. Stop it.” “Sigh.. I can’t believe I spent that much on it. I hope she likes it.” “Mom hated what I got her for Christmas last year, and she never let me hear the end of it.” “She’ll probably hate this, too, but sigh.. Hopefully not.” She returned that book to the shelf, walked forward a few steps, and dove into another book. And another. And another. She wasn’t sure at first, but now she definitely knew: These were her thoughts . Every single last thought that she ever had during her lifetime, all neatly catalogued here as their own little unwilling autobiography. And from what she could gather, the dates on the cover represented one full day of her thoughts. There was a book here for every single day that she had been alive. Every single “I can’t believe I woke up late”, to “Where’s the remote?”, to “Is it Friday yet?”, to “I wonder what Shirlene is up to?” Every single thought, no matter how major or minor. So she wondered, did that mean she was currently… in her mind ? It started to add up and seem that way, but she didn’t understand the point. Was this her Heaven? Or Hell? Would she be stuck here forever? Is this what the afterlife is like? You faced with all of your life’s thoughts…for the rest of eternity? That does actually kind of sound like Hell, now that I think about it. What’s the point of it? Teri walked over to another random book, this time from a younger year. Teresa Eileen Wiser. Saturday, May 4, 1991. She opened it. “‘Work it out, den ne ne ne, just for me, de ne ne ne” a line read. “Yes! I think that sounds good. Let me write that down.” “Oh my gosh,” Teri exclaimed as her eyes traversed the familiar words. “My song I wrote!! Wow, I was only seven…” She read on. “I’ll love you forever, yes I will!” the words sang in Teri’s mind. “Ohh yeah, that’s good,” 7-year-old Teri had affirmed for herself. Teri smiled brightly, seeing her child self’s sweet thoughts of pure fun. She remembered she used to write songs, randomly. That she used to love to sing. She’d loved music. She used to tell anyone who would listen that she planned to one day be a singer/actress. That literally was how she would say it, too, when she’d share: “A singer-slash-actress.” Teri flipped to another page—this time, to thoughts during one of her many outside adventures. She remembered there were so many. She loved being outside. She loved being a little daring. “I wonder where this leads? We should go,” 7-year-old Teri had thought to herself. “Yes! They’re coming with me,” excited she’d gotten her friends to join in on the fun. The exploration continued. “Wow, that tree is huge… I wonder if I could climb it…” “I think I’m going to climb it…” “Yeah, I’m going to climb it.” And then, a bit later: “Oh my gosh! That was so fun… I can’t wait to do it again” Teri spent hours looking through this and other books of her childhood, alone. She was reminded how she used to doodle cool drawings when she found herself bored in class. How she had a whole several major storylines—a soap opera of sorts— with her Barbie and Ken dolls and their supporting cast. How she would imagine aspects of their lives that she hoped would be hers one day, when she grew up. Teri was showered in a fresh warmth she hadn’t felt in years. She found herself smiling brightly, sweetly, innocently, like she’d often done as a kid. She felt the innocence of that time. The hope. The promise and possibility of life and the world. The feeling that nearly anything was possible. She felt it. She believed it, just as she had as a kid, and it was one of the most freeing and enriching feelings she had ever experienced. Still beaming brightly, her eyes began to well and then pour—her tears, so sweet instead of salty. This. This was what she had lost, she thought. This was what she was missing all of these years. Where had it gone? She remembered she used to write and read, for fun… She used to climb trees without hesitation… And explore unfamiliar lands. During the summers, she practically lived in the pool. She’d go swimming from sun up to sun down. She used to build and invent things. Create things. Arts, crafts, jewelry, and more. She used to laugh, a lot. Used to smile a lot. She used to love thinking, being creative. Using her imagination. Having fun. She used to create whole worlds in her mind and live there for a while. Sometimes, she would bring her friends in the neighborhood in on the fun, sometimes she would enjoy it by herself. Sometimes, she would write the worlds down on paper or sing about them. Other times, she was fine living them out in her head. And friends . She used to have friends. Real friends. Friends who enjoyed her and the ideas she came up with—all the ways she was creative and quirky and adventurous. She wanted to find true love. To travel the world, to buy a house one day, to write a book. She longed to learn a few languages, to adopt a few dogs — maybe even a cat. For a long time, she even wanted her own pet monkey! That was how Little Teri dreamed. That was what Little Teri thought life was capable of. Reeling from the happy thoughts of her childhood, Teri reluctantly picked up a book from one of her more recent years. Teresa Eileen Wiser. Wednesday, September 4, 2019. “I gotta get gas,” read the first thought her eyes landed on. “Don’t run out, don’t run out…” Teri flipped to another page. “Ugh. Why in the world did I say that?” was where she landed. Here we go. “That was so stupid,” the thought continued. “Ugh.. I can’t believe I said that..” “Ugh, they probably think I’m so dumb.” These thoughts went on this way…for a while. Teri almost thought it had to be an error. No way she thought this same kind of thing…so repeatedly. It was almost nonstop, broken up only by the mundane tasks of the day—going to the bathroom, taking a shower, deciding to watch TV, and so on. Teri flipped to another page. It was more of the same. “Sigh.. Of course that didn’t work.” “I’m sure I did it wrong…” Maybe that just was a particularly bad day, she thought. She walked over and grabbed a book from a year later. Teresa Eileen Wiser. Monday, June 7, 2021. She turned to a page that seemed to be the middle of a work day. “I bet he’s only talking to me to be nice. Why else would he?” “They’re probably talking about me” “They probably hate my outfit” “Why did I even wear this? I look so fat!!” She flipped to another page. “Ugh, why am I so slow at this?” a line read and then continued. “I bet everyone else is thinking about how slow I am.” “Ugh, Teri, why are you so stupid? Why? WHY?!?!?” “Damn, you’re slow. How did you not get that?!?” “Oh my God. I honestly wouldn’t blame them if they fired you…” Teri was overcome with an indescribable heaviness. Bullied by her own thoughts, it felt as if she had been buried by cement. She felt a profound darkness, an endless sadness, deep hurt and anger. The feeling was almost too much. Her eyes welled again, but this time, they were not sweet tears. Her tears felt like fire. They poured down her cheeks aggressively. The feeling was so intense, it was as if even her tears felt it. She couldn’t couldn’t believe what she’d been saying to herself all those years. Why would anyone speak to anyone like that, let alone themselves? How could anyone be so cruel? She noticed how incredibly limiting her thinking had become, especially compared to when she was a kid. Back then, she had thought and dreamt big, open, endless, and colorfully. As an adult, her thinking had become bland, routine, rigid, self-doubting, self-deprecating, and even paranoid. Just generally negative. She saw how much she had been having these kinds of thoughts and for how long. No wonder I was ready for it to all end. Teri wondered where those kinds of voices had come from. She deduced some of it might have come from just life and growing up. But some were so specific, she figured they had to originate from something else. She thought about her mom and the kinds of criticizing things she had always said to and around her. Teri had always been closer to her dad, but she didn’t get to see him much after the divorce. She thought about some of the bullies she’d had over the years… and the few people she’d thought were friends but would only ever have negative things to say to and about her. She thought about the teachers and, later, managers she’d had who often doubted her or picked on her for no reason. Those were the voices. The voices that eventually became my voices. My voice. Teri felt a sort of sadness for her adult self. The amount of pressure, scrutiny—even from within, and an impossible reality she’d had to live in and for so long. She saw and remembered in her younger self her innate brilliance. Her creativity. Her ingenuity. Her resilience. Her self-love and self-praise…as a kid. She’d had it in her, once…before life got a hold of her. But reading those thoughts—being so close to them again made them real again. Made them achievable. Gave her something to strive for—to want to be. She longed to be the brave, brilliant, and bubbly girl who lived in the moment, never feared the unknown, and lived by her own, wonderful rules. She longed to be her child self again. The longing for it—the desire—was so strong. And yet, she was jolted back to the reality that she likely will never be able to, since she had completed her final act. “Jim, I’m telling you,” an older feminine voice suddenly blared through what sounded like loud speakers in this vast building she was in, “she’s going to pull through…” Teri looked around, trying to see where it was coming from. “Mom?” she said softly. “I hope you’re right, Janet,” replied an older male voice through the same loud speakers. She wouldn’t miss that voice anywhere. “Dad!!” She shouted loudly. “Teri?” the male voice answered back. “Dad! You can hear me?” “Oh my God, Teri. Shhh, it’s okay. Yes, we can hear you honey. Janet, go get a doctor!!” “I told you she’d come through, Jim,” her mom said, matter-of-factly and under her breath: “The girl couldn’t even kill herself right.” “Janet!!” her dad scolded. As their voices became louder and clearer, her nose began picking up the scent of rubbing alcohol, bandages, and, faintly, cleaning chemicals. She felt the heat of the bright, white hospital lights against her eyelids, their luminosity trying to break through. And finally, her eyes popped open and immediately began to adjust to the new brightness.

tl73rn

Ma

The Japanese concept of Ma has been described as a pause in time, an interval or emptiness in space. Ma is the time and space life needs to breath, to feel and connect. If we have no time, if our space is restricted, we cannot grow. This universal principle applies to every aspect of life. It was the first town since the bus had crossed the border. The small and provincial town that lies in the middle of a valley, surrounded by farms and the mountains in the distance. It arrived at 7:30 pm when the sun was still up and it would be until 10 pm as usual for these far lands. Mundo stepped out of the bus and looked around. He had no money left since he had bought a ticket to get across the border. A new country with a new language against Mundos' backpack and his spirit. Meanwhile, the evening streets were almost empty, only few people were going up and down minding their own business but it looked all right, no crowds were needed at this place. After a long ride Mundo was starving and all he could think about was food, so he decided to have his dinner at the park. Some nutritious cereals with strawberry jam should satisfy the emptiness of his stomach. While he was crossing the road, a motorcycle crossed his way. Out of blue a driver had slipped in front of him and then turned back to Mundo. They were looking at each other for a few seconds, then the driver lost his interest. "It was so quiet, I couldn't even hear the sound of his moto, it probably was an electric one" thought Mundo. While he was eating in the park he made a sign using his marker. "Ride for free". Usually, it helped him in his previous adventures. He had finished the dinner and started off going down the streets to the end of the city. There was a place where he wanted to hitchhike. It was supposed to be his first hitchhike in this country and he had no idea how it should work here. In an hour of walking, he ended up on the outskirts, close to a gasoline station. It had been a while since he started trying to stop a car and the sun was wrapping up the whole valley and its town however no cars had stopped. Mundos' plan was to stand here for twenty or more minutes and then go to camp but like always life had its own plan for him tonight and someone honked him behind. Mundo turned around. "Hello," a voice said. "Hi!" Mundo answered politely trying to see the face of a stranger. The guy was sitting on his electrical motorcycle smiling. He had driven a little bit closer to Mundo and turned off the engine, so the barely audible sound of the moto had ceased at all. He put out a phone and opened some kind of translator that Mundo had never seen before in other countries. The stranger started to write something and then a translator voiced words that explouded the silence of an inevitably upcoming night. "I saw you a few hours ago at the bus station. Who are you?" He passed to Mundo his phone. "Yes, I saw you too," Mundo said and blew his nose. The voice started to utter words that neither of them knew. "No, no," answered the boy rapidly and started to switch something in his phone, then passed it to Mundo one more time. "Yes... I also saw you there," repeated Mundo. The lovely voice started to voice an unknown language and the boy took his phone back and leaned against his ear, after he nodded and then smiled. He started to write a new message but it always took some time of him, meanwhile, Mundo was trying to stop cars but it didn't do any good. The vehicles of any kind as though they were soulless mechanisms with no living, home-hurrying, and warmhearted creatures at the steering wheels were passing by and didn't pay any attention to him. "What are you doing? May I ask?" the mechanical voice said and gained Mundos' attention off of the road again. "I am a traveler," Mundo said into the telephone and showed his sign to the boy "Now I am trying to stop a car" The boy looked at the sign and nodded a few times. Then he said by himself: "I anderstend" and smiled. Mundo smiled back timidly and reached out his pocket to take some clean tissues for his nose but they had ran out. The guy got off the moto, stepped ahead to Mundo, and continued to write a new message. Now his appearance was more clear to Mundo. He had a short haircut that looked quite neat compared to Mundos' long and tree-days-unwashed hairs, old, rather dirty than white sneakers and sports pants with some dull hoodie. His clean and shaved face looked young and he probably was the same age as Mundo. "No cars would stop here. It is getting dark. Can I help you? I want to take you to a hostel where you can sleep." Mundo finished reading the message and looked at him closely. The boy switched the languages and leaned forward the phone for Mundo to speak. A few seconds there was silence and the translator turned himself off unexpecting to record anyone's voice, so the boy looked at Mundo questioningly. Mundo looked at the road hesitantly, then at the boy. His thoughts and the situation were slink and uncertain. Again he looked at the boy and again at the road, then he sighed and said: "Thanks a lot, but I do not go to a hostel right now. I want to go to the next city. Thank you." The robotic voice started to utter it all over again. Then a car stopped by. It was driving out of a gas station. Mundo smiled at the driver, full of hope, and pointed out at himself then at the car, suggesting to the boy translate the story of Mundo. The boy nodded and they started to speak their language. In a minute the driver looked at Mundo and negatively shook her head. She was sorry. The opposite direction. No luck. "Okay, thank you," said Mundo sadly in English. The car went forward and dissolved into the evening lights of the city. It had become dark and even Mundo had already realized it was pointless to continue. He asked for the phone and the boy opened up the translator one more time. "Well, thank you for help! I think I will go now," said Mundo and sniffed his nose. "Will you go to a hostel?" asked the boy "Probably I will." answered Mundo, trying to finish it as soon as possible. In a minute Mundo had disappeared into bushes where he started his way to some peaceful and quiet place for a tent even though he didn't know any particular ones. He was quickly walking along some fields with plants and seeds, hoping to get over them as soon as possible and find a good spot for his tent. Twice he looked back and after hurrying up more and more. One more night and again he would be camping in the sticks where only the Moon is a witness. The moon is always a witness. For all of the night ramblers and Mundo as well. Some Mundo. He had made only a few hundred meters when he heard the sound from the side where the bushes were. Mundo looked back and saw that boy who was running wildly towards him. He was caught off-guards. Nor any knives or running with his heavy backpack would save him. Standing there in the middle of the fields, far from the main road and still away from another side of the fields. Too late to make his move. On his way to Mundo, not stopping, the boy started putting out something out of his pocket. Mundo, eyes wide-opened trying to predict any motions of his follower, was ready to protect himself. Just in a second before the boy would come closer to Mundo, Mundo noticed that it was just a phone in his hand and nothing else. The boy had slowed down his speed just in front of Mundo, gaspingly, showing him a new message that had turned their meeting into something incredibly different from now on. "Wait please, let's go with me, I have a place to stay." The silence of the moment was being bothered only by the inconsistent breathing of the boy. Mundo looked at the bright screen of the phone which lightened the darkness. He breathed out and slightly smiled with the corner of his mouth. "Is it far?" asked Mundo The boy looked at the phone to read the words of Mundo and said: "No, no no, no far." Mundo gladly nodded. * They were driving out of the city, from the highway along some rural road, and in 15 minutes they had reached a farm. He invited Mundo to the farm, at the control post. "I work here! I am on my night shift. I am a security guard." Then another guy stepped out of the room. The boy showed Mundo the room with cameras and one with beds where they sleep and after he started to talk with his colleague. Soon it had become a real quarrel between them. Mundo understood it. The situation was speaking for itself. "I am so sorry we cannot be here. He is afraid of you. You are a stranger," wrote the boy. "No worries. I understand you and him, no worries," said Mundo They were looking at each other for a moment and then the boy went to the control room and came back in a second with a toilet paper. He pointed out to his nose. "This is for you!" "Oh!" smiled Mundo and said, "Thank you a lot!" He blew his nose again. Clean and proper, having now heaps of paper now. "Let me buy you a room in a hostel," he wrote and started off turning on the moto. "No no no, it's not necessary! Thank you a lot," said Mundo and waved his hands negatively. "OK, what are going to do right now?" "If you know a place where I can set up my tent. I cannot camp here, the solid is riddled with stones and rubbles," said Mundo. The boy nodded, wrote a new message, and taped the button on the screen. "Follow me, I know the spot you want." They were riding for five minutes then left the moto on the road and went along the fence of the farm. The number of rubbles was increasing, at some moment it was hard to step but then all the stones started to disappear, in twenty meters only few left. Finally, they came to a meadow with a gurgling cold river. It was so unexpected to see such a good place after farms, dusty roads, and stony surfaces. Only the Moon was shining on them and lightening the place. "Do you like this spot?" asked the boy "Well thanks a lot, it's perfect. I am going to set up my tent here." "Do you need anything else?" asked the boy, using his phone. "Thank you a lot, from now on I will handle it by myself," said Mundo directly on the phone. "Okay, so I should go back to work. Have a good night! Bye!" said the boy and started walking back into the pitch darkness, back to his work. Mundo was looking at the disappearing silloute of the boy for a while and then started setting up his tent but the power of the wind that reigns among these open spaces was against it and threw a severe fight into Mundo, which he couldn't resist well. A canopy of his tent had been carried away up in the air and he couldn't catch on account of handing the other side of the tent. Every time he wanted to handle the second edge, the first one was being carried away. It had taken almost 10 minutes until the moment when out of nowhere the boy had appeared. He had caught the second side of the tent, killing the darkness with his flashlight like some kind of star warrior. They had sat up the tent in a few minutes together. The fight in which Mundo was about to be defeated unexpectedly had turned out into their victory. "Do you need something else?" asked the boy again and smiled. It seemed like he understood everything. "No, thank you so much! I am gonna brush my teeth and go to sleep." Mundo started his way to a creek, but it was too dark to not step into it, so the boy flashlights his way, and there it was. Mundo was brushing his teeth while the boy looked at him and lit the surface of a creek. Only the gurgling of the creek was breaking the silence or just making it even more natural. "What is your name?" asked Mundo, having interrupted the moment. "A?" the boy said and started putting out his phone. "Wat iz yor naem?" said slowly Mundo. "May..may naim is" he was slurring and trying to write something down at the same time but then stopped, hid away the phone, and said: "Ma. My name is Ma" "Ma?" Mundo smiled with his mouth full of toothpaste. "Mundo." "Mundo," repeated Ma "Mundo, right," said Mundo and rinsed the mouth then added "Okay, gonna sleep now." "I understand, Mundo. Good night!" wrote Ma "Thank you, Ma! Thank you for your help!" Ma nodded shyly and ran away to his control post. That night was dark and cold, even the defeated wind had fled off of these lands and only cold remained there until the morning. Mundo was freezing to the bones, half asleep he looked forward to the first sun glimpses but when he looked at the time on his phone it was 7:03 am and there was no Sun at all. He unzipped his tent and went outside. He noticed the warm air coming from his mouth. Mundo started jumping to warm up his body. That was quite the morning. He was cooking his breakfast and waiting for the Sun that was slowly coming to his spot. At night they had sat up the tent on the opposite side of the valley, so the Sun reached his place at the last moment before the whole valley would be swimming in sunlight. "Helooo!" someone screamed from the side of the farm. "Oh, hi! Good morning!" said Mundo sitting near the creek with his gas stove. Yolks of delicious fried eggs were seen in his saucer. The boy ran towards him and started to write a message, his breath inconstant, cheeks red with a natural smile. Mundo smiled at him even though Ma was occupied with an upcoming message and didn't notice it. The boy was standing in front of him, looking so simple and friendly. Mundo liked the way how the boy looked. "It has been such a cold night are you okay?" "Yes, yes," Mundo agreed and started shaking to show how he was feeling during the night. They burst out laughing. The sun had finally arrived at their place, warming the boys and the tea was giving away the steam all right. Mundo pointed out to the food. "Do you want some?" "No no no, thank u," said Ma himself without his phone. "Okay, as you wish." "I will take you to the highway, okay?" asked Ma with his phone. "Oh, thank you, no need, I will go there by myself, you have already done a lot for me, thank you, Ma." "You are welcome, Mundo, please, be careful." "And I will, Ma. Please, be careful too," said Mundo and started eating his meal. The boy was looking at him and his tent in complete silence for a while but now it didn't look strange and Mundo was peacefully enjoying his fried eggs with hot tea. In a few minutes, the boy ran in the direction of his farm. He hadn't broken the silence of the moment, so Mundo continued eating his breakfast, calmly, warming up his body with the tea, thinking about the upcoming day as though nothing had happened. They have never seen each other again.

k77hgc

Knocked Out of End Zone

   Megan crouched down behind the bleachers so she could see him without being seen. Her chest was bounding as she grasped her ample bosom. It was a hot day, and sweat glistened off her forehead down her blouse as she looked at the boy. His name was Mark and she adored him. There was just something about the glint in his eyes when he smiled at her, and the way he said her name when he called to her in the hallway. They both shared the last class of the day, Algebra, and afterwards he would head off to practice. Mark was a star player on the high school baseball team. He was an excellent hitter and played first baseman on the field.    It was practice right now. School had ended, and today more than any other day she needed to be around him. Just to be in his presence felt like an undeserved privilege to Megan.    Mark picked up the bat and put his helmet over his matted brown hair. He slapped the helmet with the rough palm of his hands to make sure it was on, then bent over the plate and laid the bat against his shoulder. He stared at the pitcher, daring him to make a move.    The first pitch was a curve ball that moved so fast that it stung the catcher’s hand as it made impact with the mitt. He grunted with the unexpected pain and threw it back. The second pitch was far to the right of the plate and would have been ball one if Mark had not swung at it optimistically. Mark was getting impatient. His grip tightened on the handle.    The pitcher threw a straight ball over home plate, but Mark saw it coming before the ball left the mitt and was able to swing fast enough to make full contact with the ball, sending it barreling into left outfield. Megan saw the baseball soar over her head above the stands flying free into the wind leaving the world behind until it fell back onto the ground with a thud about twenty meters away from where she knelt.    As he ran the bases, as if showing off his prowess, attention was diverted to the catcher’s mound. The catcher took off his glove revealing a sore hand that looked red. Looking back to where the ball fell on the grass, she dashed over to retrieve the ball.    Megan knelt down and picked up the baseball. She wanted nothing more than to walk it over to him and give it to him personally. She couldn’t understand what was holding her back. It was the same thing that made her hesitant to learn about biology as it relates to animal physiology so that she could study to become a veterinarian. Megan adored animals. At home, she took care of three rabbits, two mice, a lizard, two parakeets and two short-haired cats. All of the animals lived in the backyard under a large tent structure except the two cars who were able to roam free.    She stood up and looked at the ball. Underneath the baseball her soft hand felt the rough texture of the worn white leather cover and the intricately woven red hand-stitched lacing threads. Looking down at the ball, she thought she saw a small indentation on the ball possibly made from his bat and smiled. She felt close to him, even though they were many yards apart from each other.    “Hey, what are you doing?” A gruff voice asked. Without looking behind her, she dashed away, skirting around the gate post, vanishing behind the rosebushes.    Back at home, Megan threw herself onto the bed in her room. She sighed, looking out the window with the baseball still clenched tightly in her hand.    Her Motorola cell phone vibrated violently on her Teak Wood nightstand. Megan grabbed the phone with her right hand and answered it. It was her friend Natalie. “Hello” she said, lying back down on the bed.    “Hey Megan.” Natalie replied cheerfully.    “Well, today, was quite a day,” Megan said, her legs feeling sore. “There was a pop quiz in Physics that I was SO no ready for, and I forgot my English book in my locker so I had to share with Sharon. You know, the cheerleader. She is Ms. Perfect.” A trace of resentment could be heard in her voice.    “I told you, you should’ve taken Biology for your science, its less math.” Natalie stated.    “Yeah, but I will take it next year. I’ll be better then.”    “Megan, where were you? We were going to meet up today.” No answer. Was the line dead? Natalie continued. “We were going to meet up after class. We were going to study for the history test coming up. What happened?”    Megan slapped her forehead and sighed. “I’m sorry, I forgot!”    “It’s Mark, isn’t it.” Natalie said, smiling.    “Well, I just wanted to see him. I was at the mound and saw him. It was just, I’ve been thinking about him so much. You know, I think he grew half a foot over the summer, he is so much bigger now. His is just so sweet and helps me out so much in math class.”    “If you like him so much, why don’t you ask him to the dance next month?”    Megan’s face turned red. “Oh, I could never do that. He is not into me in that way at all.” She giggled.    “Girl, you need a new wardrobe.” Natalie said. “What’s say we go shopping tomorrow? My older sister can take us.”    Megan’s face lit up. She always liked going shopping, and her wardrobe definitely needed a makeover. Plus, she had some money saved up from her sumer job working at a camp. “You bet” she said.    “Ok, meet me in the front of the tennis courts after school. And this time, be there.”    With that, Megan said goodbye to her friend. She went into her closet and brought down a brown briefcase. She entered the passcode and opened it. Inside was a diary covered in rose petals, a picture of Mark cut out of the year book and a red pen. Megan put the baseball into the briefcase and closed it up, then put it back in the closet.    The next day was warmer than the last. Megan wore jean shorts a white shirt and a pair of white sneakers. She was excited for the end of the day; it was just not coming fast enough.    At lunch, Megan and Natalie met up together and planned out the afternoon. They were going to head to Express, Aeropostal, Claire’s and Nordstroms, and then after shopping go to Starbucks.    It was early afternoon as Megan headed to her last class, chewing gum like that of a baseball player on the mound getting ready to hit a homer. There were only a few seats available since she had taken her time freshening up on her makeup before hand. Thankfully one of the seats was next to her crush, and she made no hesitation sitting next to him.    Mark was wearing a baseball cap, with his brown hair falling out of the end. His brown eyes were astute looked sharp, showing drive not found in the other guys there. Megan twirled her black hair with her fingers as the teacher began the lesson on substitution. The class seemed to race by as she sat next to him, wishing his gaze was on her instead of the white board. At the end of the lecture, the teacher had each student pair up in teams to try to answer the problem on the board.    Obviously, Megan paired up with Mark. As they started working on the substitution problem on the board, the conversation turned to the dance.    “Do you know about the party coming up on Saturday? You know, at Alex’s house, his parents will be away then on their cruise. He’s having everyone from school there.”    “I can’t make it.” Mark said. “I have practice then.” Nothing further was said by him, so she continued.    “Aww, shucks, It’ll suck then.” She smiled wryly. “Maybe I’ll see you around at the next game. Are you going to the dance?” She asked, her eyes bright.    “Umm, I’m not sure yet.” He said avoiding an answer.    “I’m going.” She replied, and the bell rang before another word could come out. He started packing his backpack up. The teacher told the class that he was going to go over the answer in the next class. She touched his arm. “Mark”.    “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I can’t be late. The team’s counting on me.” It seemed like an excuse, but she had to swallow it as he got up and left the room.    She put her binder and book in her backpack and left the room. At the tennis courts she met up with her friend. A green Chevrolet Malibu drove up, and the two girls got in the car. “Thanks for the ride” Natalie said, flicking her voluminous brown hair as she sat down and fastened her seat belt.    “Don’t mention it.” Her sister replied. “Just know you owe me after this.”    At 3:30PM, the two girls arrived at the mall and started shopping for evening dresses for the upcoming dance. Megan found a dress immediately, and wanted to buy accessories at Claire’s but Natalie wasn’t ready yet, so Megan agreed to go to Claire’s and meet her there.    Claire’s was on the second floor, so Megan took the escalator up. On the upper floor, Megan saw a strange store on the other side that sold strange trinkets that she had never seen before between the bathrooms and the Williams & Sonoma. She walked over to it, curious. The front said Odds n Ends.    Megan walked inside. Incense filled the air, making her cough. Candles, jewels, perfumes and lotions lined the shelves, and dream catchers and old clocks were on the walls.    “Can I help you.” A mysterious bald man with a moustache, wearing trousers and bowling shoes, appeared suddenly in front of her.    “Oh! I just wanted to see what was in this store, is all.”    “Is there something you are looking for, maybe?”    “Do you have any perfumes, maybe” She asked.    “A young gentleman?”    Megan looked at him before saying anything. “Yes”    “And you would do anything for him”    She nodded her head.    He walked over to a shelf in the back of the store and produced a vial with a green substance inside.    “This is a strong aphrodisiac of sorts.”    “For me?” She asked.    “No, for him. It will make him fall in love with you.”    She looked at the vial, unsure of what to do. “Ok”    He looked at her curiously. “How old are you?” he asked.    “Fourteen.”    “Tell you what, I will give it to you for the price of $10, a real bargain. But once you buy it, you cannot return it. No refunds.”    “Ok, I will take you.” She dug into her purse for the money and put it down on the counter.    The man grabbed the money and gave her the vial. “Be careful what you wish for.” He said to her with a wink. She turned away and left the store, putting the vial in her purse.    It was a quarter past four when Natalie finally met up with her at Claire’s. “What took you so long?”    “I had to find this.” Natalie showed off the shimmering, bright dress.    They wrapped up their shopping, when Megan told her friend about the store where she had bought the vial. When Megan led her to the location where it should have been, there was just a space under construction for a new luxury goods store. Natalie raised her eyebrow. “I think it’s time we go home.”    Megan couldn’t understand it. Was it all just a dream? Not possible, she had the vial on her person.    The next day, she went to the locker rooms during lunch when no one was around and was able to locate Mark’s locker. It was unlocked, so she got it open and spread the green liquid on his mitt, put it back in the locker and immediately left.    Over the next few weeks, Mark’s demeanor had slowly changed from being friendly to being flirty. They had begun walking the halls together, and would even sit down and eat lunch together. He would frequently ask her how her day was, and would get jealous of her spending any time with her friend Natalie. It was starting to frustrate her, as she felt that she needed space, but she forgot about it as soon as she saw his smile when he saw her and hugged her. When she worked up the courage to ask him to go to the dance with her, he passionately agreed, but she was still worried about his more aggressive demeanor.    When the dance came, she found him at her door to pick her up when they originally agreed to meet at the high school. Her mom called out from the hall, “Megan, a young man is here to see you.” Her parents already knew about him, and were fine with him as their daughter’s love interest.    Megan came to the door and greeted him wearily. “Hi Mark.” She took his hand, and he kissed her. They headed out to the dance.    When they got there, a big group was already there waiting to get in. “Hey, Mark.” One of his teammates called to him from inside. Mark walked over to talk to him, probably to see if they could get in sooner. Natalie was with her date, a small guy with blonde hair and brown eyes from English class. They walked over to Megan.    “You came with him?” Natalie asked her incredulously. Megan had told her that he had become more aggressive, but discarded it as just a phase.    “Yes, I just want to give him a chance after last week.” She felt unsure about the whole thing.    Natalie wanted to see where the bathroom was so she excused herself.    Suddenly, Mark approached Megan and Natalie’s date John. “What are you doing with my girl?” He growled.    “No-Nothing” John stammered.    “Back off of her” He violently shoved him away, took her hand and went in. The lights were flashing and the walls thumped with new age music as Megan's new boyfriend danced with her nonstop. He kept telling her how much he wanted her and how no one else deserves her. He was only fourteen, and kept putting his hand on the top of her breast while kissing her face. She just wanted to get out of there. As it approached 10PM, she told him that she was getting tired and wanted to go home. He agreed, realizing that he would need to get up early for practice tomorrow. She couldn't stand it, the potion had created a monster. She grabbed the briefcase and threw it on the bed, emptying its contents. Grabbing everything she had owned relating to him, she went to the den and threw it in the fireplace, and lit a fire. The embers consumed everything in the fireplace. She put her hands to her head, furious at what had become and accidentally knocked a few books off the shelf next to the fireplace on the rug. The embers jumped onto the books, and soon the room was ablaze. The fire alarms came on, and her dad immediately saw the blaze and called the fire department. But it was too late, her daughter was trapped in the room surrounded by fire. Mark had come by with a bouquet of roses so obsessed with his beloved that night, and saw the fire. Leaving the flowers on the lawn, he rushed inside to save her. He went through the door, picked her up and walked out, covered in first degree burns. Outside, he was bewildered, not knowing where he was or why he was there. The spell had worn off. "I'm so sorry." He said after seeing the blaze. "I didn't know." He said goodbye, and let her go.

sii48a

A Flash in the Pan

 Wade saw the house's roofline and hiked along the forest's edge. It was ten minutes until 12:00 noon when he walked past it initially, but the tall spires and darkened stained glass windows' Gothic look weren't to be ignored. He'd never seen an actual Gothic mansion before—only what he'd seen in movies and knew about from what he read in books. The house piqued his interest, and Wade, without thinking about the possibilities of anything untoward, quickened his pace toward the front door. He stepped onto the porch with a high, double-arched ceiling and noticed a broken window and shards strewn across the porch floor. He wondered why someone would try to get out and if the person got out. He grabbed the steel doorknob; it felt cold in his hand. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge. As he was about to leave, the door opened wide, and a gust of wind pushed him into the house. When the door slammed, it sounded like the final nail in a coffin. He stood in the foyer, which was lit with candles throughout. He heard squeaky floorboards and low, torturous moans. There was an unexplainable sense of someone watching him as the candles flickered. He felt a light touch on his shoulder, and a female voice whispered his name. He turned to see a woman. Her voice was soft, and the floor-length gown was a deep, Manik red velvet. "You look like you're going to a ball," he said. Her pinned blonde updo off her neckline showed her pearl necklace and matching earrings. " We're going to a ball." She giggled. Her powdered cheeks and ruby-red lipstick captivated Wade. "I'm Sophie. I've been waiting for you. Ready?" She took Wade by the hand. "You've been waiting for me? What do you mean? You don't even know me. How do you know my name? What the hell's going on?" "Precisely." "I don't want to go to a ball. I came here to look around and see what's inside this place." "Oh, you'll see in good time. Trust me." She tugged on his shirt, and they ascended a few stairs. They stopped when a book dropped. Wade picked it up and read the spine. "Thirteen Ghosts." Old portraits of the dead and eerie landscape paintings hung on the staircase walls, laden with cobwebs and dust. "Take this bag to keep the book in while we move forward to the ball," she said, handing him a bag. His mind raced through the Gothic horror stories he'd read. He remembered repeatedly reading about how appearances were sometimes deceiving and how reality oftentimes can be far scarier than fiction. He wondered about Sophie—was she a rose with thorns? Regret over his decision to investigate the house fueled his desire to flee. A shadow flickered at the corner of his eye. He caught a woody scent that lingered in the air. Tobacco smoke? A thunderous voice rattled the house. The walls appeared to be waltzing. A spine-tingling fear shot through his body. The voice taunted them with an eerie version of an old song meant to lure children out of hiding. "Sophie, Wa-de, come out, come out, wherever you are." Terrified, Wade's teeth chattered. Sweat dripped down his back, pooling at the waistband of his underwear. His body temperature rose like mercury on a mid-July scorcher. "Who's that? How does he know my name? Sophie, what's going on?" "Don't worry about him. We need to keep moving forward. Your tuxedo is in the bedroom on the left.” She looked into his eyes. Wade jerked his head back, focusing on Sophie's appearance. "Besides Wade, some things are on a need-to-know basis." She grabbed Wade's hand, and they climbed the stairs. They entered the room off the landing to the right. "Wade, come on." She pulled him along, leading him to a particular stack of books in the back of the room. She went through the books and into the maze. Wade stopped short. “I’m out of here.” He heads for the stairs. He thought he heard Sophie gasp from somewhere within the wall. Wade jumped from the landing on the run to hurl himself down the stairs. Think Wade. You've got to get to the door. Run. He kept his eye on the front door; it seemed so close. He ran faster to no avail. He realized he was no closer to the door. Now he understood why his grandmother said, "Your friend's running in a bushel basket, always moving but getting nowhere." Wade looked at the stairs. He had only taken two steps from the top of the landing. He held his head, moaned, and slid down the wall. He put his back against the wall and slid into a seated position. He waited for his fear to subside. In his anger, he knocked the column of books over and found a narrow door behind it. It opened, and he squeezed through. Inside the constricted walls lit only by torches, Wade yelled for Sophie in a loud, aggravated tone. "Sophie! Are you here? Answer me. Why can’t I get down the stairs? How can you do this to me?" Wade shouted down the torch-lit hallway. " It feels like the walls are closing in on me. Are you trapped here, too?" His eyes caught frightening shadows in the gloomy corridor, drawing closer to him. As he searched the walls, looking for something that might help him protect himself, he noticed goggles in the wall and rats running in and out of them. He smelled a familiar fragrance, and he turned and saw Sophie by his side. "Wade, aren't you adorable? Especially when you're passionate about something. Yes. It's true; the stairs do that to everyone who has been on them at one time or another. And, yes, I do live here; this is my home now. I couldn't leave with you if I wanted to. But enough talk of this; let's head to the ball." She smiled at him. "We have a dance to get to." "Sophie, I don't have time for your ball. I'm still working on a way out of this place. Trust me, Sophie; I know plenty of dances, but my priority is finding a way out. Now, about the book that dropped." Before Wade could say anything more, another book dropped. "The Haunting." His nerves jumbled, and he tasted pipe tobacco. Sophie picked up the book, slipped it into the bag, and covered her ears. "Listen, Wade, just keep collecting the books and dropping them into the bag; let me worry about everything else, okay?” She said. “Right now, I suggest we keep heading toward the ball." "No, show me how to get out!" Wade said as he panted like a caged feral animal. "To survive the voice, we must arrive at the gala." Sophie grimaced. The two ran until Wade's adrenaline was exhausted, then sat on the hardwood floor. "Why's he chasing us?" Wade said. "I owe him books and overdue fees. But he wants something else from me, and I don't want to give it to him. I don't know what he wants from you. But Wade, I don't like trouble—suffice it to say if he catches us, we'll have to give him whatever he wants." "Well, I'm not giving him anything. I'll take my chances with him at a man-to-man meeting." "Choose your words cautiously, and mind what you wish for." Her breath puffed out as the temperature dropped to 25 °F. Wade's teeth chattered as a shiver ran through the hair on the back of his neck and down his backbone. They ran to keep Wade warm more than anything else, but they still aimed to reach the ball. They stopped when the next book dropped. "Why is this happening? I'm freezing?" Wade said through his blue lips as he hopped from foot to foot, shivering aloud. He squeezed Sophie in a bear hug. The realization wrapped around him like a twisted sheet wraps a tortured soldier in a night of terror. "I wish this book-dropping would stop! I'm nuts over trying to figure out why it's happening. And now, you expect me to run from this guy? Someone I've never met when I don't know what he wants from me?" Wade stopped talking to pick up another book. "The Uninvited," he said aloud. "Why this book?" He thought as he added it to the bag and saw bright lights over a door down the deep, dark corridor. Sophie shrieked with delight. "Aaaaah! Wade, we're here. At last, I'll get my dance." She led him to a well-lit doorway with torches over a sign overtop: "Gala Ball." The ballroom's wheat-coloured gold theme mesmerized them, leaving them breathless and speechless due to its overwhelming grandeur and opulence. Its vaulted ceilings had scalloped edging and painted artwork. "See those archway entries? This room is something else," Wade said. His eyes fell on the decorative inserts and sconces that hugged the high walls, and he suddenly recognized how small and plain he appeared. "Look, they even glossed the hardwood, parquet floor for us," Sophie said. "Would you look at the gold leaf and scrollwork on the columns around the room? We'll be dancing with each of them soon," she smiled with a wide grin. "After our dance, maybe we could climb the spiral staircase and see the place from one of those curved observation balconies," Wade suggested, pointing to the second floor. He grabbed two flutes of champagne with their golden bubbles that rose to the top of the glass. They toasted each other and took a sip. Elegant floral arrangements and sprays were on tables around the room, covering the foul, stale air. "I've never felt so important and out of place at the same time before," Wade said as he looked down at his clothes and shoes. "Nonsense. You look great to me. Put the bag of books down so we can foxtrot?" She pointed to the floor. “Yes, the music called for the foxtrot. Do you know how to foxtrot?" Wade asked. "No, do you?" Sophie said, dejected. She looked at her feet. "Yes. I do. You know how to waltz?” Wade said as a joke. “Yes, don’t be silly.” She said. "There isn't much difference between the waltz and the foxtrot. It’s in the timing: the foxtrot is 4/4, the waltz is 3/4. If you already know how to waltz, learning the foxtrot is just a matter of rhythm. You'll see. I’ll lead you with my arms and legs; mirror me with your opposite arm and leg." He led the dancing, and she followed. They danced to the music beneath the candlelit crystal chandeliers spiralling down from the ceiling, illuminating the shimmering golden walls and parquet floor. "It's like we're dancing on a golden sea. Such elaborate opulence—all for us.” She giggled. Wade pulled her into him as they faced each other, their bodies pressed together, stopping at the top of the breast bone. His heartbeat was like a woodpecker pecking wood. He swayed left, and she swayed right. They stepped in a feather finish to the three-step slow foxtrot, their legs moving in synch as they shadowed one another with opposites. Their opposite arms outstretched together, maintaining a line of centre. The other hand rested on their shoulders. They glided across the floor and passed a full-length mirror; Wade thought he saw only shadows. He looked again. He saw himself but wasn’t sure what he saw other than Sophie. Horror ran through his body like a cheetah and remained inside, stuck like a sloth that weighed him down. He was speechless. The music stopped. The sweet smell of pipe tobacco wafted through the room. And then the voice bellowed, "Leave the ballroom." "He knows where we are? How? Does he sound agitated to you?" Wade held his closed fists to his forehead; sweat rings emerged under his armpits and around his shirt's neckline. "I have a bad feeling about this guy. What is he after me for? One thing's for sure: I am done running," he said as he picked up the bag. The voice echoed throughout the ballroom. "Time's up." She whispered to Wade, "He's the librarian here." "A librarian? You're joking. For whom?" With a shaky voice. "The librarian always gets what he asks for, regardless of anything else going on in this house," Sophie said, her lip in a pout. Wade considered her words. "So this is it? How do I fit into this mess?" Before she could answer, "The Haunting of Hill House" dropped into the bag. And another, "House on a Haunted Hill," fell at Sophie's feet. Wade nodded at her to pick it up. The second she dropped the book into the bag, she murmured, "Sorry, Wade." Her appearance changed. He saw a red-eyed, cobwebbed-covered, skeletal ghoul draped in soiled rags. Wade jumped at the sight of her. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in disbelief. He was stunned. His hand flew to his mouth, muffling an involuntary gasp as creepy crawlies ran over his body like ants on an anthill. He thought back to when he met her. He heard her voice before he saw her. He must have created a visual of her before he turned around. And there she was—his living vision. It was so disturbing that it provoked Wade to think more about his time in the house. His mind flashed back to the full-length mirror while they danced. His stomach swirled in terror. His head burned hot. He stomped on the floor, yelled, "Aa-aa-gh-gh,” gritted his teeth, and cut his eyes at Sophie. Then he backed away from her as if she were a leper. A wicked wind whipped up. Wade's strength did not match it; it blew him out of the ballroom, back through the walls, and landed him in the library. The final face-off for Wade came when he smelled the smoke of a pipe and saw evidence of nicotine lingering in the dust on the librarian's desk. "You need a library card to come in here. But don't worry, Wade, it's free. I'll make you one now." "No." Wade held his hand up to the man. "You keep it. I won't be needing it. We came to return these books." He dumped the bag on the counter and turned to let Sophie speak for herself, but she was gone. "She never told me what you wanted from her, but whatever it was, she didn't want you to take it from her." Wade stared at the pipe while he spoke as a place for his eyes to focus on. He wondered where she had gone to hide. She must've been holding out on him the entire time. It was a put-on from the get-go. His thoughts fed his anger. "I'd like to leave now," Wade said. He saw the librarian's black cat as it ran across the desk. It had Wade's library card in its mouth. It jumped at Wade, slipped the card into his hand and landed on its feet before him. It meowed and then ran off.  The librarian looked Wade in the eye. "You're one of us now. The card proves it. We all have one. Everyone who lives here lives here forever. You can never leave. Sometimes, being curious can bring unwanted consequences." The librarian broke into a full-teeth smile; Wade saw yellow-dotted, tobacco-stained teeth. He opened his mouth to respond and heard an unsettling laugh escape his lips. He collapsed. He couldn't believe it. He was ashamed of who he had become and frustrated that he was stuck there forever. "In time, you won't consider leaving anymore. Contrary to what you think, it's a flash in the pan." *** Wade stopped to admire himself in the mirror. He adjusted his bow tie. He greeted the newcomer in the foyer. The door opened by itself as his watch read 10 minutes until noon. A gust of wind ushered her in. She looked around and said to Wade, "What a beautiful house!" "Yes, Diane, it is."

d2yaru

The Rollercoaster

"The Cyclone," a roller coaster renowned for its heart-stopping loops and gravity-defying turns, have the time of your life," the advertisement had read. The moment she was buckled in her seat, the cute boy who sat next to her gave her a wink. She couldn't believe her luck, she never sat next to cute boys. He was in front of her in the line, but she thought he’d go in the front row, given her usual luck. But today seemed like her lucky day. It all changed in the next couple of minutes. Now there were screams all around her. As she dangled 100 ft above ground, strapped to her seat, all she could do was shout. She had planned her whole life with him the moment she laid eyes on him, and he gave her a little smile. He had red hair and was wearing a Flash t-shirt, so he was also a DC fan just like her. Standing behind him, she had noticed his expensive shoes, that meant their kids could go to private school. Though he was wearing only a mildly expensive watch, which probably meant there was no trust fund waiting for him. But she could try to adjust, after all she was adjusting to her meagre waitress salary also. All she needed from him was his name and then the rest she could easily find out from her trusted internet searches. She would not go as far to call herself a stalker, but she could easily get enamored by people. His backpack suggested he went to a state university, no ivy league but she would adjust. The adjustments she was already making for this man, he better be worth it. But what if one of his friends or siblings had loaned him that backpack and he was just a junkie who spent his time under the bridge getting high. She shuddered at the thought. She couldn’t possibly go through all the withdrawal symptoms again like her father. But she would never leave his side no matter how difficult it got. She was loyal like that. She had never broken up with any of her boyfriends no matter how difficult they became or however much they called her clingy. The moment they sat down, and their elbows brushed together, an electric current went through her and she smiled knowing it was fate that had brought them together. Afterall, he could have sat at any other seat but, here he was, sitting next to her. Hence, they were meant to be together. Their babies would look cute too, she especially wanted the girls to have his red hair and not her dirty blonde hair. Wouldn't they look cute in their matching sky-blue dresses with dolphin pins in their beautiful red hair? They would have his eyes but her smile. It would be even better if they could be twins. But twins were so much work. Maybe two years apart would be much better. She wanted a big family in a beautiful house in a nice suburb. She just hoped he would be able provide her with everything she wanted, after all he was the love of her life, her fated lover, who had waited for her over many centuries to be united with her again. That wink from him confirmed every thought in her head. He loved her just as much and was waiting for an opportune moment to propose to her. The carnival music sounded like wedding music to her ears. The moment the roller coaster started, the boy next to her squeezed her hand, he seemed a little afraid. But he was her knight in shining armor, how could he be afraid? The way her seat had groaned, she was also a little afraid. But she didn't show it, she decided to be the strong one for the sake of all their future children. She hoped they had checked the ride properly before strapping them all in and sending them on the ride of a lifetime. But she was confident nothing could harm her today, she had just found her soulmate, the universe could not be so cruel as to take him away from her the same day. She imagined herself in black mourning clothes that she would wear for the rest of her life in his honor. She did not like the image at all. As the ride started shakily, she looked at him dreamy eyes, encouraging him to talk to her, but if he seemed afraid earlier, he looked petrified now. That’s when she felt the first pangs of doubts, was he really her prince charming? What kind of scaredy kids would they have together if he himself was so intimidated by a roller coaster? How could he be her knight in shining armor? How could she take him home to her father? He would eat the boy alive and not even burp. Instead of squeezing her hand, now he was crushing it uncomfortably. She tried to pry her hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. His eyes looked big as saucers, and he looked like he could puke at any moment. If he spoiled her new dress, she would never forgive him, despite his red hair. Just as she was regretting sitting next to him, the roller coaster jolted forward, the clanking of the chain lift growing louder as it ascended the steep incline. The first drop was exhilarating, the wind whipping through their hair as the coaster plunged downward. Laughter and screams mixed together, creating a cacophony of joy. The Cyclone twisted and turned, the world becoming a blur of colors and sounds. Then came the first loop, and the coaster soared upside down, defying gravity. She was enjoying herself so much that it took her a while to notice that the boy who was squashing her hand a few seconds back was not holding it anymore. She turned to look at him and saw that he had already fainted. She was relieved as now she could enjoy her ride in peace without having to worry about him too. But as they reached the apex of the loop, something went terribly wrong. There was a loud, metallic snap, followed by the groan of twisting metal. The coaster jerked to a sudden halt, hanging precariously upside down. Panic spread through her as the realization set in—she was trapped. Below, a crowd gathered, their faces a mixture of horror and helplessness. Parents held their children close, shielding their eyes from the unfolding nightmare. The carnival music, once cheerful, now seemed hauntingly out of place. The boy next to her came back to his senses and fainted right back when he saw the view from his seat. Not for the first time in her life, she started thinking that she may not survive it. Minutes ticked by, each one an eternity. The structure of the coaster groaned under the strain, and the unthinkable happened. With a final, catastrophic screech, the section of the track holding the car gave way. Her screams were drowned out by the deafening crash as the car plummeted to the ground. Emergency responders rushed to the scene, but it was too late. The once jubilant Cyclone now lay in a shocked silence, the air heavy with grief. Whoever saw them together, holding hands lying in each other's embrace thought of them as lovers. 

w9e3j9

The Lesson of the Lamp

        Maria could not believe her eyes. There, underneath some rocks was a dull looking lamp. Maria had just seen Aladdin in the movie theater, and had laughed at how improbable the action all was. Should she rub the lamp? She shivered with delight. Maria had been visiting her aunt’s family a few hours away from home. Today had been beach day, and Maria was seemingly alone on the beach. Her aunt and cousins had begged her to join them at a nearby Italian restaurant, but Maria felt the urge to stay and soak in more rays. Maria wished she could just pause time right now. She stretched out and sunk her feet more deeply in the warm sand. The air smelled like damp and her orange scented sunscreen. She shook the sand from her hands, and pulled her light brown shining hair behind her. She picked up the lamp, stared at it, and then rubbed the side of it. Her gray hazel eyes opened wide in astonishment as she saw some tiny purple smoke issuing out of the lamp. She gasped audibly, and the wind took her voice away further down the beach. A figure grew slowly out of the smoke, retaining a smoky aura around it. It resembled a man with purple skin, a filmy robe of purple, slanted eyes, small nose, long thin mustache, and a wide mouth. On his feet were shiny gold pointed shoes. The vision simply said, “I will grant you three wishes. Choose carefully.” Maria laughed nervously, and then hoped she did not offend the creature. She said placatingly, “I am sorry for my behavior. Please have patience with me. I will try to think of my first wish, and then I will need some time.” Maria thought, trying not to be distracted by the purple vision above her. What did she need? She had just silently wished to pause time, but was there something else? She needed money, she decided. Her parents had many children, and they could give nothing for her education. She had tried to find a well paying job, but had struck out time and again. Yes, it had to be money she would request. “Genie, please grant me lots of money.” The genie looked slightly bored, and said, “Everyone asks for that. I hope your next wishes will be more creative. There are more ways of securing your financial needs than just asking for money.” With a sigh, he snapped his fingers, and there at Maria’s sandy feet lay a large, brown leather handbag. Maria peered wonderingly inside and saw countless bundles of fifty dollar bills. There also seemed to be room in the bag to place the lamp. Maria shed a few tears of gratitude and surprise. Then she saw her aunt and cousins coming down the beach from a great distance, and quickly thanked the genie, tucking the lamp into the large purse. The genie smoothly dissolved back into the lamp, as her relatives came closer. They did not appear to notice. Maria failed to spot a pair of binoculars on her from the other side of the beach. An old witch had seen all. She placed a tracking spell on Maria so she could find her wherever she went, because she coveted the lamp for herself. Maria’s aunt was a plump, middle aged woman of cheerful disposition and generosity. She came forward and asked, “Where did you get that large bag, Maria?” Maria deflected the question, by hurriedly asking, “How was dinner? Did you like what you ordered?”  “Maria, are you feeling hungry yet? We had a marvelous Italian dinner, and have brought you some excellent spaghetti bolognese.” Maria said, “Thank you, I will enjoy that. Did you see anything odd on the beach?” Her aunt and cousins replied no, and it seemed they were sincere. “Oh, I thought I saw something,” Maria hastily replied. Maria tucked the bag behind her by pressing her arm with the handle tightly to her, and hoped they would forget about her new accessory. They did forget. She was back in their cozy home before more words were passed between them. Everyone seemed slightly drained by all the fresh air, and they soon separated for their different rooms. Maria entered her room and without bothering to open the leather purse, shoved it underneath many clothes in her suitcase. She was happy that she was not taking an airplane home, but instead, riding in a car, and would not have to explain the unusual contents of her bag to airport security. A few days later, Maria was back home with her family, hugging them, and telling them about most of her vacation, leaving the part with the lamp out. A few hours after celebrating their reunion, Maria was anxious to be left with her own thoughts, and pondered the choice of her next wish. Maria had a crush on Stewart, a fellow college student who lived near her, but he was practically a stranger to her. She had seen him, heard many good things about him, but did not know how to introduce herself. She began to wonder if Stewart’s affection could be won by wishing for it.  The next day, she went to the bank and opened an account with all the money. When the curious bank executive wanted to know how she came upon so much cash, Maria declared it was a gift, and left it at that. The bank executive saw the money was legitimate, and opened an account for Maria. The money secured, Maria was left to contemplate her wish of attachment to Stewart. As she stared dreamily out her window, the lamp resting on her bed, Maria noticed a hideous face suddenly appearing in the frame of her window. The misshapen predatory eyes were riveted with greed upon the dull lamp beside her. She knew instinctively that this person wanted the lamp, and had evil intentions besides. Maria grabbed the lamp, and rubbed quickly. Out spiraled the purple smoke and the genie appeared. Maria nervously squeaked, “For my second wish, I wish that that person outside be kept always far away from me.” The genie turned and saw the old hag, and smiled with interest. He snapped his fingers, and instantly, the old witch had disappeared from view. Maria could not resist asking the genie, “What did you do with her?” The genie replied, “I placed a magic thorn hedge between her and you, so that she can never get near where you are.” “What if she finds a way to rid herself of this hedge?” “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never seen one of my magical acts reversed. You may want to reserve your third wish just in case.”        Maria felt deflated after this. She stowed the lamp back in the bag, more sad than she ever imagined a possessor of a magic lamp could be. How would she live happily ever after with Stewart if she had to worry that some old witch would come and steal her lamp? After a few minutes of dejection, she began to see things in a new light. Maybe the witch would be kept away. Maybe she could just gather courage and meet Stewart the old fashioned way. Maybe she didn’t need another wish. After all, she had the money for her education. Didn’t she always tell herself that everything would be fine if she didn’t have that worry? Maria began to make a plan. She would have her mother invite Stewart’s family to dinner. Then she would make conversation with him. She would assure that Stewart sat across from her at the table. She went to ask her mother if she would invite the Maddens over for the next Saturday. Her mother agreed, having met Stewart’s mother once or twice before, and liking her. Meanwhile, the wicked witch was trying her best to break the spell that divided her from the lamp. Oh the things she would do with three wishes! It would be such a source of power and pleasure. She tried a spell of removal, but the hedge remained. The hedge at least remained a marker to show where the lamp was at any given time. For the most part, it did not move, because Maria had left the lamp in her bedroom in a suitcase, and had all but forgotten about it in her anticipation of Saturday night. Friday evening came and the witch was determined to break the spell of the impediment hedge. She tried to convert the hedge into bubbles, but although a few bubbles flew out of her wand, that didn’t work. She tried to make the hedge edible, but that didn’t work at all, then finally she remembered a spell to make an object bouncy, and she tried that. It was very daring for her to see if she succeeded in making the thorny appearing hedge harmlessly bouncy, so she sacrificed a frog to jump onto it, and see how it fared. The frog bounced up onto the top of the hedge, and disappeared without a sound. So the witch did the same. With a brave bounce, the witch found herself in Maria’s room as she slept, and after searching for a minute, the witch quietly located the lamp. What a triumph! The witch had not forgiven Maria for wishing her away, and causing her some sleepless nights, so she was determined to get her revenge. The witch decided to spy on Maria, and see how best to hurt her. She soon discovered that Maria was eagerly awaiting Stewart Madden in order to win his heart. She returned to her cottage to plan. Saturday dawned bright and beautiful, and Maria felt her spirits soar at the thought of dinner with the Madden family that evening. She put on a white sundress, and took special care with her hair and makeup. Stewart arrived, a tall, dark haired youth with large blue eyes, and with him, his mother, father, and cute little sister Theresa. Maria welcomed them along with her parents and many siblings. By Maria’s ingenuity, Stewart sat across from her, and Theresa sat across from Maria’s younger sister Sophia. Stewart was so charming, as she always imagined he would be. He had mentioned seeing her around the college, and Maria was delighted. Her only preoccupation was to not be overly eager with Stewart, and wear her heart on her sleeve. She thought she was managing the situation well, when the witch appeared behind a nearby column, and pointed her wand at Maria. Maria then croaked every time she opened her mouth! Maria soon discovered this, and pretended she choked on some food, and left for the bathroom. The witch was gleeful at her handiwork, and went home to be granted her first wish. Maria realized she had been cursed by the witch as she searched in vain for the missing lamp. She knew that the witch had bested the genie’s protective spell. Oh why didn’t she ask for the witch to be turned into a worm or something? That would have neutralized her!        Maria dashed a note to her mother saying she didn’t feel well, and gave it to Sophia, who had come to see how she was. Well, now she knew how the little mermaid felt, unable to use her voice, or even more, like that prima donna from Phantom of the Opera. Maria decided she hated magic of any kind. Better to have never found the lamp, than to be under this curse.   The Madden family went home soon after that. They expressed concern for Maria, and hoped she would feel better. Stewart thought he liked Maria very well, and planned to have coffee with her soon. Mrs. Madden liked Maria’s mother equally well, and invited her to their house the next week. Maria’s mother accepted the invitation for all the family. The witch was so pleased with herself, and had no hesitation, back in her cottage, to ask the genie to make her beautiful, for her first wish. The genie snapped his fingers, and she turned into a beautiful brunette, with smooth peachy skin, and a perfect elegant figure. Her eyes were an emerald green, and her teeth straight and white. The witch spent the rest of the evening just staring at her beautified self in wonder.         Maria wondered how she was going to navigate her life without speaking. She found a dry erase board and markers, and told her family she had laryngitis. Her family showed great concern, offering her chicken soup, and telling her to get better because the Maddens had invited them over for the next Saturday. Maria didn’t know what to do. She did take to bringing the dry erase board with her wherever she went.                               One day, she was walking a block from her house, when who should she run into but Stewart! Stewart immediately started walking with her, and making small talk. “Hello Maria, how are you?” Maria nodded in silence. “Are you okay?’ Maria began to scribble on the dry erase board. The message said, “ I have laryngitis, but I feel okay.” Stewart looked at Maria really hard, and said, “You look too healthy to me to have laryngitis. Let me hear you say something.” Maria shook her head. Stewart said, “Just one word.” Maria then decided to tell Stewart the truth, as crazy as it would seem. She motioned to a nearby bench, and for them to sit down. Maria wrote as small as she could, and described how she found a magic lamp. It gave her money for college. Before she could ask for a second wish, a witch appeared and frightened her, so she asked the genie to make the witch go away. The genie caused a hedge to grow between her and the witch, but the witch managed to steal the lamp. "To revenge herself on me, she has changed my voice to a croak. I have one more wish if I can find the lamp," Maria finished writing. Stewart stared and stared at the writing. Then he looked into Maria’s beautiful eyes. “Say something, anything.” Maria croaked, and then let a tear fall. This impressed Stewart more than anything, and he believed her. “There’s only one thing to be done. We must hunt down this witch, and get the lamp back.” Maria looked at him in wonder and gratitude. She pressed his hand firmly. He held on to the dry erase board, and they ventured out into a nearby forest. They searched for a few hours, and then found a cottage that looked sinister. Stewart cautiously peered into the window, and heard a woman singing and laughing. Her horrible voice didn’t match her lovely appearance. She sang, “I am the most beautiful thanks to the lamp you see. I cursed that girl who stole the lamp and now she sings like a frog hee hee. Now I will ask the lamp for a great castle and moat, and then I will turn Maria’s love into a goat!” Stewart and Maria watched as the witch pulled out the lamp, and rubbed it. The genie appeared, and the witch quickly said, “Genie, convert this cottage into a grand castle.” The genie snapped his fingers, and Stewart and Maria found themselves in the castle with the witch, because where they stood had become part of the imposing palace. Fortunately, they were hidden behind some marble columns. The witch had not seen them. Maria wondered if Stewart knew he was in danger of becoming a goat. Did he know that she cared for him the most out of anyone she knew? Stewart put his finger to his lips, and quietly wrote “wait until the witch leaves the lamp” on the dry erase board. Maria nodded. She hoped their families wouldn’t worry too much about where they had gone. The witch explored her new palace with ecstasy. She didn’t seem to mind about her horrible voice, and her hideous cackles rang through the gilded halls. The witch left the lamp where she had made her last command, and soon climbed a long carpeted staircase to explore the upper floors. Stewart crept over to the lamp, grabbed it, and quickly gave it to Maria. Maria fled the palace with Stewart behind her. They took several steps into the forest. Maria thought about how to proceed. She knew the genie could give her the power to pause time, or go back in time to before she even found the lamp, and attracted the notice of the witch. It was tempting to think of pausing time with Stewart. Then she thought of a different idea, that would solve her enemy problem. Maria hoped her plan would work. She rubbed the lamp, then wrote on the dry erase board, “Genie, please erase the two of us from the witch’s mind.” The genie looked at the board, nodded, and snapped his fingers. “You chose very wisely," the genie proclaimed. Maria was able to say thank you, because the witch’s curse would only be upon someone the witch held in her mind. Maria handed the lamp to Stewart, who could then have three wishes of his own. Stewart thought very hard, found some rocks in the forest, stepped over there, and buried the lamp. “That’s enough magic for the both of us. Let’s go live in peace.” Maria realized Stewart had made an even better decision than any of hers. She and Stewart now had a secret that would form a bond between them. She knew things were going to work out. Maria and Stewart lived happily ever after, even though the witch did find that lamp again!   THE END

u749zy

Survival and Grit at Forever Valley on the Mystical Coast

After rising all day during steady rain the river had jumped the banks, flowed across the valley and was now coming into Adelia's house. Adelia's breath caught and her heart pounded when she felt the surge of cold water run over her feet. Her baby was swaddled in a blanket and rested against her chest. The water came through the cabin walls and then rose to knee deep. Her husband, Sean, was miles away in the village getting supplies. When Sean took the boat with goods to trade into town, or left for part-time fishing and lumbering work, Adelia was used to managing the farm and family alone. The endless rain was drumming on the roof. "Shamus," she called to her eldest son. "Get the children into the boat...hurry." Adelia, with her baby, and the other four children, splashed their way across the floor and stumbled outside to the porch where the boat sat. Shamus slid it into the water. He held the bowline and the wood boat bumped against the cabin. "Get in the center...sit still." Adelia's shouted through the rain Their oiled rain clothing helped repel water but the air was cold under the dark, grey clouds. "Stop moving around...Shamus...try to row us over to the higher ground." The family sat shivering together. Adelia pulled an oiled canvas cover over everyone. "That's good. Shamus. Children we are going to be fine. Calm down." They saw their Forever Valley was now underwater. Taller grasses and shrubs poked up above the flooded plain. Gusts of wind blew tight, dark ripples like shadows on the water. Adelia knew the heavy rains combined with the high tide from the ocean had pushed the river water so high it finally leaped over the banks. They huddled under the canvas and the oars creaked while Shamus rowed. At the higher ground, Shamus got out and dragged the bow of the boat up the hill on the slick mud, where he tied it to a tree. They climbed out and walked uphill where dense fir tree boughs formed a canopy. "We will wait here," Adelia said. "When the ocean's high tide goes down the flood will go down too. With the heavy rain and high tide at the same time, it caused the river to flood. We just need to wait for low tide. That's what happens when you live on a river that connects to the ocean." The younger children looked puzzled but the older ones nodded. Hours later the waters began to recede at low tide. Shamus dragged the boat into the water and rowed them back home. The river water went back to its usual path and the boat sat again on the porch. Adelia and the children faced the job of shoveling the muddy silt from the floors of the cabin and washing them. In that moment, a contrasting impression and picture flashed through Adelia's mind of her childhood self long ago on the east coast. How her life had changed when she left her parent's mansion in the eastern Atlantic seaport and moved to the northwestern coast next to the Pacific Ocean. Now it was 1898 at Adelia and Sean's Forever Valley Farm nestled in the foggy, wet, green enchantment of the Mystical Coast and the Douglas Fir clothed mountains. Adelia pictured herself in her childhood home, wearing her elaborate long frock, sitting at the polished dining table. Crystal goblets were shining under the candles in the family’s Victorian mansion. The building's towers and carved trim rose impressively in the middle of the bustling eastern seaport. When she started to add a log to the fireplace at the house, the flames caught her full, long, flowing skirt. Her mother threw a pitcher of water on the skirt. But it was a close call. Adelia imagined a day when she did not have to wear the layers of petticoats and the long drapes of fabric. What if she could wear pants?  In the Victorian mansion she followed her father’s authoritative commands while secretly listening to her own inner commentary. Adelia knew someday she would build her own life.  Little girls were supposed to be obedient and submissive. But Adelia was independent, high-spirited, adventurous and a nonconformist. People were not surprised when she fell in love and married an Irish storyteller. Sean's green eyes sparkled and he sang of dreams, casting spells of hope and imagination on listeners. Now Adelia could feel the legs of her homesown pants were soaked, but she was glad she no longer wore skirts. For six months of the year Adelia's world in Forever Valley sparkled like wet green emeralds and the storms roared in across the Pacific ocean. The tides ruled the beach roads and rivers that connected to the sea. High tide meant the sand dune trails next to the ocean were underwater until the next low tide. Coastal transportation depended on boats or on horseback and horse drawn open farm wagons. On the coast they used the beaches as highways, when the tide was low. During rains wagon wheels got stuck in the mud so travel on trails was by horseback. The wide rivers did not have bridges, only barges, rough ferries and other boats. Adelia knew that even in these modern times of the late `1800s the trains did not cross the steep mountains over to the Mystical Coast. Homesteads were scattered in the wilderness. The homesteaders were resilient, tough and resourceful. People who moved there stayed, saying "I can live here forever. We have spring water, fishing, hunting, farming, lumbering, and fertile, affordable land." Families who had cabins and houses near the river kept boats on the porches for their escape during the floods. Livestock spent the days of heaviest rains on the mountain foothills above the flooded valleys. Adelia thought, if only her husband, Sean, was not away now getting supplies at the village. But she could handle this alone. Determination was part of her core. Years ago, when she and Sean saw the pamphlets about land on the west coast their hopes were ignited. They dropped the chains that held them in the east, where Sean worked in a factory, and decided to go west. Adelia was disinherited by her wealthy parents when she eloped with the man she loved, who was almost penniless. But Adelia’s heart and mind bloomed with the flower of her full potential when they left for Independence, Missouri to go west.  After mostly walking next to the covered wagon full of supplies for over two thousand miles on the Oregon Trail, Adelia was tough, strong and experienced with adversity. When her long Victorian skirts got in the way on the trail, she sewed her own pants to wear and moved about with freedom and confidence. Later she sowed pants for her daughters as well as skirts so they had both to choose. Whether putting a shoulder to the back of the wagon to help push when it got stuck, to hitching and driving the oxen who pulled it, she was capable and hard working. Adelia left behind the quiet, obedient, dependent, sometimes helpless person whom her parents had raised. During heaviest rains and especially high tides the Forever Valley became a vast lake as the river flooded. Adelia was glad the dairy cattle and horses were grazing on the high ground pasture on the mountain side. Miles away in the small village Sean saw the river rise up under the sawmills, canneries, and shops on their stilts next to the water. “This tide today is not the usual,” said an old timer standing next to him. “I call these the King Tides when this happens.” From a sloping rise, Sean watched the water come up under the buildings and cover the muddy streets. “Aye, the heavy rains and high tide together are more than the river can carry.” The son of an Irish immigrant, Sean’s voice still held a lilting quality and rhythm. His green eyes always had a small flicker like a flame glowing. There was a lightness about his character that flowed from his heart. “I know my dear Adelia can manage, such a wonder she is to me always, but I wish I was there to help.” He knew she was a resourceful survivor. Back at the cabin Adelia and her older children got the damp firewood from the top of the stairs and managed to get a fire going. Gathering around it, they dried and warmed themselves while heating a stew over the fire. Adelia was so glad her husband's fiddle and stringed dulcimer instrument were safely high above the levels of where the flood water had been in the cabin. “At least this is not like that tornado in the Midwest on the trail out here,” said one of the boys. “Yes, son, when the pamphlets said ‘mild climate’ they meant without tornadoes, hurricanes, desert heat, droughts, or blizzards. They said there was plenty of rain for farming. But they did not tell us we would be dodging raindrops half the year." The children worked that day and the next day too, with shovels and buckets. Eventually the mud was gone from inside the house and the floor was revealed again. They had several hot, delicious meals of the flat, fried corncakes with berries, beans bubbling in the pot on the wood burning stove, milk from the dairy cattle, and dried, salted salmon. The warmth of the fire and their contented, full bellies of tasty food raised their spirits. Then the next day dawned clear and sunny. The river reflected the blushing rainbow of colors in the sky as the sun peeked over the eastern rim of the earth. The world in the Forever Valley on the Mystical Coast was reborn to the music of birds twittering, calling, cooing, and chirping. The family continued cleaning and washing out the house while the wood burning stove warmed the air and dried out the floors and walls. While they worked, Adelia and the children sang a song Sean taught them. “I can’t wait till Papa is home,” said little Anne Marie. “So he can play his fiddle for us.” “Yes, honey, I know. I can almost hear it now. Let’s pretend he’s here already playing one of his Irish tunes. He might be playing on his fiddle but he could also be playing on the dulcimer he made.” When Sean wasn’t farming and building, or taking their goods over the river to the village for trading, he relaxed by carving and creating musical instruments. The homemade dulcimer with its strings to pluck sat on a table like a harp on its side. The end of a long day might be followed by the special treat of listening to the ethereal sounds that floated from those strings. It healed the day’s wounds whether physical or mental.  Adelia held Anne Marie’s hands and danced a few steps with her, spinning her around. The child’s laughter blended with the morning songs of the birds. What a difference from the day of the flood.. And in a few months the rainy season would pass. The days of sun, emerald trees on the mountains and soft, bubbling songs from the river would arrive. Over on the coast soft waves would lap gently on the ocean shores and summer days would glow. The family sat around the fireplace and the wood burning warming stove, talking about what they would do this summer when it arrived. Their minds were filled not with the recent storm but with images dancing of the summer days to come. From miles away on the river, Sean loaded the supplies into his boat, raised the sail, and began his trip homeward on the sparkling waters. Yesterday was already in the past. He couldn’t wait to get home. The sails billowed with the light wind, and Sean tacked the boat back and forth, zig zagging on the wide river. While the bow cut smoothly through the rippling wavelets. Sean composed new songs, singing short phrases, and humming while he experimented with tunes. In front of the boat, like flower petals in the wind, a flock of white egrets flew across the water to perch in the tall, green Douglas Firs. Sean's inner life was lit by the thoughts and feelings of the lyrics and music that reflected nature's beauty around him. The dark day of flooding had receded like a low tide. When Sean got home there was celebration and singing. Thoughts of the flood were gone. They were living in today's moment. On the porch of the cabin. Sean looked at the river and squinted while thoughts flowed through his mind. Even a hundred years from now he bet the river would still be turning the fertile valley into a vast lake part of the time in the winter. People would still be shoveling mud from the floors of their houses unless they raised the houses up on pilings of some sort. They would still keep boats, oars and paddles on their porches to use for travel during floods. Cattle and other animals would still need to graze on the foothills during the heavy rains or their legs would be underwater. The river would still come up during King High Tides. Heavy rains in the winter would still flood the village and shops. The Forever Valley and the Mystical Coast would still be relatively isolated from the rest of the world. Sean liked it this way. Despite floods, he could live there forever. He wondered if in another hundred years another man and his wife and their children would be sitting on a porch in this same place. They might be the future generations of his family. Sean pictured them watching the river, feeding logs to a fireplace, telling stories, singing songs, playing stringed instruments, and enjoying salmon cooked over the fire. Sean decided to turn that dream into reality. Now Sean watched his sons and daughters playing. They would inherit the farm someday, and their children's children too. Sean decided he must build a sturdier new cabin built to last, also near the river. It would be raised on strong stilts made from thick tree trunk poles. He also decided to build another house that summer, larger and more substantial, located in the foothills above the floods. He would build it to last at least one hundred years, for his great grandchildren to someday enjoy. He started humming a new melody and thinking of song lyrics to tell a story. Now he watched the Forever Valley River, back in its usual path, flowing almost lazily on this fresh, new day. It bubbled along with a musical melody of its own. Sean, Adelia and the children went back to their usual paths too, with life flowing like their Forever River.

tlos2p

Remote Control

My Mum once told me to enjoy life. But she added a warning, and that warning was that time has a habit of speeding up as you get older. She may as well have told me not to panic. Or to smile, and that it might never happen. That was the attention I paid to her advice, and to her for that matter. And yet I remember her words well, and now, in the context of who and what I have become, I understand where she was coming from. This wasn’t a soundbite. This wasn’t knowledge. She meant what she had said, and in order for me to understand, I had to think. And mostly, I had to think about her and how she cared for me. Widening the context, I saw her well. Decades late to the party, but I got there in the end. I looked back at that time, and those moments we shared, and I saw the world through her eyes. Her son rushing headlong at life like there wasn’t a second to spare. How often do we truly take stock? And when we do, will we see the contradiction that we made of ourselves. I had all the time in the world when I was younger and yet I raced through that time like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. In my defence, I wouldn’t say I wasted my life. Not all of it anyway. But I could have done so much more. Been so much more! Instead I put my head down and I sped through what people laughingly refer to as their best years. If these were my best years, my recollection of them is blurred, and the importance I placed upon them is misguided. These were times to endure. A means to an end. For me, it was all about the destination, only I had no clear idea of where it was that I was headed. All I knew was that anything was better than here. Running. Always running, and whilst I was at it, I kidded myself that I wasn’t running away from anything. That I was running towards something, but hadn’t yet decided what that thing was. I’d know it once I saw it. And I’d know it when I arrived. I was educated to do this. I was naturally adept at learning. No parrot was I. I both envied and pitied the parrots. But I was no better than them. I fared no better. I sought to understand, but made only half a job of it. I wanted so much to uncover the secrets of life, the universe and everything, but always I fell short in the comfortable blankets of my fear. Education was another means to an end. Learn the subject. Pass the exam. Gain a passport to a bright future. No one ever taught me what it was all for. Why it was that I was learning what I did. It did not help that I lived in an enclosed and dying world. A place that had seen better days. It’s once fine suit was shabby and worn. Stained with a life of hardship and a million tears. The main prospects for employment had once been jobs for life. I wandered the local graveyard and observed the final conclusion of those lives. A well-worn rut around the dial of the clocking-in machine. A rut that ironically came to an end at the age of sixty during a ritual that entailed the gifting of a golden timepiece that would never see the light of day. So many monuments to men who gave their lives to industry, only to finish up with killer questions as their final companions… What was it all for? What am I for? The wives of the condemned workers bemoaning a future where their husbands would cease being of use and get under their feet. A prophetic phrase. Six foot under their feet as they added another endless chore to the list. Tending a grave paid for by the money saved for a holiday of a lifetime. Perhaps I can be forgiven for trying to fast-forward through that little lot. Building and building a momentum that might just afford me the courage to crash through the prison walls of a working class nightmare that was dying before our very eyes, but was still conscripting green and wet behind the ears soldiers. A sausage machine that promised security and doled out misery. The dole being the rotten carrot on the end of the whipping stick. The dole being the punishment for those who didn’t have anything about them. The lazy. The inept. The walking dead. On Saturday mornings, we’d shed the homes that we ungratefully believed we were outgrowing and meet up. Riding on wheels that squeaked cries of freedom as we pedalled furiously to gather together. A rebellious tribe. Safety in numbers. The camaraderie of the undamned. Not thinking we were better. Just different. Damned in a different way, yet scoffing at the traditionally damned. Wandering around Town, we would take care not to get too close to The Locals. They had something that was catching, and it was terminal. We fancied we saw a vacancy in their dribbling phizogs, but we never looked too hard. I think we knew we’d see our own pale and earnest faces staring back at us. This fate awaited all of us. Escaping it came at too high a cost for most. Even in the grey desperation of a dying town, dreams were sold. So many dreams that no one escaped their allure. The promise of finding The One, settling down into a blissful life and having children. No reality was applied to these dreams. Even when we were all drowning in the mess of that same reality. There may have been a heady, lustful interlude with a fine young lady who was as clueless as we were, and we were all intent upon that adventure. Not even the stark warnings of the fallen could turn our heads from this one. The oft repeated shattering of love’s young dream when the three little words were uttered… I am pregnant. We were children, surrounded by an army of children, and we had often looked up at the grey faces of our parents and wondered how it could have gone so wrong for them. Never did we consider the obvious conclusion; they’d had children. We were what had gone wrong. We’d brought with us an infinite weight of responsibility and that weight had crushed any dreams our mothers and fathers may have had before we came along and changed everything, like it or not. At best, our parents could mark time until we flew the nest, only for us to follow their broken example and repeat their mistakes all over again, adding our own errors and regrets to further damn the next generation. History doesn’t repeat itself. That is a lie we tell ourselves. We give sentience to time and try to excuse ourselves the responsibility of living. I was running away from this and so much more. Too blind and stupid to realise this was exactly what I was running towards. A middle-class dream that was the same tawdry dream fancied up in a cheap suit and splashed with a sickly sweet cologne to mask the stench of the rotting corpse beneath. A sick fantasy inducing a person to dream away their decent life. Prostitute themselves for a career that no one cares about, especially the lonely wife and neglected kids. Dancing around the greasy corporate pole, desperate for attention. A narcissistic game that only the truly deranged can ever win. Silencing the voice that asks softly… What was it all for? What am I for? The voice of an inner child that is silenced over the years. Locked away and forgotten. Neglected in favour of madness. The necessary sacrifice that must be made to get on. The forgoing of humanity to become something acceptable in a corrupted world that feeds on lost souls. I climbed on my horse and I rode out of town. I went on a quest for meaning and I found the void. Again and again, I raised my lance and charged at whatever stood in my way. Never once did I best my opponent. But then that was never going to happen, for my opponent was me. Always me. I was running away from myself and all I ever found was me. It was only when I fell from my horse and let go of my lance in the pain of my abject failure that I saw what I was about. Laying in the filth and mud of the life of lies I had carefully crafted, I saw myself for what I was. There in the distorted reflection of the murky puddle that I lay in, I saw how low I had become. There was no armour. I had always been naked. Naked as the day I was born. What I thought was strength was only avarice and envy. What I considered to be a life was theft. I was taking and never had it occurred to me to give. When had my head gone down? I asked myself over and over. I replayed my life and saw no evidence that I’d ever lifted my head in the first place. It took me a long while to realise that I was asking the wrong person. That I was indulging in a self-piteous dialogue with the dead thing I had made of myself. To my shame, I continued to ignore the stifled voice of my inner child. Too much of a coward to face the music. To listen to the cacophony of noise I’d made as I avoided living. My inner child broke out of the prison I’d made for him. I can take no credit for his release. There was no grand gesture. No epiphany. I’d even failed in failing myself and could not see how fortunate I was in my poor execution of this sloppy and ill-considered venture. He appeared when I most needed him, and in time I came to understand that I had always needed him. That he was me, and the rest of it was a terrible mistake. There was no moment of forgiveness, for there were no recriminations. Only the simple wisdom of innocence. My inner child was a dog with a voice. There was a purity there that it took me an age to see. He was patient with me and allowed me the space to be. To learn. To grow. Still I made mistakes, but at last I acknowledged them and in doing so, I used them. Failure no longer hurt, because this was an opportunity to change and adapt and be better. Success was an illusion that kept a person from being more. As I at long last allowed myself to live, I found a whole new world and ever so gradually, I became something different. Someone different. And then I became someone. I got with the program and I became the someone I was always meant to be. There is a magic to life and living it. I could feel it before I ever truly experienced it. I began to understand that I was a part of something far bigger than I could ever comprehend, but my inability to comprehend was not ignorance, for I at long last belonged. I had found my place and in being at one with this, there was a power that ran through me. A power that was mine, but was never mine to wield. At first I was content just to bathe in that magic. To be at one with it, and feel the peace and joy that it conveyed. But then I realised that I could  use it. That I was meant to use it. And so I slipped under its surface and allowed myself to truly become at one with it. When I rose from the depths, I was forever changed. I opened my eyes and I saw differently and in seeing differently, I was different. I was what I was always meant to be. A celebration of my inner child. Innocent, vulnerable and full of wonder at the gift of this life and everything around me. Nothing mattered other than the moment I occupied. The past and the future were mere thoughts. I should by all means consider them, but they no longer defined me. The shroud of my worries slipped from my shoulders and I was proud in my nakedness. My vulnerability no longer left me fearful. I was born vulnerable and it was as much a state of being as the smile that transformed my face and lifted my spirits. As the magic coursed through my veins, I heard its name, and that name was love. As I accepted this simple truth I heard many other truths. Truths that had always been there for the taking, but that I’d closed myself to. This was when I learnt to control time. I slowed my breathing and I focused on true meaning, and as I became one with time I understood what it was that I should do, and I made that change, returning to my true state. Embracing my inner child and relinquishing grand lies about being an adult and striking out into the world on its terms, not mine. I began to work the way I was designed to work. I stopped reacting. I paused and time stood still. I had lied to myself so convincingly, and one of the biggest lies I told myself was I don’t have the time. Turns out that I always did. When I ceased reacting, I not only made the time, time gifted me a pause. In that pause everything made sense and so did I. I paused. I thought. I responded. In responding, I created meaning, and what I did as a result was worthwhile. I considered, and in considering, I was considerate. In the moment that the magic of love afforded me, in that pause for thought, I found an eternal peace and I also found me. This is not to say that I ignored my gut feeling. Why would I choose ignorance in such circumstances? But now I have aligned the trinity of me. My gut, my head and my heart. I am far, far more than I ever was, and I occupy each second of the day in a way that I never did. I was gifted the miracle of life and now I use it wisely and lovingly. Now I live in the pause of time. No longer do I fail to live as I charge towards a false and empty promise that resides in the fantasy of a future that can never come to fruition. Instead I invest in myself, and in this moment, and I know my future selfs will thank me for it. Magic is real. All we have to do is believe in love and be open to the truth. Try it. Simple truths are all around us. Pick up the remote control and look at it anew. Pause. Now in that pause, take a deep breath and centre yourself. Find a little peace, and in that state of calm, think about what is important and how you should respond. Time to look at the remote control again and see another simple truth… Play. You press play to return to the moment and rejoin the flow of time. Your inner child is waiting for you to play. Always has been. Play is learning to live. Learning to live is growing. And all of this is living well. Move on from the stand-by button, you were never meant to live like that. Play and never stop playing, just learn to pause once in a while, use that time that you are gifted, ensure you’re on the right track and aiming for what counts, then go again. Live, love and play!

hr4pss

A Few Minutes of Chaos

Note: This story depicts a violent encounter and includes a few curse words appropriate to the context. Route 95 in this part of North Carolina is very quiet at 2 am. Aside from the long haul trucks there aren’t many other cars on the two northbound lanes. With many hours before me, it was time to take a toilet break and refill the travel mug. A road side billboard read ‘Marty’s 24 hour gas and food 16 miles ahead’. Sounds good. The exit approached and looked like one of the very rural interchanges with a local road just big enough to warrant an overpass and some ramps. No towering gas station signs hawking the price of gas, just a sleepy interchange. First thought was to keep going and find a busier location, but thinking about stopping made me realize I needed to pee, so off the exit ramp I went. No signs for Marty’s at all but sitting at the stop sign, I could see some light to the right down the road. It didn’t look too far so I figured to give it a try. Sure enough, just down the road by itself was a rundown gas station with convenience store. The sign promoting itself as Marty’s had seen better days, now displaying ‘arty’s’, but there was little doubt about where I was. I had plenty of gas, but always notice the prices and saw Marty’s was higher than other gas available by about 6 cents. So no gas purchase here. The gas pumps were well lit and had a rather ramshackle Ford pickup parked at one of the pumps. There were a few other cars parked around the store but not all had plates on them. I parked in a spot away from the pumps and got out carrying my travel mug. On the way to the store I prepared for a refill by dumping the last of the coffee onto the pavement. Just like the sign, the entire place was rundown and in need of maintenance. Marty must be out of the picture, or just doesn’t care anymore. Inside, there were a few people milling around which seemed strange for this hour of the morning. There was a heavily made up woman in her thirties with bleached blond hair herding two pre-teen kids, a boy and a girl. She was either trying to keep them from shoplifting or simply trying to keep them from getting caught shoplifting. The kid behind the counter, a skinny, tattooed young man with close cropped hair was trying to keep an eye on them while attending to the apparent Ford owner who was purchasing cigarettes and paying for gas. I went over to the coffee dispenser and took a whiff of the Green Mountain Blend carafe. Not good. So I called to the attendant “How old is this coffee?” Before he could answer the loud noise of a mufflerless car pulling up to the store diverted everyone’s attention. Out of that car, a faded Chevy Impala, jumped two people with black hoods over their heads. The motor was still running with the rumble of the exhaust echoing through the store. I was so intrigued by the anomaly of the masks I almost didn’t notice the shotgun one was carrying. Oh crap, a robbery; my timing was perfect. As I was near the coffee, it placed me further from the door than the attendant and the Ford guy. I crouched and slid further back in the store before the door even chimed. What to do? There seemed to be another door behind the attendant, so that was not an immediate option. As soon as she saw the gun, the bleached blond started screaming. Good diversion. First things first: call for help. I took my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911, turned down the volume and placed it on a shelf behind a box of candy. Hopefully that would draw some help but who knows how long it would take. The gun holder immediately went to the attendant and started hollering about wanting the money. He was waving the gun around and ordered the Ford guy to his knees. The no-gun guy went to the blond and told her to shut up. She had gathered the two kids close and continued to scream. The attendant dropped behind the counter and came up with a revolver of some sort. Gun guy panicked and fired a shot. The sound of a shotgun fired indoors is debilitating by itself. The blast shocks your ears so they might ring for a few minutes and make conversation difficult. Combine that with pumping adrenalin and who knows what will happen. As the blast reverberated through the store, blond lady stopped screaming with one last “Oh!” and started gasping for breath. Now the kids started crying and screaming. No-gun guy turned to his partner at the counter and simply said “What the fuck!?” Gun guy was in shock both from the sound of the blast and what he had just done. He had swung the gun just as the attendant appeared above the counter with the revolver. The shot caught the attendant fully in the face and at the range of only one foot, the attendant’s head was basically blown off. With the after affects of the blast, no one heard the revolver or the now dead attendant hitting the floor. There was a stunned silence punctuated by the sound of the two crying kids over the rumble of the car idling outside. Ford guy recovered from the blast and went for the gun. It was a single barrel shotgun and the shooter had not pumped a new shell into the chamber. Ford guy was on his feet now with two hands on the gun near the pump slide wrestling with gun guy who also had two hands on the gun back by the trigger and stock. No-gun guy jumped into the fray to help his partner. In the commotion, the pump slid back and forth so there was now a fresh cartridge in the chamber. Blond lady saw her chance and ran with both kids for the door. No-gun guy reached out and grabbed the boy’s backpack just in time to keep him in the store. Blond lady now stood out by the pumps clutching her girl and started screaming again. I saw the fight for the gun and struggling with the boy as an opportunity to run behind the counter. Either the back door or the pistol would be my goal. You do not realize how much blood comes out of a body with its head blown off. I slipped in a pool of blood and crashed into the wall behind the counter. Fortunately, I landed right on top of the pistol. In fact, my shoulder was now contributing to the blood on the floor from landing full force on that gun. Good thing it didn’t fire. For the moment, I was out of sight behind the counter and could only hear the struggle for the shotgun and the tussle with the crying boy. The two robbers are now aware of my presence, but are right now dealing with other things. Suddenly, another shot rings out. Over the counter I caught sight of the mussel flash awfully close to Ford guy’s face. While he was not shot, the sound and heat from the blast would certainly debilitate him for a while. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Ford guy hit the floor. The pistol I landed on turned out to be a .38 special revolver. A quick flip showed bullets in all the chambers. I was not eager to let the bad guys know what I had so kept it close to the floor. My first choice was to get to that back door which was only a few feet away over some very slippery floor. I had not heard the pump of the shotgun being reloaded so I decided to take a chance on getting to the door. That was cancelled by no-gun guy coming around the counter dragging the boy. He was going for the cash register but slipped on the blood and crashed to the floor with the boy on top of him. The three of us were tangled amid the poor attendant’s body. I was able to extract myself to lurch forward and put the pistol right to no-gun guy’s head. “Don’t Move!”, I growled, “Let go of the boy”. With that, the boy was released and ran around the counter heading for the front door. The door chime sounded as it was opened and was followed by gun guy pumping the shotgun and firing another loud blast toward the front door. The boy was apparently safe outside as the sound of the blond screaming changed tone to less strident and then silence under the still rumbling of the Chevy outside. As this latest blast reverberated through the store, I instructed no-gun guy to tell his partner to stay cool and put down the gun. As he was staring at the business end of the .38, he had no choice and did as I asked. A we rose above the level of the counter and he saw the .38 pointed at his partner’s head. It was gun guy’s turn to say “What the fuck!?” “Do Not pump that shotgun!”, I commanded gun guy as he swung it in my direction. There was a sort of Mexican stand-off for a few moments .I heard Ford guy stirring on the floor. He took in the scene and stood up unsteadily to take the shotgun from the robber. The side of his face was a mess from the burning shot wad that came so close to his head. I saw him pump the shotgun thinking I could relax a bit as it was now in friendly hands. Friendly hands they may have been, but Ford guy was anything but friendly. He was totally steamed at gun guy and proceeded to level the shotgun at his chest. Ford guy was apparently not fully recovered because gun-guy slapped the shotgun muzzle out of the way and the fight was on once again between the two of them over the shotgun. No-gun guy looked toward me as if to assess his situation, but I tapped him with the pistol and shook my head. He got the hint and we watched to see how this new battle on the other side of the counter would come out. I pulled no-gun guy in front of me as there was a loaded shotgun swinging around not far away. One more blast reverberated through the store and gun guy yelped in pain; took one limping step toward the exit and fell. He was clutching his foot which appeared to be missing the front half of the shoe. That was enough for me. I released no-gun guy, carefully stepped toward the back door and let myself out still clutching the pistol. I ran into the woods behind the store to wait out the situation where the parking lot lights cast few shadows. It was just as well, within a few minutes I heard the approach of police with sirens wailing and lights flashing. I guess Ford guy was able to hold his own until they arrived. The last thing I wanted now was to be somebody holding a gun in there when the police showed up. All of a sudden I had to pee like crazy. It turned out to be a very long night with all the investigation going on, but you probably read about that in the papers. I still feel bad for the tattooed attendant, poor kid.

7yrhct

Overdue Knowledge

Prologue The library was being breached. Alfred could hear men shouting for reinforcements. He didn’t have much time, but luckily he had an escape route. When he built his secret library he made sure of that. That was before Huxley Marrow came to power, but he was glad that he decided to put a secret exit in the library. Behind the last shelf on the left was a book with an embossed E on the spine. Pulling on it would open up a passageway that would lead Alfred to freedom. He quickly gathered what would fit in his satchel. Someone had betrayed him, but who? Whoever it was, they couldn't silence him, no matter how much they tried. He glanced once more around the library taking in its oak shelves filled with books both new and old. The shelves reached the ceiling, so he had installed ladders. What a thrill it was to glide along the shelves while running his fingers across the spines. Sometimes he would close his eyes and when he stopped whatever book his fingers landed on would be the one he would read that day… The pounding on the door brought him back to the present. It was growing more insistent and Alfred knew his time in this library was over for the time being. He closed the passageway just as the main door busted open. He hurried down the corridor; it was the beginning of the end, but not from him. Present Day           Crispin was exhausted. Why on earth did he think that he was capable of taking this mission by himself? What possessed him to agree to this? He was better suited to inside work. Yet, after two weeks of training here he was trudging along an old road that nature was beginning to reclaim. He kicked a rock and watched it skitter down the road. Crispin needed rest, he felt he was going to collapse and die right there.             Just when he was about to let his maker take him, he noticed a run down building that promised shade and a bit of rest. His trudge turned into a trot as he reached the structure. He was relieved to see that he could enter the building, the door was missing. He collapsed against the doorway and fell into a dreamless sleep.           Darkness had fallen when Crispin awoke. He slid his pack off, stood up, and stretched. Grabbing his water, he took a long drink and sighed.There was no way that he was going to continue the mission in the dark. He was barely brave enough to do it during the day. He was stuck here until the morning.          He took a few minutes to explore, but there wasn’t much to the single story building. At one time it might’ve been an office of some sort. Crispin was able to find a small room labeled Janitor’s Closet. There was just enough room inside to put down a sleeping bag. First things first, since the building itself was open to the elements, he needed to secure the closet door. Crispin realized how lucky he’d been while sleeping in the doorway. He couldn’t trust luck again. He needed to be prepared. So, he grabbed one of the empty shelves and propped the board underneath the handle. He wasn’t expecting to be attacked at any moment, but you never knew. His mission was fairly straightforward. Crispin was tasked with exploring the country while gathering up as many books and other printed materials as possible. The government called them “salvagers.” Their new leader, Alvis Hightower, had made salvaging the lost knowledge of the past a top priority. Under the previous leader, Huxley Marrow, books and other printed materials were banned. Marrow wanted an obedient populace and believed the only way to foster one was to ban anything that encouraged thinking. The libraries were closed, their contents piled in the streets and burned. His government had deployed the military to go door to door and confiscate books. Those that resisted were arrested and never seen again It had been a time of ignorance and bigotry. Thankfully, it didn't last long. Splinter groups formed and fought the oppressive regime. Hightower and others like him rallied the people and pushed back against the corrupted government.  Crispin had been little more than an office worker when the fighting started. He knew he was less than useless as a soldier, but could make a difference with his mind. So, as the dust settled, he volunteered to comb through the fallen government’s records. He found the final list of libraries the military had been sent to destroy. They weren’t public. They had been squirreled away by charities and private citizens. Books and records snuck away and hidden well enough that some may have lasted through the war. One such library was the one curated by an enigmatic figure called Alfred.  Alfred’s library was supposedly the first one formed after books were banned and it was the one that salvagers had yet to find. That is, until Crispin came across some old codes that gave coordinates to the library’s possible location. Alfred was known to be a code name; what the man’s real name was had yet to be uncovered. Crispin hoped that by finding the library he could find more information about Alfred, including who he really was. Crispin awoke the next morning refreshed, if not a little sore from sleeping in the cramped closet. He packed his bag and hoisted on his shoulder. Just as he was about to pull the shelf out from under the door knob, his eyes caught something he didn’t notice last night. Where he had pulled the shelf from the wall had revealed part of a door. Crispin was intrigued. Where did this door lead? According to his research there was nothing of importance in this area. He should make a note of the door and continue on to his destination, but in the back of his mind something was telling him that this was the way he needed to go. He sat down his pack and began the process of uncovering the door. First of all, he had to have more room. So he pulled the shelf from underneath the doorknob, then he could carry items out into the hall. The thought of uncovering this door sent Crispin into a working frenzy. Within a matter of minutes he had the entire door uncovered. There was no doorknob so Crispin felt around the edges to find a way to open it. He discovered a set of notches that fit his hand exactly. Placing his hand into the notches he heard several clicks and the door slid open. Crispin stepped back in awe. He was filled with all sorts of emotions, but he was determined to find out what was at the end of the tunnel. Picking up his pack once more, he began his journey down the dark passage. Crispin walked down the passageway with anticipation. Whoever created this passageway was clever. The number of twists and turns was making Crispin dizzy. More than once he ended up at a dead end and had to backtrack to find the right way. Crispin was exhausted, but this time he kept going. At any moment he knew would discover what was at the end of the passageway and he could continue on his original quest. Finally, a door appeared in front of him. It took him a few moments to find the latch that opened it from this side. The door opened, protesting the entire time. Crispin stepped into the room and his jaw dropped. He was Alfred’s secret library. His side quest was his original mission! The library was magnificent with shelves that reached the ceiling. There were ladders that you could climb to reach the books on the top shelf. In the center of the room stood an opulent mahogany desk. Crispin ran his finger along the top leaving a clean strip of wood behind. Underneath the desk lay a paisley rug of blues, reds, and greens. Why was this library kept intact? Crispin expected it to be in ruins. Most secret libraries were eventually found out and destroyed, but not this one. Yes, it was discovered, but the damage was minimal. There were books pulled from shelves and tossed to the floor and a desk that was rifled through, but there was no fire set or books torn asunder. It was like they were looking for something, but were unable to find it. Crispin had more questions than answers. He pulled out his communication device to call his supervisor, when a noise made him pause. There was someone else here with him. He had been followed. Crispin grabbed the biggest book he could find and hefted it over his head. A figure walked into the room and just as Crispin was about to knock him out, he realized who the intruder was… Alvis Hightower stood in the doorway to the secret passage. He was a tall man of indeterminate age. The years of fighting were etched on his face. His hair was more gray than black and he dressed casually in a button down shirt and khakis. He looked like an ordinary citizen, but Crispin knew otherwise. Before him stood a man that was instrumental in bringing down a terrible government. “It’s been years since I last saw this place,” Mr. Hightower said as he walked around the room. “I set up this library before Huxley’s reign, before books were banned. I just wanted a place where I could go to read, write, and dream without being interrupted by work or family. Then when Huxley came to power everything changed. I no longer wanted to keep this place to myself. I wanted to share it with other like minded people. No longer could I sit on the sidelines and only worry about myself. Helping people, keeping learning alive, that was my purpose in life. When I found out my library had been discovered, I knew that it was time to act. I used my connections within the government to keep my library from being burned to the ground. It cost me most of my savings, but it was worth it. My plan was to return once Huxley’s regime was destroyed, but I got caught up in forming the new society. Without realizing it, I was becoming the face of the new government, instead of rejecting the offer I embraced it and my plans for the library were pushed aside. It took me until I knew the administration was stable enough to return to my plans for the library. “So you knew where the library was the entire time?!” Crispin was angry, no he was furious! All the time and effort he took to take on this mission was for nothing. It was Hightower’s library, Hightower's! “Yes, and I apologize for the subterfuge, but I had to know that you were the right one to take on the job I had in mind.” “Job what job?” Crispin was still mad, but his curiosity was beginning to get the best of him. “I want to leave these books where they are. I want everyone to know about this place. My secret library will be the first public library under my government. I want you to run it. Crispin stared at the aging leader. He had put in all this effort just to appease this man’s whims. Yet, there had been stranger job interviews. Crispin guessed he had passed the test and to be honest, running a library was all he’d ever really dreamed of. “I’d be glad to, sir. One last question though, why did you choose the name Alfred?” “How about instead of telling you, I give you a book that will answer that question. Now do we have a deal?” Crispin shook Alvis Hightower’s hand. He had a new adventure ahead of him, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

m0rcf8

The Lost Annals

Dim amber light from his torch reflected off the damp cobblestones as he walked through the old passageway. Sir George stepped carefully, the slick stones and the just steep enough incline of the passage could spell an unfortunate end to his exploration if he lost his footing. Behind him, a hand running against the wall, Yorri carefully followed his steps. Neither spoke as they focused completely on keeping their footing, Sir George occasionally glancing up to see if his torch light reached the end of the declining passage. Each time he did his heart leaped up his throat and fell reshoundly back down when only more of the passage appeared in the light. The silence broke when Yorri coughed unexpectedly, causing the both of them to stop their movements. Sir George glanced over his shoulder at his apprentice, the startled look of his slowly shifted to reassurance that they both still stood and were not tumbling down wet stone into the darkness of the passage. They nodded to one another and slowly continued down the passage. A few minutes after the cough that nearly scared them both into a hard tumble, Sir George glanced up from his feet to look down the passage. Mercifully at the edge of the torch’s light, he saw the first leveling out of the stone floor. His leaping heart jumped again into his throat and reflexively drew his apprentice’s attention to it. “Yorri,” he said, and nodded to the point down the passage. “Oh, thank the Divines,” Yorri said in a sigh. Though as the apprentice's attention remained on the destination of their careful steps he took his next one. Not looking, he placed the heel of his foot on the high point of one of the slick cobblestones. As he shifted his weight to the precariously placed foot it slipped out forward and took him off his feet. Before Sir George could attempt to react, the body of his apprentice tumbled into the back of his legs, and knocked them out from under him. They both started to awkwardly roll intertwined down the passage, about fifteen feet, to the landing of the passageway. The torch landed a couple of feet to the side of them. A loud groan escaped from the knight as he started to collect his thoughts, and Yorri frantically started to attempt to untangle himself from his master. “I’m sorry Sir George, I’m sorry,” he said, as he picked himself up off the stones. “A thousand times over, I wasn’t paying attention to my feet.” Yorri started to help the knight up from the ground but Sir George raised a firm hand. “Steady Yorri,” he said, voice firm and low, “we appear to be uninjured and not in any immediate danger. Take a breath and collect yourself.” The apprentice did as instructed and took a deep breath, as he did Sir George slowly pulled himself up off the cold damp floor. Once standing he moved to the torch and retrieved it from off the cobblestones. He raised it up, letting the light of it spread over the new leveled off landing. As he looked around the light showed a room that opened up slightly from the narrow passageway. The walls stood bare, and no other openings or doors were relieved by the light. The knight stood a moment thinking. Yorri a few moments later made the same realization that Sir George had. “Where now? I can’t say I’m looking forward to trekking back up the way we came just yet,” Yorri said. Sir George scanned over the walls again before responding to his apprentice. “What did the old map say? In the darkness, give of yourself?” Yorri shook his head, “no, the translation was: In darkness, make an offering of yourself.” The knight looked at him with a grin, “still better at the books than the blade. We’ve got more work to do it seems.” “Well, the books might save us more than a blade right now, Sir.” Sir George chuckled before his attention turned back toward the room. He walked toward the wall opposite the passageway’s opening. As he neared the torch light reflected off the stones near the base of the wall in a new way. A few stones away from the wall, on the floor, a small divot had been carved. The knight knelt down and looked more carefully at it. He saw a slight discolouration to the carved out dip in the stone. Runes outlined the top of it, old runes that he didn’t recognize. His hand lowered to it, and he pressed into the discolored stone. The pigment didn’t rub off with the pressure. Still curious, he brought his finger to his nose and waited for any scents that might have transferred to his gloved hand. Nothing, though still unsatisfied, he ventured a taste. He brought his glove to his lips and let his tongue contact the leather of his glove. Apart from the lingered taste of the oil he used to treat his gloves, and the expected flavor of goat hide, just barely he perceived a metallic taste. “Iron, blood,” Sir George said, spitting the taste from his lips. “What?” Yorri replied. “An offering of blood, that must be what it means.” “Blood Magic, the archives didn’t say anything about Blood Magic.” The presence of it didn’t shock the knight, as it confirmed more they found the right place. Sir George held out his hand holding the torch toward Yorri, signaling him to take it from him. The apprentice moved to him and did as instructed. He held the torch as Sir George removed his glove from his left hand. “Sir!” “Quiet Yorri, unless you’d like to make your way back up the passage now.” Yorri remained mute. The knight removed his dagger from its sheath on his belt. It reflected the torch light brilliantly. He brought the edge of it to the palm of his left hand. Slowly he moved the razor over his skin, he felt the gentle tug, and blood started to fill his palm and run down the length of the blade. The sound of drops hitting the stones deftly hit both their ears. Though the knight did not complete the motion. “In the darkness,” he whispered. “What Sir?” “Snuff out the torch Yorri.” The apprentice furrowed his brow and paused for a moment, as the understanding of the order came to him a reflexive nod and exhale escaped him. He let the torch fall to the stones before he knelt down, took off his cloak, and used it to smother the flame. In a moment the light left the room and both of them knelt in total darkness. “I hope you’re right, otherwise we lost our light and my cloak got soiled for nothing.” The knight didn’t say anything and he completed his motion, letting the blade kiss the length of his palm. His blood ran readily from his hand and he heard more of it dripping down to the stone below. After a few seconds he heard blood dripping into blood as it pooled. A long moment passed as this sound continued. Anxiety crept into the back of Sir George’s mind as he listened to more of his blood drip to the ground. He squeezed his fist shut, applied pressure as best he could to his palm, and hoped to slow the bleeding. The sound of the dripping slowed, and Sir George’s eyes darted around in the darkness looking for any sign or movement that would prove his theory correct. Something caught his attention. He looked down, he saw the small pool of his collected blood faintly in the darkness. How, he wondered. Another moment later the answer came. The runes he first noticed in the divot started to faintly glow a pale and sickly red. It reflected off the blood and started to grow brighter. Once all of the carved runes glowed with the light he saw the blood start to drain, to where he couldn’t tell. There were no obvious openings. Before he could try to understand it more, all the blood vanished from the stone and nothing but the glowing runes remained. The sound of stone scraping against stone then filled the room. In front of Sir George a section of the wall started to slide back behind the rest of it. He stood up and stared into the opening that appeared in the wall. Yorri moved closer to him, his focus likewise on the opened wall. “Good call Sir,” Yorri said. “Next time you can do it,” the knight said. Sir George started to step forward but before he could lift his foot light flooded in from the opening in the wall. Torches lit on their own from within, many, and it took both of them time to have their eyes adjust to the bright light washing over them. As he got used to the light that now poured past him his goal came into view. “The Lost Annals of the Grand Sire Hugo Rimebore,” Sir George said with a calm reverence. In the now lit room tall bookcases stood in even intervals. Thick layers of dust rested on each and dimmed the shine of the leather bound books that filled the shelves. The stacks stretched deep into the room, and on the far wall past many shelves a door stood in the wall directly ahead of the knight. Yorri moved closer to his master and produced a clean strip of cloth from his small pack. He took Sir George’s injured hand which caused the knight to start at the touch. Though he quickly relaxed and gave his apprentice access to his hand, unclenching his fist. Yorri quickly wrapped the cut and tied the makeshift bandage tight. “Thank you,” the knight said before turning back to the revealed library. “Of course Sir,” Yorri said before he too looked toward the rows of old tomes. First Sir George, then Yorri stepped into the library, slowly they moved between the stacks of books. The sound of their footfalls on the dry stones muted in the rows of shelves. As they glanced down each row they saw the occasional chair, small table, or ladder. Though the knight’s focus often returned to the door that constantly neared as they walked further into the library. “Just think of all the lost knowledge of the world before the Stag’s Quake. So many theories could be proven or disproven with these texts. New discoveries too,” Yorri said as his eyes constantly moved about the books and tomes. Sir George nodded slightly, “temper yourself Yorri, knowledge is a powerful thing, and just like a blade in malicious hands it can do great evil.” The words hardly impacted Yorri’s mood as he continued to walk with the knight. As they neared the door Sir George carefully studied it. Heavy iron banding held the carved wood planks that made up the body of the door together and stout hinges held it to the wall. A heavy bolt kept the door securely shut, and runes similar to the ones carved in the floor of the previous room showed faded in the wood of the door. “Should we open it?” Yorri asked as he looked from the door to the knight. Sir George thought for a long moment, his eyes locked on the bolt. “Why just a locking bolt, and from this side?” Yorri stood just behind the knight, so Sir George didn’t see how the question caused a few beads of sweat to appear on his apprentice’s brow. “What are you suggesting, Sir?” “That this door is bolted shut for a reason, there’s something in there, though,” he paused, “there’s no lock. So whoever shut this door from this side at the very least wasn’t worried about it being opened by whoever found this place.” “That’s a good thing? You lock up dangerous things, or valuable things.” “Unless you don’t care about the value of the thing or the safety of who finds it.” Yorri felt the sweat start to slowly roll down his back at the knight’s observation. “Maybe we should just leave it, find a way to get the books out, and leave the door alone,” Yorri said and hoped for nothing else exciting to happen on this venture. “Then what happens when the next pair find themselves here with no books and only a shut door? They open it. We might as well investigate, we did come here looking for knowledge afterall.” Sir George looked over his shoulder at the nervous apprentice, Yorri to his credit met the knight’s gaze with an unamused look of his own. Though Yorri trusted the knight, they nodded to each other agreeing to see the task out. The apprentice moved closer to the door and placed a hand on the bolt. Sir George drew his sword from its scabbard and stepped to the side of the door to face the opening. “Ready,” the knight said, and Yorri raised the bolt from its shut position, pulled it back, and then heaved on the heavy wooden door. It swung stiffly on its hinges. No light emerged from the door, though a heavy scent of stale incense escaped past the both of them. His hands tightened on the hilt of his sword as the door fully opened, a stinging pain grew in his injured palm. Sir George looked past the door, letting the light of the library move in and reveal what lay beyond. Small stone tables of various heights and sizes lined the walls of the small room. The largest feature stood directly across from the door. Sir George took a step into the threshold to get a better look. Scattered on each of the small tables stood various bowls and stands of long burned sticks of incense and some that never got the chance to touch fire. Across from the door the large feature of the room remained in enough darkness to obscure its true shape. The knight nodded to one of the torches on the wall of the library and Yorri retrieved it. The apprentice moved back to stand just behind the knight’s shoulder and held the torch up and into the room. Light flooded in, it showed the many incense censors more clearly. It also revealed dark spots on the stone floor, seemingly random and more concentrated in the center of the room. Sir George recognized the coloration of the stains as the same color of the small offering stone outside the library. His focus turned back toward the now clear shape. A carved stone slab that stood upright against the wall. A figure set in the relief of the stone, a man shown with his eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest, a dagger in one hand and a lily in the other. The intricate carving showed the man dressed in a fine coat and trousers. Sir George stared intently at the stone figure, trying to decipher who it was. He motioned Yorri to lower the torch slightly, and the apprentice did as instructed. The light showed more of the details of the lower part of the relief. Immediately the knight’s eyes focused on the now clear belt buckle, the Laying Tower. “Grand Sire Hugo Rimebore’s coffin,” the knight said as he felt the color leave his face. “What,” Yorri said, still trying to process his master’s observation. “The first vampire, and bane of the gods,” Sir George said with a dry voice. They stood in silence for a moment, then Sir George heard the soft dull drop of blood hitting stone. He looked down at his hand, his wound soaked through the bandage and his blood started to drip down the hilt of his sword and off the pommel. The knight looked back up at stone carving, a dull red light started to show in the carved closed eyelids of the figure. “Run,” the knight said, with a half breath and unconsciously. “Sir?” Yorri said as he saw the red light starting to grow brighter. “Run Yorri,” Sir George shouted, as he turned from the door and took his apprentice’s shoulder, turning him around as well and pushing him back the way they came. The sound of stone scraping stone came from behind them, followed by the loud crash of something heavy falling to the ground. They could barely hear it over their heavy footfalls against the stone floor and heavy breaths. As they crossed the door back to the dark landing they looked up the passageway. As they stared up the trecious path that brought them here they heard from behind them a deep and consuming voice. “In darkness, make an offering of yourself.” The torch Yorri held flicked, and went out, leaving them both again in darkness.

14en03

dream land

reading books brings peace of mind and warmth,throughout the body.,and the mind,when I envision reading a book in the story I envision myself in the storythatare filled with all details and pictures,and my favourite s are crime novels.especially on a stormy night.however,it was not always like that,at a younger age there was a time I wanted to be an author,though things changed now days for book publishing but discovered self publishing and submitted my first book and started writing for many online publishing on social media,now my goal is to study at a writing school so I can accomplish more that would actually sell of many stories I have to share,anywayremembering my high school years ,not many real friends as preferring to study and read.even dreamed back then of working in a library and so many years later on discovering my favourite author of crime books would be John grisham ,so I have every one of his books and payed for all his new ones mainly online and support tried to stop me buying any books on line as my own housing unit had already been filled with lined bookshelves ,and I don't taken any notice of any of my support team and they cant have put me out of my unit as they know my consequenes which is to taking off to camp at a suburb up the coast of Wollongong nsw where there is a newly big street library so they the support team leave me be in my own unit with my filled own home of lined bookshelves and didn't paid for all of my book collection ,half had been stolen when I went out to my local street libraries to keep bagging up loaded two bags of books,and now back to the high school years,my favourite subject had been English,.thought of reading turned out more worthwhile than how most of my classmates liked.though growing up slowly most children would be grown out of reading books.especially of our future today and the year of 2024 ,which turned out to be a new era of modern technology with which people read less and less traditional books like online ebooks,but I've never given up on the traditional book novels and have my own own today with over thousands of books on my lined shelves.though some people today found this odd behaviour and I don't care of peoples today for there smart downing comments,and well I still ignore like throughout my child hood ,. ,..well who needed friends today when there are books to read in my own home.and have at least a few good friends though one male older had passed away who also was into books and two years later since my good friends death have returned myself into a loner and don't like being around peoples and sometime my support would be on my nerves so I had often cancelled there shift making out I was sick with a cold,but time went by and seemed to be slowly over the trauma of my good friends death ,but still normal people imi dot need but happier now for my support to [pop over now and then and even taking me to visit my parents tome to time,and still secretive sneak to a street library for more few books on my favourite authors ,whether they secretive realised there are more books in my unit but it don't matter as I've gotten special cleaning help with cleaning as now middle aged but refused an age care home,and rather prefer to grow old and frail in my own home just being able to read my very last time,and mentioned my books are to be cremated with me when that times come,but I've still gotta life long of my many years to be able to reward more books and secretly hunted for more at local street libraries.and my self publishing on social media still going great and reviewing good,so maybe some day I'll have a new book to be able to be published band worth a lot of sales but first must complete more writing skills on my own novel and with help from other writers of course,and maybe who knows and well the aim to achieving the goal is never giving up and keep going with those little stories on the social media publishing like Amazon kindle direct,and luck on side,.problem is with being under strict financial trust it would be hard to cover the cost of publishing and but would make the effort of payment someday,and well going back in time how easier it was.and sometime being paranoid soon in this future of today with more growing technology that there may not be any more books out there as normal people are reading traditional less and less of those books and sometime I wonder what would happen to those books people donate to street libraries and something on google reading telling me the unwanted books will be recycled bin and though have already rescued over thousands of books but still a bit sad I cant own every single book while still out there around and could almost hear those all new books pleading and crying out to normal people to'please buy me buy me to keep,never throw me away' .well there the words the books in the stores are really saying .and kind of begging normal people to adopt them all.and that is all for now,I think if this story shall continue into a new chapter. the end.no not yet,the end just one more moment,as I still sit in my own home reading even through the night I hear a babbling old woman outside my window with some sort of strange comment over my all night read and didn't bother me the least,people entitled for opinions and wishing they would hwar the books still in the store s pleading and begging to be adopted and kept,but in this day if age I ve been able to rescue more books and had stopped there and then as I couldn't over crowd my little own unit,

x256rp

The Lost Collection Of Umne.

Eran was tired but had to keep moving. There was no telling if reinforcements were coming for the fallen tribe. Even after being held captive by the Bednaarians as long as he had, he wasn’t fully wise to how they functioned. It was entirely plausible that they were able to channel communication posthumously. So powerful was their mental configuration. He had to get as far away as possible from the site of the massacre lest a fresh wave of the hellish mind manipulators descended into the caves and found him. He held his dim torch out in front of him and navigated the rocky pathway. It had been chiseled out many cycles ago by the Umne tribe, no doubt. It meandered down and around the elongated cave walls. Only his fading light kept him company in the cool, dark cave. The silence allowed him room to think. With Melkit, his primary mind manipulator dead, physically at least, Eran found himself relearning his brain. He parsed through the myriad of murky memories and tried to sort fact from fiction, reality from implanted lies. He recalled that his name and title was Eran, son of Juust and Kima but he couldn’t conjure up any recollection of said parents. He remembered walking… somewhere and intending to walk further but these things were not connected to anything; not a place, not an event; nothing. A few other disjointed memories drifted uselessly in his muddled brain and he clicked his tongue in frustration. How long was this going to last, he thought to himself. Was he doomed to walk this subterranean cave system in darkness and ignorance forever? Was the damage Melkit did to him permanent? There was no one to ask save for the bats that hung quietly high above his head. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. He didn’t have the energy, time nor calories to waste on crying. He continued to hold his torch out in front of him with one hand while dragging the palm of his other hand along the cave walls. If he couldn’t exactly see, maybe he could feel his way out of the cave. It happened that while dragging his hand along the cool igneous rock wall, he felt a crack, like a fault line. Pausing, he ran his hand over the spot again and felt it. The crack was vertical. In the sparse light produced by his torch, Eran noticed the evident scar running from the base of the wall to a few meters above his head. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t looking for it but sure as death, the crack was there. A spark of hope lit up inside Eran but he didn’t react much to it as perhaps there was nothing to the crack. He pushed against the rock with the palm of his hand and the rock didn’t budge. “It’s a rock. It’s not going to move.” He said out loud to himself. He gave another non-committal push to the same result. Eran shrugged and his spirit sagged. He was trapped in this meandering underground cave system with very little food, no hope and soon, no light. As far as the world knew he was dead and the world, for all intent and purposes, was dead to him. His mind was a disheveled stew and he didn’t even recall the reason or purpose he had initially ventured out and walked thousands of miles. What was the point? “I should have killed myself after slaughtering the Bednaarians!” Eran cursed.  The madness that had gripped him when he first raged against Melkit and her shackles threatened to overtake him again. For much of his life Eran had not been given to rage but increasingly he found himself on the cusp of going into blinding rages. It had served him well in finally defeating his captors but it was not always a useful emotion to hold. He stood still and inhaled a long and deep breath. On the exhale, he leaned his forearms onto the wall. For a few moments he stood like this breathing in and out. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at the crack with renewed interest.  Such a precise cut in solid stone.   This was no time to be defeated. It certainly was no time to fear looking foolish for pushing against the entire strength of a cave wall. He placed both palms on the rock and pushed. To his absolute amazement, the rock moved an inch. He put all his weight behind him and pushed and pushed and gradually, the rock moved back until there was an opening large enough to see into. Sensing a life line, Eran grabbed the torch off the ground and shone its weak light into this secret lair. The darkness was almost impenetrable but Eran was able to make out some sort of open space with various crates on the ground. Parts of the walls had sections of rock blasted out to create cubby-like openings which seemed to serve as shelves, though it was hard to tell what was on them from where he stood. With nothing to lose, Eran wriggled through the opening and began to explore. The air inside the cave was stiff. It was also noticeably warmer inside this little nook within the cave. The layout followed the natural contours of the cave, however, there was an area in the middle of the ground that appeared to have served as a hearth in times past. Spent charcoal from however long ago huddled in an ashen gray heap. The smoke from many fires stained the cave ceiling and a closeby wall which didn’t have any cubby’s hewn in it. Eran bent down to touch the charcoal and it was cold as he expected. Yet there had to be combustibles around. It was clear his own torch wouldn’t yield light much longer. There was a crate that leaned against the smoke stained wall. He approached and tried to open it but the lid was firmly attached. As with all things down here, forcefulness was required. The ancient crate wouldn’t just give up its secret bounty after a few tugs from a limp wrist. Eran gripped the corner of the wooden top and pulled and this time it flew off to reveal a most useful cache of items. Nestled atop a bed of coarse, dry grass, Eran was pleased to see a cluster of twigs which were bound with similarly coarse twine. Next to them were blocks of wood, about seven in total and two flintstones. Instinctively he grabbed the stones and immediately began striking one against the other. Sparks flew almost immediately and Eran whooped in delight. He quickly cleared away the old charcoal and organized three blocks of wood and a stack of twigs in a tight circle before striking the stones vigorously over and over until one of the bone dry twigs caught light. Quite soon after, Eran was able to see what exactly was on the walls. There were eight cubby shelves in total and each held a collection of bound books and scrolls. As Eran poured over each section, he couldn’t help but feel like he had stumbled upon a sacred library curated by the mysterious but seemingly vanquished and extinct Umne tribe. He picked up a book which was bound in thick maroon leather and had the words “Talelum a Umne” engraved in gold on the cover. Running his fingers over the print, Eran was in awe of what he held. The Umne were a vaunted people whom many believed to be more myth than real. Seemingly transfixed by the phrase, Eran stared at it for an elongated period of time. “Talelum a Umne” he mouthed first. “Talelum a Umne” he said out loud. He held his breath and waited, as if expectant for some event to take place. The utterance of the phrase might be a trigger to something happening, he thought. He stood still and listened intently. He heard nothing. He began to turn the thick cover open but paused. He was in uncharted territory and if the lore was anything to go by, the mysterious Umne deserved respect and reverence. Not familiar with anything about this peculiar race of people nor their ways, Eran defaulted to his interpretation of respect and honor. Bowing his head and focusing his mind, Eran brought to the fore of his consciousness thoughts and feelings of gratitude. Gratitude for the fire that now gave him light and companionship against the darkness. Gratitude for this hidden place in which to let his guard down even just a little. Gratitude for the library of information at his literal fingertips. “You do not know me. I am only your kin in the sense that we collectively live upon this living rock, one of many. Allow me, please, to rest my feet, feed my mind and then depart from you, tribe of Umne.” The fire crackled and Eran’s heartbeat slowed to a peaceful tempo. He opened the book and looked within.

yxn7uw

The Witness

Dmitri disembarked from the plane at about 1 am. He hated the red eye. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he thought. Except for his fellow passengers, the cavernous terminal stood empty. Signs in the local language directed him to baggage claim and customs. He took the steps down. There was no escalator. With his backpack slung over his shoulder, he joined the throng at customs. Dmitri mulled over the cryptic email he’d gotten the previous day from his old friend Matthias. ‘Need you to take a walk. Do not contact. You don’t know me. Visa, tickets awaiting.’ Working in foreign countries sometimes demanded coded communications. This email wasn’t too obscure. But the urgency of it was something he’d never gotten used to. ‘Taking a walk’ indicated Matthias’ need for Dmitri to investigate some obscure location. Enter the country, investigate, and leave no ripples. ‘Do not contact. You don’t know me.’ Politics were in play. Their lives could be at risk, should their friendship become known. Mutual safety depended on their having no direct contact while in the country.  Their activities were being monitored. Plausible deniability was always in place. Matthias and Dmitri had followed this script many times since their stint in the CIA. Matthias took care of finances and red tape. All Dmitri needed do is arrive on the next flight, do the job and report from afar. ‘Why me? And why now?’ Dmitri had held many jobs. Working as a journalist allowed him to travel the world between clandestine assignments. Archeology was his private passion. He’d seen more ruins and archeological digs than anyone alive. ‘Matthias counts on my irrepressible curiosity.’ Dmitri cherished that quality in himself. Though it had waned in recent years, it always perked up at opportunities like this. He wished Matthias provided more notice though. Reconfiguring his schedule on a finger snap wreaked havoc with his life. It meant delegating several interviews. His wife and kids are pros at coping. The threadbare but practical, ‘unnamed illness’ was Dmitri’s standard excuse. People might doubt its veracity, but no one wants you around if you might be contagious. It was his turn. The customs official scanned his backpack. He knew English. “Welcome… Your reason for visiting our country?” “A wedding.” “You have almost no luggage…” “Local friends rented a tux for me.” “Why do you need the knife? The heavy boots?” “Afraid of snakes. You know how outdoor weddings can be.” The official didn’t buy it, but he stamped Dmitri’s passport and let him go. He stepped outside. A jeep with three male passengers pulled up to the curb. The front seat passenger looked at Dmitri. He asked, “You Dmitri?” At his nod he said, “Get in.” Dmitri crawled into the back, as they pulled away. The man who spoke to Dmitri introduced himself as Lin. He pointed to the man sitting next to Dmitri. “That’s Moli.” They nodded to each other. Remaining still, Moli watched intently. An AR-15 rested between him and the door. The driver remained nameless and didn’t speak. Lin continued. “So, friends with Matthias, eh?” Dmitri pursed his lips. “Matthias? I’ve heard of him.” Lin laughed. “We’re running a little errand. He said you’re a good man to have along.” “What’s the plan?” “Going into the frontier… to a sacred mountain. Forbidden to visit. Will climb the back way.” “Our purpose?” “Looking for antiquities to save virgin forest from development. From logging.” Dmitri never got used to joining with strangers and traveling to parts unknown. He felt vulnerable. Too much could go wrong. Travelers often disappeared. Investigations wither. Trust built over decades was the one intangible everyone depended upon. The road became a jolting track. Sleep proved impossible. The driver rolled to a stop as dawn lightened the sky. While unpacking the jeep, Lin explained, “Loggers are building a road up the far side of the mountain. Illegally, but they expect permits soon.” He rubbed his fingers with his thumb. “Won’t delay. Laws are meaningless without enforcement.” He passed a machete to Dmitri. “We’ll go up the back. Undetected and unmolested.” Each carried water and little else. Moli held the rifle. Lin and Dmitri had pistols and machetes. Following the river, they started up the mountain. Lin cut through heavy underbrush with his machete. Following him, Dmitri pondered his purpose in this adventure. ‘Because environmental laws have no teeth, this ‘sacred’ mountain needs protection from development. Evidence of an ancient civilization will bolster his case. Matthias wants international outrage to stop them. If anyone can do this, I’m the guy.’ ‘How did the legends around this mountain originate? If there’s no awareness of human activity the lumber company has no incentive to reveal any finds.’ ‘I’m here now. Do the job and go home. How many times can I tell Jill that ‘something came up.’? I’m not lying. This could become a huge story.’ After climbing all day, they made camp at foot of a triple waterfall. Dmitri had heard of its beauty, but never expected to see it. Not wanting to draw attention with a fire, they ate their dinner dry and cold. And traveling light, they slept under the stars, machetes at the ready. His inner clock out of whack, Dmitri took the first watch. He had to laugh at this whole enterprise. ‘Why should the world care about another fallen empire? Will one more ruin provide the key to avoiding past mistakes?’ ‘History is the graffiti scrawled on the fallen stones of ruined temples.’ Why did he crave knowledge about civilizations which rose to power on feet of clay? ‘Would the story ever end differently?’ His thoughts followed familiar paths and always arrived at the same conclusion. ‘The ruins speak for themselves.’ He wondered at the ever so human, arrogant urge to power. And how the powerful use an elite ‘priesthood’ to mask their crimes against humanity. ‘In the name of appeasing the gods, they feed their own insatiable egos.’ ‘Does no one see that power, grasped tightly, controls those who hold it? When motives are expressed in exalted language, anything can be justified.’ ‘Fear effectively masks almost any activity. Using it as a lever, they divide above from below, the in-crowd from the out.’ Dmitri heard nothing over the falls’ rumble. Anything could approach unheard. He scanned their surroundings for impending danger. The moon had set. The world felt at peace. It was almost time for Moli’s watch. He thought about their destination. ‘What monument to human sacrifice will we discover? How many pyramids were blood-stained altars dedicated to appeasing blood thirsty gods?’ As the poet said: ‘How cheap be the vanquished when thirsty blades demand quenching?’ ‘So many civilizations disappeared into the wilderness with its unbreakable rules of survival. Moli stirred, shook off his sleep and took his watch. Dmitri slept until awakened by Lin. They shivered in the morning chill and ate while climbing. Moving away from the river, the terrain opened. The shade under the canopy of trees minimized the underbrush and made walking easier. Birds kept a constant chorus. Monkeys began screaming from the high branches. Lin announced, “Capuchins.” It began to rain despite the clear, blue sky. Moli wiped his brow and swore. He looked up and got a face full. The monkeys were throwing feces. They ran but the monkeys kept pace, leaping from tree to tree. The men couldn’t help but laugh. After sprinting several hundred yards, the attack let up. They stopped and assessed the damage. Panting, half from laughing, Dmitri said, “Finally got ahead of them.” Lin said, “Or they ran out of ‘ammo.’” Falling into laughter again, they backtracked to bathe in the river. After the detour, they entered the main forest of immense, ancient trees. The bark looked like parchment. Dmitri had never seen them. ‘Are they a kind of birch?’ Lin murmured, “Whoa…” A half-dozen tribesmen emerged from behind a cluster of massive trees. They held primitive bows and watched, unimpressed, as Moli unslung his rifle. Dmitri said, “We’re outnumbered and don’t need a fight.” Lin said, “Don’t attract attention with gunfire.” Dmitri said, “Keep smiling.” Moli stepped forward. He addressed them, using short phrases and sign language. The tribesmen listened with interest and burst into laughter. Moli translated, “I told them we come in peace. They have no reason to trust us.” After making a sign, he pulled three heavy-duty, webbed belts from his backpack and offered them to the warriors. The leader examined them. He signaled and his warriors withdrew. Dmitri and the others continued on their way. As they walked, Moli told them what the warriors said. “They don’t trust lowlanders. I said we aim to protect them. They warned us away from disrupting the trees’ worship.” Dmitri asked, “They worship the trees?” “I don’t speak their lingo well. I heard it’s the trees’ that worship and we dare not disrupt their prayers.” “Tree huggers. Latter day Druids. So, we’re looking for a sacred grove?” “Maybe.” They continued trudging toward the sun through the ancient forest. The canopy of branches filtered the light and cooled the air. Dmitri had taken the lead. He understood they would want to log this virgin forest. Turning to Lin, he said, “How many houses could you build with one…?” Stunned and trembling, he fell to his knees. He saw thousands of symbols carved into the tree’s bark. The elaborate carvings covered the trunk, skyward until blending into the upper shadows. The others turned, and seeing, also fell to their knees. Their mouths moved silently. Tears streamed down their cheeks. Dmitri sprang up and ran about, shouting, “This is it! All of them! Look!” The others stood. There were carvings on the sunward side of hundreds of ancient trees. Each displayed the records of a lost civilization. The oldest messages, obscured by healing bark, could still be seen. The trio set about documenting as many as possible. The mood was light. By day’s end, they’d photographed over a thousand trees, each with distinct markings. The trees’ average circumference was forty feet around. Dmitri worked feverishly. So much to do. He thought, ‘Talking trees blending creation with worship. The fulfillment of the universal urge toward transcendence. Creation speaking with its Creator. As it should be.’ The golden light filtering from above was the perfect response. They found no evidence of human sacrifice. Dmitri had never felt such peace. He didn’t want to leave. Lin asked, “But what do they say? Will we ever know?” Dmitri sighed, “Without some sort of Rosetta Stone, we can only surmise. Translating it all might take years. Artificial intelligence will assist.” Lin nodded. Dmitri pointed at the trees. “But look. I know what they say. Those aren’t laundry lists. And those carvings weren’t done under the whip.” Lin agreed. Dmitri said, “The way they were created proves devotion, reverence and love. The eternal hunger to connect with the ephemeral, the ineffable… the ultimate.” “Matthias will love this.” “This forest could be the first library in history. Psalms to the gods, written on living parchment.” “I hoped we’d find this.” Dmitri stopped. “You knew about it?” “How to get here. Yeah.  But never been. Always forbidden. A mystery. Rumors. Nothing specific. Who knows what else is hidden in the wilds?” “Without human intervention, nature speaks for itself… We should get moving.” They packed their gear and trekked back the way they came. They made good time. At the waterfall, they crossed paths with a patrol stopping to refill their canteens. Lin and the others watched from behind the falls, safely unseen. Reaching the valley, their driver picked them up. Dmitri sent pictures to Matthias. They dropped him at the airport, and he caught the next flight out. Dmitri had a story to write.

6i1cup

"The Sorceress' Secret: The Unraveling Mystery of Seraphina's Legacy"

The day had just begun to shed its last vestiges of night when Nicole found it. There, amidst the dusty, forgotten books that lined the creaky shelves of the old library, she saw it: a worn, leather-bound tome with a faded gold embossed title that seemed to glow against the dim light. Her heart skipped a beat as she reached out to take it, her fingers brushing against the smooth, cool surface. It was like touching a piece of history, a relic from a time long past. As she brought the book closer, she noticed that it didn't have a publication date, nor any indication of its author. Yet there was something about it that made her heart race, a sense of urgency that compelled her to turn its first page. The delicate, yellowed paper crackled beneath her fingertips as she began to read. The words flowed across the page like a river, each one more captivating than the last. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, engrossed in the story, when she finally noticed the peculiarity of the language. It was unlike anything she had ever read before, a mix of archaic and modern words that seemed to blend seamlessly. It was as if the author had taken words from different eras and molded them into something new, something beautiful. As she continued to read, she couldn't shake the feeling that the story was speaking directly to her, that it was trying to tell her something important. As the pages turned, the world around her faded away, replaced by the vivid imagery of the book. The more she read, the more the lines between fiction and reality began to blur, until one day she finds herself transported into the world of the book, forced to confront the characters and the choices they have made. She is no longer just a reader, but a participant in the story, a part of the narrative. She soon discovers that the protagonist, a young woman named Lily, is in a similar situation to her own. Lily has stumbled upon a hidden manuscript that tells the tale of a powerful sorceress named Seraphina, who was banished from their world for using her magic to enslave others. As Lily delves deeper into the story, she realizes that she is not just reading about Seraphina, but that she has the power to help her. With each turn of the page, the world around her changes, reflecting the events in the book. The trees grow taller, the sky darkens, and the air grows colder. She knows that she must find Seraphina, and that time is running out. As she navigates this strange new world, she begins to wonder if she is truly prepared for what she will find, and if she has what it takes to save not only Seraphina, but also herself. She comes across a small village nestled in a valley, its buildings made of stone and wood, and its people living in fear. They whisper about a powerful sorceress who lives in a tower at the far end of the valley, controlling the weather and the beasts that roam the forest. They tell her that Seraphina is a monster, that she has brought nothing but suffering upon them. Lily is unsure of what to believe. She remembers the Seraphina in the manuscript, a woman who used her powers for good, who fought against tyranny and oppression. She cannot help but feel that there is more to the story than these villagers realize. She decides to seek out Seraphina herself, to find the truth and to offer her aid if she is in need. As she approaches the tower, its dark, brooding presence looming overhead, she steels herself for what she might find. The tower guards, clad in black armor and wielding swords forged from a rare and powerful metal, try to stop her. But Lily, emboldened by her newfound knowledge and her determination to right the wrongs of the past, refuses to back down. She engages them in combat, her feminist rage fueling her movements as she expertly wields her trusty sword. The guards, caught off guard by her ferocity, are quickly defeated. As Lily climbs the tower's winding staircase, she cannot shake the feeling that she is walking into the heart of a storm. She reaches the top, and there, before her, stands Seraphina. Her long, flowing hair is as white as snow, her eyes as blue as the sky, and her features as regal as those of a queen. But there is a sadness in her eyes, a weariness that Lily cannot help but feel drawn to. "You've come to face me, haven't you?" Seraphina asks, her voice as soft as the breeze that whispers through the open window. Lily nods, steeling herself for whatever may come next. "I've read your story, Seraphina. I know that you're not the monster they say you are. I came to help you, if I can." Seraphina looks out over the valley below, where the people of the village cower in fear. "They are right, you know. I did use my powers for my own gain, and for the sake of my people. But I never meant for it to become this." She gestures to the tower, to the valley, to the world beyond. "The power that awoke within me... it was too great. I could not control it. I tried to use it for good, but the darkness always seemed to find a way back in." Lily takes a step closer, reaching out to touch Seraphina's hand. "Together, maybe we can find a way to control it. To use it for what's right." Seraphina's hand trembles beneath Lily's touch, and for a moment, Lily thinks she sees a spark of hope flicker in her eyes. But then, just as quickly, it is gone. "I fear that it is too late for that, my dear," Seraphina says, her voice heavy with regret. "The power that flows through my veins... it is ancient, and it is hungry. It will not be sated until I have paid the price for what I have done." She turns back to Lily, her expression softening. "But perhaps you can use it, Lily. Perhaps you can find a way to control it, and to use it for good. That is what I have always hoped for." As Seraphina speaks, Lily feels a strange sensation coursing through her veins, as if the power that once coursed through Seraphina's now flows through her own. She looks down at her hands, marveling at the newfound strength she feels, the knowledge that she can shape the world around her with nothing more than a thought. And as she stands there, gazing into Seraphina's eyes, she realizes that the choice is hers to make. She can use this power for her own gain, or she can use it to right the wrongs of the past and make a better future for them all. In the end, Lily decides to follow in Seraphina's footsteps, to use her newfound power for the greater good. And as she takes the first step towards that journey, she knows that Seraphina will always be with her, guiding her, supporting her, and helping her to find her way through the darkness. "I will not let you down, Seraphina," Lily promises, her voice steady and strong. "I will use this power wisely, and I will make sure that your sacrifice was not in vain." Seraphina smiles, her eyes glistening with tears. "I know you will, my dear. You have a kind heart, just like mine. And I have faith in you." With a final nod of encouragement, Seraphina fades away, her ethereal form dissipating into the ether. Lily stands alone atop the tower, the wind whipping through her hair, the world spread out before her like a vast, untamed tapestry. She takes a deep breath, feeling the power coursing through her veins, and knows that this is only the beginning. From this day forward, Lily vows to use her newfound abilities to bring light into the darkness. To right the wrongs of the past and to build a better future for all those who have suffered. As she begins her journey, she carries with her the memory of Seraphina, a beacon of hope and a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always the possibility of redemption. For years, Lily travels far and wide, using her powers to help those in need. She cleanses the polluted waters, brings life to barren lands, and spreads hope where there was only despair. Her legend grows with each passing day, and soon, people from all corners of the world begin to seek her out, seeking her guidance and her protection. In the end, it is her compassion and her unwavering belief in the inherent goodness of people that leads Lily to her greatest triumph. A war-torn land, torn apart by petty squabbles and senseless violence, has fallen under her spell. She uses her powers to bring the warring factions together, to heal their wounds and to show them a path to peace. And as the sun sets on her final day there, she stands before a vast crowd of people, their faces etched with gratitude and hope, and knows that she has fulfilled her destiny. She turns to the setting sun, feeling Seraphina's presence beside her once more, and whispers a silent prayer of thanks. "For giving me this gift, and for showing me the way," she says, her voice carrying on the wind. "I will never forget you, my dear Seraphina. And I will never stop fighting for a world where your story need not be repeated." As the last rays of the sun fade from the sky, Lily closes her eyes, feeling the power within her ebb and flow like the tide, and knows that she has truly become the hero she was always meant to be. And with each breath she takes, she carries Seraphina's legacy forward, into a brighter, more hopeful tomorrow. In the distance, she can hear the whispers of people, their voices raised in praise and thanks. They speak of her as a savior, a guardian angel, but Lily knows that the real hero is not her. It is Seraphina, whose selfless sacrifice has given her this gift, and whose memory will forever inspire her to use it for the greater good. As the stars begin to twinkle in the velvet blackness of the sky, Lily turns to leave the tower, ready to embark on her next journey, her next quest for justice and peace. But before she descends the winding staircase, she pauses, taking one last look back at the world she has helped to heal. She knows that there will always be darkness, that the fight for a better tomorrow will never truly be over. But she also knows that there are those like her, and like Seraphina, who will rise to meet the challenge, who will stand against the shadows and fight for the light. And it is this knowledge, this hope, that sustains her, that drives her forward, one small step at a time, into the uncertain future. As Lily finally leaves the tower behind her, she feels the weight of the world lifting from her shoulders, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose, of destiny. She is no longer the helpless girl who watched her family die, but a hero in her own right, a beacon of hope in a world that so desperately needs it. As the wind carries her away, toward her next adventure, she whispers a silent prayer of gratitude to Seraphina, her guardian angel, her friend, her mentor. For it is only through her that Lily has found the strength to face the darkness, and to bring light into the world. So, their journey continues, intertwined forever, two souls bound by fate, fighting for a brighter tomorrow, hand in hand. Together, they will face whatever challenges come their way, and together, they will make the world a better place. In the end, that is all that truly matters.

wlidg0

The Book of Heroes

When Isabella was young, she regarded the kingdom’s soldiers as heroes. Now, she regarded them as the true enemy. That didn’t mean all soldiers from the forces were cruel, because her father, Eli, was a true hero. For fifteen years, he had gone missing. Isabella had asked neighbors, relatives, or even a soldier that felt generous enough to answer questions from a little girl. No one knew where he was. But, perhaps, could the Chamber of Ages tell Isabella where Eli went? A book in there documented every soldier who had served in the kingdom. Her father must be in it, and it was going to show her that Eli stood out as a hero. He would oppose an order, if the mission was to cleanse out innocents rather than the guilty. One problem plagued Isabella: Where was the Chamber of Ages? Teachers and scholars had confirmed its existence but not its whereabouts. It could be close or far, dark or light, and safe or dangerous. Isabella speculated the possibilities, while she packed her bags, and went off to where the wind blew. She slid her sandals past the thigh-high grass on a slope, which overlooked her city. The local council building stood like a citadel over the city. The lord there would retire soon but not in the best spirit. He knew best about Eli’s vanishing. But visiting the city’s lord was like asking a priest to meet the Gods. She had water, food, and a little sword in case she stumbled into some soldiers. The slope unpacked a sunny-yellow meadow, with a thick forest ahead. From when Isabella was little, a guardian kept a watch on her. Back then, the meadow’s grass beamed and waved in a fluid green. It felt like she stuck her sandals into vast holes, given how tall and heavy the grass was. Her many guardians allowed her to do anything but trip in the grass, as she could fall through it. That turned out to be humbug, because she had fallen four times in her life, and never ended up in a hole. She would jump in the air, spin herself and her dress, and land with a crunch on the grass like she danced ballet. For old time’s sake. The meadow had reached the end of its life circle, so why shouldn’t she just go ahead? Her childish spirit flowed through her veins, and she felt like she could touch the clouds with a proper jump. She raised her arms, stretched her toes, and took off like a gazelle. Swirling like a tornado that could take the green of the grass with it, Isabella descended. Her sandals pushed the decaying grass aside, marking her stance. She expected a crunch from the old ground, but instead, a violent wind blew from below her feet. The grass suddenly reached her forehead. It didn’t grow on a wizard’s commands, because Isabella fell through it. Tickles and panics rushed in her stomach; all the blood in her body rushed to her face. The greyish-gold grass vanished like someone turned off the light. In a strange turn of events, the rush in her blood and ears disappeared by the snap of a finger. Then, as she opened her eyes, an ancient archway stood before her. Her supplies were gone. Dry dirt stained the bricks that held the archway together. Upfront, a wide path led to a room, where seven candles shone. It looked like a chandelier that stood on a candlestick, instead of hanging from the ceiling. Isabella stepped inside. The old dirt scraped underneath her sandals, which echoed by every crunchy step. Two rows of bookshelves stood by each side of the room. They looked as tall as the lord’s council building in her city. At the center of the chandelier, the lights revealed a podium, where a book lay. With its basil-green leather cover, a gold title displayed on the top: ‘’ THE BOOK OF HEROES ’’. No way… It was here. All along, the book was here. Isabella stared around, finding the same bookshelves that looked like hedges in a labyrinth by every interval. She found it, and it turned out to be closer than she had thought. The candles were the only lights here, and they made the library look like a bonfire in a mystical forest. When Isabella approached the lights, four candles moved from their places to form a path. She walked up to the book and studied the title again. The gold letters glinted from the candles. Finally, at last. She was going to find her father’s name. Once she had done that, she would return home, pack her stuff, put on a clever disguise, and immigrate to the enemy’s realm. If the book didn’t exist, nor did the Chamber of Ages, she would’ve begged for a soldier to take her somewhere else. She could’ve probably had most of her guardians go along with her escape, even if she didn’t give a thorough reason. The book gave a tiny squeak as Isabella opened it. There seemed to be over 1500 pages, and the names of each soldier were in non-alphabetical order. Beneath their names, their biggest achievements were listed. Isabella squinted and read the book carefully. Reading the first thirty pages, her father’s name hadn’t caught her gaze yet. She had checked the first and last pages to be sure he wasn’t there. Throughout the reading, most soldiers had similar summaries to their careers, which read like: ‘’ Defended the kingdom faithfully, without putting his sword down unless ordered so. ’’ Though, one soldier sparked Isabella’s interest, and she had to reread the passage almost ten times to make sure her eyes didn’t conjure it. On multiple occasions, she used her hand to keep her eyes open, as the same stories and formulations became like watching grass grow. Yet, this story kept her eyes fixated, which read like: ‘’ Surrounded by the bodies of every childhood friend and mentor he had, the one-eyed knight lifted his sword like a strong hawk emerging from the shadows and landed such a strike, that it ended the scorching battle. ’’ If only that was my father… Eli was very well capable of doing what this soldier did. The enemy in the story must’ve been non-human, with godlike strength and speed. Also, it wasn’t even clear on when the stories took place. Could it be fifty years, a hundred years, or more than a hundred? Isabella continued reading, still having the image of the one-eyed knight with his sword. Soldiers with ‘’E’’ in their names became more frequent: Elliot, Eric, Evan, Erena, etc. Almost 400 pages in, and Isabella’s eyes caught the name between tens of others: Eli. Luckily, the book seemed to follow a string of soldiers named as such. Isabella skimmed the pages, and there it was: Eli, her father. She seized the book and stuck her face close to the passage describing her father’s deeds. Barely past the first three words, Isabella’s whole world stopped, like the wheel of a carriage broke off, or she sipped a drink laced with poison. The passage that described her father read like this: ‘’ Children were murdered, even the sickly that only needed the comforts of family to keep them alive fell by the deadly stabbings of the sickened, savaged knight. ’’ Isabella’s eyes gushed in tears as she slowly let go of the book, staring at the passage that should never have been there. Someone had altered it. It must be. Her father was a hero. She knew it. ‘’I knew you would find it someday.’’ The voice behind her startled her so much, she screamed and fell forwards, tripping the candles and the podium. The book fell next to a tripped candle, which torched the thousand pages that included the very enemies Isabella had known since childhood. When she looked at the person who spoke, more tears gushed from her. ‘’My little Isabella. You’ve grown so much. I’d thought the lord put you somewhere much safer than this.’’ She couldn’t say what she wanted. But her father seemed to read it from her teary eyes. ‘’He had to put me away, as I wasn’t good enough to take care of you. To be honest, that was the biggest understatement I had ever heard.’’ Eli smiled. Old blood and dirt stained on his face, which needed no explanation as to where he got it from, or whom he got it from. ‘’The council was wary of me from the day you came to the world. Then, your mother joined their pesty cause. They never understood. I was trying to pass over my legacy to my own blood. And when your mother tried to hinder me from that…’’ He took out a sword from a scabbard, turning and dangling it. ‘’That was when the lord sent me away, leaving you with the pests of the council.’’ Isabella finally found her voice, but she could only say: ‘’F-f-father…’’ ‘’No worries, darling.’’ He walked away from the archway, inching close to his daughter. ‘’I had wanted to make you my successor. But since the lord snatched you from my hands, I knew my legacy was going to end…’’ He raised his sword, its tip in the air, ready to strike. ‘’…with me.’’ ‘’FATH-!’’ Before his sword fell, Isabella realized why the Chamber of Ages had such a cryptic reputation. The lord knew where it was, even the teachers and scholars. They always shut down a student, if they dared to speak against the soldiers. If they knew the truth, it would be history with the kingdom. The Chamber of Ages didn’t house the book of heroes; it housed the book of monsters. And Eli was the pinnacle of them all.

t2lc2c

An Unforgettable ‘Trip’ to Forget

Jack shouldered open the half-glass, leaded front door of the Old Coffee House pub on the corner of Beak Street and Marshall Street, Soho. As the door opened wider a riot of noise hit his ears. As Jack glanced around the red, sticky-carpeted bar, inhaling its heavy fug of lager and real ale, he was dismayed to find that there was not a single empty table to be had anywhere. Not only that, but all the spaces between the tables were also filled by yapping punters, many the worse for drink. Jack guessed that there must be some event going on in the West End that he didn’t know about. He really should have done his research before deciding on a meeting place. ‘Shit. I hate London sometimes’ he sulked under his breath. He stepped outside the pub and went around the corner on to the pavement. He punched Pete’s number into his iPhone. ‘Mate, it’s Jack. Look, I don’t think there’s any point coming to the Coffee House. It’s rammed. I’ll have a look for an emptier pub and ring you back. Oh, and can you let Johnny know as well? Cheers.’ ‘Oh bollocks’, Pete replied. ‘OK. Let us know when you find somewhere’. ‘Will do’ replied Jack. ‘Good lad,’ said Pete. Frustrated, Jack trudged off. He had an idea that the John Snow pub, opposite the bottom of Poland Street could be a promising meeting spot. So Jack turned left up Marshall Street, passing the garish yellow Third Man record shop. Pretentious place, he thought, full of overpriced vinyl. He turned right into Broadwick Street, trying to avoid falling down the trench that British Gas contractors had dug. The road seemed to turn into some kind of mini ‘restaurant quarter’ as he passed Japanese grill restaurants, delicatessens, and Italian chocolate shops either side of him. At the end of the street on the right, he found himself outside the impressive, carved mahogany double door of the John Snow. In front of the pub stood a replica of the water pump where the cholera epidemic of 1854 had started. The pub was named after the famous doctor who discovered that this was where the outbreak had started. ‘It might be a Sam Smiths pub’, thought Jack, ‘but it’s not too bad’. He opened the heavy door with an effort and quickly scooted his eyes around the pub. To Jack’s chagrin, the John Snow was even more crowded than the Old Coffee House had been. Again, all the tables were claimed too. And people were jammed up four deep against the short bar. ‘Shit!’ cursed Jack, ‘the John Snow is usually a safe bet. What the hell is going on?’. ‘OK. Let’s try the Lyric then’, he decided. So Jack left the pub and took an abrupt right turn down Lexington Street. The smell of Vietnamese cooking from the Bao Restaurant on his right reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for ages. He peered in the window of a smart-looking tobacconist’s shop. He trotted on past Mildred’s coffee shop and Oliver Peoples gentleman’s outfitters. Whoosh! Bazaar and Exhibition Space looked very interesting, he thought.  Jack reached the end of Lexington Street and dodged the gridlocked traffic on Brewer Street. He ducked down Great Windmill Street, home to the infamous Windmill Theatre. He strode irritably past the Argyll pub and a gelato shop. Then past the Wing Shack. As he passed it, Jack made a mental note to drop into The Thin White Duke, a cocktail bar dedicated to the late, great David Bowie. Then he reached the Lyric. Jack stuck his head through the pub’s back door and clocked the fourteen taps, all dispensing the most interesting real ales and ciders. Plus another twenty taps on the other side of the bar. But there was nowhere to sit in this pub either, as it was also packed. Bollocks! Dejectedly, Jack turned on his heel and sloped off. He trudged back up Great Windmill Street and decided to take a left down Brewer Street. He shuffled past the junction with Great Pulteney Street, feeling decidedly fed up. The next street on the right was Bridle Lane. Jack had been drinking in Soho for years, but Bridle Lane was a new one on him. Something, he didn’t know what, drew him up that alleyway. Jack walked up the narrow street, with its mixture of mews houses and offices. On the left, swinging in the breeze, a midnight blue sign caught his eye. The Cat and Monocle. It had to be a pub, surely. How could he have consistently missed this one all these years? As he approached, Jack appreciated the stained-glass door and the arched, lead-lined windows. He decided to stick his head in, just in case. A quick glance inside showed him it was a small pub. A couple of solemn, preoccupied drinkers sat at separate tables. Jack stepped back outside on to the pavement and again punched Pete’s number into his phone. Pete’s phone rang four times then went to voicemail. Must be on the tube, thought Jack.  He left a message, ‘Hi Pete. I’ve found a decent boozer. It’s the Cat and Monocle on Bridle Lane. Nope, I’ve never heard of it either. See you in a bit’. He stepped back in the ornate front door and took a better look around the pub. Apart from the occupied ones, there were eight other tables. Jack sat down at a cosy-looking booth table in the corner by the front window. He put his messenger bag down while he went to the bar to get a pint from the cheerful, avuncular landlord. The bar was extremely low, only up to about the height of Jack’s waist. After his exertions he needed something strong. He ordered a pint of Broadside, the strongest beer they had. Back at his table he placed his beer down, opened his messenger bag and examined the purchases from his afternoon’s shopping. A CD of the vintage ‘Banana Album’ by the Velvet Underground and a dog-eared second-hand copy of The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. He started brooding about the lack of progress on his PhD thesis. What was he going to do his dissertation on? He took a large gulp of his Broadside and instantly felt much better. And another. And again until the pint was finished. The PhD anxiety seemed to be fading into the background. He glanced around the pub. It was absolutely fascinating. There was an eclectic variety of hats hung up behind the bar. Naval Admiral’s hats, ladies 1920’s flapper hats, Scottish Tam O’ Shanter hats. He also noticed a large Australian cork hat hanging there. Several scale models of World War 2 aircraft hung from the ceiling. The walls were covered with a variety of dusty, ancient-looking paintings.  Jack notice that many of the picture frames contained preserved exotic butterflies. Dotted around the room were several old end-of pier type amusement arcade games. Including a Victorian bagatelle machine. On the mantlepiece, above the empty fireplace, sat an impressive collection of ale tankards and German beer steins. And on the far wall, the gargantuan, moth-eaten mounted head of a bison fixed him with a belligerent stare. What a find this place is, thought Jack, it’s like a cross between a pub and an antique shop. The beer had gone right through him, so he asked where the gents was. The landlord told him it was downstairs. Jack made his way gingerly down the musty-smelling, threadbare carpeted stairs. The doors to the toilets were straight in front of him, gents to the left, ladies to the right. Once finished, back up the stairs he went. He ordered another pint of Broadside. He was getting a taste for this stuff. An hour went by. Jack downed another couple of pints and wondered if his mates had received his message. He was feeling a bit wobbly. This Broadside was strong stuff. He needed the toilet again. This time on his way out of the gents, he noticed an eggshell blue door on the left-hand wall that seemed to be ajar. There was an eerie glow emanating from behind it. Emboldened by all the strong beer and feeling inquisitive, Jack pushed the door open gently.  A polished wooden staircase wound down to where the light was coming from. He quietly stepped inside the doorway. Suddenly, his right leg went from under him. He toppled and went headlong down the stairs. He last remembered receiving a crack on his head. Jack came to in a battered leather wingback chair. He had a splitting headache. He looked around him. The low lighting seemed to come from the floor and a red glow predominated. Small crystal chandeliers hung from a couple of ornate cupolas on the ceiling.  The ceiling featured a mural of a snowy owl. The walls were covered in shelves which were stacked floor to ceiling with exquisitely bound volumes. As far as Jack could see in his semi-concussed state, there seemed to be a lot of books on worldly esoteric beliefs such as Wicca, Voodoo and many others. A couple of desks sat next to the shelves. Featuring poker table style reading lights. A large, carved wooden globe about four feet in diameter squatted in the far-right corner. Jack guessed he was in some kind of library. But under a pub? Why? Just then, a tall gentleman appeared. His hair was pure white. And styled in backwards spikes, which seemed at odds with his old-fashioned demeanour. He wore a teal smoking jacket topped off with a purple silk cravat. And burgundy, dress-suit trousers. Slender, almost bony, he was incredibly sprightly. Pince-nez spectacles rested on a beak-like nose. ‘What are you doing in our library?’ he asked sternly but not unkindly. ‘I don’t know, I just remember falling down some stairs’, explained Jack. ‘You really shouldn’t be in here’. The man sat down in a similar seat opposite Jack. ‘Anyway, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr Osprey. I’m the chief librarian and curator of this establishment. And you are?’ ‘Jack Westham. Pleased to meet you. I think’. ‘Well you’ve had quite the bump on the head, Jack. Let me get you something to help ease the discomfort’. With that, Dr Osprey opened up the globe and took out a bottle of expensive-looking Cognac from a selection of other expensive-looking bottles. He poured a large measure into a lead crystal glass and handed it to Jack. ‘Drink this. It’ll help’. ‘Thanks’. Jack took a sip and enjoyed the golden warmth of the alcohol as it slid into his stomach. ‘What is a library doing here? Underneath a pub?’ enquired Jack. ‘Certainly, dear boy. Allow me to explain. This is a library of the occult. The reason it’s hidden is because many celebrated and well-known people have used it throughout the centuries and still do. Senior politicians, even Prime Ministers. Secret service directors. Royal family members. Even television and film actors. Harold Wilson was one such member of our establishment.’ ‘I wish I’d known about this place!’, exclaimed Jack, ‘What a find. How can I find out more about it? I’d love to research it for my PhD thesis’. ‘I’m afraid that cannot be possible, old chap’ Dr Osprey explained, shaking his head. ‘Word simply cannot get out about this library. If the hoi -polloi got wind of this establishment, not to mention the, shall we say, somewhat left-field beliefs of some of their elected representatives and rulers, I imagine there’s no way they would be able to wrap their heads around it. Our society would have a meltdown.’ ‘Well, what’s to stop me from trying to find out?’ replied Jack ‘You see that Cognac you’re drinking. It’s mixed with a substance that will induce amnesia. Not unlike Rohypnol in its effects. Once it starts its work, you’ll have no memory of this library, or even this evening. It’s quite fast acting so it should take effect soon.’ ‘Are you serious? But how am I going to get home?’ Jack worried. ‘You don’t need to fret. That will be taken care of.’ ‘But you don’t know where I live. . .’ Jack’s chin collapsed on to his chest. *** Jack woke up on the funky orange sofa in the cluttered lounge of his small Greenwich flat. He was fully clothed. An insidious headache wormed its way round his brain. ‘What happened last night? I could swear I went uptown to meet Pete and Johnny. I remember being in Soho, but nothing else. How the hell did I get home?’ The phone rang. Jack picked up. ‘Hello’, he said in a croaky voice. ‘What the hell happened to you last night?’ demanded Pete. ‘We looked for you everywhere. We almost called the police.’ ‘And another thing. Where’s the ‘Cat and Monocle’? We walked up and down Bridle Lane three times and couldn’t find it!’

ib7hjh

Sphinx's Library

After hours of hiking through the woods, Ryan and Leonard reached their destination. Ryan shivered and held his blue hoodie while the breeze blew through his black hair while Leonard ignored the cold and allowed his red coat and brown hair to flow freely. The sight was worth it. For Leonard, he was gazing upon a mystical structure filled with knowledge and wonder. However, for Ryan all he saw was… “A rock?” “It’s not just a rock,” Leonard laughed. “It’s a bolder!” Ryan raised a brow as he watched his friend run excitedly toward the bolder like it was Mickey Mouse. As if it wasn’t strange enough following his friend through the woods where they used to play when they were kids. “Come on!” Leonard waved over. Everything in Ryan’s mind told him to turn away, but instead, he joined his friend. Upon closer inspection, there was nothing special about the bolder. It was massive sure, the size of a two-story cabin, but there were no engravings or drawings on it. “I’m confused, I thought you were taking me to a library?” Ryan asked. “I am! But the way in is secret,” Leonard chirped. “Secret?” “Yeah, we don’t want just anybody finding this place. It’s like a ‘members-only’ type deal.” “So why am I here?” “I know you’ve been struggling with your story,” Leonard asked.  Ryan was about to argue back, but he found that he couldn’t. He had brought his novel contained on his laptop in the hopes of working on it again, a dream he didn’t like neglecting. The thought of his story going unfinished tied a knot in his stomach. “So I asked the librarian if I could take you here,” Leonard continued. “It wasn’t easy trying to convince her but she ultimately said it was OK.” “I don’t know,” Ryan slightly backed away. “I mean, I trust you, but this feels like some religious cult shit. Taking me out in the middle of the woods for a ‘magical experience?’ Are there going to be some guys in masks coming out from the trees and-” “Oh no, nothing like that,” Leonard interjected. “Look, I know this looks shady, but this place is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. And if you don’t like it, I’ll take you home.” “Ok, that makes things even shadier, somehow,” Ryan scoffed. “Come on, Ryan. What have you got to lose?” Leonard asked. Ryan rubbed his head and sighed, “Screw it, show me.” “Yes!” Leonard laughed.”You’re gonna love it.” Leonard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, purple card. Before Ryan could question it, Leonard pressed it against the bolder. When Ryan thought Leonard might have taken something before entering the woods, the card shimmered. Ryan shielded his eyes until the light finally died down, where he saw the outline of a door had suddenly been carved on the surface. Ryan couldn’t look away at what was happening, it was like the door was becoming created right in front of them. The door then sunk inward, revealing the glowing interior. “Here we go!” Leonard chirped and entered the doorway. Ryan watched as his friend disappeared through the bolder. There was no turning back now, it was either trying to find his way out of the woods or take his chances with the shining entrance and see what all the hype was about. With a reluctant sigh, Ryan stepped through. Then, Ryan was met with the sight of the library Leonard had been preaching about. The library was massive, far bigger on the inside. Everything was illuminated in a heavenly glow with shelves upon shelves of books. The second floor contained a mural made up of books, the spines all placed in a pattern to create a shining sun. He gazed around to find other people sitting at the tables, their eyes practically attached to their books. He took in the sweet aroma and relaxed, his nerves melting away. As expected, it was silent in the library, which made it perfect for him to work on his story. “Eh, pretty cool sight, isn’t it?” Leonard asked. “Yeah, it’s definitely not cult-like,” Ryan replied. “How did you find this place again?” “I’m afraid that must remain secret.” Ryan swerved around to find a tall, slender woman approaching them. The cardigan she wore was the same shade of purple as Leonard's card. Ryan couldn’t take his eyes off her dress that was as blue as a cool, night sky. Her raven hair and rectangular glasses added to her stunning appearance and finished off the typical librarian attire. “You must be Ryan. I am Sphinx,” the librarian smiled, holding out her hand. Ryan gladly shook it, her skin was as soft as silk. “Leonard has told us all about you,” Sphinx said. “And how you could use some inspiration for your own story.” “Y-Yeah,” Ryan stammered, taking his hand back. “I hope you’ll find my library helpful in that area. If you can handle our stories,” Sphinx chuckled. “Why? Are they cursed?” Ryan asked, jokingly. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But my books are unique. The narratives are quite powerful and once you pick up one of my stories it’s hard to put it down,” Sphinx said. “They’re that good, huh?” Ryan asked. “Why don’t you find out for yourself.” Sphinx guided the two men to a table. They took their seats as Sphinx began searching the shelf behind them. “What do you think so far?” Leonard whispered. “It’s promising so far, I’ll give you that.” Ryan still had doubts but couldn’t deny that the library was quite a sight. He was taken aback by everything, from the large collection of books to Sphinx herself. He couldn’t help but gaze back at her with awe as she tried to pick out some good titles. Out of everything, he thought she was the most stunning thing about the place. He quickly averted his gaze when Sphinx glanced back, smiling back. To avoid suspicion he stared at the reader next to him, the book they were reading was bulky, which was not unusual. What was strange was the reader's eyes seemed too focused on the pages and there seemed to be shimmering spheres around their pupils. “Here we are,” Sphinx gave the boys each a book. Leonard eagerly took his book like he had gotten a new phone while Sphinx gently gave Ryan his. “I’m sure this story will spark something within you.” Ryan took the book and read the cover aloud, “The Hunter and the Harpy?” “A fantasy adventure story following two unlikely friends. I’m sure you can relate?” Ryan turned to Leonard who was already dead-focused on his book. He squinted his eyes and could see similar shimmers within Leonard’s eyes. Even though he should be worried, he couldn’t help but quietly laugh at his invested friend. “How come you keep this place a secret?” Sphinx chuckled, “I know you have many questions. But first, I’d like you to read a few chapters, and then tell me your thoughts on them. Then I’ll tell you my tale.” Ryan felt a calming warmness swell within him when he stared into her green eyes; her smile. Both of them gave him a sense of comfort like a soft blanket. Ryan smiled back and nodded. With that, Sphinx sauntered away. Ryan watched until she was out of sight and then opened the book. The hunter and the harpy ventured through the Land of Heris searching for the dreaded Horned Wizard. They didn’t know who or what he was but knew he was an unholy being spawned from the Haze, a mysterious mist that had plagued their world many years ago. The Horned Wizard was the same monster that stole the hunter’s wife and burned down the harpy’s home. Bonded by tragedy, the only thing on their minds was delivering justice. Thankfully, they had heard rumors of a caster hunting for unicorns in the grassy plains, so that’s where the duo headed next. “Interesting so far,” Ryan shivered. The Haze was unbearable, they could hardly see and the temperature was unlike any other mist. Thankfully, the hunter wore a special mask with green lenses and carried his trusty rifle whenever he traveled through the Haze while the harpy flew high above to try and find the caster. He didn’t mind traveling on the ground, but the grass was sharp and cut against his ankles.  Just then, Ryan felt a similar sensation around his ankles. He looked down and his eyes widened upon finding grass beneath his feet. With a frightened yelp, he jumped back. He looked all around and found himself surrounded by grass up to his feet. Not only that, but the Haze had obscured his vision too. Ryan breathed and frost left his mouth. He shivered, desperately swirling around trying to figure out what was happening. “W-Where’s the library?” He stuttered while holding his arms. “L-Leonard! Sphinx!” He nearly jumped again when he heard gunshots in the distance. Spinning around, he was met with a strange sight. There he was, the masked hunter firing away at something in the distance. It was at a cloaked figure with horns sticking out of his hood that had cast a transparent shield around him while he stood on top of a dead and bloodied unicorn. “The hunter? And the Horned Wizard?” Ryan wondered. He ran towards them to get a better look, but then the sounds of wings flapping struck his eardrums. A young woman with huge wings soared over him, feathers floating down at him. “And the harpy?” The harpy flew behind the wizard and just when she was at the right spot, she dived down and knocked him off of the dead unicorn and pinned him to the ground by sinking her talons into his back. He let out a nasty scream and his magical shield shattered. “You got him! Yes!” the hunter exclaimed. The harpy chirped back in response as she held down the grunting wizard. Ryan shook his head in disbelief, it became clear to him what had happened. “Holy shit,” was all he could say, upon realizing he was in the story. He touched the grass, how the droplets from the Haze melted along his fingers, and how the air gave him goosebumps. The harpy’s feather he picked up next was remarkable to hold and to look at, the stripes of gold surprisingly complimented the brown shade of the feather. “This is nuts,” Ryan scoffed. Looking back at the hunter and the harpy, he could spot them chatting and laughing with each other as the latter was still perched on top of their defeated foe. “I wonder if I could use them for my story,” Ryan wondered. “Or use them for inspiration-” The harpy shrieked just as Ryan was plotting out his story in his head. His jaw dropped when the Horned Wizard lifted the bird creature off of himself, enveloping her in a sinister, red aura. She flailed her wings and talons at him but to no avail. “Put her down!” The hunter raised his rifle. “Why don’t you try and save her?” the Horned Wizard mocked, lifting her in his magical grasp. “Like how you ‘saved’ your wife!” The hunter growled, desperately trying to find a way to shoot around his harpy companion. Ryan looked around to see if he could do something to help, there was no rule saying he couldn’t interfere, after all. He then picked up a rock and threw it, hitting the wizard in the head. Droplets of blood spilled out and the crazed caster yelled, losing his concentration and dropping the harpy. The winged creature quickly scurried over to the hunter’s side. “I can interact with them too? That’s sick!” Ryan exclaimed. His happy feeling vanished when the hunter, the harpy, and the Horned Wizard all noticed him. Ryan jolted back, his heart nearly skipping a beat. It was hard to tell what the hunter was thinking from the mask, but the harpy tilted her head at him. “Hey! What are you doing here? It’s not safe!” the hunter warned. “Run!” the harpy screeched. Before he could try anything, the Horned Wizard yelled and raised his hand, forcing Ryan into his grasp. He yelped, barely able to breathe as the same red magic from before covered his neck and forced him up, his throat barely touching the wizard’s sickly palm. His deathly, red glare was the only thing Ryan could see. “You will pay for interfering!” the Horned Wizard hissed. “Let him go!” the hunter yelled with the harpy screeching something similar. Ryan gasped and flailed but couldn’t touch him. Fear and confusion coursed through his head as the wizard raised him higher. The hunter was about to lunge to try and shoot from the side and the harpy had already taken to the sky with her talon’s out. The book slammed before either of them could reach Ryan. He dropped to the library floor, gasping for air. Sphinx knelt and wrapped her arms around Ryan, holding him close to her as they both lay on the floor. “You’re alright. It’s OK,” Sphinx hushed. “Oh shit, Ryan!” Leonard exclaimed. He saw the red mark around Ryan’s neck and the book was sprawled by his feet. “Is he?” “He’ll survive,” Sphinx said, holding Ryan closer. “I was afraid of this.” “W-What?” Ryan stammered. Sphinx sighed, tilting Ryan’s head up. “As you might’ve figured out this is not a regular library and these are not regular books,” Sphinx started. “They are gateways to other worlds, ones I have visited and documented myself. I wanted to share my findings with other humans, but my spell to bind the books has proven far more powerful than I anticipated. Only a handful of people have managed to put the books down before being transported to the other worlds entirely.” Ryan blinked, “Are you telling me you accidentally created portals to other worlds?” “Now you know why I can’t just accept anyone. Leonard and the other patrons are here because they had the potential and I helped them unlock it. I taught them little tricks on how to close the book effectively and without causing harm to themselves,” Sphinx explained. “It’s like lucid dreaming,” Leonard added. “Exactly,” Sphinx chirped. “And I sense it in you too, Ryan. I truly wanted to help you with your block, but it seems you’re not ready to read my stories,” Sphinx replied. “This is all my fault. I thought you could handle this,” Leonard scratched his head in distress. While Leonard showered Ryan with apology after apology, Ryan turned back to the book by his feet. He could still feel the Horned Wizard’s grasp around his neck. Yet, the pounding of his heart wasn’t that of fear. A new feeling struck his heart and he stared at the book, tapping the edge with his foot trying to grasp it. “They could touch me. And I could talk to them,” Ryan said. “That is one of the dangers when reading my stories, yes,” Sphinx said. “And you said only a handful of people make it back?” “Yes. You only escaped because I closed the book from the outside,” Sphinx explained. “Look, I’ll take you home now,” Leonard offered.  Ryan didn’t accept Leonard's hand, but slipped out of Sphinx’s arms and picked up the book. Sphinx helped him stand back up but the book remained in Ryan’s arms. He turned back to the mural of books and, even though he almost died, a small smile formed on his lip. A secret library filled with books that came to life? And only a few people can master this skill? With a deep inhale Ryan turned around, looked Sphinx in the eye, and said, “I want to stay.” Sphinx and Leonard’s eyes shrank. “Excuse me?” Sphinx asked. “You said I had potential, right?” Ryan asked back. “Of course, to read and create,” Sphinx replied. “But not everyone can lucid dream, man,” Leonard added. “Then teach me,” Ryan pleaded. “I want to find out what happened,” he held up The Hunter and The Harpy . “And I can’t resume my life until I know I can finish my own story.” “Ryan-” “Please. I want to learn, I want to experience, I want to become part of this secret.” Though uncertain, Sphinx could tell there was a passion in his voice. Leonard was just as surprised, he had not heard Ryan speak so eagerly in years. All Leonard could give Sphinx was a sheepish nod. Sphinx chuckled in response before turning back at the hopeful Ryan, his injury still around his neck but his smile growing. “We’ll need to treat that wound first,” Sphinx said. “Then your adventure can begin.” Ryan’s eyes beamed, “Does that mean?” The only sensible response Sphinx could give was to nod, “Yes.” 

0mrtjy

Adventures of A True Reader

Kathina loved books. At three years of age, she read her first book aloud to her mother. It was The Little Engine That Could. By five, she was reading chapter books. When she was seven years old, her mother walked with her to the local library in the little town where they had finally settled down: Mother, Papa, Baby Sister, and herself. That memorable day as they walked, Mother explained that a library was a house of books, a special place for readers. Kathina nodded her understanding and asked, “What’s going to happen there?” Mother replied, “You are going to get your own library card which means you’ll be able to check out books for yourself and bring those books home to read.” Kathina nodded vigorously, making her blond braids bounce, and grinned with delight. Ms. Librarian greeted them kindly, “How may I help you?” Mother nodded at Kathina encouraging her to answer. “I’m here to get my very own library card,” she said proudly, as her blue eyes sparkled.  Ms. Librarian smiled, “And so you shall. You may call me Ms. Librarian.” After the formalities were finished and her library card was safely tucked into the spacious book bag Mother had bought her for this occasion, Kathina began to explore the shelves. As she came across a book that interested her, she placed it on one of the little tables. Her stack grew. When she had ten books stacked on that little table, she turned to Ms. Librarian who had been having a quiet conversation with Mother and inquired politely, “How many may I check out?” Ms. Librarian saw her stack and asked Mother, “Will she carry these books home herself?” Mother answered, “Certainly, in her book bag.” Ms. Librarian addressed Kathina, “Let’s start with three today.” Kathina nodded and began to read a bit from each book in her stack. Mother and Ms. Librarian moved away from the table and continued their quiet conversation by Ms. Librarian’s desk. When Kathina had chosen three books, she stood up and carried them to Ms. Librarian’s desk and waited with her library card in hand. Her first three books were Black Beauty because she loved horses, a Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear because it was sure to amuse her, and a collection of fairy tales entitled The Blue Fairy Book by Andrew Lang because she loved magical stories. Mother had read aloud to her since she was a baby, so she was already steeped in the magic stories can bring.  Ms. Librarian looked at Mother who answered the unasked question, “Whatever she chooses, you can be sure she can and will read it.” Check out finished, Kathina tucked the books and her precious library card into her book bag and proudly slung it over her small shoulder without flinching at the weight. Mother asked, “Shall we get an ice cream before heading home?” Kathina thought about that and then replied, “Thank you, Mother, but can we save that for another time? I really want to get home and start Black Beauty .” “Of course, I understand, and it’s a great story that shouldn’t be kept waiting.” A couple of years passed with Kathina making weekly trips on Saturdays to the library. She read copiously and went on many adventures through her reading. She flew with Peter pan to Never Land, sailed the seas with Jim Hawkins to Treasure Island, and accompanied Dorothy and Toto on the Yellow Brick Road to the Emerald City in Oz. When she was nine, she had read nearly every book in the section of the library reserved for children. She and Ms. Librarian had become reading friends. One day Kathina asked Ms. Librarian, “What’s going to happen when I can’t find anything new to read in this part of the library? Ms. Librarian pursed her lips, thought, and then replied, “One choice would be to start rereading your favorites.” “But I will want something new, books to take me on new adventures.” “There is one other special possibility for you.” Kathina’s bright blue eyes opened wide and she waited expectantly. “When the day comes that there is nothing new in this section for you to read, I will take you to a special part of the library not open to the public,” Ms. Librarian said in hushed tones continuing, “Only True Readers brought by a librarian can enter. I know you are a True Reader. You have shown me that.” When Kathina was twelve, that day finally came. Ms. Librarian escorted Kathina through a door marked “For Librarians Only.” Once inside, they were in a room with very old books. They smelled old and alluring. “You may have an hour to explore in here. Being a True Reader, I know you will handle the books very carefully. You can only read these books in here at one of the reading stations.” She waved her hand to small carrel desks squeezed along one wall flanked by bookshelves and continued, “I will return in an hour. Do you have a watch?” Kathina pushed up a sleeve to show her watch. “Set your watch to the same time as mine,” Ms. Librarian instructed revealing her watch. Kathina did so. “See you in an hour. Let your imagination soar.” Ms. Librarian turned around and left the room. Kathina began exploring. Within a very few minutes, she started to pull a leather-bound copy of a book by an author unknown to her off its shelf, and suddenly, the shelf itself swung back to reveal an ornate door that had been hidden. Being ever so curious, she turned the doorknob and entered another room which was shining with light from a giant quartz crystal displayed in the middle of the room. The crystal gave off not only beautiful light but energy that throbbed with a steady, vibrating pulse filling her with the promise of knowledge and adventure such as she had only experienced before in reading. All around the room were shiny silver bookshelves housing what looked like hundreds of books. She began to walk about stopping occasionally to focus on a particular book that resonated with her innate curiosity and powerful imagination. At one such stopping place, she checked her watch and was surprised to see she only had half an hour left in the hour granted her. She had been so engaged with this magical room that she hadn’t realized how much time had already passed. She thought she had only been in the presence of the crystal and its books for a few minutes. She knew she couldn’t spend another second wandering and perusing. Without looking, she plucked the nearest book she could reach easily off its shelf and stared at the title, Endless Adventure by Arthur La Ventura. Opening the book, she was at once whisked away as she read the opening sentence. “In the long-ago days, there lived a weaver who wove magical carpets that had the power to take anyone to places they had only ever dreamed existed.” Before she could read any further, she found herself sitting on a magnificent hand-woven carpet. The walls around her disappeared and she was flying over desert lands populated only by tall carved spires sticking up out of the sand reaching toward the heavens through which she now flew. She couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath the sand, the unseen part of the spires she was seeing. No sooner had that wonderment formed in her mind than a message emblazoned itself in her mind: Nothing is what it seems. She gulped, blinked rapidly, and abruptly found herself back in the Crystal Room holding the book Endless Adventure in her hands. Her flight was a memory as if a dream; yet she knew it had been real in its own way. She looked at her watch. Three minutes until the hour was up. She quickly shelved Endless Adventure noting its location in the room in her mind. She turned around and left the Crystal Room through the door by which she had entered. Once in the outer room, she shoved the book that opened the door to the Crystal Room back into place. No sooner had she done that, when Ms. Librarian entered the outer room. She smiled at Kathina and said, “Time’s up. Did you enjoy yourself?” “Oh yes,” Kathina answered, “thank you. I hope I may come again.” “You may. You are a True Reader. Just remember: Nothing is what it seems.” “I will, replied Kathina seriously.” Ms. Librarian took her hand and escorted her back to the public section of the library. Many adventures and much knowledge awaited her in future visits to the Crystal Room. what these would be, only time would reveal. For Kathina, the promise of continued admittance to the Crystal Room as a True Reader was enough for now.

poc50m

The Enlightened

The Enlightened Ryan Gordon , alias , Flyin' Ryan or Flash , leaned back in his gaming chair after the less fun part of his intrepid (mis)adventures , the travel blog. But this time was different - Everest , Angkor Wat , even the Great Wall were all spectacular in their own way , climbing each and learning about their origins were enriching , but there was a feeling about Machu Picchu , altogether more peace........serenity .......calm in the mind. Calm was a rare commodity for Ryan , since childhood , he always buzzed around , running wild , having fun. As he grew , sport replaced fun but until climbing , rarely brought quiet to his mind. Even a double degree in Psychology and History with the requisite burden of study , really only provided a distraction to the noise. The only other similar experience was at the Sphinx but he'd dismissed the voices as wind in the desert or the burgeoning heat. As his eye fell on one of his selfie stick images , he caught sight of something. Ryan had set the shot up with the Inca guide , Pablo , where they clasped one wrist each and fanned out either side of the Intihuatana Stone , an ancient sundial towards the top of the Inca mountain. And there above both their heads was a faint but distinct aura , orange , yellow and mainly greens. As Ryan looked closer , it appeared that the aura was the background colours of trees , foliage , sunlight but , amplified , clarified even.      Anyway it was late and Ryan had to present his travel findings and report to Professor Heriot tomorrow so it was time to turn in. As he reclined on his bed to begin the breathing exercises , he selected meditation music from the playlist on his watch and as the Buddhists began to hum in harmony. He looked at his ceiling and as the lava lamp projected rolling psychedelic baubles across it Ryan was reminded of the auras. "Outstanding , Mr Gordon' the Professor bellowed 'you have surpassed yourself!' Ryan was already peering over his presentation notes and now he wanted to hide behind them completely. 'You understand we are not the Tourism and Adventure Faculty don't you? That when the University of Edinburgh send you on a field assignment to one of the richest human historical artefacts in the World that there is an expectation that you would undertake to further our research endeavours and expand our knowledge base? 'Wisdom is the Principal' and all that , Gordon?' Ryan raised his left hand and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger as he replied' I know......I understand we are here to further our collective knowledge , Professor , but this was different. When I was a the summit of the Citadel with Pablo , there was trance-like feeling , colour , lights.....' The Professor leaned forward in his studded leather armchair and rested his chin on the heel of his hand, 'Hmmmmm. Ayahuasca , maybe?' 'No....no , not at all , I mean,' he tossed the notes on the enormous leather bound desk and dug deep in his pocket now , pulling out his phone. He swiped through the images for the one over the Intihuatana Stone , and turned the phone over to the weary Dean. He accepted the device and as he looked at the image onscreen , his frown uncreased , his eyes widened and raised his left hand to his mouth , bunched in a tight fist and Ryan though he could detect a slight tremble. 'Professor?' 'Good God in Heaven , boy. I see it but ....... I mean' 'What is it?' Ryan said , now alarmed. The Professor slowly raised himself to his full height and said' I need you to go to the Faculty library immediately , I need you to bring me the volume of Highest State of Consciousness , the Campbell one.' 'Why , Professor , what do you mean' 'You'll need to trust me now Ryan , but I think you may have just made the most valuable discovery in recent human history' Ryan shuffled down the marble corridors of the Faculty , lined with busts of some of history's great minds , Marcus Aurelius , Seneca and Epictetus to name a few. As he approached warm glow of the oak double doors he noticed the Faculty insignia above them ' Sapientia Principal'. He briefly doubted the wisdom of what he was about to do next before forging on through the ornate grand doorway and heading for authors whose surname began with C. As he walked gingerly between the colossal archive praying Campbell wasn't among the nestled on the 25th row of shelves , Ryan became aware of draft. Turning towards it he began following the source of the air and , left first and then down to the far end of the entire library past endless volumes in Greek Mythology , Roman Architecture , Alexander of Macedonia and finally to the darkest corner of the bibliotheque to ancient philosophy. As he blindly followed enthralled by the air flow now it seemed to be guiding him to the book. He glanced over at A's and B's he distinctly heard the voice from Egypt say ,' feel the energy , follow the energy'. Entranced by the voice , Ryan turned and directly in front of him was the book. His vision started to blur as his hand reached out to grab the spine of the heavy volume , his head started to shake , the airflow started to rush at his face and then as white light encircled him he whirled into unconsciousness. Ryan opened his eyes , aware he was standing upright. To left and right were two enormous semi-circular vaults , each shelf illuminated and tomes of ancient study volumes occupied each shelf space. In the centre was a white ceramic column and above it a crest of what looked like stars , almost like a shrine. The area was so bright and immaculate , Ryan started to feel this may be Heaven , but then what happened to him? As if his thoughts had been heard a familiar voice said 'Outstanding , once again , Mr Gordon' 'Professor?' Ryan said and a figure emerged in white robes from behind the centre column , hooded but as he turned his face was unmistakeable. 'Oh , thank God , Professor it is you,' Ryan exclaimed as he walked to the cloaked figure and tried to embrace him and he passed straight through the figure and turned to face him. 'What? You are ghost?' 'Not quite. Come with me Ryan , I have a lot of explaining to do.' As Ryan walked alongside the Professor he became aware they were both glowing brightly. 'Energy. its what we all are when all is said and done. What you are now is a conscious energy projection created by your mind. I saw you were one of us from the aura in the photograph and sent you here to see if you would manifest. The book I asked you for doesn't exist , it is only visible to those with the capability to see it. Right now you are still at the library , in the same moment as I am still at my desk in my chamber. You see Ryan , this sanctuary is an enormous energy cavern and we are not just dedicated to improve knowledge , our higher purpose is to understand , study and use the brains undiscovered powers.' 'Whoa .......hang on here , what do you mean , powers?' 'Have a look for yourself , these are our study volumes.' Ryan turned and walked gingerly to the left hand vault and , as he did so , the names of the text came into view - The Power of the Spectrum , Harness Your Aura , Pyromania , Cryomania , Telekinesis , Telepathy for beginners , Teleportation. Ryan whirled around and , momentarily it felt like the world was spinning ,' Telekinesis? Telepathy? These are myths , the stuff of fantasy???' The Professor's mischief was kindled and he smiled and he replied without moving his mouth , ' No , my friend , very much facts' 'Aaaaahhhhhhhh' Ryan yelled in alarm as he heard the reply but acutely aware that the Professor clearly had developped his telepathy skill. 'I'm sorry Ryan , I shouldn't jest , but there is a world I must show you now.' and with that the Professor continued to channel his telepathic messages. Suddenly Ryan was confronted with a memory , his mother holding his hand as the doctor delivered the news. 'ADHD , Mrs Gordon , is quite common , treatable with therapy and a drug prescription , Ritalin is the most prolific at successful ADHD treatment' and now'.........suddenly , Ryan , older now is extending his legs to lock his knees as he straightens his back and lifts a car off a man's legs trapped underneath it. And then suddenly his aunt appeared , young again and was sitting in a hospital bed trussed in a straight jacket , glazed eyes and rocking back and forth. At the end of the bed a little girl was wrestling out of the grip of two orderlies and suddenly the air distorted above her head and small items began float , cups , paper clips , a handkerchief , an empty bedpan , food trays , all revolving around her in a circle. One orderly said ,'its meds time Mallory' and before he could continue she screamed and all the floating shrapnel then flew at the orderley. And then the Professor slumped in a dark lounge room airchair , a bottle of whisky in his hand dropping at the side along with a photo frame of a woman as a shaft of light lanced directly at him and his body floated out of the armchair , and rose arms outstretched and face upturned to the light . The light subsided and Ryan became present again ,'Its all lies , all of it. ADHD , schizophrenia , depression , they not real..........misdiagnosed. But the objects and .............you were floating ............' Speaking this time the Professor said ' Our modern psychology is in its infancy Ryan , too little is understood about the brain and our answers are to treat the symptom not the cause. For a few of us who can harness our power , we can use our impairment to great benefit , levitation , superhuman strength , transporting objects , mind reading.' 'But why is this not widely known?' Ryan said. 'Sadly , we are the greatest existential threat to the pharmaceutical industry and sadly our neurotypical brothers and sisters tend to react with fear and irrationality. Also , we have an enemy who seek to destroy us' 'Us?' Ryan exclaimed. 'Yes , Ryan Gordon . We are The Enlightened.'

accaet

the blanket library

 Tilly found herself staring at a gate. It was a very intricate variation of controlled access, it was woven from thorny vine and, from what Tilly gathered, finely cut stems of copper. She had gone to a park, but really it was more of a garden, one that was obscure and rarely visited, in a sense it had been forgotten. It was one of her favorite pastimes, traveling to destinations unknown. There had been some kind of glitch however though she felt in the navigation system settings or perhaps the cell phone itself, it was a rather outdated iPhone, she still was carrying the 10x. This damn well does not match the photos on google she thought to herself while getting miffed at this point. She had really been looking forward to venturing onto the grounds to take in the aura it emitted. It was not certain where she was, then she noticed a very tiny almost microscopic sign to the left of the thorny gate nailed crudely to a tree. Tilly approached it and took out her elderly phone and used the camera to try and zoom in on the lettering: “the blanket library” “The blanket library? What the hell?” Well, I do enjoy a good read now and then, but why is this sign so tiny and what an odd name for a library. Before she tried her hand at opening the thorny gate, she typed into her google app “the blanket library.” “Hmmm nothing comes up, maybe it’s new.” she muttered to herself as she reached her hand over the top thorns of the gate and managed to unhook the latch easily enough. “Ok here goes nothing,” she said and walked through, just as she got past the thorny threshold the gate slammed shut on its own. Or at least she thought it was on its own, until she heard a very high-noted voice, like one of a mouse might be, say “Welcome to the blanket library!” Tilly looked down and saw a small creature about a foot or so high staring up at her with an excited glare. “Uh um excuse me but where am I?” “I just told you bozo the blanket library!” “I saw you read the sign with your gadget!” “Oh, right yes how stupid of me” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Come along then” said the creature “Oh by the way my name is Krigg.” Tilly began to breathe in the landscape which all in all decided to take it, there were massive ferns in a very intricate pattern woven together tightly, and a pond full of moon jellyfish and unidentifiable species of toads. “Here we are!” “The entrance to the world-famous blanket library!” “World famous? Is that so?” The library itself was nothing fancy looking, in fact it looked just like a regular cottage style house or even a shanty. Tilly went to reach for the knob and Krigg gave a shriek. EEEKKK and slapped her hand away “OW what the?” “You must do the knock so that they know you have been invited!” A perplexed Tilly responded quietly “Invited? Knock? Huh?? I know nothing about this!” she exclaimed. “Oh my gosh, that’s because I haven’t told you just yet. Knock five times each one must be exactly two seconds apart, then you must do two more at certain points on the door, they’ll light up, so you know where.” Tilly stared at Krigg for a moment in disbelief then raised her hand to begin the knocking, “What happens if I am off timing?” “Well, it will not open of course! Then you will have to start over, oh and you will have to wait until tomorrow to try again. Also, you’ll be mocked by the toads all night while you wait as the guest house for improper knocks is right by the pond there.” “Don’t worry though no one ever screws up, just try not to overthink it.” Tilly said nothing more and turned back to the door, it was a dark wood stain, with a complex system of loops and spirals. It had a sort of hypnotic effect, then suddenly the knob began to turn without touch, the hinges creaked, and the door opened ever so slightly.  “I didn’t even knock!” Tilly yelled at Krigg “Yes you did, did you not see yourself knocking and timing it and the lights?” “Well yes but…” “Come on then, let’s go inside already, stop dawdling, the afternoon is starting to dwindle into evening and the snakes prefer to slither around as the sun starts to die out each day.” Krigg gave Tilly a push against the back of her knee, a very vulnerable area, which caused her to buckle a tad. “Hey, quit it I’m going!”  There was not much to view once Tilly pushed the door open all the way, it was darkness, but she did not want Krigg to shove her again, so she threw caution to the wind and stepped into the unknown.  She stood there in pitch black while Krigg shuffled in behind her. “Did someone not pay the electricity bill?” joked Tilly as she outstretched her hands to make sure she didn’t bump into anything. “We just need to light the candle goober.” Krigg retorted as he took out a lighter and flicked it a few times, finally the flame lit, it was extremely weak though and did not provide much capacity to view the surroundings.  “I really need to refill this one. Ok over here, there should be the welcoming wick. Hopefully Gladys set it out already” He moseyed off and Tilly followed his lead to what looked like an altar with a single red candle in the center and a black cast iron holder.  Once lit it illuminated the entire space they were standing in, as bright as a fluorescent bulb would be. Now Tilly could see where she was standing. It was like a castle, one that had kept its ancient architecture, not the modernized versions which Tilly found to be so dreadful. The ceiling stretched upwards of about 20 or 30 feet with something swaying on the beams every so often. “Don’t worry about those, just the bats that have taken refuge here for centuries,” Krigg told her as he caught her squinting up at them. What a marvel, she thought to herself in a stunned warp of belief as she recalled the exterior of the building was a simple construction that was nothing to write home about.  She was debating asking this imp-like creature, Krigg, what exactly was going on here, she knew there had to be a logical explanation for this unfolding mystery. So many questions were swirling like a cyclone inside her mind now. “LET’S GOOOO!” Krigg had been yelling for her to follow for a minute or so as she was lost in her contemplation. Tilly let go of the confusion for now and caught up with Krigg who was now hobbling down a great hallway.   “We have to go meet Clyde, he’ll be the one to distribute your blanket” again the inquiries sprouted inside Tilly’s head like blades of grass, but she kept quiet still. She went back to admiring the beauty of the interior of this so-called library. The great hallway they were traveling through still had the soaring roof-top yet was slightly narrow, they could not walk side by side they had to venture single file. There were also cut outs in the stone, designs that were very rune-like, they certainly must have spelled out something. “Krigg, you piece of crap! I was wondering what was taking you so long!” Krigg quickly turned towards Tilly and mouthed words, absent of audio “That’s Clyde” and rolled his eyes.    Clyde was I guess what you’d call an interesting looking being, he had fierce fangs and slit pupils that were set in emerald green irises. “Full moon?” questioned Krigg “No it’s half full that’s why I’m partially morphed, jerk!” “Now shut up and introduce me to this striking lass behind you that I have heard so much about. I’ve gone through about 100 blankets trying to find just the right one for her.” “Yes, Miss Tilly please meet our Clyde, the head blanket thrower.” Tilly could only stand there in stunned silence as it began to dawn on her that Clyde was a werewolf. “At your service Tilly, to get you your blanket that is.” “Now where did I put the one I had felt was the most fitting to form and nature for you, oh ya right here.” He produced a fringed bohemian poncho-style, tattered and worn in.   Clyde threw it through the air, and it floated gracefully, covering the distance in a mesmerizing glide. Once it drew near to Tilly it gave a soft ghostly sigh and began to twirl around her shoulder blades, she was beginning to feel a soft sense of panic creeping into her heart beats. “Don’t be afraid, yet anyway.” Clyde said sinisterly. “Pipe down mutt, you want her to run off and end up getting trapped in the observatory like that one fellow who….,” Krigg trailed off as he became distracted with a gasp that echoed throughout the chamber. “That was not me, it was this foul blanket. It keeps making eerie vocals.” Tilly said. Clyde gave a glance to Krigg with a sideways smirk and casually stated: “You would probably too if you were possessed.”   Wow, a possessed blanket, now I’ve heard everything, I must be in a sleeping coma of sorts, maybe I got into some sort of accident, maybe I’m *gulp* dead.” “Really Clyde, what is with you!” cried Krigg, “Ms. Tilly, these blankets are not possessed they are more like…inhabited.” “Oh, ok that makes me feel better.” Tilly snidely remarked. The blanket itself at this point was simply hanging around her neck in a scarf like fashion. Krigg ignored her and continued to describe how the blankets they keep under lock and key and chain and guard held inside their threads stories that were lost or never found, characters that time may have missed or neglected. They would then wind up being a broken memory that could never be retained, and the bounty book hunters had to track down. After that it got overly complicated and intense Krigg said so he saved the remainder of the forgotten fable transferring to blanket process for another time.  “Too much information all at once will cause your brain matter to boil in your skull and turn it into a very succulent soup. Haha!” Clyde had to chime. “We better get you into the café. I’m sure right now you could use some sort of sustenance. Let’s go down the staircase behind the wall. There are other ways to get there of course but that one is always the one I recommend after beginning to describe our mission and means.” Krigg stated then proceeded to the far end of the chamber where an oil painting of a scantily clad lady was hung, wearing only a sheer robe.  Krigg whispered to the woman in the painting and part of the cement blocks began to shift and create a passageway before them. Tilly was bursting to know exactly what Krigg had said, “what did you say to her to gain access!” Krigg looked at her quizzically, “you should know, I whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Come on now, just watch your step.” “Take a shot of the wolfsbane espresso for me,” bided Clyde.   Krigg and Tilly began their descent down the staircase, it was a spiral of course, with hair-pin curves wound very tight. “I’m getting dizzy, ugh” Tilly mentioned, “maybe we should slow down.” “This staircase will do that to you, it’s what it was designed for, it actually relaxes you and the blanket as well. An intoxicating effect.” Krigg told her as he gained speed. Once they finally reached the bottom Tilly immediately dropped into a heap onto a leather ottoman. Krigg was unaffected because he had built up a resistance by going up and down them so many times. He ran over to the dew petal fountain first and brought her over a cup.      Here drink this quickly, she did as he suggested and immediately felt sturdier. “Now let’s get a cup of Joe, or Josephine if that’s your thing.” Tilly gave a weak chuckle, gathered herself, and clenched the blanket, though it really had not even so much as budged from around her.  The menu of the café was extensive and overwhelming as well as impossible to read every elixir title and description completely within just a few minutes. “I suggest the eye of Horus, it’s a subtle blend and will awaken your senses just enough to know you’re not dreaming.” Tilly tried to remain calm as Krigg said this and went along and ordered it. The barista was a mechanism of vividly constructed wires and gears, you simply wrote on a notepad what you desired, and it went to work engineering it. It was a lengthy ordeal for the machine and customer but well worth it as it was certainly one of the most amazing coffees Tilly tried. Just as she went on to take a second sip the blanket began to pull around her neck. “Oh no it’s starting to strangle me!” “No, it’s not you twit, it senses a book calling out for you in one of the nearby studies, trying to lead you there.”   Tilly gave a nod and started trotting in the direction her blanket was pulling her towards, an arched entrance with a spiderweb of vines covering the framework. Inside there were rows upon shelves upon stacks of books. It led her to the fifth corner of the room as it was a pentagonal shaped area. Without really thinking twice about it, Tilly reached out and pulled from a tired-looking cabinet a hardcover book with a decaying spine. She turned around expecting to find Krigg behind her, but he was still in the café, which was the engineering café, there were around 149 others inside the library such as the philosophy café and musical cafe and #150, the gaming cafe was in development.  The blanket again began to guide her again it led her to a small and cozy round chair to curl up in like a cat and start to read. Once she settled and began reading Krigg appeared “So how is the book?” he asked her. Tilly looked up and gave a blank expression as she took a moment to consider this and said she did not know. “I was just reading and did not want to put it down, but I don’t remember what it was about.”   “Sounds about right, that is how it operates here with these books and blankets. You will not recall the story but while reading it you’ll be completely enthralled. Look away though and it evaporates. Once you start reading again it’ll all come back to you. It will not let you retell the story to someone else; they must be chosen by the book, not the other way around here, sorry!” Tilly was dumbfounded and the questions began to bubble up again, she could not resist. “Hey Krigg, you said this place was world famous, how is that so?”  “We’ve had folks all over the world come here, and it’s more like worlds famous as I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not human nor is Clyde. You must be invited here though, and the reason for that is, well, there are numerous ones but the easiest thing to say for now is there is only a certain strike of those who can manage coming here without saying anything to anyone once back home, that is the mortal-human realm for you another dimension for others. This only proceeded to manifest more questions, Tilly only chose one though at this time and that was if she could take the book back with her. “I’m afraid not, you can only read it here with us. So, place your bookmark on your page and see what happens.” Tilly did not have a formal bookmark, so she folded the corner of the book. She heard a clock chime and blinked once “Tilly!” It was the voice of Charlotte, her roommate. “I didn’t know you were home!” Tilly recollected herself as best she could “Oh sorry, uh I dozed off.” She was starting to believe that was truly the case as she was now perched softly on her fluffy bed in her flat above Happy’s snack and beer. “Well Allister and I are cooking up shrimp tacos tonight if you want any. And a frozen marg or two!” “Ok, ya be right out.” Damn, it really was a dream, what a shame. She got up off her bed then and that is when she caught a glance, out of the corner of her eye first then she cautiously began to spin around for a full view. Draped in cape-like fashion over her swivel desk chair and beginning to utter out to her in a solid spectral tone was the poncho-style bohemian blanket. 

cwowbn

You Two Make Horrible Nurses

A dragon flew from his nest atop an island mountain to do a little fishing. He reached into the waves and snagged a big one with his back claw, and ascended into the sky. As he did, he saw an odd stick floating in the water. What made it odd was that it was vertical instead of the more acceptable horizontal position. However, his attention quickly returned to his catch as it fiercely struggled to escape. He flew back to his clan's nest, securing the fish with both claws and forgot all about the strange stick in the sea. He would have known it wasn't a stick if the dragon had used half an ounce of his one-ounce brain. It was a spyglass. The spyglass slowly sped through the choppy sea into a small cove. As the cove became more shallow, the spyglass arose from the water, revealing an underwater boat made from a hollowed-out tree with a cork in its bow. It ran aground and stuck. The cork popped out, and three exited. Lady Nimmo, her father, and the spirit of Trungen made their way through the island to a cave using a map provided by spies from Selwyn. What those spies discovered on this island is the reason the three were here. Once in the cave, they set up shop. Lady Nimmo pulled out her carving knives and arranged them on a flat rock. Jor and Trungen retrieved a few trunks. Unable to sit and do nothing, Lady Nimmo tidied up the cave while waiting for them to return. She found the spies' campfire, reached in, and lifted out a half-burnt log. She immediately dropped it. Her heart pounding quicker. She looked around, half expecting to see shadow elves. The log was warm. Somebody has used this campfire recently. The vast cave had felt inviting and safe a few moments ago, but now, every dark corner concealed unknown dangers. She wished she had already carved a few of her magic stumpers or that her father and Trungen were back. She returned to her flat rock and grabbed a carving knife and a torch. She searched one dark spot at a time. The torchlight ran over stones that, at first glance, appeared to be murderous elves but proved to be ordinary rocks too friendly-looking to murder anyone. She began to feel a little more at ease as she eliminated almost all potential hiding places until her light revealed an out-of-place object. It was so out of place that she hardly believed what she saw. She reached down and picked up the leather-bound, dusty book. She shook it and opened it. Someone had written in it. She flipped through the pages and found half written on and the other half blank. Jor and Trungen entered carrying a stump, and Lady Nimmo dropped the book. "Oh, my! You startled me," Lady Nimmo said. "What do you have there?" Jor asked. She picked it back up. "I found this book lying over there. I was about to read some before you came in." Jor and Trungen put the stump down and headed out to get another. "You don't have time for reading," Jor said as he exited. She ignored him and opened to the title page: " My Really Exciting Adventures That Normal Boring People Don't Have by Captain Arrow James This book isn't based on a true story or actual events. My memory is far too foggy for that. Instead, I'm calling this a creative, not fiction book. It is much easier to fill in my memory gaps with unverifiable ones." Jor and Trungen carried in another stump. She closed the book. She could read later, but now she needed to carve. A magical stumper army wasn't going to happen by itself. A dozen carved stumpers lay lifeless in a row, their faces frozen. They looked like stumpers but were just pretty faces on lifeless stumps. Lady Nimmo carved, but her magic didn't work. It didn't bring the stumps to life. "I want this army. I want to get the Eye of Duran back for King Moreland. Why won't my magic work?" Lady Nimmo sat near the campfire with her head hung low. She felt helpless. "Give it some time," Jor said. "Perhaps your heart will be in it tomorrow." The next day, Jor and Trungen left to get more stumps. Lady Nimmo picked up the book: "I was fighting for my life. The sailors didn't understand that I only wanted their treasure. They mistook me for a regular pirate. However, I don't know how since I clearly have two legs." She continued reading more about Captain Arrow James. He never killed or even beheaded anyone. He did make a poor guy walk the plank once. But since the ship had wrecked, the plank reached out over an inviting lagoon, only leading to the poor guy getting a good swim. She was starting to feel like she knew this captain, but unfortunately, Jor and Trungen returned with more work. Day after day, Lady Nimmo carved. The row of lifeless stumpers grew, along with her frustration. "How will we overrun the Keep if I can't carve one stumper to life?" Lady Nimmo allowed her frustration and anger to spill out. "I mean, what good am I? Why am I here?" "Keep calm and carve on," Jor said. "It'll happen. They'll come to life." "What if they don't?" "Then we'll find another way to get the Eye of Duran." Suddenly, Trungen stood, her green light illuminated brighter. She grabbed her staff and looked to the cave entrance. "What is it?" Jor asked. He stood and drew his sword. "The trees are warning me of danger." They were on their feet, staring at the mouth of the cave when shadow elves began to pour in. They filled the cave. The elves were dressed in black from head to toe, armed with whips and swords. They attacked en masse. Trungen spun her staff so fast it sounded like a windmill in a tornado. She knocked out two elves and parried the thrust of a sword in one fluid motion. A few elves used their whips around Trungen's legs, but she cut the straps in two with her greenish fiery staff and face-punched them as quickly as Muhammad Ali on his third Monster Energy drink. Some elves charged Jor. His sword glowed deep red when they pulled out their swords. They paused in shock when they saw Jor's eyes catch fire. One of the elves thought to himself, "This isn't good," right before Jor's sword sliced his puny boring unlit sword in two. Lady Nimmo screamed in shock and fear when she saw her father. She had never seen this side of him before. She had questions, but it wasn't like they could talk about it over a cup of hot tea. She shook off her dismay and grabbed her bow. Trungen was also taken back but had better command of her emotions than Lady Nimmo. She never stopped cracking heads and dodging blows. The elves' numbers increased, eventually subduing Jor and Trungen with dozens of whips. Lady Nimmo stood with her bow, but none of the elves approached her. One of the shadow elves pulled a knife and placed it on Jor's cheek. "We've been ordered not to harm the lady. However, we have no orders about you two," the elf said. He slid his knife slowly down Jor's cheek, opening a trail of blood. Lady Nimmo screamed, "Stop it!" She aimed her bow and released her arrow. The reflexes of an elf are amazingly quick. He grabbed Jor and turned his back to the flying arrow, using him as a shield. It struck Jor. "Noooo!" Lady Nimmo fell to her knees. The elf laughed as he let Jor slide to the ground. The cave echoed with her cries of anguish. Tears streamed down her face. Her only thought was how she killed her father. She saw him lying on the floor with her arrow in his back. The pain increased beyond her control. "Father!" The elf responsible relished in her pain. He stepped on Jor, "Look here, lady." He ordered the elves surrounding Trungen to remove her head. One apprehensive elf took his sword and walked to Trungen, who was bound from head to foot with whips but made no attempt to free herself. She only stared at the approaching elf. Lady Nimmo saw what was about to happen, and something snapped inside. She jumped to her feet. White flames burned in her eyes. The shadow elves stopped and looked at her. She stretched out her arms, and a gust of wind filled the cave, knocking elves off their feet. It bellowed and howled. While the elves kept trying to stay on their feet, the eyes of the lifeless stumpers burned white. Over a hundred stumpers stood in unison, and Lady Nimmo spoke in their language, "Attack the shadow elves!" Her words sounded like dried leaves rustling in the wind. They rose and seized the swords and whips of the off-balanced elves. The wind continued blowing but did not affect the stumpers, as if the wind allied with them. They rounded up the entire lot, securing them with whips. Once they were all tied, the wind died. Lady Nimmo lowered her arms. Her eyes returned to normal. She ran to her father and tried to turn him over, but she realized the arrow wouldn't allow it, so she held him half-turned and cried. Trungen bent down and felt his arm. "His blood flows," Trungen said. She asked some stumpers to get water. They returned, and Trungen washed the wound. Jor was unconscious. They agreed this would be the best time to remove the arrow. So, Trungen did. "Ow! Xer-Bane, Almighty! What did you go and do a thing like that for?" Jor yelled and cursed. "Give a man a drink first!" Lady Nimmo hugged him and sobbed. "There, there. I'm alright. It's just a shoulder wound. I've had worse than that." She hugged him tighter. "Lighten up! Too hard! By Xer-Bane, you two make horrible nurses." She quickly let go and laughed, repeatedly telling him she was sorry but so happy to see him alive. She bound his wound and made a bed for him to rest. After caring for her father, she organized the stumpers to build crude cages for the captured shadow elves. Then she armed the stumpers with their enemy's weapons and began to plan how they would storm the Keep holding the Eye of Duran. She figured most of the shadow elves were in cages, but there could be more in the Keep than she expected. She chose several stumpers to spy on it. "So, what is your plan?" Trungen asked. "I don't want to make a move until our spies return." "That's very wise. I'll walk among the trees. It is very therapeutic for me." "Good idea. I think I'll do some reading. I want to see if Captain Arrow James has better exciting adventures than we do."

933bah

The Old, Abandoned Library

She stood still in the aisle between two very old bookcases. They were built to withstand time and it showed. The small gaps and nooks were filled with cobwebs and their little tenants yet the bookcases seemed untouched by the unforgiving hands of time. Solid they stood guarding the old, musty books of all shapes, colours and sizes. The girl touched the wooden surface, mesmerized by the strength it carried with it. As she touched it she could feel something in the air. As if she was not alone. Her fingers traced the extravagant patter carved in the corner of one of the shelves. It was a beautiful floral motive, where the lilies had intertwined with ivy leaves. The girl smiled as her fingers traced each of the leaves, leaving soft streaks in the dusty blanket. The girl looked back at the aisle, looking to see where the shelves ended, yet all she could see was that they disappeared into the dark. It was dusk hour outside, and the sun had slipped behind the horizon a while back. With that the light had faded away slowly but surely. "Is that... mist?" the girl wondered looking at the dark. She thought that the floor was covered in a soft, white, fluffy carpet. The longer she gazed at the tiled floor where it was swallowed by the dark shadows, the more she could swear the mist grew closer and closer to her. "Boo!" a sudden slap on her shoulders and loud shrieking laughter filled her ears, making her jump three feet high. "Cas, you scared me to death!" she gave her friend annoyed look, and gazed back at the end of the aisle, yet the mist was gone. "Something is not right," was the last thought before the rest of their group came around. "There you are Clara," a young and very slim boy exclaimed, "we began to worry you abandoned our mission!" "And leave you all to fend for yourselves?" Clara teased back, "pff, someone has to keep an eye on you all!" It was the four of them. Best friends since they learned to walk, and like any group of friends they all had their roles to play. Cassandra, The Life Of The Party. No matter what occurred, her spirits could not be wavered. Whether the sun was shinning, or the world was ending, she always would walk the plank laughing, her blond curly hair bouncing. Tim, The Butterfly. The poor boy barely uttered a word in crowds. Most people had not heard him speak at all up to this day, however, once it was just the four of them, he blooms out of his cocoon like a little butterfly. Perhaps sometimes a little too much, for the things that come out of the boy’s mind surprised even his friends. Andrew, The Know It All. He was a slim and very young looking boy. Eager to prove himself to anyone and everyone. Although his smart brain had lack of breaks. The boy had no idea when to stop which often than not got them all in a mess. And there was Clara, The Mom. She kept them all together, and sometimes in line. She made sure they all got home safe, they all were okay. She'd be the one each of them would come to, to tell their secrets and worries, knowing she'd keep them till the day she died. She loved them all dearly, and they loved her too, though not a word of this was spoken. It was a feeling to be felt and experienced, not outspoken and paraded. "Where is Tim?" Clara asked, seeing it was just Cas and Andy. "Setting up camp," Andrew said walking back to where Cas and him had come from, "come! You have got to see this!" Clara followed them down an aisle of books, looking around at the shelves. Each one was decorated with a different type of ornament, yet all of them bare the same aura. One that demanded reverence. They took turns left and right, walking deeper into the maze, until they came to a circular hall. It seemed like it was the centre for the library. All paths would lead them back to this place. The floor was decorated with what looked like smoothed pebbles, of all different shapes and sizes. They covered the floor beneath their feet, painting a very abstract mosaic. Clara tried to see what it may be but the image was so large, that she could not work out what it looked like. Clara looked up. Above their heads the ceiling was high up, where it moulded into a dome, covered in stained glass. There were shades of green, blue, red, all coming together to pain a tree engulfed by an octopus. "What an odd combination," Clara thought. "Where is Tim?" Andrew looked around. In the middle of the opening laid four backpacks and three neatly laid out sleeping bags. The pillows seemed thrown wherever one may find them, yet the fourth sleeping bag was scrunched up closer to the farthest side of the hall. The light had started to fade, as the dusk had turned to night and the last scruples of sunlight had faded away, leaving only darkness and faint glimmer of the moon. It peeked through the dome into the hall giving the girls and their companion a very faint silhouettes of what was in front of them. "Maybe he chickened out," Cass giggled, tickling Andrew as she said it, "he doesn't like the dark." "Tim is not a chicken," Clara quietly said walking towards the sleeping bags, "something is not right." "Oh, don't start," Cass whined, "we all agreed. A night in this place to mark our last year in school." That was the pact. They all had agreed and sworn by it. This building sat in the woods, up in the hill, behind a thick stone wall, forgotten by all. Tales and myths roamed around the village folk about disappearing children, ghosts and wild animals that guarded this place. Ass usual with an odd building that stuck out like a sore thumb. However, as far as the four were concerned it was simply an old library, forgotten and abandoned. "Where is Tim then?" Clara asked waving her hands around as she looked back at the others. "Maybe he just heard a sound and went to investigate?" Andrew shrugged, "that's his sleeping bag over there." Clara walked closer to the discarded fabric, until she stopped, seeing the spider webs knitting the bottom of the shelf together with the tilled floor. "The webs," she whispered. "What's that?" Cas asked, confused. "The spider webs. They are everywhere," Clara looked around them. As far as she could see in the dim light of the moon, everything as covered in them. Well, almost everything. "Well, yes silly biscuit," Cas giggled, "what else would you expect?" "It is a pretty old place," Andre shrugged picking up his own backpack and looking for a flashlight. "Then why none of the books are covered in them?" Clara asked. Both Cas and Andrew looked puzzled. He finally found what he had searched for and turned on the small flashlight, casting a light towards one of the shelves. Indeed. Everything had cobwebs and dust over them yet the books sat almost untouched, their titles cast in gold glimmering in the light.  As if someone had placed them only yesterday. "That is odd," Andrew's brow furrowed. Cas suddenly grabbed the flashlight from Andrew's hand and cast it's light past Clara into the aisle of one of the pathways. "Easy!" he exclaimed, surprised by the girl's sudden move, "what is the matter, now?" "Look," she said, pointing to the dark. As far as the light could reach all they could see was the shelves and books. A second, two, thirty, and then a minute passed. Nothing. "What are we supposed to see?" Andrew asked, shuffling on his feet. He had started to get uncomfortable. He too hated the dark, and Tim was not a boy who would just disappear. "Wait," Cass whispered. Clara looked back at the aisle and finally noticed what her friend had seen. The mist. It was subtle, like a translucent fog, seeping closer to them, as if someone had spilt a bucket of it and it just slowly would make it's way towards them. Like water. Fluid and quiet. "When was the last time you heard of a fog in the middle of the library?" she looked at Andrew with piercing look, without shifting the beam of light. "It's possible with the right humidity and temperature," Andrew answered walking towards the fog. Clara stood up from where she was and walked with him closer to the fog. "Where is Tim?" she whispered. "He can't be far," Andrew gave her one of his crooked smiles, that showed off his dimples, "he probably went looking for us and ended up lost. This place is huge." "Guys," Cas shouted after them, her voice bearing a hint of panic, "this does not feel right." "It's just a fog," Andrew laughed, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Look," Clara said, pointing to the floor. There, covered by the fog sat a book. A few feet further there was another one, laying skewed on the tiles and half eaten by darkness there was one laying on its back opened to the middle of the story it hid in it's pages. "I must be dreaming," Clara whispered, "but I think the fog is coming from the book." "When has the fog felt hot?" Andrew asked, looking at his feet that were now engulfed in thicker clouds of grey and white. "You're asking me?" the girl looked at him as she kneeled down to pick the book up. Before her fingers could even brush over the pages a quiet rumble made her freeze. It was barely audible, yet they all felt it. A tremor through their feet. “We need to go,” Cass shouted at them. “Not without Tim,” Clara retorted. Cas’s shout had snapped her out of her panic, that she felt in her bones, she reached for the book again. This time the tremor was stronger, making her nearly loose her balance, and she heard a loud thud. As if a large boulder had been thrown on a soft grass. “Clara, we really need to go,” Andrew put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her towards where Cas was, when Clara saw a talon appear on top of the pages. The pages seemed to have become translucent where the talon sat. It was big, as long as her palm, black and scalley like a lizard. “Run,” she whispered getting up and backing away, grabbing Andrew’s hand as she did so. “What?” he exclaimed but one look at the book at the edge of the flashlights beam and he understood exactly. The talon had started to grown into two, three, out of the pages into the light, half swallowed by the dark a claw appeared. “Run!” Clara turned pulling Andrew with her and they ran, as they ran past Cas, Clara grabbed her hand and dragged her with them. They dashed down the aisles of the shelves into the dark, half illuminated by the pitiful beam of the flashlight. “What was that?” Cas gasped as they stopped on a corner of the maze of shelves. She had not seen all of it, but she knew something had appeared to scare both her friends and her. “I don’t-“ before Andrew could answer, a rumble of a bellowing roar shook the very core of the library. The bookshelves swayed under the power of that roar. “Give me that,” Clara quickly snatched the flash light and swithced the light off. “What are you-?” Cas shrieked, until Clara shushed her. “Do not move, do not talk,” she whispered, “it’s looking for us.” Another rumble, that sounded a lot closer, shook the bookcases more violently. It was so powerful that the trio held on to the nearest shelves to keep to their feet. It was a terrifying sound. Like a thunder that crackled above your head before the blast. They could hear wheezes and crackles coming closer. However, the closer they came the more they sounded coming from above. Until another rumble, sounding like a blast of electricity came from right above their heads. The power of it made all three get to their knees, to withstand it. Something had landed above their heads, holding onto the shelves on either sides of them. Cas had squeezed her ears shut, her teeth biting her lip as hard as she could not to utter a word and give away their hiding place. Andrew was sitting on his bottom, looking up in awe and horror. Clara looked up and felt like the air had left her lungs. The few skylights gave enough light to see a shape of a scaly belly, coupled with feathers, that looked as sharp as a knife, glistening in the dark. The creature was so large all they could see were the sharp talons digging into the bookcases as it held on to them. A great sniffing sound came from above, and a swoosh of air made the trio know the creature was moving it’s head to see where they were. Clara suddenly got on all fours and slid across the tiled floor. If she could make it a bit further away, she could distract the creature long enough for Cas and Andy to run for their lives. She slid further and further, listening for the sounds of the moving creature, until her leg caught a book, opening it. Clara suddenly felt a gust of wind pulling her backwards. She grasped and grappled for anything to hold on to, yet the smooth floor provided no help. She turned on to her back and looked at what was pulling her back, thinking it was the monster, yet to her surprise it was the book she had knocked. The pages had opened a hole in the ground where whirlpool of wind had formed, pulling her closer. “Andy, Cas! Run!” she shouted before the whirlpool pulled her in, as she closed her eyes. Yet once she opened them she felt as if she was falling. All around her were letters forming words that were falling along with her. She looked down, to see where she may end up and saw the world bellow her feet forming in all shades of black and grey. A world inside the book.

mlbeau

Ch. 2 & 3: The Cabal; The Secret Library.

“Are you sure about this?” “Yesss,” he replied. “It really doesn’t look like much of a…” He stopped and turned, “It isn’t much. I told you that.” It was the size of two city blocks, no more. They were headed toward a slight mound of earth at the far end of the park. “But I thought it was a fort.” “It was not a fort.” “But…” “It was never a fort. Ever.” “Then why did they…” “I don’t know, Cage. I wasn’t here.” A man clearing his throat disrupted their bickering. “Is that you, Cathy?” Norman turned to look at her but couldn’t see her face blushing in the darkness—but he heard her sheepish reply. “Yeah, it’s me. I thought we agreed to use my stage name…” “Ah yes, I’d forgotten about that. Well, since I’ve revealed your real identity, I suggest we eschew our private little fantasies and stick to using our real names. I think we owe it to Mr. Manchester. Don’t you think that’s reasonable, Norman?” Norman nodded, but knew not to whom he was nodding. The disembodied voice came from somewhere up the hill. He took the paved walkways with steps to the top of the mound, Cathy, formerly ‘Cage’, followed him. What they saw in the dim light of a distant streetlight was a five-foot-deep coquina foundation, with various rectangular interior walls, and smaller recessed pits or bins. The disembodied voice returned with an affable lilt, “Not much to look at, I know, kind of the ugly duckling of historic structures. But that should help us in our search.” A police officer came ambling up, nodded to Cage and Norman, removed a toothpick from his mouth and said, “You there, in the pit, come on out.” The man who belonged to the disembodied voice stood up, revealing his upper half in the street light. In an instant he had clambered out of the hole and onto the structure’s solid coquina foundation. He dusted himself off and offered to shake the officer’s hand. The policeman ignored it. “You all know the park closes at six?” They all shook their heads. “And it’s going on midnight.” They looked at one another and shuffled their feet. The man who had climbed from the pit addressed the officer in a velvet-smooth voice. “You’re not on duty, are you officer?” “No sir, I’m not.” “So you were just doing your civic duty by coming over here.” “Yes sir, pretty much. To be honest, I was a little curious, this little fort is not that interesting in broad daylight, so to see three adults wandering around in the middle of the night. Well, you know how it looks.” “No. How does it look?” His voice oozed with exaggerated innocence. The off-duty officer squinted at the three of them in turn, then looked off into the distance, a touch of annoyance in his voice. “You could be vagrants, you could be loitering, you could be casing a couple of yachts in the marina over there…” The man held up his hand, “Officer please, say no more. I see your point. I was wholly unaware of the kinds of mischief we could’ve been up to. Let me start over. My name is Morely. I’m a visiting professor from St. Leo’s over on the west coast.” He held out his hand again, and the officer reluctantly shook it. “These are my interns, Cathy, here, and that human sunflower over there is my main man, Norman,” he looked over the officer’s shoulder at Norman, “Manchester, right?” “Right.” Norman agreed. His amazement was completely missed by the off-duty cop. “Let me show you some identification,” Morely said as he extracted a billfold from his coat and handed it to the officer, along with two 100-dollar bills. The officer stiffened at the sight of the money and tried to give it back. “No, no.” Morely stepped back and held his hands up. “You weren’t planning on arresting us, were you?” The officer was still shaking his head. “Of course not. Then you can’t consider that a bribe, as I don’t believe we’re in any trouble. If you check with City Hall,” he pointed at the building right across the street, “and I’m sure you will, you’ll find that we have a permit for non-invasive pre-industrial excavation.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” The cop looked confused, irritated. “It means…” Morely bent over and read the officers name tag. “It means, Officer Blake, that we can only examine or take things that are loose.” The officer still seemed alarmed. “Officer Blake, we would only take tiny pieces.” He pulled a small specimen bag out of one pocket and held it up. “We’re not a demolition team, I mean really.” He pulled his jacket pockets inside out, “We don’t even have hammers. I’m beginning to think I should pro-test.” The officer relaxed, chuckling at his own stupidity. Then surprised them all by asking, “But why would you want to be looking for it at night?” “What makes you think we want to look for anything at night, sir?” “Well, the blatant darkness for one,” the cop pointed out, “and the two-hundred bucks, that wasn’t for nothin.” With a disarmingly stern expression on his face, Morely pointed to the officer and said, “You sir, are going to be a lieutenant some day.” Officer Blake folded the two one-hundred-dollar bills in half and slipped them into his top pocket. “St Leo’s eh?” He started to walk away and stopped. “I’m gonna stop by the station before I go home and let everyone know that for two hundred bucks, they can come by and watch you three work.” Morely, who had almost forgotten the cop, jerked around, “Oh, I do hope you won’t do that.” “You don’t carry that much money around?” The cop asked. “Oh no, it’s not that, I have plenty of money Officer, eh, Blake. It’s the interruptions. I can’t stand the interruptions.” They stood there staring at each other for a moment. Just as the officer turned to leave, Morely stated, very loudly for that time of night, “But for you, Officer Blake. You’re welcome to come round any time you like.” “Yes sir. I’m sure that won’t happen. You folks have a good night.” The echoes of his wingtip shoes faded quickly. Chapter 3: The Secret Library. Norman directed his attention toward Professor Morley, “Before you say another word I want to know who you really are, and what the fuck we’re supposed to be doing here?” With a subtle glance he included Cathy in the discussion. In the short silence that ensued, he added, “I just want the truth.” He looked at Cathy again, but she was looking at her left shoe and didn’t notice. Morley said, “Good.” He dusted himself off again as if he had bits of off-duty cop on his clothing. “I need you, Norman, plain and simple. I need you,” he held his hands above his face and twisted them as if wringing water from a towel, “I need you to find things Norman. That’s what you do.” “I do?” “Yeah you do. Did you ever find something for your Mom?” “Car keys.” “What about your Dad?” “Coffee.” “Your Dad would lose his coffee?” “Every morning.” “And you’d find it.” Norman nodded. “Piece of cake.” then looked askance at the Professor, who noticed the look. “Now see here, Norman, I have my own ways of determining people’s skills. I certainly didn’t follow you around for forty years taking notes.” He shook his head and added. “You’re a finder. It’s difficult to define, but I know it when I see it. Now look…” He looked at his watch as Norman nodded toward Cathy and said, “What about her? What’s she?” By the expression on her face, she was thinking that herself. Professor Morely looked pained, he really did, he compressed his lips, shook his head and wagged his finger at Norman. “See that. That’s the finder in you. You’re like a goddamned metal detector, and there’s old ‘Clang’ standing there,” he pointed his thumb at Cathy. “It’s Cage,” she reminded him. “Cathy, Clang, Cage, whatever.” He focused back on Norman. “You couldn’t help but go off and start pinging and beeping with her standing right there.” He sighed. “I’m just glad you didn’t do it when the cop was standing here.” “Wait a minute, what did I do? And you didn’t answer my question, ‘what is she?” “Cathy’s a magnet. Okay?” He allowed their clever remarks to be said without reacting, and then continued. “No really. She’s a magnet. Quite powerful, maybe influential is a better word. She has a field that extends well beyond her reach. She can affect other people in a room before they’ve even seen her.” Norman looked dubious, so Morely continued, “It’s not pheromones, or perfume. She can repel people just as well, and not just other magnets, depends on what pole she presents. He turned his full attention on the woman. “Now get out there and start repelling people Cathy, if you don’t mind. And it’s time you got down to finding something Norman.” “What am I looking for? You don’t think there’s going to be a manuscript lying in the shadows down there, do you?” The professor hesitated. “I don’t know that I should tell you.” “You don’t think it would help if I knew what I was looking for?” “No. Not really. No.” “Oh, come on. This is unbelievable.” “Are you serious?” That was Cathy, adding her clang to the conjugation. Morley pointed at her. “You’re being attractive, I don’t need that right now.” And to Norman he said, “You’re being inquisitive. Curiosity doesn’t find things, except on rare occasions when it also gets itself killed. Don’t be inquisitive. Just find.” “You gotta give me something, Professor.” “It’s a library, Norman. You’re looking for a library.” That was Cathy again, pulling on things with her personality. “Goddammit, Cathy. If I see another cop come along, even a drunken cop…” “Yeah? What are ya gonna do, professor, horsewhip me again?” Suddenly the crickets fell silent, the cicadas ceased cicada-ing, the wind became calm, flags stopped flapping, even the nearby traffic light refused to change. As if the whole world were suddenly hanging on their every word. Or so it seemed to Norman. “He’s, I mean I’m kidding, Norman. He didn’t really horsewhip me.” “Norman please,” Morely said, “the library. It must be here.” In the manner of finders since the beginning of man-find, Norman turned his time off. He at once felt the crumbling stone under his hands and inhaled the sweetened scent of dew-laden moss growing in huge patches all around them. He heard the tolling of several bells, a mournful sound, and the shriek of a gull somewhere in the fog. Norman’s eyes snapped open as his senses tracked the sound. And he pointed. “There. The library is right there.” Morely said, “That’s a boat, Norman.” “That—is your library.” It was right across the street. In the city marina, dead center in the middle of town. Six minutes later they were standing on the wharf, leaning into a stiff wind coming off the water. The wind caused the boats lines to slap against the masts, most of them were hollow and will ring like a bell. This boat had no mast. It was a large twin-engine live aboard. Shaped like a sportfisherman but with no outriggers. No gear, just some seats and a plastic picnic table on the aft deck. Lights were burning in the main galley, as they should be, but nothing of the interior could be seen through the curtained windows and doors. The three of them stood there, staring at the boat. She was named, ‘It Takes Me Out of the Story II.’ The professor hesitated. “I think you should board the vessel as well, Cathy.” “I would much rather have you call me Cage, Professor.” She had enough metal on her to make a cage, but he said, “Cathy’s a nicer name.” “I don’t care about nice.” “It’s a prettier name.” “I don’t care about pretty.” He tried to usher her onto the boat but she stepped aside and said, “After you.” By the time she finally got on the boat, he mostly wished she hadn’t. Because Norman had already entered the ship’s cabin and hadn’t come out yet. Cathy was already affecting their plans. Morely entered the cabin’s main parlor just a few moments after Norman, but the parlor was already empty. A hatch and ladder led down to what should have been the engine room, but appeared to be another lower deck, in the middle of that was another hatch and ladder, to another lower deck. The secret library, and Norman had gone down there. A thick black binder was lying on the chart table and he picked it up. It was heavy, dense and zippered shut. This wasn’t what he came for, but something was radically wrong here and he didn’t want to be involved. All he had to do now, was get out of there. He turned toward the ladder and there stood Cathy. “Where’s Norman?” She said. Morely waved her towards the second hatchway, let her see for herself. “He went down there?” Morely nodded. Cathy walked over to the hatchway, looked down, and was instantly overcome with nausea and dizziness. It pissed her off so much that she screamed out his name, and commanded him to return at once. Her demeanor was so imperious, it was almost funny. Except it wasn’t funny, as the seconds ticked away . At the moment that it seemed most frightening, who should come tottering up the ladder but Norman Manchester, blanched face, stiff-legged, carrying a batch of papers in one hand that looked like it might be a manuscript. He almost didn’t make the last few steps, cut lip, swollen eye, soaking wet. She grabbed him under one arm guiding him toward the rear of the cabin. “Christ almighty. Are you all right?” “Barely.” He said, but he smiled. “It was crazy. Every book ever written is in there, and it feels real. Your eyes water, your skin feels itchy, and the smells…” Cathy and the Professor looked into each other’s eyes and began pushing and pulling Norman out the cabin door, off the boat and away from the docks as quick and soundlessly as possible. Norman was a bit breathless, but trying to say something. Neither of them wanted to hear what he had to say until they were well clear of the marina. They shushed him and pushed him. It was instinctual, he thought, there was no real danger of anything coming up and out of that boat. Finally, he shook off their grappling arms and sprang free. “Stop! Stop it, now.” Professor Morley’s face was lined with genuine fear, Cathy’s face was pale, sickly, but could not hide her concern, presumably for his health. “I’m fine,” he added, patting himself unconsciously. “And wet?” He took another look at both of their faces and said, “It was just a library, people.” It was the first and only time that Professor Morley groaned.

cq10u7

Small addition for a big subject!

It was my second day at this new school, that had the added stress of requiring the school bus to transport the pupil's, in my area, to the main bus depot near our secondary school, where I had just completed my ‘early years’ at my villages Primary School, and I didn’t know one single person here and nor did anybody’s face look familiar! I stood alone in a playground, which was probably unfamiliar with the first four letters of this word and it was really a concrete meeting area for the pupils that just wanted to gossip and it had probably seen very little play! ‘It was time to grow-up now and I don’t think that any war games or ‘hide and seek’ capers were appropriate here! The ‘ground’ could definitely ‘ooze out’ plenty of idle gossip, rumours and secrets? It had probably witnessed a lot of mischief, fights and friendships ‘over the years’ and my inclusion here might be noted in this concrete ground? There was an organised schedule of education here and I had English next, which I also had yesterday and I really enjoyed it because our English teacher was both funny and pretty, which made the subject of English very favourable, although writing and reading was already an enjoyable pastime. The English teacher produced a book that she had chosen for us to scrutinise, after she had read some of it out to the class; The book cover looked very interesting and ‘strangely’ familiar, despite never before seeing or reading this book and it had a man peacefully trapped underneath a wall of bricks, which, apparently, represented his housebound state, because he sometimes felt like he was part of his house! The front cover had intrigued me and I could, somehow, relate with the story and with the design of this front cover; The book was about a young man who had suffered a very rare form of brain haemorrhage and he had gone from being a very active man to now being reliant upon a wheelchair to complete his limited daily activities, and how he managed his frustration at having to learn some things again, like ‘reading, writing, successfully eating, negotiating a bar of soap when washing(“the blissful invention of liquid soap was his saviour”!) and trying hard to succeed with walking again, which was, unfortunately, never achieved! The English teacher was reading the book out aloud to the class with both a sympathetic and dramatical voice and as she read more of the book out, the more I could relate with it and as she continued to read I could anticipate the next word and the sentence! The story brought humour into tragedy and hope of a continuation of life, with a convincing belief in reincarnation! The hope and belief ‘somewhat’ eased the threat of an early death and this hope of returning seemed very favourable and it endorsed my belief, but increased my concern about a continuation in this World’s behaviour and its future state! Our English teacher read it out and used many different tones to her impeccable voice to make this story ‘more dramatic’ and I was very sympathetic with this true story- “Yes, I was very sympathetic and I could, oddly enough, relate strongly with this book and I had a further investigation of its front and back cover, which seemed more familiar as I examined it. The name of the author seemed familiar and the books’ design was unique, ‘even though’ it seemed to be slightly rushed! The authors name was Andrew and, the name of Andrew was already chosen for me before I was born! There were further visions of a past occupation that could have influenced some preferences today with some details about a past occupation with many vehicles in a garage, where I worked as a mechanic and of past events and how your previous life, hobbies and job preference can affect this life by influencing your decisions, habits and preferences and for your future existence! “Excuse me Miss, but what became of this author”? The teacher seemed to be both startled and surprised to receive this question and she thought for a moment before she replied; “I think, in that year, any thoughts about reincarnation were often dismissed, wether it was by people’s fear of suffering the consequences of their past actions or their denial of it due to their religious beliefs”. “As for me”, she continued, “I’m gradually becoming more convinced of it, and I do worry about our actions today and how they will affect us in the future and………” she briefly paused her speech and bowed her head as she pondered her next words, “why do you ask Andrew”? she asked me with concern, “Some information in that book seemed to be very memorable to me and I can vaguely recall moments about the disruptions and upsetting occurrences when I wrote it, which were all after a bad head injury that I suffered”! “Well, I would keep those thoughts to yourself before you become the next subject for medical ‘professionals”! “I can’t stop thinking about this book now”, I said in a desperate and concerned voice “especially after seeing what I have just seen”, I had raised my school shirt up to my chest and revealed a small numeric tattoo on the side of my torso, which was a voluntary request a few years ago, that for some reason, seemed to be very important to me and its’ eventual addition was agreed to by my despairing parents who never understood why its’ decoration on my torso was so important! The teacher came over and put on her reading glasses to view the numbers that were tattooed on my torso and then, slightly baffled, said, “I can see them”, she said with a puzzled face, “but what significance do they have”? “Well, I always wondered why it was so important for me to have these numbers tattooed on me and now I believe I have found that reason”! ”Please tell me why”, she desperately asked with curiosity, ”well Miss, those numbers that I wanted on me are the exact same numbers of the ISBN on this book”!

zxmw8l

The Library

There is more than salt and sand in the sea. More than any mortal man dares to imagine. An entire vast world of blue and green filled with creatures from heavenly dreams and horrific nightmares. There are coral mountain ranges that surround cavernous valleys, forests of seaweed and kelp atop beds of shell and sand, populated by those that are both frightful and kind. It is not a place for man to linger. Yet linger Mr. Robertson did. Mr. Robertson had always had a fondness for the ocean. The glittering aquamarine waters, the crystalline diamond beaches, the scorching golden sun – that was where his wife preferred to stay. On the beach, with an ice cold beverage in hand, a hat on her head, and her nose in a book. But, Mr. Robertson’s affections drew him deeper. From the shores to the boats to the reefs till he was several leagues below, skirting the forbidden sands in divers’ attire. He waved at dolphins, smiled at eels, and nodded at every single fish that crossed his path. A yearning for gills and flippers had never struck a humanoid being so intensely as it struck Mr. Robertson at every waking hour of every single day. The ocean consumed his every thought. Silent was what he was to those who knew him, for it was silence that he chose to spare them from the never-ending geyser of watery facts that he could never stem. His thirst for the ocean bled into all else that he consumed. Movies, books, courses – if it had naught to do with the sea then it had naught to do with him. He’d filled more than one room in his house with oceanic paraphernalia. But, even surrounded thus, the pictures, books, and perfumes were poor replacements for the real thing. It was on one of his treasured deep sea diving excursions that Mr. Robertson made the discovery that drove him from the ocean for good. He’d been treading sand in a new area. A spot decorated in coral the color of the sun when it rises or sets. Purples and pinks, and oranges and red, all encased, encircled and embraced by the ever-changing blues and greens of the translucent water. He’d just finished bidding ‘good day’ to a moray eel when a perfectly Mr. Robertson sized hole in the fantastical formations winked at him in invitation. As a man enchanted he swam for the opening like one being called home. Not a whit of fear fluttered in his heart until the entrance changed from welcoming to entrapping. A current he was powerless to fight against, swirled around him and pulled him from the light blue waters into the yawning, and now frightening, blackness. For a moment he was sure that he must drown, that there was no other ending for him other than this – a watery death for the water obsessed. Though a part of him thought it poetic, the rest of him screamed that he wanted to live. He wanted light, he wanted land, he wanted air, he wanted life! And then – he was out. His head broke the surface of the water and he ripped the scuba gear from his face with a ferociousness he hadn’t known he’d possessed. Lungful after gulping lungful he breathed. The lower half of his body was still in the water and suddenly he hated it. Floundering about like an impatient cat receiving their first bath he swam for the shore. Hands slapped slippery rock as Mr. Robertson dragged himself from the now accursed sea. Flopping onto his back he shuttered his eyes and breathed. And breathed. And breathed… And… Opening his eyes again came to the conclusion that he must be dreaming. For all around him, amongst the shimmering stalagmites and stalactites were shelves upon shelves of books. Big books, small books, hardbacks, paperbacks, leather-bound, paper-page filled books… The stranded diver shot to his feet and spun on the spot. He half expected the space to morph around him, as it so often did in a dream, to turn into a more believable place. But it did not. It remained what it was. A natural cave – under the sea – filled to the brim with books. Books, and rocks, and – lights. Yellow and white orbs that hung suspended here and there, illuminating a shelf in that corner, a table in that one, a plush armchair in another… Mr. Robertson punched himself in the head. It hurt. That didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t dreaming. Some people felt pain in their dreams. Sure, Mr. Robertson never had, but that didn’t mean that he never could. He could be dreaming…or… “Lacey,” his wife’s name slipped involuntarily from his lips as he stepped away from the pool of black liquid and into the mysterious underwater library. The air was thick and humid – but definitely oxygenated. The rocks were sharp and solid. The books were soft, dry, and – real. Upon the spines a sharp and thin script denoted their titles. Mr. Robertson slipped one off the shelf and flipped through it. The pages were bone dry and covered in – some kind of language. “Excuse me?” Mr. Robertson yelped in what can only be referred to as the voice of a little girl – the kind that would wear a frilly little dress and have their hair up in pigtails. The book he’d been perusing clattered to the floor with an abominable crunch. And now it was the turn for the owner of the ‘excuse me’ voice to yelp in dismay. Blinking the shock away Mr. Robertson looked on in horror as a figure in a maroon cloak rescued the fallen tome from its pitiful position. “Be careful, will you,” the figure carried on in perfect posh English, brushing sand from the crumpled pages as they straightened. “This is my only copy.” The figure looked to be man, humanoid at the very least, with pale pinkish skin, teeth slightly to sharp and too long to make one comfortable, and eyes disproportionately small. A reading lamp, presumably attached to a harness on his back, extended over his shoulder and shone a perfect little circle of blue-ish light onto the now slightly mangled book. He sighed heavily. “I-I’m sorry,” Mr. Robertson stuttered. “Only, you startled me, you see.” “Apologies, I’m sure. But,” the man shot him a sideways glare, “you are in trespassing in my library.” “Your library?” “Yes. Do you see anyone else?” “Well, no. I’m just surprised is all. That is to say, that I’m surprised that there is a library here. Not that that I’m surprised that it’s your library. It makes sense. After all, as you’ve said, you’re here, so…” The man in the maroon cloak raised a miniscule eyebrow on his squashed forehead until Mr. Robertson stopped talking. Then, after a polite albeit uncomfortable passage of silence, it was his turn to speak. “How ever did you come by here? You haven’t told anyone about this place, have you?” “What? No,” Mr. Robertson shook his head in earnest, “no, no I haven’t told anyone about this place. I just – well, you see it was the current, really. I was out amongst the corral, and the current pulled me in. I really had no intention of coming here at all, I can assure you. Not that it’s not a nice place, to be sure, it is v -.” “Yes, well,” the man with the long and pointy teeth cut him off, “so long as no one else knows, I suppose there’s no harm done.” “Quite right,” Mr. Robertson mumbled, “quite right.” Now it was at this time that Mr. Robertson, who was desperately missing his wife, his home, and his good old dry earth, started to feel a smidge of panic. He was dearly hoping to get out of this so-called library as soon as possible. But, it would be a lie to say that he felt confident that this new strange ‘man’ would show him the exit easily and without any strings attached. Especially considering his ‘no harm done’ remark. It was just when Mr. Robertson was about to breach the subject of asking for the way out when the stranger spoke first. “Have you ever read this book?” “Um,” Mr. Robertson fidgeted in his rubber suit, “no, I can’t say that I have.” “Then, I don’t suppose you’ve read the sequel?” “No, I’m afraid not.” “Damn!” the man swore in a very normal earthly manner, “I haven’t been able to get my hands on a copy of the thing. It’s rarer than a black pearl in May as they say.” “Too right you are,” Mr. Robertson agreed, although he’d never heard that expression before in his life. “At this point, I’d really just like to know how the story ends.” “I can understand you there.” “Yes, well,” the man grinned at him in a friendly way. “Good day to you.” And with that he turned away, head in the book, and moved off towards the darker areas of the library. Mr. Robertson spluttered on the spot, too flabbergasted by the whole encounter to think straight. But, only for a moment. “Wait!” he cried, having quickly collected himself. He ran after the man. Hand outstretched inches from the maroon shoulder, the head turned back to him and this time Mr. Robertson was too frightened to make even the smallest sound. Skin slimy and see-through, teeth sharper and longer than they’d been in the light, the man’s face had turned into one that Mr. Robertson had only seen before in science books. “Yes?” “I-ah-auh-I was w-ondering if, if you could – um, sh-show me the, the way out of here?” “Ah yes,” comprehension dawned in his milky eyes, “You’ll want the land exit, I’m assuming, yes?” “Yes, please.” “Right then, just head down that way bearing right the whole time till you reach a fork, then go left. You should reach the surface in about,” he glanced down at Mr. Robertson’s legs, “in about an hours’ time, I should think.” “Thank you,” Mr. Robertson nodded, “thank you very much Mister - ?” “Angler, Mister Angler. And you are?” “Robertson.” “Good day to you, Mister Robertson. I trust we won’t meet again, yes?” “Yes, sir.” “Very good,” he held his very human looking gloved hand out for a handshake. Mr. Robertson took it and was not surprised to feel nothing in the glove. Mr. Angler’s reading light bobbed in the air between them. When Mr. Robertson reached dry land, beheld at the sky, breathed the free air, and hugged his wife he knew then that the nightmare had been real. He threw away his scuba gear, sold his boat, and locked all of his oceanic belongings, along with every memory of all things under the sea, away into a single room. As the years passed he became known as the talkative old man with a disdain for the sea. And whenever one of his grandkids asked why there was a locked room in his house and what lay within in it, the only answer they would receive was ‘that’s the library’. THE END. 

825aj9

Wade's Regret

Wade spotted the roofline and walked the perimeter of the woods until he found an opening to a well-worn, tiny path. He stepped onto the porch, pondered his next move, and looked around, nervous and alert. He turned to go, but a gust of wind swept him into the house.  The door slammed shut loudly and delivered Wade into the foyer. He heard a woman’s voice and his name. It came from behind him. He turned to see a woman dressed as though she were going to the ball in her long blonde hair, powdered red cheeks, and ruby red lipstick in a long blue sequined gown.  “Wade, I’ve been expecting you. I’m Sophie. We have so little time to chat right now. We have to move,” she said. Her voice was velvety sweet to his ear. Minutes later, a book dropped to the floor without its dust cover. Wade bent to pick it up and read the spine. “Thirteen Ghosts.” Wade, an avid reader of ghost stories, knew the book well. Regret, foremost in his mind, goosebumps broke out all over his body. “Where are we going? I’d prefer to leave instead. I’ll take you with me if you’d like to come. I just need to get this confounded door open.” He reefed on it with all his might, but the door remained fixed. “Oh, you’re adorable. But this is my home.” She smiled at him. “We need to go. Now.” Her tone had changed, and her eyes looked glassy. She led him to a particular stack of books on the wall and moved right through them. Wade felt a tug on his shirt. She pulled him into the wall. They landed in a maze of books. Wade’s face lost all expression and colour. His hair stood at attention on his body.  “What just happened? You went through the wall? How did you do that?” Wade’s voice was shaky as he backed away from her. He paused. “You aren't a ghost, are you? Everybody knows they only exist in works of fiction.” Wade jerked his head back. Sophie looked Wade in the eye, and the seriousness of her message was reflected in her face. “Wade, books will drop in our path. Take this bag to collect them. We need to pick up every last one.” “This boo—I—” Before he could get it all out, another book dropped, “The Haunting.” Wade jumped—his nerves, a jumble. Sophie picked it up quickly and slipped it into his bag. Her appearance was now that of a red-eyed, cobwebbed-covered, skeletal ghoul draped in soiled rags. A thunderous voice rattled the house, shaking books in each room and all the books in the maze. Wade watched it ripple and heard a taunting version of an old song: “So-phie, So-phie, come out, come out, wherever you are.” In a mocking singsong tone, the chaser terrified Wade, so his teeth chattered. “Let me out, now!” Wade said. His breaths were shallow in his nervous pants. “He's after me. He’s a ghost man,” Sophie said with a grimace. “This maze is our best defence. We should run.” They ran until Wade’s adrenaline petered out. They sat on the cold ground. Despite his gasps for regular breathing, Wade said, “Why’s he chasing you?" He wiped the sweat off his brow. “I owe him something. I don’t want him to catch me. I don’t like trouble,” Sophie said. She looked into Wade’s eyes. “Why drop ghost stories? It freaks me out. I’m not comfortable here. I want to leave. Take me outside, please." “Oh, sorry, Wade, we’re far from outside. The only way is through the house; we could run into the ghost man there,” Sophie warned.  Wade jumped. Eyes large. “I don’t care. I’ll chance it, being near that horrible, rattling voice as long as I can get out.” “Be careful what you wish for, Wade.” She saw he had caught his breath and said, “Time is almost up; let’s go.” They didn’t stop again until the next book dropped. Creepy crawlies wriggled over his body. “I...I...I need some air. What’s going on here isn't right. I need to get out of here." Angst rose inside him like mercury in a thermometer on a scorcher. “Wade, I won’t leave you.” He gasped. “Thank God.” He held his head in his hands. The realization hit him like a tsunami. Regret flooded his mind. “I wish this book-dropping would stop!” he shouted. “I’m a wreck.” They ran until Sophie made a sharp left and lost Wade. She stopped when she noticed Wade wasn’t close on her heels. He had stopped to pick up “The Uninvited,” which dropped at his feet. The voice blasted again, shattered the windows, cracked the floorboards, and said, "So-phie, come out of the maze. I hear you in there—you and your guest need to come out and face me.” “Oh my God, he's more agitated than the last time,” Wade said, his hand on his forehead. Sweat rings around his armpits and neckline. “I already told you, Wade, he's looking for me, not you. I did something to him and owe some overdue books.” She tried to reassure Wade. “We have to stay ahead of him. Let’s move it.” “But why? What did you do? I’m done running,” Wade said. “He wants them back.” Sophie raised an eyebrow and then disappeared around the corner. The man’s voice reverberated around the house and maze: “So-phie, return to me what you took from me.” Torrid screeches and droning moans followed, shooting horrific desperation throughout Wade. “Wade, the entire house is a library in disguise,” she whispered. “A library? Do you mean like a ghost library?” He whispered. “Yes, I have overdue books; he is the librarian here. He’s after me. He has a fine attached to them that I must pay. I refuse to give him what he demands because it’s not finished enough. For him yet.” Wade stopped, looked at her, and contemplated what she said. He gulped. “He’s expecting me as Payme—before he could finish his question, “The Haunting of Hill House”—fell into his bag? Another book, “House on a Haunted Hill,” was dropped, this time in front of Sophie. A wicked wind whipped up, and Wade heard what sounded like pages turning one after another. The temperature plummeted to 25°F. His breath hung in the air. Wade tried to run against the wind, but his strength did not match it. And it blew him through the maze and into the library. The librarian's ghost met him at the door. His voice was no longer scary, and Wade recognized it immediately. Sophie delivered Wade; she followed through with her end. “Welcome, Wade. You need a library card.” "I came to return these books, but I’m not interested in our card. I won’t be staying.” Wade gave him the bag of books and stood at the check-in counter. Wade saw that he looked menacing. His body radiated green, and tiny black dots were embedded in the yellow, hollow eye sockets. Something purple protruded from his face, resembling veins. The librarian ignored Wade’s request. Wade repeated himself, "Many thanks. I’d like to go now, please." The ghost man took the books out of the bag and checked them in. He handed Wade his library card. "Wade, you’ve missed the lesson. You’re stuck here. You won’t be going anywhere.” He smiled at Wade and showed his blackened, stained, yellow-spotted teeth as he did. Wade’s mouth ran dry, the colour drained from his face, and he felt clammy. His stomach raced with wild anxiety. “Now to Sophie.” The librarian disappeared and left Wade in the library with no way out. 

u1b6qc

The Escape

“Bec … Hey Bec … you still awake?” Rebecca’s eyes cracked open. With an awkward jerk, she sat up abruptly on the couch, sending the book that had been lying on her chest hurtling toward the floor. Its pages fluttered for a second before landing on Chapter 13. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Her eyes quickly took in the bookshelved walls around her, the green velvet sofa beneath her, the tribal woven rug on the floor. Of course , she thought. I came over to Max’s house for the night . A wave of realisation and dread rushed through her, hitting her like a punch in the gut. Just then she also realised her friend was still talking to her. “… going to be ok here? I’m heading over to my girlfriend’s place for the night. I didn’t want to wake you, but I thought I’d see if you need anything before I go…” Max’s voice trailed off, leaving her with the implied question. “Hm? Oh, right, thanks, Max. I’m sure I’ll be fine. You don’t mind if I use your shower, do you? Before I head out to work at The Dive later?” She reached down to rummage a hand through her rucksack lying next to the couch, checking to make sure she had a change of clothes with her. Not that it mattered much. The Dive, where she worked weekend nights as a bartender, was aptly named, its clientele being known for their “come as you are” mentality rather than their haute couture. “Yeah, sure. No problem. The towels are in the closet over there, and shampoo and everything’s in the bathroom. Feel free to make yourself at home.” She noticed him studying her face intently, as if searching for clues about her current emotional state. “You know, a couple of friends are coming over tomorrow. You wanna hang out with us? It might do you some good to get your mind off things,” Max said in a voice that seemed forcefully casual. “Thanks,” she said, likewise trying to force a smile, which she suspected only made it look like she desperately needed to use the restroom. “I’ll think about it.” With that, Max took his cue, calling out a good night as he walked out of the study where Rebecca had dozed off not moments ago. Now, sitting alone in her high school friend’s slightly cluttered apartment, she found it impossible to go back to sleep. Not with the memory of immediate past events playing through her mind. She clenched her fists and pressed her eyelids tightly together, as if she were Dorothy and could wish herself back to the safety of home, away from her personal nightmare Oz. No luck. She sighed. The harsh reality of the present felt oppressive, like a thick winter blanket threatening to smother her. She needed escape. She glanced down at the book she had been reading, now open to Chapter 13. She hadn’t made it that far before falling asleep. It was an intriguing bedside thriller with a fast-paced, if somewhat predictable, story – about a man who discovers his parents are secret agents with assassins after them, which are now in turn after him, by proxy. The characters hadn’t blowing her away so far, but the interesting twists and turns gave the plot a soap-opera feeling that had kept her from thinking too much about her current situation. She picked up the book and placed it on her lap, telling herself she’ll only read a couple more pages and then force herself to deal with reality again. There’s so much to do , she thought. Go to work. Find a new place to live. File a restraining order against her ex-boyfriend, J.T. She glanced at the clock on the wall, one of those retro-looking cat clocks with a swinging tail for the pendulum. Work didn’t start for another two hours. Another 30 minutes of reading time and then I’ll get on it, she promised herself. As she looked at the pages of the open book, her eyes scanned the words inadvertently, even though she was normally loathe to spoil the plot by looking ahead. All of a sudden, a passage caught her eye. The main character, Brad, had just been jolted rudely awake by a loud noise coming from inside the house. He sits up straight on the green sofa and looks around at his surroundings, confused. In the dim lamplight, he can just make out the large woven rug with a tribal design on the floor, and two walls covered with shelves lined with books. Wow, Rebecca thought, looking around. What a strange coincidence. Unable to help herself, she continued reading, curious what he would do next. Brad soon realises an assassin has snuck into the house, bumping into a cabinet and subsequently sending an antique metal bowl crashing to the floor. Brad realises he is being hunted. He quickly flicks off the light and darts into the dark corner behind the open door. All of a sudden, a loud metallic crash made Rebecca jump. Someone’s inside the apartment , she thought. Instinctively, she jumped to her feet, clutching the book to her chest like a shield. “Max? Is that you?” No answer from the hallway. Just a soft creak-creak-creak of footsteps on the old wooden floorboards. She strained her ears to listen. Her rational mind told her she was being silly, that it must be Max coming back in. Probably forgot something. She took a deep breath to reassure herself. Still… intuitively, and at the last possible moment, she grabbed an iron bookend shaped like an owl and ducked behind the slightly open door. Just then, a large figure appeared in the doorway, the dim light from the hallway casting its long shadow into the study. From her vantage point behind the door, Rebecca could make out something long and thin in its hand. Slowly, the figure crept further into the room, glancing around the furniture, searching … Gasping inwardly, Rebecca recognised the silhouette of her ex. He was looking for her! She watched in silence as he stepped further into the room, his head turned toward the curtains near the window. Now was her chance. Holding her breath, she slid out of the corner and around the open door. Her eyes never left the figure in the room as she backed up into the door frame. Suddenly, the figure paused, as if sensing her. Her ex turned, and she saw the rage flashing in his eyes. Without thinking, she threw the bookend in her hand with all her might. With an angry shout, the shadow lifted its arms reactively to block its face. Like a bolting deer, Rebecca turned and ran for the door in the hallway, yanking it open, fleeing down the stairs and out into the night. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs after her, a gravelly voice yelling at her to stop as she sprinted, blindly, down the sidewalk, then across the street, and finally into the nearby park. After what seemed like a safe distance, she jumped into the bushes and held her breath. She could hear him follow her to the path before coming to a halt, listening. Finally, he took off in the other direction, down the path and away from her hiding place in the brush. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, Rebecca stepped out, brushing some leaves off of her jeans as she swivelled her head like a terrified squirrel. Man, you really know how to pick ‘em, Rebecca , she scolded herself before heading off to work, the book still clutched in one hand. It wasn’t far to walk from Max’s place to the bar. Still, she couldn’t help but jump at every slamming car door, honking horn, and angry shout she heard along the way. Which is a semi-regular occurrence in mid-town New York. Her heart still pounded from the unexpected chase, and her mind was still grappling from the mysterious coincidence – that the events in the book seemed to parallel what had just happened. Almost like the passage had been a warning, a secret message meant just for her, guiding her on what to do during the attack. When she got to The Dive, she went in through the back door, stopping to clock in in the kitchen hallway before swinging open the double doors to the bar. Her eyes scanned the room for her any signs of her ex before she she slid behind the counter. Luckily, the place was still fairly empty. Only a couple of the regulars nursing their beers over a game of darts. “Hey Bec!” Her coworker Natasha called out to her from across the bar, looking up from the table she was wiping down to give a short wave. “You’re here early! In that case, I’m gonna go ahead and clock out, if you don’t mind? Got a couple errands to run before I get home,” Natasha said as she approached. During the day, The Dive functioned as a family-friendly diner as well as an oasis for the day drinkers. Natasha had been there since 11 that morning, serving the lunch crowd. “You ok, Bec? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she asked in concern, getting close enough to scrutinise Rebecca’s face. “It’s nothing. Just a run-in with the ex,” Rebecca replied with a wave of her hand. She took a couple deep breaths to calm her nerves. Natasha nodded, knowingly, without pressing for details. She was good like that. She’d had her share of run-ins in her brief 24 years of existence and required no further explanation. On some nights, the two college students didn’t exchange a single spoken word with each other, communicating instead through meaningful glances and subtle gestures from across the bar. Natasha pulled her friend closer to her in a hug. “I’m here if you need anything,” she added before clocking out, making an air kiss. “Just a phone call away, babe!” After cleaning the glasses and making sure the counter was stocked, the bar was still fairly quiet, so Rebecca decided to use the downtime to get in a couple more pages. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the book had been oddly in sync with the evening’s events. She surreptitiously pulled the book onto the counter, flipping through the pages to find the last passage she’d read. Somewhere around Chapter 13, she remembered. There it is. Brad had managed to flee from the attacker, escaping unseen through a basement window. Now he’s on the lookout for a safehouse so he could regroup. From an untraceable phone booth, he makes a call to a friend and arranges to meet up at a seedy local dive bar to get the keys. A few passages of witty banter with the bartender and a couple whiskey shots later, and Brad is still sitting at the counter, waiting for his safehouse connection to appear. A muffled cry from behind the bar makes him jerk upright, poised and alert. Warily, he walks toward the counter to check it out. Just then, a loud crash sounded from beyond the kitchen door, causing Rebecca to jerk her head up in surprise. Weird, she thought. She listened for a moment, then decided it was probably just the cook shutting down the kitchen. She turned back to her book. In the story, Brad reaches the counter just in time to see a figure duck behind through the kitchen doors and through the back. Lying on the floor behind the counter, he finds his friend, hands clutching the right side of his chest and his face twisted in pain. A pool of blood is starting to gather around him from the chest wound. “Help… me,” his friend gasps, stretching out a bloodied hand toward Brad. It’s then that Brad notices the smell – the pungent, unmistakable smell of gasoline, spreading in long rivulets from his friend toward the bar and trailing out through the kitchen doors. Rebecca looked up again with a strange, unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. The uncanny coincidence of the attack scene described in the book and her own attack in the apartment just hours ago lingers in her mind. She scanned the room. The bar was still nearly empty. Come to think of it, the cook should have left a couple hours ago, she remembered. Maybe I should just go have a look in the kitchen … She pushed through the double swinging doors to enter the kitchen. No one there. Taking a few steps inside, she called out for the cook and listened. A tiny whimper, as if from a frightened puppy, emitted from the furthest corner of the room. Rebecca turned the corner, cautiously, her eyes widening when she saw her friend Natasha lying on the floor, her forehead smeared with blood. Rebecca rushed to her side, kneeling down to check on the wound. What the hell is happening? She screamed inside her head. First the attempted attack in the apartment, now this? She lifted her friend to one of the booths, made sure she is in a comfortable position and hurried back to the bar counter to call the police. As she reached the telephone, she saw the book. Its pages were lying open once again, almost like it was lying in wait. Unwillingly, as if her eyes were drawn by an unseen power, she took in the words on the page. The universe has many ways of sending instructions, she read. Throughout history, humans have been experiencing what they call “fantastical” or “supernatural” phenomena, occurrences that go beyond the limits of what we know of the physical world. Some have called it the Fates, directing the destinies of mankind since the beginning of time. Some know it as the Great Spirit, sometimes appearing in animal form as spirit guides. Others see it as the mysterious workings of the Lord. Yet whatever the name, these events have one aim: to counter the universal tendency of regression, of the progressive decline into decay. In order to restore balance, the powers of the universe occasionally send out emissaries to direct the flow of history and influence human decision. These emissaries can take many forms. Just as Joan d’Arc once heard voices telling her to lead her people to victory in battle, Noah experienced visions of a terrible flood, and Leonardo Da Vinci dreamed of a flying machine – the messages, when acted upon, have changed the course of human history. However, one must first be aware of the signs all around us, and unfortunately, many have become immune to the guiding lights of the universe, distracted as they are by the flashiness of modernity. It takes courage to act upon your intuition, to transcend the physical limitations of your five senses and trust in the supernatural shepherds of universal order. Suddenly , a realisation hit her. For too long, she had taken a backseat in her own life history – a passive observer, choosing to mentally escape from the unpleasantries around her instead of steering the course of events herself. For three and a half years she’d felt trapped in an emotionally-abusive-turned-physically-violent relationship, preferring to flee into the pages of unknown worlds rather than confront the uncertainties in her own. This was the universe, sending her a sign. It was time to take the wheel. She grabbed the phone. ———————————————————- “Bec … hey Becca … you awake?” Rebecca’s eyes cracked open. She looked around, dazed. She could see Max’s face hovering over her. Then she spots the green sofa, the walls of books, the tribal rug … had it all just been a crazy dream? As she sat up, a book dropped to the floor, landing with the cover face up. Shepherds of the Universe, it read. Strangely enough, she can’t remember having picked it out at the library. The words from the dream still echoed in her head: first be aware of the signs all around us … She stood up, her hands unconsciously brushing away a couple dried leaves that were clinging to her jeans. She froze. Leaves, she thought. And then, all of a sudden, she knew what she must do.

igkpud

Ascending Absolution

This story discusses topics of dementia and death. It started with her forgetting names for things and places. Although it was rare, early on-set dementia affected people as early as forty. Forty-three in my mom’s case. The day she told me about her illness, I decided it was my purpose to learn as much as possible about her. It was important to me to hear about her childhood, her dreams, her fears, her loves, her heartbreaks, and her passions while I still had the chance. The duty and drive to document the life of the person I loved most was not only to keep her memory alive when the time inevitably came, but to honor the whole of who she is and to not leave one question unanswered. I was prepared to write down cooking recipes and the names of long-lost friends, but what I didn’t expect was to uncover secrets about my mother that would change the way I viewed her forever. For as long as I can remember, my mom has been homebound, afraid of what might happen if she ventured more than two blocks from our front gate. Once when I was ten, she allowed me to go to my first sleepover. She assumed we’d be painting our nails and watching movies, which we did do. But when my friend asked if I wanted a turn on her push scooter, I of course said yes. Being the adventurous and reckless kid I was, I sped off, knowing I’d never get the chance to take off like that under the protective eye of my mom. One rock on the pavement and a speed down the hill later, I found myself tumbling over the handlebars and landing on a now-fractured wrist. I spent the next six weeks in a cast listening to my distressed mom repeatedly apologize, saying, “I’m so sorry, Carla” over and over. She blamed herself, and while she did not punish me or forbid me to have fun, she did keep a close eye on me and reminded me not to do anything too dangerous. She knew what kind of kid I was, and while she would never hinder my spirit for adventure, she was very careful about not allowing me to do anything far from her definition of safe. Even though I was now twenty, my mom was still very protective of me. Because college was online, it only made sense to stay home. Though Mom learned to accept that I would be having my own life, leaving her entirely was not something either of us were ready to do. We both knew we would one day be apart, though we never imagined it would be like this. But for now, we were just mother and daughter sitting on the couch talking about childhood dogs, my grandfather’s farm where she grew up, the first meal my grandmother taught her to make, and first loves. That’s when she started talking about my dad.  I knew we lost my dad shortly after I was born. He was traveling home from work one evening when some ice on the road made him lose control. I always assumed that was the reason she was so protective and afraid. I didn’t blame her. Although I never met him, I knew my dad was the love of her life and that she saw a lot of him in me. She would always tell me that I got my adventurous spirit from him. She went on about them having met in college. I knew of this, but what I didn’t know was the story of how they met. “My best friend was dating the president of the climbing club, Ron.” Mom began. She was talking about Uncle Ron, my late father’s best friend who was given the title of “uncle” when I was born. But I had never heard of mom’s college best friend. They must not have stayed as close as my dad and Uncle Ron. “That’s how I met your dad. She dragged me to one of their meetings in the gym. There, I saw two things that took my breath away. The first was the rock wall that reached the ceiling and beyond, the second was Carlisle, your dad.” She told me how he slowly introduced her to rock climbing, and that she fell in love with both the sport and his adventurous, charismatic personality. They would go on to conquer climbs together all over Wyoming. I was shocked. My mother, who wouldn’t dare venture down the street to the playground with me (my Aunt Marley would always take me) used to scale the walls of monstrous mountainsides? Every day, my mom and I would sit down together and talk as I wrote down the things she shared. I cherished these moments with her and only wished they could last a little longer. As months turned into years of progression of her disease, she became more forgetful. She would repeat stories, but I still listened as eagerly as I had the first time. As my mom worsened, my Aunt Marley moved in with us to care for her full-time. Her work-from-home website building job made doing so a bit easier. Watching my mom and aunt interact always made me wish I had siblings. They were close, and my aunt never made my mom feel guilty about her fears but would always reassure and validate her. Now with her illness, my aunt's expert knowledge of my mom was a blessing. She played all her favorite songs from their teens, and they would sing and dance together. It was beautiful to witness. My aunt admired what I was doing, and when my mom’s memory failed her during our talks, she helped fill the gaps. One day, Aunt Marley looked at me with misty eyes and said, “you’re just like her, you know?” I asked what she meant. “Writing. She used to keep a journal, mostly documenting her climbing trips with your dad.”  “Really?” I asked.  “Mhm! She had notebooks full of stories. But after we lost your dad and she stopped climbing, the writing stopped too. But I think she kept the notebooks with your dad’s things.” “All of Dad’s things are in the attic, but I’ve never seen any books.” I told my aunt. “Ah, well, maybe she got rid of them, but if I know your mother, which I think I am pretty well-versed in her thinking, she would never part with those. They’ve got to be here somewhere.” And so it began, the search for a collection of memories that would help me further understand my mom and dad’s life together. I know mom wouldn’t appreciate my snooping, but she was used to my exploratory antics, and I was persistent with them as much now as when I was a child. I just had to know where to look. I started in her bedroom. I looked in her chest of drawers, under her clothing. I found nothing. Not even a scrap of notebook paper. The kitchen was pristine, mom wouldn’t have kept anything in there that didn’t belong. I checked the garage and of course the attic. However, I knew the attic like the back of my hand from years of playing up there as a kid. Nothing had changed since. I was ready to give up, assuming my mom had gotten rid of the books, that maybe they were too much for her to keep around. But I wanted so badly to find what I was searching for. So, I decided to look one last place. My mom kept a few articles of my dad’s clothing in her closet. Some of his favorite sweaters and button-downs that she didn’t dare move to the attic or sell. I opened the accordion style door of her closet, and just as I had predicted, it looked clean and clear of any books. Dresses and jackets hung, and shoes lined the top shelf. I saw nothing on the pink floral runner that lined the floor. Still, I searched behind shoes and clothing, thinking it was in vain. To reach the back corners of the closet floor, I had to get on my hands and knees and duck under the hanging clothes. That’s when I felt something beneath my knee, underneath the runner. Something that stuck up just above the wooden flooring. I moved the rug out of the way, and there were two metal hinges and what looked like a small trap door with divots in the front for fingers to fit and flip it open. I hesitated. How had I never noticed this before? This was one of my favorite hiding places during hide-and-seek as a child. In fact, I had to stop hiding here because it became predictable. I carefully slipped my fingers into the notches of the wooden door and lifted. The light from the bedroom illuminated the top of a staircase big enough for a single person to creep down. I had to know what was down there. I grabbed hold of the rail that lined the staircase and made my way down the narrow passage. Standing at the bottom of the steps, I flipped a light switch perched on the side of a support beam. On flickered string lights that precariously hung from the ceiling. My mom must have hung these as they were so precisely placed that it looked like a wedding venue. The lights brightened illuminating the cellar, and that’s when I saw them. Bookshelves stacked with tattered notebooks that lined the walls of this hidden room. A rug sat in the center topped with a sofa and sprinkled with side tables and lamps. This was not an ordinary cellar. This was a personal library. I ran my fingers across the spines of the notebooks. They were all labeled by date and showed signs of being worn either from having been out in the elements or from being read too many times. I couldn’t believe how many there were. I had found them. My mom’s archives of her life with my dad. I carried some of the notebooks upstairs to show my aunt. She was just as shocked about the cellar library as I was. We concluded that my mom must have visited down there on her own when she was missing my dad most or to relive the days when she was free and unafraid. Either way, there was a reason she didn’t share this part of herself with me. Maybe she was afraid I’d view her as weak since all I had ever known was her when she feared the world. Of course, I always knew she was more than that. I decided if reading these was something she did when she was well, that now more than ever, she might need to recount some of her happiest memories. So, I started reading her the stories of long hikes with my dad, the grueling days on the rock together taking turns leading and belaying, and the pure serenity that looking over treetops brought them. I read to her the story of my dad proposing from atop a mountain, shouting. I even read about the time they got lost on their way back to camp after skinny dipping in the river. She scoffed at that one, and we both laughed. It gave me a feeling of peace to see my mom light up like this. Sometimes, she thought the stories were about someone else. Other times, she could recall in detail how it felt to reach the peak of a climb and stand above the world with my dad. Some of the stories even included Uncle Ron as he would join on these trips from time to time. One day, she brought up a name I hadn’t heard before, “Samantha”. She started inserting Samantha into her memories, but nowhere on those pages about my mom, dad, and even Uncle Ron was a Samantha mentioned. I thought maybe she was confusing Uncle Ron’s girlfriend Sarah’s name, but Sarah was not on the pages either and I did not take her for much of an outdoors person. She said she and Samantha would spend hours on one route and that those were the hardest but most rewarding days. Soon, my dad and Uncle Ron were not mentioned, and I assumed she simply replaced them with a memory of someone she once knew. But I got curious. I revisited the library in the cellar in search of stories about Samantha, but none of the books I pulled from the shelves mentioned her. I grew more convinced it was a symptom of failed memory. Glancing over the books organized by date, I noticed the final book on the last shelf was dated after I was born. I thought this was weird since I assumed my mom stopped climbing after my dad’s death. As I flipped through the pages, the memories my mom had of Samantha proved more than just mistakes. I read the earliest entry.  “I think it’s time to do what I know Carlisle wanted and keep climbing. I will be taking his ashes with me and spreading them from atop the rocks we climbed together. I haven’t dared to think of climbing again, especially without him, until now. I have found strength in caring for my daughter, Carla, and it is time. I’m going to let Marley watch her while I go, but she doesn’t know I am climbing. I need this part of my healing to be that, just mine. But I cannot go alone. I asked Ron to join, but an injury has kept him from climbing. He knew how important this was to me and Carlisle, and he didn’t ask me to wait. I am going to reach out to my college best friend Samantha. I know she still climbs, and I know she is good at it. I haven’t seen her since college, but I know we will be just as we once were. It will be good to see her in these trying times and have her support in pacing myself back to peace.” I couldn’t believe what I was reading. There were countless stories about Samantha and my mom’s adventures on some of mom and dad’s favorite routes in Wyoming. She spread a bit of my dad’s ashes at the peak of each climb. I admired the way she kept going, honoring my dad and herself in this way. One of the last entries spoke about their plans and prep to climb to the spot my dad proposed and spread the last of his ashes. After that, the pages went blank, no more description of the atmosphere or details of the climbing process. Just wordless pages. I kept flipping wondering if my mom had forgotten to write or lost her place, but from what I had seen so far, my mom was just as orderly with writing as she was with housekeeping. Then I reached the final page. Words were written more neatly than those from out in the wilderness, and the pages were cleaner. Something was different. I held my breath and read on. “This is my last entry. I thought it was important to write this down just as I have everything else, but then I am done. Done with climbing, done with writing. Samantha and I began our final route. I was belaying at the bottom, and she was leading. We were going to trade out after she came back down so that I could spread the last of his ashes. She was about fifty feet up the climb when, while clipping onto the next bolt, the rock facing crumbled. I watched her fall as I stopped the rope from feeding through the belay system and braced myself to be lifted off my feet. I stopped her, but only for a moment. Large rocks showered down and smashed into me, knocking me out. I woke up on the ground next to Samantha. I crawled over to her mangled body, I tried waking her, but she was gone. Rescue came, and though no one blamed me, I blamed myself. I still blame myself, and I will forever blame myself for not preventing this, for not protecting her. She trusted me, she depended on me, and I let her fall. It isn’t so much that it could have been me, taking me from my daughter. It is the wondering. Who would protect her from tragedies like this? I won’t be able to live with myself if I let anything happen again, especially to her. I can’t, I won’t”. Tear drops wet my mom’s words as I finished reading. I suddenly understood her. Why she was so protective of me growing up. Why she wasn’t just afraid of the world, she was afraid of me losing her, of not being able to protect me from harm. She felt responsible for all the bad things she witnessed, and she carried that on her shoulders my entire life. But the thing was, it wasn’t her fault, it never was. Sometimes accidents happen completely out of anyone’s control, even hers, just like my dad’s car crash and just like Samantha’s fall. And although I may not be able to reassure her of that now, I can help her live the rest of her life without fear. I kept reading my mom’s stories to her. I took her to parks and on walking trails and picnics. We went out in nature as much as her illness would allow. On one of our trips out together, we scattered the last of my dad’s ashes in Yellowstone. I wanted to let her enjoy the things she loved most while she could. Nature, the outdoors. And although she couldn’t take care of me the way she always had; I could take care of her the way she deserved. 

7zroer

The King's Library

The desert noonday sun is a brutal master. It demands every ounce of energy and returns nothing–no trees, no shade, no life. Here in the Dunes of Duranan it is relentless. It is a far cry from the icy shores of Agária from whence I hail, but such a journey is necessary if the knowledge I seek can be found hither. For any who should read these words, allow me to expound upon my quest. My name is Émata, scribe of the Dianoa, and student of wisdom. I was raised in the finest learning institutes the northern kingdom of Aglia has to offer, and for thirty-two years I have voraciously studied every book and scroll it contained. However, as I have advanced in age, I see that the Dianoa are not the lovers of wisdom they once were, but instead have fallen prey to their own haughtiness and pride. Their scrolls have many words but contain little. Three years ago, I departed from the port town of Agária and sailed south to the kingdom of Ûskal. Though they have been ravaged by war for generation upon generation, still a few keen minds can be found there, and I studied with my brothers and sisters in the humble abodes of the Western Woodlands. It was during this time that I discovered a tale which had all but disappeared from the world. Ages before now, when the seven kingdoms of Helorím were one, a great library stood in the center of the king's castle. Books and scrolls were piled on top of one another endlessly. It was rumored that the first king of Aglia, Pagoma, once roamed those halls and read those parchments. Known throughout the ages as the Wise Hand of the King, Pagoma is considered one of the most brilliant minds to ever have existed, and such a collection of parchments would have most certainly forged such a mind. However, since the fall of the High Mountain a thousand years ago, the desert upon which the castle and the surrounding city of Tévos stands has slowly expanded and invaded, burying the castle and its contents. The thought of such great knowledge being lost to the sands of time stirred within me a passion I have not felt in many years, and that passion fuels my quest. Ten days ago, I set out from the kingdom capital of Eftos and sailed to Khadûm, the westernmost city of the desert lands I now traverse. I will write to you at another time of the wonders of Khadûm, known as the Cliffside City, for it was hewn from the sheer escarpment by Earth Movers long ago, and such a magnificent sight requires its own parchment. What I can say is that since the beginning of the Second Age, as the desert has swallowed up the land, these two cities have become even more isolated, and my ears heard whispers of secession in the cliffs. This ever-expanding desert is where I travel now. The Dunes are all but behind me, and I only pray that my water and provisions last until I can reach the once great capital city of Tévos. I arrived at the western wall just as the sun peered over the eastern horizon. My shadow fell far behind me, and I saw the crumbling, white stone melting into the unforgiving desert. The once pristine masonry was cracked and afflicted by a black disease, and the wall, once towering above the sands, is now no more than the height of two men. Though I knew this place not, tales of the might of Tévos and its King have spread far and wide for generation upon generation.  As I entered the city, the dunes gave way to long abandoned buildings of sandstone and clay, their wooden frames eaten away by bitter sandstorms. A cistern, once used by the locals for drawing water, had been filled in by the desert. My sandals crunched against the sandy cobblestone streets as the wind thrust my headdress about. Not a soul could be found there. Around midday I began to see signs of life in the city, and before long I came to the market square. Even this place was empty. I have seen the markets of Eftos where the Money Masters count their coin, and they bustle all hours, day and night. Here in the desert, however, the shops open late and close early. Goods are bartered, often for labor, and the currency is reputation. It is difficult to believe that this city was once the great capital of Ainíos, that long-forgotten kingdom where the peoples of Helorím were one. It was there in the markets I came across a woman, kind and generous, and quite pregnant, who offered to let me stay at her home while I searched for the lost library. She lived alone with her sister and had never been married. When I asked if I would bring dishonor on her for staying in their house, she said that dishonor already lay on her head, for she had never been known by another. It was obvious that her reputational currency had been used up. She told me of her sojourning from the eastern mountain province where her family had lived for generations here to the land of her ancestors. A strange man had come to visit her there in the bosom of the mountains, telling her to travel west to the kingdom of Bahar, where she would bear a son. When I asked about the man, all she could say was that he had been struck blind but saw more than the keenest of eyes. As for the child, she had kept him a secret as best she could, for there were people who would take him from her if they knew his true heritage. When she told me this, I knew whom it was she carried, for the writings of the Prophets spoke of such a child called the Son of the Earth. This I kept hidden from her, but you, my reader, should know. From there I traveled north through the city to where the citadel of the old castle stood. It was pure, gray stone, strong and everlasting. White stone and marble lay around it as the sands devoured the mason’s handiwork. I came across what was once a courtyard where a large, crumbling throne, hewn from the rock, stood in its center. I climbed and clambered over the fallen stone and shifting sands until I came to an entrance, once barred with a large door of oak, now open to the elements. Hazy light poured in from the apertures of that narrow hall. A crimson rug stretched along the dust-covered floor and a few iron lanterns hung unlit along the wall. I proceeded further in utter silence until I came upon a great opening. It was a large room of fallen marble and white stone, for its ceiling and walls had collapsed in on themselves. I clambered over them and looked to my left, seeing a massive set of gray, wooden doors the height of ten men. I approached them, wondering if they were real. Such a material was only known to grow in a forest on a far-off island, now untouched by man. Running my hands along the wood grain, I felt an immense power emanate from them. It was true; these doors were made of Ironwood from the Isle of Tasak and had been imbued with a great magic. They are impenetrable; I did not attempt to open them. As it was, my search for the library proved unfruitful the first and second days. However, on the third I approached the castle from the east instead of the south. When I did so, I saw the tip of a great spire, colored like the walls of the city, her slanted roof and exposed arches protruding from the looming sands. As you may know, the Wise Hand of the King was an avid seafarer and charted the stars. Before the age of the compass, he devised a way to traverse the seas at night when the great lights were hidden. Thus, I concluded, such a man would have spent many nights close to the heavens. I tightened my satchel and head covering, preparing to traverse the dunes which had accumulated above the castle. Once inside, a long, spiraling staircase lead me down into the dark belly of the citadel. As soft light poured in from above, I was elated at what my eyes could see. There, on the threshold of the darkness, were rows upon rows of shelves lined with books, parchments, and scrolls. I had found Pagoma’s Library! For hours I perused the contents with lantern in hand, stashing in my bag scrolls and books that I wished to study further. It was then that I heard a shifting behind me. I turned and saw an old man, dressed in a white robe adorned with gold, and a frosted beard which stretched down to his bosom. His face was pale and thin, but he spoke with authority. “What are you doing in my library?” he asked. I stuttered for a moment, for my heart was terrified beyond my comprehension. All I could mutter was, “King Pagoma?” The man scowled. “Fool! This library does not belong to Pagoma, for it was I who built it and who filled its halls with wisdom!” I dropped my belongings and fell face down on the floor. “Who are you, King?” I asked tepidly, though I knew his answer before it was uttered. “I am Amo, King of Bahar, King of Ainíos, the Greatest of Ancients,” he thundered. “I drew Helorím from the waters and raised Tur-Gadal to its great heights in the days before man. I am the everlasting Light which resides within all. Now, stand up, Émata, and remove your sandals!” I did as I was told and kept my eyes to the earth, for they did not deserve to gaze upon such glory. “The time is upon us," he said. "You were called here to carry out my will, thus I beseech you listen and heed what I am about to say.” His words seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, and inexplicably I began to weep. “Tell me, my King.” “You will depart from this place the same as you entered. Nothing shall leave which was at rest here, and you will go into the city and declare what I am about to tell you. The King of Bahar is dead. Darkness is coming, and from the east the Son shall rise. Say these things just as I have told you, and the end of this age shall begin.” He stretched out his hand to me and caressed my face, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “My son, you have sought true wisdom, which is why I revealed myself to you. Take heart and have faith. Light will soon return to this world.” As he said this, his body turn to luminescent dust, like a million stars floating off into the ether. I left that place, leaving behind the scrolls and parchments just as he requested. Sand dried to my cheeks as I descended the dunes and returned to the home of the woman. She had gone into labor in my absence, and her sister stood over her as she held her son. I told her what I had seen in the library, and she smiled; it was just as the blind man had said. She would need to travel east soon, for word of the King’s death would spread quickly. I packed my belongings and prepared to travel to the other kingdoms spreading this news. Before departing I turned to her and asked the child’s name. “Celorím,” she replied. “Servant of the Earth.” I smiled. Truly, this is the child who would bring Light back to Helorím.

5hjnh9

The Taboo

Splatters of rain strike the makeshift tin roof of the debilitated house the boy hid in. He sat with his ear to the door trying to listen for the heavy bootsteps that would signal his imminent death. As always we felt that his heart was beating too loudly, his palms were sweaty and he was slightly nauseous. But as he reached into his pocket to ensure the little scrap of paper was still there, he felt alive. Confident that he was in the clear, the boy opened the door and peeked out. No one, just the usual - bombed out buildings, broken palm trees strewn about, too much sand. This area had been off limits for five years now, a third of the boy's life, and at this point it was mostly defended by a broken fence and fear. The first time the boy came here the fence was almost enough to keep him out, but the fear that resided at home was enough to propel him forward. He just needed to hide away for a few days while his parents drowned their anger and helplessness with the drink. The bones had healed by this point, but remained tender enough that lifting his arms above his head to climb the wall was a struggle. But he did it in the end, making it over five minutes before the patrol came by shining a light for a few seconds before scurrying on to the next restricted area. This place was spoken about in whispers, it being the site of the famous riot that started the war. The story, told through the self censored language that had become commonplace, alluded to a protest against the government's attempt to ban books for all but the loyalists. The protestors violated the law by reading aloud in public, they were massacred - even the children who were the laws were enacted to protect. The neighborhood revolted, kicking the police out, fighting back with such intensity that they won control of the city. Until eventually a lone fighter jet was sent out from Macdill Airforce base, and set the city ablaze. The missiles were enough to end the resistance there, and through a campaign of bombings, disappearances, and mass incarceration enforcement of the taboo spread through the nation until books became a commodity rarer than gold. Anyone in possession of one book was subject to interrogation, to be in possession of one hundred would be a public stoning. However, on his first trip, the boy discovered that buried under the rubble were the remains of a building that held row after row of books. The place was dusty, the roof was caved in, part of the building was flooded, bugs scattered being chased by lizards. This place was magical. Every few days the boy would sneak back and spend hours moving rubble, scooping out water with a bucket, cleaning dust off the books, moving books to areas with a more stable section of roof. Right before he left he would rip a few pages out of a book, triple folding it before stuffing it in his pocket to read at home by the sparse moonlight that entered his window. If he were caught with the pages the consequences would be severe, but mostly verbal reprimand, and a mark on his public file if not his person in short no worse than the daily consequences of living in his home. Once he was on the verge being caught by his mother and was forced to eat the pages of a book about wizards and infanticide- and right when it was getting good ! So good that upon the next verbal lashing he received he was tempted to read out loud to his parents and incriminate them as well, but he resisted. He looked forward to his trips, they gave him life on stormy nights that were too dangerous to venture out and on days when the heat advisory made it mandatory to stay indoors. Each trip solidified that the government was evil, banning books seemed akin to putting every citizen in America in their own personal prison of illiteracy. Paradoxically each trip also gave him insight into why knowledge was so dangerous. There were books on gardening that made him angry at the meager rations that his family were allotted amid the restrictions on growing your own food. There were books about religions that were not the state sponsored offshoots of Christianity that opted not to preach absolute obedience to the government. There were books about sex that made it sound a lot less of a patriotic task meant to keep the nation’s army well stocked with recruits. There were books about music that encouraged rebellions and books on how to ensure those rebellions succeeded. There were books about fantastical worlds with no rulers, with magic and hope. Where parents did not mistreat their children. Where neighbors were not government stooges willing to turn you in over for some sunflower seeds and a few stale granola bars. Most dangerous of all were the books filled with characters who questioned the status quo and were rewarded for it, while the apathetic suffered in squalor. During two weeks of storms and ill tempers he planned his next trip, plotting out the books he would tackle next - there was one on how to make better deals by some former president that seemed intriguing, but half the pages were ripped out. There was another that talked about how to win at War or something. Finally the rain slowed enough that it was safe to venture outside without being carried away by the daily surges.  On this trip, his 102nd, he had made it a few steps into the library before he recognized that something was off. Someone was here. Huddled in the corner, books scattered amongst them were a pair of girls. The girls hear the boy and stand up turning towards him, their hazel eyes wide with fear. They were the mirror image of the other with the exception that one had pink hair and the other brown and was missing a part of her ear. None of them spoke, the silence seemed to transcend the laws of time as the trio tried to figure out how to proceed. The boy had committed 102 counts of insurrection, the girls who had been caught reading. If they were spies they were already doomed to die. As if they can read each other's minds, in unison they spoke the taboo “Library”. They enacted the greatest battle in this underground temple encrusted with knowledge perfumed by the moth eaten pages of books, they smiled.

a0rbkg

Shadow Library

Countless tomes. Stacks of essays. And that is just what I have written and read. The pursuit of knowledge and wisdom enamored me with the love of books and reading as well as discovery. Each alchemical text, each spirituality, each esoteric lore has added to my own understanding of this world, for which I find myself avenging after more. Soon, with my father leading, the hunt for wisdom became the hunt for books. To find that one book or collection of books that would finally cinch the explanation on how to achieve near divinity on Earth. Well, that was more my father’s goal. For my part, I was simply engrossed in each new discovery we made, each new form of reasoning developed, and being exposed to texts and images of arcane and occult nature. I found it all very fascinating. It wasn’t long before my father and I started collaborating on research projects and rituals. His was a mixture of practicality and understanding, where at the time, my purposes were academic. Still, it seemed I shared my father’s direction and aided in the stealing of manuscripts, artifacts, and of course books from lodges, temples, libraries, and extracting information from neophytes at these locations. It is no small secret that the best books are kept in private collection by lodge masters, temple leaders and librarians. So, the only way to gain access is to either join their collective and spend years climbing the ranks, or steal the texts. We choose to steal. And to great success. But with each new rite, each new discovery, the main artwork was missing. That total understanding of all things that leads a person to a sense of both serene calm and great power. A tranquility of knowing that all is under your command and control and that you can achieve anything. Sadly, before we could truly embark on this portion of our quest, my father took ill and passed from this world. His death has been hard to bear. Yet many years later I find myself still bearing our family’s cross, navigating the ins and outs of books still after so much time. And I do believe I’ve made a discovery. It seems the practical approach does have merit; my father was on to something. Several texts mention preparing the ‘vessel’ to receive knowledge and wisdom, a reference to the vessel of the human mind. The texts speak to several preparations the initiate must take in order to fully be able to understand the gift of knowledge and wisdom and to use it adequately. With no hesitation I began my practical efforts in earnest, continuing my studies all the while. I began with guided meditation, yantra studies, focused breathing and yoga. Yet while I found my body and mind to be clear, I felt no grand revelation or greater understanding. More books. More writing. Soon the library was in sight. It confounds me to this day how simple and elegant the solution to the problem of the acquisition of wisdom and knowledge. “The secret lies within.” A great summary of the various texts I’ve read. My more recent studies into occult tomes have revealed an ancient secret often disregarded as a New Age saying. “Look within.” To me this made sense: if the various books elucidate the individual to knowledge and understanding it remains on the individual to act on that understanding, to make choices based on the new knowledge. This would explain the need to adequately prepare the ‘vessel’ before receiving such a gift. Yet I may have found a shortcut. A more efficient way to gain the understanding my father and I sought. I returned from the local apothecary with my purchase: a gram of herbs meant to be smoked to induce an altered state of mind. I prepared my ritual area properly, decorated with various artifacts and books that will serve as visuals to trigger the psychological manifestation I sought. Truly, I will be ‘looking within’ tonight. I sat down at the table with my artifacts and books. I prepared the pipe, readied my flame. A spark. A light. I bear down and take a decent drag. I inhale. The smoke goes smoothly into my lungs, I hold my breath and bring my focus to bear. After a short time, I exhale the smoke out the nearby window and float in a brief moment of serenity as the effects wash over me. In a short while, I entered the Library. The one I found was located in Hell. Before I knew it, my vision went black, I felt as if I was lying face down on my stomach, but I could not see anything. Then I beheld, felt, saw, sensed, and wailed internally as my mind felt as if it was being skewered, crushed, and god knows what else. The pain and agony were an ever pressing reality, a sensation of being stretched to no end and all confined within the mind. That was my first dose of real terror; that this affliction was of the mind, that the mind can experience such anguish separate from the body. I thought then I had fallen into Hell. Then came the despair. A small voice hinted that the pain would pass, but made no mention of when. I felt, as I was on the mental-rack, that the pain would soon pass. Only to be met with another wave of the harshest agony. It is real what they say. There can be no true despair without hope. I don’t remember how it stopped. It just did. And I soon found myself on the floor coughing and vomiting up an empty stomach; thankfully. Then I found myself in a hospital bed with my mom at my side. Then at a restaurant, eating some soup. Then I was home, but two days had passed. I spent the following weeks coming to terms with what had happened. I found myself extremely troubled by my experience. Particularly the fact that the human mind can experience such sensations in an altered state or dimension. Further, that ‘I’ was present during the event. I remember ‘myself’ being there, at that ‘location’ having that ‘experience’. And as most learned people will tell you, the human brain has an excellent memory, on top of its function to analyze and interpret experiences and environments. I was confident that if ‘I’ could not discover the mystery of that realm I found myself in, then my brain would supply a sub-conscious solution and understanding. For my part, I came to terms that my rite was a success. I found the library. Or at least one of them. I nicknamed this one, Hell’s Library, since it teaches through experience rather than by the reading of a book. I could only imagine what the experience did and is doing to my neural pathways and my way of thinking. This could be the commencement of the coming of even greater knowledge and understanding. I found myself excited, but cautious. Then the voices started. At first they were heard like an out of tune radio. But soon full conversations could be heard as if one were walking through a busy food court. Then yet again, I began having discussions with my internal voices. We spoke on all subjects. Mathematics, Economics, Politics, Sociology, Religion, Spirituality, the Occult, Physics and Science, Engineering, Art, and so on. Each discussion was most invigorating, and I found myself surprised at how much I actually knew, and how much of my knowledge excises itself in conversation. Then came the dreams and the visions. The voices followed me into my dreams. I started having visions while fully awake. My dreams were of the most lucid nature, and I found myself remembering them for hours after waking. The visions were of shadowy figures walking down the street, ghostly images in the corner of my eyes, darkness creeping where none should be. A few hallucinations left profound impacts. Once during a physical trial I imposed on myself, I beheld the vision of Sophia, the personification of wisdom. Another vision, I saw a tunnel composed of singular eyes all staring at me. Then I began to understand things. Things I had never studied. I found that I could look at a thing or problem and easily discern its solution or at least the commencement of a solution. Understanding came easy, and when it did not I found I had the wisdom to admit as much and then to seek out answers. The world looks so different now. I feel as if I can reach out and grasp the entire thing. To get here, I spent my youth in Occult studies. I spent my adulthood in the throes of insanity. And visited a library in Hell. Now, I do believe I am ready to enter the world. Armed with infernal knowledge, arcane wisdom, hellish understanding, I stand here after my discoveries. Is it possible? Can a single person achieve such clarity, focus, knowledge, and understanding? To achieve these things and deliver them in hand to the steps of civilization. My father believed so. I believe so now, after what I’ve seen. There is much to do.

6ck4j6

Do you care?

Since he could recall, adventure tugged at his soul. When he was little, he would often feel as an outsider as he had always chosen nature over technological mini machines parents gave to other kids. It was as if there were secrets out there waiting for him to discover. This last treasure was so forgotten that he had to talk to the eldest in his city only to find a handful of details... whispers, myths, and names of this lost place. He had lost everything and everyone because of this drive, this new adventure to embark on. The origin of them all. All of those who left him, said it had become an obsession. That madness had not conquered only his mind but also his heart. They didn’t understand why he would lose himself looking at the past when the modern world was filled with everything they needed or wanted. Health, comfort, riches, and peace. But it was as if a fishhook tugged at his heart, and so, he pursued on. It had been days since he started the journey, when an outline popped in the background, and he knew that it was it. It took a few hours to get to the center of the small town. Forgotten in time, old and pre-technologic. He looked at all the buildings until a small one with a big clock on top of the door stood out. Just as the stories said. Upon entering, dust and a musty odor filled his nose. From the entrance he could see the whole inside of the building. What would have been a small reception stood in front of him, to his left what it seemed a small reading space and to his right empty shelves covered in ashes. “It seems time was cruel to the contents of these shelves” he mused but he knew that this forgotten but mighty place would have not kept history in such a susceptible way. He walked to the other side of the small reception desk, pulled the broken chair out of its place, and pushed the desk to reveal a mosaic on the floor. A conical structure was portrayed with each level slanted as if to provide a path to get to the top. He was rarely nervous but at this moment his whole body was quivering. He took out of his pocket a necklace with a pendant in form of a feather. He pressed the feather into the mosaic and waited. For some long seconds there was only silence, enough seconds to make him consider doubting all his efforts, the whispers, and myths. As he was starting to shake, not from nervousness but from frustration, a hiss filled the room and one of the shelves lowered and disappeared. Relief flooded his body, and he stood up and walked over the missing shelve. A whole in the ground revealed steps leading to an underground section of the building. He was shocked to find similar technology as back home, illuminating the stairs. After thinking about it, he convinced himself that indeed this was the start of the civilization they knew, where the modern era began. He turned on his chest camera, the only technological gadget he liked to use, and went down the stairs. The flight of stairs ended and he found himself on a small space with big black double doors at the other side. He walked towards the doors, planting his feet in front and prepared himself, readying to open them. They were taller than him and seemed to be thick and heavy. After all this trouble, he doubted that this last part was going to be completely easy. He braced himself, extended both of his arms and pushed. Hard. Next thing he knew, he was stumbling on his feet and fell face first through the doors that in the end weighted nothing. He hit the floor hard and managed to stand up fast and braced himself to see the truth, the cornucopia of knowledge. But there was nothing. He found himself on a small, dark grey, circular room. He reached for his camera to check that the fall hadn’t damaged it when… “It won’t work here” a voice sounded across all the room. He spun fast trying to find the source of the voice when it talked again. “Down here at the center” it said and he shifted his eyesight down to the floor towards the center of the room. From there he could see a mound of black pebbles vibrating and spiking. Slowly it started to grow, getting taller looking like a slender tree, but then it split at the bottom into two, and on top sprouted what resembled to two arms. Lastly a blob formed on top. It was faceless but just for an opening where a mouth should be. He had seen the start of robots back at home but never something so advance, so out of this world. “Welcome, I’m Terra” the humanoid shape said, “Welcome to the Tower of Babel.” A grin spread thru his face; he could feel it stretching almost touching his ears. “I found it?! The start of our modern era!” he almost yelled in victory. “Ah, yes, the stories. For you I guess it would mean the start of the new era, an advanced modern technological era. Just then be distracted with senseless matters.” Terra said. “No I’m afraid the story has a different ending as well as a different new start”. The pebbles saw the confusion on his face and chuckled. A hand formed on one of its arms and it touched its chin with two fingers, in a very pensive way. In a most humanoid way. “Let me explain, better yet, let me show you.” It clicked its fingers and all the walls turned on; they became big monitors. Images, detached audios, and videos played on all of them. Death was everywhere. He saw bodies of all ages spilled on top of each other, babies, young boys and girls, elderly, of all races and shapes. The only constant a blank look on their faces. He heard explosions, cries, prayers, and songs. There were armed men and women, tanks, war ships, hunger, and desolation. “I know of war, of both great wars and smaller but still terrible ones” he spatted “You are not explaining anything new. All this information is online.” “Mmm… Have you ever considered the endless possibilities of influences online information might have sustained?” Terra countered. “For the greater good” he quickly added. “What do you mean?” he asked. Terra sighed and looked directly at him. “This was World War III” Terra said in a matter-of-fact way. He could have sworn he skipped a heartbeat. “That didn’t happen. The world was united before that.” “Not quite, keep watching.” He did so and saw as the images focused on the arm bands on the soldiers, some of them had an earth covered on flames while the others had an earth circled by doves. “To renew the earth from its ashes against to maintain the world as it already was” explained Terra. The images moved farther, and he saw modern killing technology, drones, bombs, and a lot of interference on social media. He saw people cracking under so much content and taking matters into their own hands onto schools and movie theaters. Other places getting burned to the ground while its neighbor country died to know what the latest celeb news was. He saw how groups with the right roots but wrong direction, bashed and banged and cried on the media demanding everyone to guess how to properly call them, while other countries couldn’t express true love towards the real loved ones, for fear of being discovered and killed. He saw how most lost sight of what really mattered while others moved in a cunning and manipulative manner and declared war. Wanting to shape the world as they see fit. But it got out of control. He saw how the world was burning to the ground, how every one was backed into a corner fighting with teeth and claws. How while money and justice was unbalanced (and was the mostly the root of so much pain) self-love and real fullfilment was missing above all. “Then it was at that point, when other (and more destructive) means where going to be implemented that we interceded” Terra said. On some point he had fallen to the ground without realizing and had his face streaked with tears. “Who are you? What are you? Interceded how? This has all to be AI engineered. But artificial intelligence with a capability of masking real life is not reachable yet. You can always tell it’s fake, a creation of an AI.” He said his mind spinning. “Oh, well we make some of them low quality on purpose… It is best to show you the real world. But we are afraid that it could be too much for you. Although we have been monitoring you and think you are one of the few capable of managing it. In the end all that matters is if you really want to see. So, if you do, close your eyes and we’ll show you. Get you out of this intermediate place.” There was something telling him that after all this chase he had to see “I can do it” he said and closed his eyes. It felt as if his whole body spun fast for a twirl or two and then it stopped. He must have been drugged, heavily and transported to a new place. It felt brighter behinds his eyelids. There was a pressure on the back of his head, shoulders, and legs, and when he reached with his hands the surface felt hard, porous, and mildly hot. It had to be some kind of stone, and he was lying on it. Slowly he opened his eyes, starting to get up when a blue shape, appeared hovering on top, looking straight at him. “How are you feeling?” it was Terra’s voice. He was not looking at a black face made of pebbles, this face had features. It looked, mostly human but the eyes were wider, bigger, and with gold irises. His instinct was to push back and by doing so his head hit the stone kind of bed and almost blinded him with pain. Trashing violently, he tried to find something to defend himself from it. He felt some prickling in his neck and found that he felt extremely relaxed. “You okay?” Terra asked. “Please don’t hurt me. Who are you!?” He asked. “Oh heavens, if ever there was one, no. We won't hurt you. And by we, it’s better you watch a bit more” Terra said, gave no more explanation and stood away. He looked around, this was an identical room as before but instead of being dark grey it was completely white. Soon the walls again were covered with images and footage. A video came into focus, while the other content dimmed down, it was of the fight before the pushing of those life changing buttons, but as they were going to do so a system fail message appeared on the monitors. And pushing the buttons did not start anything. Many monitors with the same message appeared in what he could infer were security rooms all over the world. Then blue faces appeared on them, talking about keeping alive humans, calling themselves The Life Preservers, with the goal to maintain peace across the galaxy. He saw meetings with the beings and high-power humans, how a truce was struck. And how everyone who was left entered a bright lit door, to what was promised was a better future. And that point the screen went blank again. “What happened through that door?” he asked. “I’ll show you in a few seconds. But first some human theory review. The human simulation argument. Where it was theorized that as technology was evolving one of three following scenarios would occur: First, that human civilization ceased to exist before reaching the peak of AI and virtual reality. Second, that humans didn’t cease to exist but decide against it. Or lastly, that humans didn’t cease to exist and integrated virtual reality onto their lives and future”. The only thing that he could muster, between so much confusion and change in conversation was “So?”. “Humans were never going to reach that point alive.” Terra said. “Not without help.” In that moment the room was filled with a hissing sound and the walls slowly disappeared revealing a glass wall. He didn’t see anything at first a clear blue sky. He crept closer to the edge and below them hundreds of trees with big pods on them. Small ships with more blue beings were circling around in what it seems inspections of the pods and their content. He squinted closer and almost fainted, humans. “What did you do?” he asked but felt that already knew the answer. “Created a better, sustainable and war-free world.” Terra said. “A virtual world. It’s not real and they don’t know it.” he said. “Yes, a mix of technology and biology. Hence the trees which maintains alive the bodies and the mind supple without requiring tons of energy. The technology for the construct. A better world than the one they were living on it. And to not tell the reality, was one the terms of the human founding fathers of this new era. What you don’t know, you won’t miss.” “What do your people get from it?” At that Terra hesitated and remained silent for some seconds. “At the moment of the treaty we explained that our world and its organic composition was drying up. Thus, besides expanding galaxy wide peace we also needed to replenish our world’s organic mass to ensure our people survival.” Anger flushed through him “The price was to become fertilizer?!” he yelled turning towards Terra. “Only when humans naturally die. Humans age in their pods at the same rate as they age in the virtual world. When they die on it, the minds also die and with gracefulness and respect we accept the gifts their passing provides.” He was numb, this was not the great victory and separation of eras he had expected to uncover. It was not what it was taught. There was only one question burning right through him. “Why did you show me the truth?” He asked. “The best way to explain it would be, for quality checks. Another of the human founding father’s terms.” said Terra. “To randomly check if contentment was still thriving inside of the virtual world.” “Which means?” he asked. “Just one question to ask. After all you have seen, do you care?” Terra asked. He stood there, replaying all the footage in his mind, thinking about what he had lived inside the construct and faced the glass again, where he could see the placid faces of many humans. “No.”

83vdck

Guardian of the universe’s knowledge

Jack Manning sits after the sad and somber funeral of his precious grandmother Ellen. She was a quirky eccentric woman who lived in a home straight out of the year 1900. It had only been five years ago when they finally convinced her to remodel and put in indoor plumbing and a bathroom. She always wore tailored suit dresses with a slight bell shape to the skirts and always in drab colors. Her hats were where she expressed herself, they were always bold and colorful, with feathers and puffs of lace and bows, lots of bows. The only jewelry she wore was a gold marriage band, otherwise, she would have been gaudy, as she often said about others. She frequently wore white gloves to hide her hands and her dresses were long enough to cover her entire body, the only skin she ever showed was her face. The home was like stepping into a museum, doilies adorned every table or shelf, and the interior was lit by oil lamps, so every room had just enough light to see but not reveal much detail. A tall thin man in a suit startles Jack from thought and takes him to an adjoining room where he is told that he has inherited the entirety of her estate, which is much more lucrative than he had thought it would be. He knew ahead of time that he would be inheriting her home. He was the only visitor she received most weeks and liked the old things she had, so he visited every Saturday. “Holy crap! This place is old,” Patty, Jack’s fiancé says smacking her gum and displaying her Jersey accent. “Not really, it was built in the fifties, but it was built like the houses at the turn of the century,” Jack explains. “My mom’s house was built in two thousand and it looks nothing like this,” Patty states. “No babe, it was built like the houses built in the year 1900,” Jack calmly explains to her. “Oh! Okay, oooh look doilies. Your Granny was so refined, I can’t believe we get to live in such a nice place. It is so much better than your old roach-infested apartment,” she says as she admires the antiques and trinkets lining the walls. “Don’t get too attached to anything babe, I plan to sell most of that crap on eBay. I won’t have to hustle any more to get by I can live on the stuff from this place for a couple years,” Jack reveals his true intentions. “Oh look! Little spoons from all the states, and even a couple from other countries!” She excitedly declares. “Let’s get settled in before you begin naming things,” Jack orders taking her by the arm and dragging her away. As he intended Jack set about bringing the house into the twenty-first century, he had an electrician install lighting, internet, and cable television. After only a few weeks the house was a stark contrast to its former self, and Jack had begun to catalog each room for his ambitions to sell off the antiques on e-bay. He worked harder than ever before going room to room, finding treasures this house held, photographing them, inputting them, and boxing them up. After living in the home for a month he has gone through the top floor, and attic, and is now working on the ground floor. He first works in an office where his grandmother wrote her articles for the local paper, and as he is cataloging her antique typewriter he notices some old-looking books on the shelves on the opposite wall. Jack leaves his work momentarily to check out the small library of books on the opposite wall. A respectable collection of first editions and books from antiquity. He is flipping through a copy of The Great Gatsby when he sees a book that was probably his grandmother’s standard. “Woman’s guide to health, beauty, and happiness. What every woman should know. I should give this to Patty!” he laughs at what he perceives her reaction would be. Jack sets down his book and reaches for the woman’s guide, it tilts halfway down, and the shelf twists open releasing a gust of stagnant air. He takes a step back to recover to think about what this discovery means. Through the three-inch-wide gap, he can see another room on the other side, a secret room. He had been in this house a thousand times over his young life, and never knew about this. He's never heard anyone speak about a secret room, the reason it has stayed a secret until now. “Babe?” he calls. “Yeah!” “Come here, I need you!” “Ahh! That’s sweet,” she exclaims as she clicks and clacks her way down the hall in high heels. “Check it out!” Jack says showing her the secret room. “Looks scary in there,” she says leaning in and peering through the gap. “I’m going in, stay here in case I need help,” he orders. “But I was doing my nails,” she complains. “Do them in here,” he replies solving her problem. She runs off happily to retrieve her nail kit and Jack spins open the shelf. The chamber behind the shelf is brick but it trails off to the right and turns into stone, then bedrock. There is light at the bottom of the tunnel, it looks like a room dug out of the bedrock, and the sound of Dean Martin singing ‘Amore’ plays. Jack steps as gently and silently as he can with the great unknown only a few steps ahead, anything could be down there. Scenarios play in his mind born from every horror movie he has ever seen turning his legs into anchors and his will into putty, then he sees a shadow walk past the light. “Oh shit!” he quietly exclaims. “Is someone there?” Calls a graveled voice from the shadows. Jack remains silent, stilled by fear, and paralyzed to do anything. When he thought he couldn’t get any more scared he could see the shadow moving closer, the shadow growing large, then that horrible face peered around the corner. “Grandpa?” Jack recognized the man. “Jacky?” Jack jumped excitedly into the arms of the man who has been missing for over twenty years. “Don’t! Stay in the tunnel!” the old man screamed at the exuberant young man leaping into his arms. Jack hugged his grandpa tight but the sounds of mechanisms churning in the background drew both of their attention. They watched as the bookshelf at the top of the tunnel turned back and locked shut. “What happened?” Jack asked. “When the weight comes off the tunnel floor the mechanism locks.” “Just step back on it!” Jack suggests stepping into the tunnel. “It can only be opened from the top, it is a secret room, only the guardian is supposed to stay here to protect the ancient knowledge,” The old man explains. “Huh?” Jack asks confused. His grandpa reaches out takes his hand and guides him to an ornate carved wooden door with gold inlays. He pulls a strange key from his pocket and inserts it in the lock within a wolf's mouth. The lock clicks over and the door pops releasing air and dust, the old man pulls open the door and reveals a spectacular brilliantly lit room with ancient books lining every wall, nook, and cranny. Books are stacked on tables in the middle, to the side, and in crates on the floor. Some of the crates are labeled Mesopotamian, Babylonian, Indus Valley, Kingdom of Aksum, and plenty more from places I have never heard of like Anunnaki archives. “Anunnaki? Isn’t that…” “Aliens... In that crate is a very interesting Codex, it's especially interesting how they built the pyramids,” the old man reveals. “Grandpa?’ “Yeah.” “How do you look so young?” Jack asks. “Time moves differently down here.” “But you disappeared so long ago,” Jack wonders. “By the looks of you about thirty years.” “More like Twenty, I’ve had a hard life so far,” Jack explains. “From the smell of the pot on you, you’ve probably made it hard on yourself.” Jack takes offense to his directness but knows in his heart that his Grandpa Is right. He walks around and looks at the books, he flips them open and reads a couple of them and something strikes him as strange. “How is it that they are all in English, why can I read texts from ancient civilizations English wasn’t even a language then?” Jack asks. “The jewel of Dug is a Sumerian amulet that allows anyone to read any text regardless of the language it was written in.” “That’s cool, but Grandpa there is something I have to tell you,” Jack says turning to him with a tear in his eye. “I know, she’s gone. I have grieved but also an ancient duty to protect this knowledge.” “What duty?” “The men in our family have a secret duty passed on from father to son for a millennium. The knights of the Thistle we are called, it is the greatest order of Chivalry in Scotland, and we were tasked with protecting this knowledge by an even greater order of protectors who were going extinct.” “Extinct?” Jack asks. “They were a race of Nordic aliens, who were like humans, but were very advanced. They understood that this knowledge is powerful and in the wrong hands could be dangerous. Many civilizations have fallen because they attempted to use this power for personal gain, so we are tasked with keeping it safe and secure. “How have you survived down here for so long without food or water?” Jack wonders. “The wishing stone.” “Seriously!” Jack exclaims. “You can’t wish for anything, only for the things for survival.” “I knew it was too good to be true,” Jack says disappointed. “If I could wish for anything I would wish to be out of here.” “Yeah, I guess so,” Jack whimpers. “But the stone makes a good T-bone steak.” “It was created for a Lycan King who was banished in a pit for a hundred years, the punishment was supposed to kill him but a sorcerer friendly to the king created the stone so that instead of dying in the pit, one day he could return and retake his throne.” “Did he? Did he get his throne back?” Jack asked excitedly like when his grandpa told stories to him as a boy. “He reemerged a hundred years later and saw that his people were better off without him, so he walked into the wilderness alone to find adventure and live out his natural life.” “Sounds like a wise king,” Jack replies. As Jack picks up a handful of gold coins from a large chest a sound from the other room catches their attention and they both drop what they are holding to the table and run for the tunnel. Jack is first through and instead of taking chances, he calls out to Patty who is the only other person it could be. “Patty! Stay in the tunnel, don’t move!” Jack yells. “O-O-Okay…” Jack turns the corner as his grandpa catches up bumping into him, they stare up at her cowering on the floor of the tunnel holding her hand as if she is hurt. “Are you hurt, baby?” “I broke a nail, and I just bought these things,” she complains crying in the tunnel. “Oh baby, I’m sorry But I have a surprise for you,” Jack says as he and his grandpa walk into the tunnel, pick her up, and go through the bookcase into the office. “It’s just as I remember,” the old man laments. Jack and Patty stand in the office as the old man walks around and sits at the desk admiring and searching for something in the drawers. “Who is he?” Patty asks Jack. “That’s my grandpa, his name is uhm, ugh… I can’t remember your name, Grandpa, what is it?” Jack asks. The old man looks up at Jack and stalls at the question asked of him. “Grandpa,” the old man says returning to his search. “No, what is your actual name, I can’t remember?” Jack insists beginning to wonder if something is wrong. The old man stares at Jack while he rifles through the desk with his hands until he finds what he is looking for and smiles an evil smile. Suddenly he pulls a gun from the desk and shoots and kills Patty sending her reeling back to the floor, Jack grabs the table lamp and throws it at the old man knocking the gun from his hand. Jack jumps on top of the old man and a fight ensues. Punch after the punch is exchanged and they fight to exhaustion, blood drips from swollen lips and battered faces. “Who are you?” Jack demands to know. “I’m your grandpa.” “Bullshit! You don’t even know your name!” Jack yells. “You don’t know it either, but you got me. I’m not your grandpa, but he tasted good,” the being says licking his lips as his appearance changes revealing his true self. “You bastard!” Jack yells and throws the only thing near him, a statue of the Virgin Mary lying on the floor from the scuffle. The statue flies at the head of the being sitting at the open bookcase. He snaps back avoiding the collision as it crashes into the bookcase, lying there he laughs maniacally. “I am the Nordic alien! Your grandfather trapped me in that prison, but I got my revenge when I killed him.” Desperate Jack throws a paperweight at him smashing into the bookcase, but this time the ‘Woman’s Guide to health, beauty, and happiness’ pivoted all the way out and the bookcase slammed shut cutting off the head of the Nordic Alien, killing him. As Jack lies there trying to regain his composure he hears the whimper of Patty on the floor on the other side of the room. He grabs his cell phone to call 911 but hesitates, it will look like he shot her! Desperate he gets an idea, he jumps up, runs to the bookcase, and tilts the book ‘Woman’s Guide to Health, Beauty, and Happiness back to the halfway position and the bookcase opens. The head of the Nordic alien sits there oozing green blood, he steps over the head and drags the body down the tunnel so he can retrieve something. He runs into the library and returns with something wrapped in a cloth, because the body weighed down the tunnel mechanism he can re-enter the office and shut the bookcase behind him. He rushes to Patty’s side placing the wrapped bundle next to her. He unwraps the cloth revealing the wishing stone, and he quickly prays. “Whatever god commands the magic in this stone please save her life, she may be ditzy and materialistic, but I love her with every ounce of my soul. I cannot survive without her!” He yells as he leans in and kisses her bloody cheek. Jack lies his head on her chest listening to her heartbeat growing ever slower. A new trail of blood runs from her side and drips onto the stone and the magic of the stone glows bright and heals her wounds instantly. She sits upright and stares back at Jack sitting next to her and they kiss and embrace. “I love you too Jacky!” she says wiping the blood from her face. “You, okay?” “Now I am, I watched you kill that Alien, you’re so brave!” she swoons over him. “Thanks.” “Oh shit!” she exclaims. “What now?” “I broke another nail…” she smiles out of frustration. “One good thing came from all this,” Jack says. “Yeah, Jacky what’s that?” “I have a new job.” “Oh, really sweetie, doing what?” “I am the Guardian of the universe’s knowledge,” he boasts. “That’s nice, I’m hungry can we go to Applebee’s?” “Sure baby, anything for you.”

7dzfb7

Gods of Alabaster

They say that the slopes of the Alabaster Mountains have twenty thousand steps carved into them. Reaching the cliffs by appropriate measures can take pilgrims several days and nights, as it is customary and tradition to stop at each statue of a god to pray. Though Diana Sabino was no pilgrim, she stood idly in front of a headless figure, a dozen feet in height, vaguely of human form, with what appeared to be six missing arms of seven-- the remaining pointing directly upward towards the thinning tree line above them. “We won’t stop at this one, Miss.” A gentleman still favorably aged, acted as her guide. The man’s shoulder-length dark hair shimmered as silk, tinseled with silver locks, pairing well with his marble-like linens that draped against his bronze skin. With only sandaled feet, hardly covered by traditional robes, one would question how he could stand the terrain as they scaled the mountain these past few days. Diana, for one, was becoming increasingly exhausted and hungry. She’d been looking forward to making her next stop, taking a breather, praying to some strange, unknown idol as she enjoyed a feast of dried meats, nuts, and broth… Instead, she found herself catching her breath before a disgraced deity, silently cursing what remained of them for keeping her from her much needed break. “Perhaps we can make an exception?” Diana huffed, clearly frustrated. “Liu, my strength is not parallel to yours, I need some rest.” “Not here, Sabino.” He shook his head, glancing at the anxious looking caravan behind them—supplies, tents, and about thirty men and women of varying backgrounds all eager to either settle down or continue onward. Those that volunteered their time from Liu’s village all seemed very, very antsy to keep moving. “It’s a bad omen to stop before a kakahma ,” He sighed, “A felled god.” Diana’s russet braid caught a small breeze and brushed against her lower back as she stood idly, her freckles standing out as the setting sun glistened through the tree line, dappling the area in flakes of gold. In a huff, she knelt down to tie her hiking boots, adjusting her khaki hiking pants over her knee in an attempt to let her skin breathe a bit. “Alright,” She mumbled, “How far away must we be to avoid this taboo?” “Only around the next bend.” Liu smiled, tapping his index finger against his jaw as his dark eyes watched her, “There’s a shelter and a pit for a fire.” He only narrowly avoided chuckling as Diana let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “You heard him, Onward, then!” She yelled to the group behind her, pointing at the steps that continued around the edge of the mountain, “We’ll stop for the night there.” There was a chorus of thankful chatter that followed, several still-energized men scuttling ahead to get a jump start on setting up camp. Diana fell behind, watching those in front of her dart ahead as Liu’s pace slowed beside her. Her own people had named these mountains Alabaster, but Emerald, she thought, would have been more appropriate. Though the peaks from a distance revealed a covering of snow, the paths to them were covered in beautiful, thick forests, with statues and ancient architecture dazzled with moss. Oral legend spoke of a grand temple that was carved within the mountain, but Diana found no evidence of such remains existing. Despite this, she was hopeful to find some proof of it— a blocked entryway, perhaps. Something important she could bring back home and boast about. “Is it inappropriate to ask who he was?” She looked to Liu, who’s relaxed expression remained unchanging. “The statue, I mean.” “It is.” Liu smirked, “You seem to recall I mentioned that I don’t care much for the stiffness of my people.” “You’ll share your knowledge with me, then?” Diana’s violet eyes caught the sunlight as she lit up, eager for anything to record for the expedition. Liu looked behind the both of them, double checking if they were the only ones that remained behind. Staring back in the direction of the statue for a moment, he seemed to second guess himself. He chewed slightly on the inside of his cheek, before clicking his tongue. “Ah,” he sighed, “Well…” The disappointment on Diana’s face made Liu feel rather guilty. He then inhaled before muttering something in his native tongue. Diana could hardly translate it—something about a woman’s sad eyes being like a devil? Or roughly something about some women should be made into soup? His dialect made it harder for her to understand. “The god we passed by was known as Sek, once the god of directions and of deception.” He spoke, “When civil war broke out in our Kingdom one hundred years ago, it led to the worship of Sek being outlawed.” “Why so?” Diana’s curiosity got the better of her, but she was quickly silenced by a gloomy expression on Liu’s face. “Sek attempted to steal light from the people, and was banished to the underworld.” He frowned, “His likeness was then banished from the pantheon.” “A shame…” Diana frowned, “Where I come from, we preserve our history, no matter how ugly we may find it. How can we not learn from history if we erase what we deem uncouth?” Liu’s lips twitched into a sad smile as he stared as Diana moved ahead of him, gently lifting the branches of a low-hanging tree for the two of them to move through. “I admire your people, Sabino,” He sighed, “Sadly, I am compelled to agree with my own.” There was a slight bitterness in his voice as he carefully found the words to say. “Sek’s crimes… his influence tainted good, innocent people.” His voice choked slightly as he spoke, and he was forced to clear his throat. “Many believe Sek is best forgotten.” Diana shrugged. “Can’t really add much, since you and I are…” She hesitated, “Spiritually different.” There was a hint of shame in her voice. There was some widely practiced religion back home— one that, no matter how hard she tried, she simply could not will herself to believe it. Despite it causing friction between her own kin, Diana believed only in what was in front of her, what could be proven, and simply what was. Liu was one of the few who did not judge her lack of faith—In fact, before their journey he spoke kindly in which he embraced her differences. He was a wonderful companion on this journey, and she was thankful to have him as her guide. “Though if I must,” Diana added, “I do wish he hadn’t stolen light so that we could have rested a bit.” Liu laughed as he walked ahead of Diana, becoming mindful of the stairs ahead of him. “Please watch your step,” He spoke, “The path ahead is loose.” “What?” Diana called ahead to him, the wind drowning out his voice. “I said-“ Liu turned around and time seemed to slow. Watching in horror as her foot caught the loose step, his hand quickly stretched out to her as he nearly dove down towards her. “Sabino!” He yelled, far too late to catch her attention. Diana’s arm stretched outward as her body succumbed to gravity. She swore she simply twisted herself and fell sideways, but her vision was swallowed by a dark cavern, yelping as branches of long dead tree snapped against her spine, cutting at her face. Some strange foliage cushioned her fall with a thud, and she groaned as a warm liquid dripped from her temple. With the last remaining glimmer of sunlight gracing the tiny opening in the ceiling above her, she felt a wave of exhaustion overtake her. Just a rest, she thought, just a small rest… --- There was a strange rattling sensation that stirred her back to consciousness. It was only a moment she was out, it had to have been. Weakly, she stood up from the bush that caught her— and thank goodness she could. With little energy, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small hand lantern and matches. Her trembling hands struck the match a few times before successfully lighting it, giving her just enough view in front of her to see where she was. There were strange, manmade tunnels—four, maybe five? Counting was a challenge as the room seemed to be tilting along with her body. Diana barely managed to prop herself up against the cavern wall by her shoulder, trying to stabilize. “Concusion…” She muttered, trying to keep herself awake by all means, “I have to try and focus…” Holding up the lantern she saw there was a tunnel in the direction of their camp. Perhaps there would be stairs that would lead her back to her party. They definitely were looking for her, she realized, as she could hear their distant yelling. Inhaling, she made her way towards that tunnel, when something strange caught the corner of her eye against the wall of an opening to her left. It was only a glimmer, but as she held her lantern out, she witnessed a glowing symbol, carved into the wall. Stepping closer, she couldn’t quite comprehend it. She argued with herself it could merely be her spinning head— but she swore it lit up like fire. Surely it was simply some sort of reflective stone, her still recovering eyes tricking her. With a bit of hesitation, she peered into the tunnel, finding herself bewildered by a path entirely lit by similar looking sigils. Upon observation, she realized they were not carved in any recognizable language, but as her fingers traced their delicate outlines, she wondered what words were formed in front of her. Diana’s exhaustion was put on the backburner as she stepped into curiosity and hope. Pressing on, the symbols lit up a spiral stairwell. Summoning her strength, she continued hugging the wall, ignoring how her knees wobbled with each step. Slow and steady, she thought. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since her descent into the cavern, but nevertheless she continued to press onward. The glowing lights that lit her path soon faded from her view as she stepped into a dark, open corridor. Her steps echoed against the floor as they became more prominent, but still, there seemed to be nothing in front of her. No more walls to balance against, she brought her lantern lower, gazing down to where she stood. The moment she noticed the same glowing carvings that lead her here, the floor lit up in a wave, spanning out to reveal floor-to-ceiling shelves four stories tall, piled with strange artifacts, scrolls and books. In the center of it all, stood a grand mural carved into the wall, which portrayed an image of all the gods of the pantheon. Trembling at the sight of it, Diana fell to her knees upon reaching it, staring up at it in awe. It too nearly reached the ceiling, and not only that, seemed to display a familiar figure—this time with all of his limbs and head intact. “Incredible…!” Diana could not help but allow her breathless voice to escape her lips. With shaking hands, she removed a journal from her satchel, attempting to sketch it to the best of her ability on a page much too small for something of such grand scale. After making an effort, she simply began to scribble down notes and ramblings that she knew she’d later find illegible, desperate now to capture the moment. As she reminded herself to breathe, she pulled herself back up, becoming dizzy at the sight of the towering bookshelves. With nowhere wrong to start, she made her way to one at random, gently pulling a weathered tomb off the glowing shelves. Upon opening it, she once more did not recognize the language, turning the pages carefully while looking at the symbols lighting up the room. Despite similarities, she couldn’t find any that visually matched. Even if she had, she realized, there’s no way of reading it. She pulled another off the shelves, and then another, discouraged to find the same unreadable words. “Kamouha,” A voice behind her made her jump, dropping a small handful of books on the floor of this grand library. “It is the language of the gods.” Diana swiftly turned around to see Liu standing before her, and a relieved sigh and laugh escaped her. “Liu,” She gasped, “I’m so glad to see you.” “And I you.” His smile warm as he placed his palms upon her shoulders, his brows dropped as he focused on the stain of blood that caressed the side of her face. “… You were hurt.” He muttered. “You’re alive though. I’m glad to see that.” Diana squinted at him, a peculiar smirk appearing on her lips. “I’m fine,” She stated, her tone in the form of a question. “More importantly, look around! What is this place?” “If I had to guess,” He gestured to the mural that stood proudly over the room, “This was once part of a grand temple carved into the mountain, long ago. It collapsed from within when the mountain shook many hundreds of years ago…” Liu’s hands brushed aside vines that covered the figure of the many-armed god, “Yet here, the library stands.” “This is incredible,” Diana breathed. “This is exactly the kind of discovery I need to bring home—A lost language, restored history, artwork carved into natural stone…!” She caught her breath as she spun around the room, “Not to mention these lights! How on earth…?” Liu’s hand gently grabbed hers, carefully stopping her before the mural. Without much force, he took the journal from her grasp before stepping back from her. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave this place as is.” Diana’s heart sunk. “What?” She shook her head, choking out a laugh, “I don’t understand… why?” “Proof of the old pantheon remains here,” Liu’s attention was fixated on the mural. “Should this place become widely public knowledge, I’m afraid it will be torn down.” Diana sighed, frustrated at the idea anyone could simply destroy something so grand simply because someone did not agree with some part of it. For a moment she asked herself it it being torn down would truly be that bad… After all, her logs would be detailed. A perfect replica could be made back home. Books could be smuggled and salvaged and translated. It would be disrespectful to the country she was touring—One who’s ideologies clashed with her own. She wondered if she could justify bad behavior… Until she met Liu’s dark eyes, stern and unyielding to her begging expression. Disrespecting authority was one thing… But she could not disrespect her companion. “I…” Diana sighed, “I’ll leave it then.” Defeated, she could feel herself slump before her body gave way into Liu’s arms. Without even realizing, her legs had given out, and he had caught her. As her arms made their way around his shoulders, she felt his arms sturdy themselves against her waist… and also her ribs. Two more hands cupped her face, and another pair seemed to lift her off her feet by cradling her. Before she could process what was going on, she met the eyes of Liu once more, she noticed his irises had become a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, quite literally spinning in opposite directions towards his nose. “I… believe.” A cold sensation ran down her face. Diana’s eyes shot open upon realizing a wet rag was being run down her face, standing above her was nothing more but the darkness of night and an older gentleman who she quickly recognized was part of their traveling party. “Oh, she’s awake! She’s awake!” He called over to a couple of men who were standing idly by with medical supplies, she could hear several relieved sighs from around her. Diana sat up slowly, noticing she was laid out on a cot. Their camp had been set up around the shelter that she didn’t quite reach—She must have been pulled up from the cavern she fell down. “Where—” Diana began, but was quickly interrupted by the man wiping her face down. “Day three and you’ve got some nerve getting the wind knocked out of you just over some crummy old step! Guess it was enough to scare the faith back in ‘ya.” Diana rolled her eyes, gently wincing as she touched the stinging cut by her right temple. “Crummy old step?!” Diana hissed at him, “I fell half a mile down onto rock!” “You must’ve hit your head harder than we thought…” His voice softened, “It was only about a few feet down.” Diana shook her head. “No… that’s impossible.” She gasped, reaching into her bag and fumbling for her journal. It was there! Quickly turning through the pages, she opened to where she had begun to take her notes… The page was blank. “There was a library—it was massive. It had to be part of the temple…” She rambled, desperate and in disbelief. “I saw it with my own two eyes! I was right there!” “That mythical temple, eh?” The old man sat back down with a slump as he handed her a jug of water, watching her take a drink from it. “Sorry to say it’s not real, Sabino. It’s going to drive you crazy.” Diana looked around her bustling camp at all her crew… There was no drastic search to find her, no curious stone stairwell, no glowing lights that lead her to the discovery of a lifetime… It was all in her head. How could it be, though, when something so bewildering felt so real—When it made her question her own beliefs about the world she knew? “Liu,” She finally spoke after searching for him through the crowd, “Where is he?” “… Liu who?”

13hlu4

Between the Stacks

As the Caribbean sun made its debut, the Captain of the Schooner Maria ascended to the main deck. He peered into the hatch before he closed it and bellowed, "Just sit tight, funny-looking gringo, and sip your piss water." With a bellowing laugh, he sauntered away down the deck. Watching the Captain's departure, Harley couldn't help but shake his head, clutching his books in the galley. Unfazed by the Captain's rough demeanor and scorn, he was accustomed to dealing with bullies. Harley was acutely aware of his uniqueness. Gifted with an eidetic memory, he remembered everything. Everything her saw, read or watched. At school, he had become the butt of jokes and ridicule due to both his mind and his physical stature—standing an imposing six feet seven inches tall and weighing a mere 145 pounds. His striking appearance, with deep blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a lengthy pointed nose, only added to his unforgettable presence on the ship. "Thank you, Captain," Harley called out before settling onto a bench to read. Placing three hefty books on Mexico and the Caribbean, along with the latest Dashiell Hammett novel, on the galley table, he immersed himself in his reading. Despite being a voracious reader, he found it challenging to concentrate on the schooner's voyage through the Caribbean. The rhythmic sound of the water against the hull, the briny air's scent, and the sun's warmth filtering through the open porthole lent a serene quality to the galley, soothing his spirit. Deciding to delve into the mystery novel, Harley opened to where he left off, settled into the leather seat, and began to read. The aroma of Twinings Ginger and Lemon tea filled the air as he took a leisurely sip. Just as the mug hovered at his lips, chaos erupted like a thief in the night, shattering the tranquility in an instant. A sudden jolt rocked the ship, flinging the scalding tea across him. With a sharp cry, he leapt to his feet, the mug disintegrating on impact. Tea and heavy tomes cascaded onto the wooden deck, intertwining in a symphony of serendipity. Rubbing his throbbing head, Harley tried to make sense of the sudden mayhem. He collapsed onto the bench, his heart racing as he struggled to catch his breath. When he finally gathered the strength to look down, what he saw made his pulse quicken. The books lay open at glossy illustrations, one on top the other, their pages intertwining in a mysterious and unsettling pattern. Unkwown to Harley, this was no mere coincidence. This was the beginning of a revelation that would shake his very existence to its core. Harley's mind reeled as he stared at the enigmatic display before him, unable to look away. Placing the books in same sequence on the table, a common thread emerged. Harley took a deep breath, letting his gaze drift as he immersed himself in the illustrations. A subtle pattern revealed itself, leading his gaze to the third book, "Veil of the Forbidden Paradise." Mimicking the others, he turned to page 35. Running his fingertips over the page where one picture seemed to interconnect to another. Clearly a view of the Yucatan coastline, unveiling a chilling enigma. He shook his head. Intrigued by the mysterious turn of events, which carried a tinge of fear, he grabbed his pencil and notebook without hesitation. As he sketched the captivating scene unfolding before him, a surge of disbelief washed over him—a delicate arrangement of flowers' stems formed a perfect X at the intersection of the volumes. "X marks the spot!" he whispered inwardly, noting the X just beyond the coastline, concealed within the jungle. Tearing a page from his journal he tore the paper into equal square bits. Then he wrote the first letters of the words he found most peculiar on each page. The words that made him feel something he could not understand. It was like a jolt in his brain as if he had monetarily connected to something bigger, universal even. Excitedly he spread the papers out end to end and then stared at them. Then he shuffled them around. coaches cool most caches cools moot cache cosmos loot He shut his eyes and tuned into the rhythmic whoosh of the waves beneath the schooner as it sliced through the Caribbean waters. Occasionally, he would blink open his eyes, gazing at the mysterious letters before him. His mind was a hurricane of thought as he scanned every book he had ever read for clues. He decided to narrow his focus closer to where he was. His own surroundings. He let his thoughts wander. Blue water, the boat, the warmth, and suddenly, Mexico. Mexico? With a sudden jolt, he sat up, adjusting his bow tie. He grinned slyly, his index finger poised on the letters. With a sweeping gesture, he rearranged them to reveal the words " Chocolate Cosmos .” Harley's jaw went slack and he rubbed his chin. Then he sat back. “So, “ Cosmos astrosanguineus ”, how are you tied into the mysteries of the universe?" “What does a rare flower have to do with anything?” he asked, using his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. "I'll have to leave it to fate," he decided. He pondered the enigmatic turn of events that brought him to this moment. It felt like a profound cosmic gesture, a trail of breadcrumbs laid out by forces beyond reckoning. He read books every night of his life before bed but this, this sent a shiver down his spine. Something in the universe was calling to him. He felt compelled like iron to a magnet. He deduced he needed to get ready for the adventure of a lifetime. Refreshed by a shower and shave, he donned a cream linen suit with a precisely tied yellow bow tie, polished his brown leather boots. Harley meticulously packed a wooden trunk, carefully placing each item inside. Adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, he grabbed his pith helmet, and returned to the galley to delve deeper into the mysterious discovery. Climbing up the ladder to the upper deck he let the sights and sounds wach over him. The call of gulls overhead made a smile tug at the corners of his lips. The sea always stirred a sense of joy within him that books alone could not match. From his pocket, he retrieved a small tin and extracted a round pill, popping it into his mouth in hopes of calming his nerves. Then he sought out the Captain. Pulling out a map of the coastline that he had sketched, he showed it to the Captain, questioning if they could pinpoint the location. The Captain studied the map, nodding in affirmation that they were just a few kilometers away. A bit of extra money exchanged hands as Harley persuaded the Captain to approve his planned jungle excursion. “It will be a while before we arrive. Why don't you find something to occupy the time?" suggested the Captain. Harley retrieved sunscreen from his pocket, methodically applying it to his face, arms, and legs. Settling into a deck lounge chair, he basked in the sun's warmth, allowing his mind to wander. How might the various books he had devoured be intricately linked in a mysterious way within the depths of the jungle? What awaited him? Was it dangerous? Not long after, the Schooner glided to a silent halt as the Captain's commands echoed, guiding them to drop anchor just off an isolated beach. Harley stood up from the lounger and walked to the gunwale. Bending over, he handed a beach umbrella to Augusto, who had just sat in a skiff gently into the glistening waters just below and was already settled inside. Augusto stowed the umbrella under the seats. Harley then jumped into the skiff followed by Benedito with the trunk in hand. The Captain leaned over the side, “Tengo cien pesos que dice que no sobrevive más allá del mediodía.” ( I got a hundred pesos that says he doesn't stay alive past noon ) he yelled at the two seamen. “I'll take that!” Benedito waved back and laughed. With the trunk securely stowed at the skiff's stern, the trio—Augusto, Benedito, and Harley—rowed towards the shore. Benedito's robust paddling, aided by the incoming tide, swiftly delivered them to the beach within moments. Benedito and Augusto leaped onto the damp sand, dragging the skiff until its bow rested on the dry shore. As Harley disembarked and strode towards the jungle, a persistent nagging, leading his gaze to a striking sight: a Chocolate Cosmos blooming just a few paces into the jungle on his right. “Come,” he beckoned to the crew handing the umbrella to Benedito. His voice a whisper in the vastness of the landscape. While Benedito adjusted the bulky trunk strapped to his back and trailed after Harley, Augusto remained where he stood, waving at them to continue without him. “No problem,” Harley called back. A surge of mystery enveloped Harley as he stood contemplating what to do next. The sun’s gentle caress mingled with the moisture-laden air, creating a sensory symphony punctuated by the cacophony of parrots, cicadas, and monkeys. Opening his eyes, he peered deep into the jungle and caught sight of what he knew to be a clue, the magnet. A Chocolate Cosmos! A Chocolate Cosmos amidst the lush greenery. “This way,” he directed. Harley lead them deeper into the labyrinth of the jungle, following the alluring “breadcrumbs” of the Chocolate Cosmos along the trail into the unknown expanse ahead. About a mile into the jungle, Harley's sharp eyes caught glimpse of a stone carving, standing proudly about three feet tall - a relic of ancient Mayan craftsmanship. His curiosity piqued, he turned to Benedito, but Benedito was frozen in stunned silence, his expression a mix of wonder and fear. Without hesitation, Benedito loosened the rope and released the trunk to the jungle floor, dropped the umbrella, and started sprinting back the way they had come. Harley could not leave now. He felt the unshakeable pull, a sense of conviction that drove him further into the enigmatic heart of the jungle. Ahead, another Chocolate Cosmos bloom beckoned to him, its sweet scent a hypnotic dance in the humid air. Dragging the cumbersome trunk with gritted determination, the umbrella tucked under an arm, Harley trudged on. The air hummed with the promise of long-buried enigmas, tugging at his very essence. Then he saw it. It was so overgrown by the jungle he almost missed it. Harley's heart raced, his head got light and he thought he might faint. Peering intently into the dense thicket, a mysterious sight awaited - a small pyramid cloaked in winding vines, its entrance whispering of untold secrets from ages past. Guarding the threshold were statues of Kukulkan, the revered serpent deity of the Mayans, their stoic gazes entrancing beneath the fragmented sunlight cascading through the foliage. Over the lintel, twin serpent heads met at the center, with the other two heads resting at the bottom of each side of the entrance, their positions frozen in a silent dance, adding an enigmatic touch to the ancient structure. Finding a suitable spot Harley dropped the trunk and umbrella. He unlatched the trunk, retrieving water, biscuits, and a small linen cloth. He spread the cloth on a rectangular rock, in front of the trunk, placing the bottle of water and biscuits on top. Then he sat down to catch his breath. Soon, the eerie silence of the jungle was shattered by the gentle rustling of spider monkeys converging near the pyramid. Drawn by an unseen force, they gathered around the peculiar scene—a lone Englishman enjoying a moment of respite at the Mayan sacrificial altar. As he sat watching the monkeys Harley felt an inexplicable aura engulfing him, unlike anything he had ever encountered in his adventurous life. Goosebumps prickled on Harley's skin as he sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the pyramid. A chill wind pierced the dense jungle, sending a shudder cascading down Harley's spine. The unmistakable scent of damp earth hung in the air, foreboding in its intensity. The sky darkened swiftly as the wind intensified, animating the foliage in a discordant symphony of rustling leaves. Above, the monkeys' agitated howls pierced through the tense atmosphere, their cries mingling with the distant roll of thunder. "Well, it looks like the show is about to start." he looked at the monkeys as he slowly withdrew a gleaming metal flask that once belonged to his father from his pocket. He twisted off the lid with a flourish and took a long, bold swig of the potent spirits within, the fiery liquid calming his insides. It was just then that a stong gust blew and in a sudden, ear-splitting cacophony, a deafening "CRACK" split the air as lightning struck the pyramid, momentarily blinding Harley in its searing light. Thunder followed, rumbling like the foreboding roar of an ancient beast. Instinctively, Harley dropped and rolled behind the trunk for cover, heart pounding as he cautiously peered over the top. His breath caught in his throat as the lightning danced wildly, ricocheting off the serpentine mouths of Kukulakan in a mesmerizing cascade of brilliant blue, culminating in an epic burst of dazzling light that sent the monkeys nearby careening into a wild, panicked frenzy. And just as Harley's hand trembled in awe, the beams of blue light unexpectedly coalesced into a bright triangular, swirling portal that shimmered like a celestial convergence, between the snakes heads. The air crackled with energy, the jungle falling into a hushed reverence as the mysterious gateway hummed with a power beyond comprehension. He rose from the creaking wooden trunk, his hand tightening around the umbrella as he closed it, and moved towards the mysterious portal. An icy shiver raced down his spine as he bravely plunged the closed umbrella into the ethereal gateway. The unexpected surge of electric energy zipping along the umbrella jolted him, causing Harley to quickly pull it back for closer examination. Much to his surprise, the umbrella remained unaltered, defying the mystical forces at play. Leaving the umbrella behind, he took a deep breath, relishing the musty scent of dampness that clung to the air, and cautiously ventured forward. Keeping his eyes tightly shut in fear. The jungle sounds faded then he heard a buzzing in his ears like a swarm of bees. As he gingerly set his foot down he sensed a solid ground beneath his feet, instead of the expected damp earth. Afraid to open his eyes,for now, he immersed himself in the surrounding sounds. He picked up on the soft, rhythmic hum resembling delicate machinery along with whispering near, and far. Very slowly he dared to open his left eye. "Oh my goodness!" both eyes went wide. Harley stepped into a vast, shadowy expanse that hummed with an electrifying energy, sending tingles down his spine. The space before him was a mesmerizing blend of the futuristic and the ancient, where strange, otherworldly gadgets coexisted with weathered, leather-bound books on towering shelves that soared three stories high. His gaze lifted to see mezzanine after mezzanine looming above him, disappearing into the distance. Harley blinked in awe. Could this be heaven? At the heart of it all stood two humanoid robots, immaculately designed and eerily lifelike, their eyes fixed on him with an inscrutable glint. Harley's heart raced with a mix of fear and fascination as he realized the magnitude of the mysteries surrounding him. The robot on the left spoke first, "Welcome, we have been awaiting your arrival." Dizzy with disbelief, Harley swayed, and the other robot extended a steadying hand towards him. "Where… where am I?" he stammered, hands trembling as he reached for his flask, taking a deep swig. "This," the robot gestured elegantly, "is the Cosmic Codex . By deciphering the code, you have been chosen as our next Librarian Celeste." Harley stood with his mouth open. Trying to compose himself he whispered, “How could this be?” We needed someone of exceptional skill and memory. Someone who could take over here. Therefore, clues were left among many books on Earth. For hundreds of years we have waited and,” the robot gestured with a sweep of his arms, “here you are.” Collecting himself with measured breaths, his right hand resting on the top of his hat he said, "What shall I call you two?" The left robot responded, "ygfvbds54857." "Wait," Harley interjected, removing his helmet and securing it on the robot's head, "Let me give you names. You will be, Dewey," he nodded to the left robot, "and you, Decimal." The two robots exchanged a mechanical hum, "We accept." As they advanced towards a large desk, Dewey elaborated on the grandeur of the cosmic library. Seven identical buildings, towering one hundred stories high and stretching for miles awaited exploration. Harley sighed in awe, "I may never live long enough to read the volumes in just this section..." Decimal's mechanical laughter filled the air, "Fear not. With us, you shall endure for thousands of Earth years." Playfully patting Harley on the back which comforted Harley. Harley smiled broadly, his eyes glistening, “I'm going to love it here!”. Together they approached the desk, and Dewey directed, "Let us commence." A translucent screen materialized before them, illuminating with information on the enigmatic " Cosmic Codex ." A sudden flash of light near the desk heralded the arrival of two humanoid crab-like beings, exchanging intricate clicking sounds between them. "Shhhh!" thundered Harley's voice. "This is a sanctuary of knowledge— a library ." The crabs' eyes, perched atop their spindles, darted towards Harley, recognizing his position of authority behind the desk. “Sorry,” a tiny vibrato voice murmured. The two crabs scuttled along on their pointy legs, disappearing down the stacks, their clicks echoing on the glossy tiled floor.

wz83ob

The Secret Library

       Storm clouds were rolling in, and Aurora knew she needed to start the trek back to the main park where her car waited. As an experienced hiker she knew to check the weather before hitting the trail. There had been no storms in the forecast, so the ominous looking clouds up ahead were a surprise.            “Alright let’s go,” she said to herself, or perhaps the trees. She had come out here to try to ease the pain of her breakup with James. Plus, it was the anniversary of her father’s death. Her father, who taught her to hike, would have said, “Not planning ahead is to plan to fail,” but she had been sure her plan was tight. She started heading back the way she came. She never went off trail so getting back before the storm, at least literally out of the woods, should be fairly easy. She checked her watch. 2:33pm. She could be back by 3:30 if she really booked it. The storm looked far enough ahead that an hour seemed doable. She came to the narrowest part of the trail, but she knew it by heart, so could traverse it well. Or so she thought. Without warning, the sky opened up and the down pour started. “Shit,” she muttered. She went to take a step and felt the wet, muddy ground going out from beneath her. She found herself sliding down the cliffside of the trail. She tried to grab ahold of anything that would stop her, but nothing held her long enough. She thought about all the things she could have done better to plan her day on the trail, all the things she could have done better in her life. Not dating James for one. Branches and brambles cut her on her way past them, her backpack sliding off her shoulder. She landed hard, pain shooting through her entire being. She lay still and silent for a moment, the rain soaking her to the bone. Was she dead? No, she could still feel every cut and ache in her body. Could she move? Yes, nothing was broken or sprained. She sat up, coming back to herself. There was an alcove only a few feet away. She stood up, readjusted her backpack, and made her way into the alcove. It was blessedly cool yet dry inside. It was overgrown with foliage and brambles, but there was a trail. She didn’t know this path, or how she was going to get out of here. Aurora checked her backpack. She had enough trail mix and water to last her a few hours if she portioned it out. And, hopefully, she could be rescued by then. That’s when she noticed the light from the other end of the alcove. That must be the way out – she hoped so. She had nothing to do but go in that direction. Even if she stayed where she was, what were the odds that she would be found down here? She had to chance the new path – at least it seemed to lead somewhere .  So, she set off following it. The trail was surrounded by trees, creating shade. The rain had stopped thankfully. Along the way she noticed little patches of mushrooms gathered in perfect circles. How interesting. In all her years of hiking she had never seen anything quite like it. Nature always seemed to abound with magic. Birdsong filled the air as she walked the path, taking a few sips of water, and two handfuls of trail mix. She checked her watch – 2:33pm. She tapped the watch face. At least thirty minutes had passed since she last looked at her watch. It should be at least 3pm. The watch must have broken in her fall, though the glass was perfectly intact. Not thinking anything else of it, she continued walking. The dirt road seemed to darken as the woods became more dense. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Though her adventurous heart thumped with the thrill of exploration. Something she hadn’t felt since her father died. Finally, she came to a clearing surrounded by trees. The clearing was littered with tiny purple and yellow flowers. Sunbeams dappled through the trees creating an ethereal effect. She could swear she heard the tinkling of laughter off in the distance. Aurora was mesmerized. How beautiful. She noticed up ahead that there was a small building. Maybe someone lived there (though it seemed a far-off place to live) and could help her. She made her way through the clearing to where the path picked up again, leading to the structure. The cottage sat tucked away in the woods, a smattering of pine and oak shading it, protecting it. The line of circular stones leading to the cottage was overgrown, little shoots of grass popping up between the stones, framed by grass and wildflowers. The yard was more delphiniums, Viking sunflowers, wild daises, and many other flowers than it was grass. Garden baubles littered the liminal spaces between the flowers as bees and other flittery things bounced between each bud and bloom. Birds chittered, hidden somewhere in the trees and recesses of the land. Flowers danced in the breeze. Sun rays poked through the trees, shining down beams of light. The cottage itself was small, looking for all its life the worse for wear – paint peeling, the roof missing bits of thatch and tile. The windows were dark – no light inside. The porch was small with three little steps leading up to it. One faded white rocking chair sat unused. The porch floorboards were in some spots warped. Yet despite its dilapidation, the cottage still buzzed with magic. Aurora knocked on the door but there was no answer. She knocked again and the door opened ajar. Surprised, Aurora peeked in. She didn’t see anyone. She contemplated entering the cottage. What if someone did live here and she caught them by surprise? It was a risk but her need for shelter outweighed the risk. So, she pushed the door open further, called “hello?” and upon no answer, stepped in. Immediately she felt like she had stepped into another world. The cottage was dark inside but there was just enough light coming through the windows for her to see. The furniture was old and dusty, Victorian, like no one had lived here in quite a while. She moved through the room, noticing old art and portraits of people long forgotten. Into the kitchen she noticed a wall-length shelf full of jars which contained what looked like herbs and dried flowers. There were books laid open on the counter, the pages worn and browned from age. She walked over to the sink to look out the window at the quite overgrown garden, but her foot caught on something in front of the shelf of jars. She looked down and saw a circular handle sticking out of one of the floorboards. Curious. What could be down there? Her imagination could run wild if she let it. But feeling compelled, she grabbed the handle and pulled. The floorboard came up, scattering a cloud of dust. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face to move the dust away. When the dust cleared, she saw a set of stairs leading into another room below. Her adventurous spirit was now fully piqued and so she started down the steps. She came to what must be a storage room. There were more shelves of jars, boxes stacked on top of each other, and strewn about haphazardly. Across the room she noticed a door. It looked rather old, with stained glass at the top, and an ornate doorknob. Light seeped through the stained glass, splashing light and color into that portion of the room. Perhaps someone was here and could help her. She went over to the door, turned the knob, and opened it. The first thing she noticed was the giant oak tree in the middle of the space, it’s full branches practically a canopy, and a large door at the base of its massive trunk. The second thing she noticed were the walls lined with books. It seemed to go on forever. It looked like a library but was open-air. It seemed to be protected by a natural overhang, and she could hear a waterfall. What kind of library was this? Vines hung down the length of the shelves, and it had toadstools and mushrooms for seats. She walked over to the closest shelf and plucked a book off of it. Behind the book was a face. Aurora shouted in surprise and the face disappeared. “Hey, hey! I’m not going to hurt you! I promise. I’m just startled,” she said out to the library in hopes that the face would return. After a quiet, still moment, the face returned, and behind it, many others. The face was attached to a little body with fluttery wings and had pointed ears and elongated eyes. The other faces looked similar. What were these beings? She didn’t feel scared or like she was in danger. She felt mostly a sense of wonder and awe. She looked at her watch again – 2:33pm. She realized that her watch wasn’t broken, it was more like time stopped in this otherworld place. “We are the faeries of the woodland library. We protect the magic,” the original face said, fluttering close to her face. “It must be kept secret. Humans will destroy it,” the faery whispered. “Are you human?” she asked. Aurora nodded. “I am. But I would never destroy this beautiful place,” Then, out of the door of the oak tree came a being more Aurora’s height. She had no wings but still emitted an otherworldly enchantment. She wore a long black dress and had paper white chin-length hair. Her eyes shone crystal blue. “I am Rhianwen. The Keeper of the Library and Watcher and Protectress of the Faery,” she said, stepping forward toward Aurora. “I-I’m Aurora,” “Welcome Aurora. We have not had any humans here since the cottage woman went away,” Rhianwen said. “We are protective of the library. It has been here for many hundreds of years. But we keep it secret because not every human is like you. We find that humans are destructive and selfish. We Fae have had to go into hiding ourselves to stay safe and continue our work. We don’t often trust humans,” she said. Aurora could see what Rhianwen meant about humans. They were destructive, cutting down precious forests to build shopping centers and apartments that all looked alike, destroying the lands and the homes of so many wild creatures they shared the Earth with. Aurora’s heart ached for what humans did and were still doing to the Earth and Her inhabitants. “So, what is the library for?” she asked, running a finger along the spines of the books closest to her. “It is to preserve our magic and knowledge of the Fae and the otherworld so that one day the information may be released into the world again,” This all seemed like so much and suddenly Aurora felt she needed to sit. She sat on one of the toadstools which had a tich of a bounce as she sat. “The magic here is too much for humans who are not used to it. You will be okay if you rest,” Rhianwen said, a slight smirk across her face. Aurora’s arm itched and she scratched it. An electric sting seared through her arm, and she uttered a yip of pain. She had forgotten about her cuts. The original little face she had seen by the books fluttered over, iridescent wings glittering in the light. She put her little hands on Aurora’s arm and Aurora watched in astonishment as her cuts and scratches healed before her eyes. “Oh, thank you!” she said. Her arm was like new, like nothing had happened. “Now then,” Rhianwen started, “how did you find your way here?” Aurora told her of how she had fallen, found the alcove, the cottage, and then the library. “Well, you’ve had quite the adventure, haven’t you?” Rhianwen said. Aurora nodded, exhaustion seeping into her bones now, everything catching up to her. “However, my dear, your discovery of the library does present quite a problem for us here,” she said, her voice deepening into seriousness. Before Aurora could respond, Rhianwen continued. “I am afraid that I will have to give you a choice,” “A choice?” “Indeed. We must protect the library and its secrets. It is why we are here. It is our purpose, and that must be our priority.” She paused. Aurora waited. “You may stay here at the library and help protect it, and live out your days here, never to return to the Upper World. Or…” she paused. “…you may go back to your life, never to return here. But my dear, should you choose that avenue, I will have to wipe your memory of this place. Not to be cruel, but to keep the library secret. We couldn’t risk you telling anyone about us or how to find us,” Aurora took a deep breath. A choice indeed. How could she ever forget this place, this magic? These charming creatures. But at the same time, how could she leave her life behind? Lisa her sister. The job she loved. Her cat. If she never returned what would that do to them? Her disappearance would devastate them. Such is the consequence of love - the risk of losing those you love and who love you back. “Are you sure you have to wipe my memory? I promise I won’t tell anyone,” She said. “You cannot have it both ways. We cannot take the risk,” Rhianwen said. She walked over to Aurora, put a hand on her shoulder. “You must choose,” And so, with the ties that bind, Aurora made her decision. “I choose to go back,” she said quietly, her heart aching at the thought of leaving this place and forgetting these beautiful creatures. But she ached more at the thought of never seeing her sister again. It was what she had to choose. “Very well my dear. Is there anything you wish to say before I send you back?” Aurora stood. “I hope to one day find myself back here. You all have been lovely to me. And I hope the world will be safe enough for the library to be public one day,” she said. She looked at Rhianwen and nodded. She was ready. The original little face that had healed her and hidden behind the books, fluttered over to her. She took one of Aurora’s fingers in her tiny Faery hands and held it for a moment. Auroras eyes welled with tears. A wiped memory or not she would not forget this little one. The little face let go and fluttered over next to Rhianwen. Rhianwen beckoned Aurora over and she approached. Rhianwen looked Aurora in the eyes and said, “You will not remember any of this. You will return to your life and live out your days in the Upper World, never to return here again,” and she touched Aurora’s forehead, and all went black.  ~*~*~*~ Aurora sat in her car. Something felt off. She didn’t remember getting back. She remembered the trail, the storm, and the need to get back, but not the actual return. Odd. She checked her watch. 3pm. Ah, just in time to get home for dinner with Lisa. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a book in the passenger seat. Funny, she hadn’t brought any books today. She picked it up and felt its weight in her hand. The cover was purple with a gold border. There was a faery on the cover, a cute little face with iridescent wings, sitting on a book. The title was “The Woodland Faeries,” It was beautiful. Sort of familiar but she couldn’t place why. Shrugging off the feeling she put the book back in the passenger seat and turned the car on. Time to go home.

sqxo33

Trouble at Cedarwood High

In the middle of the hallway stood a boy who people called a troublemaker, Jonathan, who was known for his shenanigans and undertakings. He grew up in Cedarwood, a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business, and where life wavered between the everyday and the uncommon. Jonathan was extremely smart, his mind always whirring with questions and ideas, searching for his own path amidst the chaos of adolescence. With his unruly hair and serious demeanor, he often seemed older and wiser than his years. He was also a bit of a goof-ball, his infectious laughter and carefree attitude made him a favorite among his peers. With a grin that could light up a room, he brought joy and mischief wherever he went. His partner in crime was a well–behaved boy named Jim. Despite their differences Jonathan and Jim shared a deep bond through years of friendship and shared experiences. From youth jokes to juvenile capers, they were indistinguishable, their kinship a steady wellspring of solace and brotherhood in the midst of the confusion of secondary school life. Jonathan was very sneaky. His facial features told it all. From his glances and mischievous smiles, people knew that he was a troublemaker. He was unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with in the halls of Cedarwood High. His high school journey began like any other, with a mix of excitement, anxiety, and anticipation. As a freshman, he navigated the complex hallways of Cedarwood High, wide-eyed and eager to carve out his place in the world. But amidst the sea of faces and the cacophony of voices, He found solace in the company of Jim, forging a bond that would withstand the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Skipping classes and playing pranks soon became his favorite pastimes, as he reveled in the thrill of rebellion and the adrenaline rush of breaking the rules. From swapping teachers' chairs to releasing a herd of chickens in the cafeteria, his antics knew no bounds, much to the amusement of his classmates and the exasperation of His teachers. But as he grew older, his escapades began to take a toll, him and those around him. Detentions turned into suspensions, and suspensions into meetings with the principal, as he found himself on the receiving end of increasingly severe punishments. Yet, despite the warnings and reprimands, he remained defiant, convinced of his own invincibility. His biggest mistake came during a crucial exam, when he decided to cheat his way through it, convinced that he could outsmart the system. But his plan backfired spectacularly when he was caught in the act, his hopes of academic success dashed in an instant. As he stood before the principal, facing the consequences of his actions, he knew that his life would never be the same again. The fallout from his misadventure was swift and unforgiving. News of his expulsion spread like wildfire throughout the school, eliciting a mixture of shock, outrage, and gossip among his peers. Friends became distance, teachers shook their heads in disappointment, and parents struggled to come to terms with the reality of their son's actions. But amidst the chaos and confusion, Jonathan remained resolute in his determination to make things right. He knew that he had made a mistake, a big one, and that he would have to face the consequences of his actions head-on. With humility and determination, He apologized to the principal, his teachers, and his parents, acknowledging the harm that he had caused and vowing to do better in the future. It was a long and difficult road to redemption, filled with ups and downs, twists and turns. But with each setback came a valuable lesson, and with each challenge came an opportunity for growth. Through hard work and perseverance, he was able to turn his life around, finding success and fulfillment in unexpected places. As he looked back on his time at Cedarwood High, he realized that it wasn't the pranks or the parties that defined his high school experience, but the friendships he had forged and the lessons he had learned along the way. And as he embarked on the next chapter of his life, he did so with a newfound sense of purpose and determination, knowing that no matter what obstacles lay ahead, he would face them together, with his partner in crime, forever and always. In the end, Jonathan emerged from his tumultuous high school years stronger and wiser than before. He had learned valuable lessons about responsibility, integrity, and the importance of owning up to his mistakes. And while his journey had been fraught with challenges and setbacks, he had emerged victorious, his bond stronger than ever before. As he walked across the stage at graduation, amidst cheers and applause from his classmates and loved ones, he knew that he was ready to face whatever the future held. Armed with the lessons he had learned and the friendships he had forged, he set out into the world with his head held high and his heart full of hope. And as he looked back on his time at Cedarwood High, he knew that while his journey had been far from easy, it had been worth every moment. For it was in the crucible of adversity that he had discovered his true strength, and it was through his mistake that he had found the courage to become the person he was meant to be. The days at Cedarwood High seemed to blend together in a blur of laughter, homework, and the occasional mischief. Jonathan found himself immersed in a routine that felt both comforting and stifling at the same time. Despite his adventures, there was a nagging feeling of discontentment that lingered in the back of his mind, a sense that he was meant for something more than just the monotony of high school life. It wasn't until his junior year that he began to question his place in the world. Sitting in the back of his history class, listening to his teacher drone on about the Civil War, he couldn't help but feel a sense of restlessness creeping over him. Was this all there was to life? Was there more to Cedarwood than just the confines of his small town? The questions lingered in his mind long after the final bell had rung, sparking late-night conversations and heated debates about his future. It was during one of these conversations that he made a pact to break free from the confines of Cedarwood High and embark on an adventure that would change his life forever. The plan was simple yet daring he would pack his bags, hop on the first bus out of town, and never look back. It was a leap of faith, a leap into the unknown, but he knew deep down that it was the only way to discover who he truly was and what he was capable of. And so, on a crisp autumn morning, with nothing but a sense of excitement and anticipation coursing through his veins, Jonathan set out on the journey of a lifetime. He didn't know where he was headed or what the future held, but he knew he could conquer anything that came his way. He was not afraid. As he watched the familiar sights of Cedarwood disappear in the rearview mirror, he felt a sense of exhilaration wash over him. The road stretched out before him, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with adventures and memories. And as he drove off into the sunset, the possibilities seemed endless, his heart full of hope and his spirit soaring high. Jonathan, the journey was just beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where it would take him. And as he rode off into the unknown, leaving behind the safety and security of Cedarwood High, he knew that he was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, for he has the power, forever and always.

8ki5mn

The Lost Manuscript

In the heart of a dense forest, beneath the shadow of towering ancient trees, two figures stood at the entrance to the abandoned ruins. Anna, with her muscular build and heterochromatic eyes—one a warm red-brown and the other a cool blue-brown—stood resolute. Her long black braid hung down her back, and her leather bodice with sword scabbards gave her a formidable appearance. Beside her was Gigi, tall and voluptuous, her chin-length brown hair framing eyes the color of the ocean. Her flowy, bohemian dress fluttered gently in the breeze, adorned with accessories that tinkled softly as she moved. “What happened in this place?” Anna sneered as she spoke. After a week trekking in the forest, the sign of an unnatural structure was shocking to see. The ruins were once ornate and grand now look like they lost the battle with the forest. Vines suffocating bricks and the signs of lives once lived. Softly Gigi replied, “I shudder to think.” A week earlier, Gigi received a vision from her goddesses, Gaia. Gigi’s visions were always uncontrollable. Her goddess is demanding and when she wants to be heard, she will be. The vision spoke of a lost manuscript containing forgotten spells and the key to controlling elemental forces. It was imperative they retrieve it before it fell into the wrong hands. Anna placed a reassuring hand on Gigi's shoulder. "Whatever happened here, we'll face it together." She glanced down at the dire wolf by her side and gave him an affectionate scratch behind the ears. The wolf, Drake, pressed against Anna's leg, ready to protect his human companion. Gigi took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. "You're right. Gaia called us here for a reason." She knelt down to stroke her calico cat familiar, Cleo, who purred and arched into her touch. The two companions stepped cautiously through the crumbling archway, peering into the gloom beyond. As they approached the crumbling entrance to the ancient ruins, a figure emerged from the shadows. Lyria, clad in tattered leather armor and brandishing a wickedly sharp dagger, grinned at them with mischievous eyes. Anna's hand flew to the hilt of her sword as she spotted Lyria emerging from the ruins. Though Lyria appeared weaponless, Anna knew better than to underestimate her. Many had fallen for Lyria's innocent act before realizing too late that her true talents lay in deception and thievery. "Well, if it isn't my old friends," Lyria said with mock delight. "Fancy seeing you here." "What do you want, Lyria?" Anna growled. Beside her, Drake bared his teeth and let out a menacing snarl. Lyria glanced down at the dire wolf and laughed. Drake snapped his jaws in front of Lyria’s face. Letting his pearly teeth gleam in her eye for a beat longer than necessary. “If I have to ask again, I’ll let him have his way.” Anna stroked Drake’s neck for emphasis. His long black fur looked like fine silk to Lyria. Too bad she would never know if it was as soft as it looked. “Damn that mutt and damn you…” before Lyria could finish her sentence, Gigi cut her off. “Curse her again and I’ll take the oxygen from your lungs. She’s saved more good in this world than your soul is worth to your god.” Gigi was a kind person, but everyone had boundaries. Anna was her line you dared not cross unless you planned on challenging creation itself. “Gods above and below. Gigi. I’m not cursing anyone. Anna and I are just having a little fun. Aren’t we?” Lyria reached to pat Anna’s shoulder, but Drake growled, and she thought better of it. “Look, my god needs to get in good with Inanna. Anyone who’s anyone knows that Inanna only allows Anna to worship at her altar. So, I’m here to offer my services. I can guide you through these ruins. My god, Anansi, has webs throughout these ruins. He’ll guide me, I’ll guide you and my god gets his favor with Inanna.” Lyria crossed her arms in triumph. Anna and Gigi exchanged wary glances. Lyria was a priestess for the god Anansi. He’s a mischievous god, but also wise. It is said that his spiders bring him knowledge on a vast web of information. Anansi gets bored and sometimes starts trouble within the deities. If he needs something from Inanna, then he must be desperate. Anna and Gigi agree to take Lyria’s help. The ruins were a labyrinth of crumbling corridors and hidden chambers. Enchanted traps and ancient puzzles barred their way. In one chamber, they faced a series of fire traps. Anna skillfully manipulated the flames to create a safe passage. In another, a water basin required Gigi to use her power to reveal hidden inscriptions that provided clues to the next step. Deep within the ruins, Anna, Gigi, and Lyria continued their journey, following the instructions provided by Anansi. They had to traverse through treacherous terrain and solve intricate puzzles to reach their destination. As they neared the heart of the ruins, their senses were on high alert. The air was thick with ancient magic and danger lurked in every corner. Suddenly, they heard a loud noise echoing through the corridors. Gigi's eyes widened in recognition. "That's Malakar's voice," she whispered. Anna and Lyria exchanged concerned glances. Malakar was a powerful sorcerer who had been causing chaos in the land for years. His thirst for power led him to seek forbidden relics and artifacts that could grant him unimaginable abilities. But he was not alone. Malakar always traveled with a group of ruthless mercenaries who followed his every command. "We have to be careful," said Anna as she pulled a sword off her back. Anna carried one sword and just a hilt of another sword on her back. The sword she pulled now had a hilt made from a strange metal that appeared to glow from with in. There were ancient runes in the hilt that looked like they churned right under the surface of the metal. With her fire powers, Anna could light her sword fire or heat the metal so hot it would melt ore. The hilt was indestructible. The sword was a gift from her Parton Goddess, Inanna. She also carried on her back an ornate silver hilt that had no blade attached. Anna could conjure water, but she couldn’t create water. The hilt was a gift from Gaia for saving Gigi’s life. Gigi could conjure water, something no one else could do, creating a blade for the silver hilt. The blade made of water became sharper than anything known to creation. Anna’s water ability could change the shape of the blade to suit the need. The trio cautiously made their way towards the source of the noise, only to be met by a group of armed mercenaries standing guard in front of a large stone door. Malakar stood at the center, his eyes glowing with malicious intent. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Anna the great," he sneered. Sarcasm dripping from his words. "I should've known you'd be here," retorted Anna coolly. Malakar chuckled darkly. "I have been waiting for this moment for a long time." As if on cue, his mercenaries sprang into action, charging towards Anna and her companions with swords drawn. Anna and Gigi worked together seamlessly, using their powers in perfect harmony to create fiery barriers and blasts of water that kept their attackers at bay. Lyria, who was skilled in archery, provided support from a safe distance with her precision shots. But the mercenaries were relentless, and soon they found themselves surrounded by many foes. Anna and Gigi were tiring from the constant use of their powers. "We can't keep this up for much longer," panted Gigi as she conjured another burst of water to drive back their enemies. "I know," replied Anna. "We need a plan." Just then, Lyria called out to them from above. "I see another group coming from behind us!" Anna quickly assessed the situation. Despite being outnumbered and surrounded, she refused to give up without a fight. "Lyria, you take care of the ones behind us, Drake with Lyria," ordered Anna. "Gigi, we'll focus on the ones in front." Lyria stared at the giant dire wolf, looking more terrified of the wolf than the mercenaries. “Uh Drake, but he’s not going to. I mean.” sweat beaded on her brow. “Drake will fight with you with his life and will defend you just as fiercely. As he’s immortal, I’m not sure you need to be worried about him. Talk to him, he’ll understand you. He can work as a team. Do not touch him. Even he has boundaries.” As if on cue, Drake shook his silky coat and growled at Lyria in warning. Together, they split into two teams and continued their battle against Malakar's mercenaries. But it wasn't long before they started feeling overwhelmed once again. “We require greater power,” Gigi said, evading an enemy’s sword swing. Anna's mind raced with possibilities. She remembered her silver hilt and the water blade that Gigi could conjure with it. It was the perfect time for her to use it, despite never having used it before. "Gigi, use your powers to create a blade with my silver hilt," commanded Anna. Gigi nodded and focused all her energy on creating a blade made entirely out of water using the silver hilt. With a final burst of magic, she created a sharp and deadly weapon made entirely out of water. Anna grabbed hold of the hilt and felt its power surge through her body. She swung it, cutting through the air and sending a powerful wave of water. Then her other hand with her fire blade creating an arc of fire. “Now this we can work with.” Anna smiled as she looked around. “Lyria! Drake! Shadow flank, take out as many as you can as quietly as you can. Gigi and I will distract them. Lyria, you’re going to hate this next bit, but you have to trust us.” Anna ducked as Drake flew over the top of her and tackled Lyria into a shadow behind her. They popped out on the second floor ruins of the dilapidated build they were in. Cloaked in shadows, Lyria understood the plan. Drake swiftly jumped to the other side as Anna emerged into the commotion. With both blades in hand, Anna began a dance of death. Arcs of fire and cuts so clean mercenaries were falling dead before they even noticed they were cut. Drake popped in and out of shadows, taking men from shadows. Gigi snapped her fingers and men falling to their feet, the water taken straight from their bodies. Their shilling husks left on the ruins floor. Lyria, Anna, and Gigi reached the heart of the ruins almost at once. All the mercenaries lay dead at their feet. “Where did he go?!” Anna yelled and turned around, looking into every dark corner. “Where did Malakar go?” Gigi looked around carefully while Anna raged in the background. She ran her hand over the walls and the pillars of the ruins. She attempted to envision what life was like here in ancient times. Gigi felt something sticky on her feet, there were spider webs stuck to her feet. She followed the webs to the floor where she found foot prints in the spider web. The foot prints lead back the way they came, to the exit. Someone, Malakar, got away. Anna was going to hate this. Just as Gig turned around to deliver the bad news to Anna, she tripped over a loose stone and grabbed the torch hanger. Walls started to move and dust fell from the ceilings. Behind Gig a wall move aside and a door revealed. Anna and Lyria ran to Gigi and the door. Anna read aloud. I breathe without lungs, and run without feet, I wear no clothes, yet can feel heat. I have no mouth, but I can roar, In storms and calm, I'm evermore. What am I, to open this door? Lyria moaned, “What is this? No mouth but roar? There is no such thing.” It was clear her patience was wearing thin for get god and this favor. Gigi leaned over Anna and blew the dust off the inscription. The door silently hinged forward. “Breath. Wind. Air. You know, the wind roars in the winter at our homestead. Anna should have gotten this one.” Gigi laughed. Anna shoved her hilts back on her back scabbard and rolled her eyes. Upon entering the room, she witnessed the torches igniting the wall. It was as if solving the riddle made the whole place accept them. The adventurers had difficulty remembering what made this place so terrible. Gigi gently grabbed the manuscript from the wall and put it in her bag. The moment she cinched the bag shut, a white blue light came from the bag. “It appears Gaia couldn’t wait for her boon.” Gigi shrugged and opened the bag. Inside, the manuscript was gone, but in its place was a ball spider web. A clue for sure. Inherently Gigi knew this wasn’t everyone to know. As they walked, the adventurers couldn't resist snacking on some provisions they had brought with them. The taste of dried fruit and nuts mixed with the lingering flavor of the cool water they had recently drank. The bittersweet taste of victory, tinged with the knowledge that their adventure was done. But the sense of accomplishment and relief was palpable. As they walked out of the forest, the adventurers couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. They had come so far and faced so many challenges together. But now, as they emerged from the trees, they knew their journey was far from over. Anna gazed out at the vast landscape before them. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the rolling hills and distant mountains. "We did it," she said with a smile. Gigi nodded in agreement. "We make a great team." She elbowed Anna in the ribs. Anna begrudgingly said, "We couldn't have done it without you, Lyria." They walked for a moment, soaking in the beauty of their surroundings and reflecting on their journey. Despite all the hardships and obstacles they had faced, they emerged victorious. Just as they were about to leave, a loud growl echoed around them. Anna’s hand instinctively went to her sword hilt as Lyria drew her bow. Anna summoned her magic, ready to defend themselves against whatever creature lurked nearby. But instead of an enemy approaching them. Struggling to walk, a small creature stumbled out from a nearby tree. Without hesitation, Gigi ran over to it and knelt down beside it. As she examined its wounds, she realized it was not a vicious creature at all–it was just a young wolf pup. "It's hurt," Gigi said with concern in her voice as she gently stroked its head. "We can't leave it here," Lyria stated firmly. "We have to help it." And so, using some of their leftover provisions, they tended to the pup's injuries and gave it food and water. As night fell, they built a small shelter for it using branches and leaves. The next morning, when the pup woke up healed and well-rested, he bounded around happily, grateful for the adventurers' help. Anna turned to her friends and said, “I wonder what caused those wounds. It looked like huge fang marks. I hope a rival male isn’t hunting the pups.” Drake bounded into the woods without command. He’d make sure the pup got back to its pack safely. “This is my road. I’ve got to head back to my temple. Next time, let's do something with more ale and less fighting.” Lyria waved as she walked away. As they got into their homestead Gigi said, “Here, look at this.” She pulled out the spider web from her bag. “This looks just like the web from the ruins. When I tripped I was following foot steps I saw in the webbing. Spider webs. Spider. Anansi. This can’t be a coincidence.” Anna sat down at the table staring at the spider web, thinking about all the events of the day and what they could have to do with each other. Bursting through the homestead door, Drake communicated with Anna using telepathy, as was customary for him. Anna! The mother wolf was grateful for caring for her runt. As a thanks, she told me something she thought you’d find interesting. Those wounds on the pup were from a giant spider that threatened her pups. It told her it was going to eat her, but Anansi told it to hold its hunger until the mage was back in hand. “The mage? Malakar!” Anna jumped up and yelled, startling Gigi from her tasks in the kitchen. Anna explained everything she heard from Drake to Gigi. “Then Anansi must have helped Malakar escape. But why?” Gigi was pacing the room now. “I don’t know, but Inanna will not tolerate a double cross like this. It’s not a good way to get a favor. If Lyria was in on it. I’ll burn her temple to the ground.” Anna slammed her fist on the table. 

vdt02d

The Adventures of Taylor Chelsea and Manny

THE ADVENTURES OF TAYLOR, CHELSEA AND MANNY Written by Stephanie Butler 3679 Washington Blvd 317-403-5520 FADE IN THE ADVENTURES OF TAYLOR, CHELSEA AND MANNY EXT: CENTRAL LIBRARY - DAY TAYLOR and CHELSEA walk into the library and find their way to the children’s section. CHELSEA - C’mon Taylor let’s look at some books over here. Taylor looks up at Chelsea CHELSEA (CONT'D) - These are more like the ones you like to read TAYLOR - Okay (Cheerfully) INT: CHILDREN’S SECTION - DAY Taylor and Chelsea move to another book shelf MANNY is sitting at a table adjacent to the shelf. He looks nervous when he sees Chelsea MANNY - Hey uhm, Chels! You getting books for the summer readathon? CHELSEA - Hey Manny! Yeah, I’m really helping my little sister find some good books MANNY - Oh sure, hi Taylor INT: AT THE BOOK SHELF Chelsea and Manny are in conversation Taylor is standing behind Chelsea. Taylor doesn't appreciate Chelsea spending their alone time with a boy. TAYLOR - Chelsea I wanna go over there! Taylor points to an area away from Manny CHELSEA - Wait Taylor, I’ll take you in a minute MANNY - So...what are you doing later? CHELSEA - I don’t know. What’s up? MANNY - Some of us are going over to the park. You know skateboarding and stuff. You wanna come? CHELSEA - Well...I have to take my little sister home first Chelsea turns around to look at Taylor and finds she’s no longer there or in sight. CHELSEA (CONT'D) - Oh no! Taylor where did she go?! As she twists and turns to see if Taylor is nearby MANNY - She was just there! CHELSEA - What a brat! I have to find her. I’ll see you later Chelsea begins to walk away MANNY - Here, I’ll help you look for her INT: MEANWHILE MYSTERIOUS HALLWAY Taylor is walking down a mysterious hallway. At the end of the hallway is a light of crystals shining and drawing her nearer INT: END OF THE HALLWAY Taylor walks into the lighted area. Her image is enveloped in the light and swallowed INT: AT THE SAME TIME MAIN LIBRARY COMMON AREA Chelsea and Manny are walking through the library searching for Taylor CHELSEA - Taylor! LIBRARY PATRON#1 - Shhh! MANNY - Taylor! LIBRARY PATRON #2 - Shhha! CHELSEA AND MANNY - Taylor! LIBRARIAN - Shhhhh! Chelsea and Manny stand at the end of the book shelves adjacent to a door CHELSEA - I’m going to be in a lot of trouble if I don't find her MANNY - Maybe she went thru there, let’s look pointing at the door. CHELSEA - It says staff only MANNY - All the more reason to go in. You forget I have a little cousin? You know how curious little kids are Manny and Chelsea walk thru the door and down the hallway until they come upon a large room. The room looks as though it was a reading room at one point. Cob webs and dust now decorate the room Manny and Chelsea begin searching for Taylor INSERT MONTAGE A) Manny looks under a table B) Chelsea looks under the same table behind Manny C) Manny looks around a bookshelf and sees Chelsea D) Chelsea is looking around the other end and sees Manny E) Backing up searching, Chelsea and Manny back into each other END OF MONTAGE INT: IN THE ROOM WITH TAYLOR Taylor sits on the floor surrounded by books. They are on her lap and around her in stacks. Taylor is laughing and having fun CHELSEA - (looking around) This must be an old part of the library. It looks like a home for abandoned books. MANNY - This part is weird. I didn’t know it was here Chelsea gets frustrated CHELSEA - Taylor knows better than to run off like this! MANNY - (Reassuring) Hey, if Taylor is anything like you she’s okay. Okay? CHELSEA - Yeah? Thanks but we still need to find her. Taylor! TAYLOR - Chelsea! Over here! Chelsea and Manny excitedly look at each other CHELSEA AND MANNY - Taylor! Where are you? TAYLOR - Over here! Chelsea and Manny follow Taylor’s voice and locate her in the pile of books INT: IN THE ROOM WITH TAYLOR Taylor holds up a handful of books TAYLOR - I found some books see! Chelsea rushes to her CHELSEA - What did mom say about running off! (Looks around) Where are we? Manny slowly walking around investigating MANNY - It looks like a closed off section of the library. These books must be really old As Manny walks around the room he picks up a book from the shelf MANNY (CONT'D) - Hey check this out! Mother Goose Rhymes, Grimm fairytales...Briar Rabbit! Chelsea turns back to Taylor CHELSEA - C’mon Taylor put those books down, we need to get back to the other side. We shouldn’t be here Chelsea grabs the books from Taylors hand and begins to put it down... BOOK - Read me! Chelsea looks at the book CHELSEA - Did one of you say that? MANNY - I didn’t TAYLOR - It was the book. It talks. They all do! They told me to read them CHELSEA (Grabbing Taylor’s arm) - Okay Taylor it’s time for your nap. Home we go! Chelsea attempts to pull Taylor up from the floor BOOK - Read me! MANNY - Uh Chels, I don't think she was imagining...I heard it too CHELSEA - Manny your doing that! You can just cut out the tricks now they’re getting creepy! Chelsea picks up a book CHELSEA (CONT'D) - It can’t be this book BOOK - Take us home with you! Read us! The book in Chelsea’s hand speaks to her. She throws the book down and backs away The three children look at each other. Just then Raggedy Ann and her little brother Andy pop out of the book Chelsea was holding RAGGEDY ANN - Don’t be afraid we want to be your friends Chelsea turns to Manny CHELSEA - Do you see this? MANNY - I can’t believe it but I am seeing it Taylor runs to Ann and grabs her hand TAYLOR - (To Chelsea and Manny) They’re my friends. All the books are! They said we could be friends forever if I read them! Chelsea grabs Taylor back to her side with Manny CHELSEA Who are you? RAGGEDY ANN - I’m Raggedy Ann and this is my brother Andy. Please don’t run from us we want you to take us home with you RAGGEDY ANDY - Yea we are lost stories. If you don’t read us we will be forgotten forever in this place Taylor gets away from Chelsea and begins to sort thru other books opening and letting the characters free MANNY - Why are you back here? RAGGEDY ANN - We were put here a long time ago. Forgotten and never to be read again RAGGEDY ANDY - But we want to be remembered CHELSEA Who’s we? TAYLOR - Here they are! Taylor hands Chelsea some books. Chelsea begins to open the books freeing the characters The children are still surprised but are getting used to the idea of seeing the characters pop out of the books Raggedy Ann and Andy begin singing a song about being lost and forgotten but they are now free RAGGEDY ANN AND ANDY - We’re free! We’re free! The girl has set us free! We can dance and play and sing all day! We’re free! We’re free! As they sing the children continue to set free the abandoned captured storybook characters INSERT MONTAGE A) Raggedy Ann and Andy dance together B) Chelsea and Manny look at each other awkwardly C) Raggedy Andy and Taylor dance together D) All the other characters dance together END OF MONTAGE RAGGEDY ANN - Wont you be our new friends? RAGGEDY ANDY - If you take us home with you we will be remembered. You will be our newest friends TAYLOR - Ooowee! Oowee! I wanna be your friend! I wanna be your friend! They continue to celebrate. Just then, Manny grabs a certain book from the shelf Everything stops RAGGEDY ANN - No! No! No! Not that one! Close it before HE gets out! MANNY - Before who gets out?! (As he continues to open the book) Out pops the Bookkeeper and his Wooden Soldiers. The Bookkeeper clad in all black with a cape slung over his shoulders hanging down his back. He wears a stovepipe top hat that never falls from his head BOOKKEEPER - What are you doing out of your books?!!! All the story book characters scream and scatter for their books BOOKKEEPER (CONT'D) - Back! Back! Back into your books! He turns to the children BOOKKEEPER (CONT'D) - You children have no business here! These are my stories and are to be read by no one! Go away! Chelsea grabs Taylor’s hand and the three begin to run. Most of the story book characters have run safely back to their books except Raggedy Ann and Andy. The Wooden soldiers are escorting some characters to their books. Other Wooden Soldiers are chasing Raggedy Ann and Andy, Chelsea, Taylor and Manny The children and their new friends are hiding behind a bookshelf The Wooden Soldiers are bumbling and fumbling into each other. They have a limited range of motion and only move with straight arms and legs. Their mouths can open very wide making them look intimidating and scary. The Bookkeeper sings a song as they search for the children BOOKKEEPER (CONT'D) - Come out, come out from where ever you are! Come out come out from where ever you are WOODENSOLDIERS - Ooohhhh---- BOOKKEEPER - You cannot hide from me I’ll find you where you are, come out, come out from where ever you are WOODENSOLDIERS - Oooooohh---- Chelsea, Manny, Taylor, Raggedy Ann and Andy are hiding behind a book shelf CHELSEA - Manny you opened the book! Manny is dumbfounded MANNY - I uhmm uhmm RAGGEDY ANN - We should go see the Storykeeper. She will help MANNY - Storykeeper? Who is she? RAGGEDY ANN - She is the one who cares for and protects the stories RAGGEDY ANDY - She keeps our memory alive CHELSEA - Well, where is she? MANNY - Yeah and why didn't she save you from him? RAGGEDY ANN - I don’t know. But her book is at the top of the hill Both Raggedy Ann and Andy point to the book shelves at the highest point in the room MANNY - You mean at the top of that book shelf? Awkward silence CHELSEA - Okay so here’s the plan. Raggedy Ann and Andy you take Taylor and start up the stairs. Manny you come with me. RAGGEDY ANDY - Right let’s go! Raggedy Ann and Andy take Taylor and they start up the stairs MANNY - Chelsea what are we going to do? CHELSEA -We’re going to hold them off. Hey over here! The Bookkeeper turns in the children's direction and they begin a choreographed chase INSERT CHASE A) The Wooden soldiers bump into each other and fall B) The Bookkeeper is yelling at the Wooden Soldiers C) Chelsea and Manny are watching from their hiding place END MONTAGE INT: STAIRCASE Raggedy Ann, Andy and Taylor make it to the top INT: MAIN ROOM The Bookkeeper corners Chelsea and Manny by some shelves MEANWHILE - AT THE TOP OF THE BOOKSHELF The Storykeeper is telling a story to some storybook characters Raggedy Ann interrupts. RAGGEDY ANN - Please! Storykeeper save us! The Storykeeper sees Taylor and her friends STORYKEEPER - Raggedy Ann and Andy why it’s so nice to see you. Where have you been? RAGGEDY ANN - The Bookkeeper has had us hidden away and would not let us out! RAGGEDY ANDY - Yea and this little girl set us free! Bu, bu but he’s chasing us now! TAYLOR - These are my friends and he’s mean to them. He has my sister and our friend now! The Storykeeper turns to the little listeners she was telling a story to STORYKEEPER - You must hurry along home now. Return later and I’ll finish our story The story book characters run home The Storykeeper turns to Taylor and friends STORYKEEPER (CONT'D) - Come follow me They walk past a giant beautiful book which sits on a shelf by itself. The book is lustered with gold writing and edging. It shimmers with magic and happiness TAYLOR - Gasp!(Gasps as the sight of the book) They walk to the edge of the shelf with the Storykeeper The Storykeeper looks over the edge and sees the Bookkeeper closing in on Chelsea and Manny STORYKEEPER - Bookkeeper! Let those children go! For your crimes against the stories, books and its characters I purge you from this world and you are to stay in the pages of your book forever! You are to never hide a story from it’s readers again! INT: MAIN ROOM From out of the corners of the room come four regal looking bookmarks. They carry him away into the darkness BOOKKEEPER - No! No! Please don’t take me away! No I don’t want to be lost! Nooooo His voice wanes The Storykeeper looks pleasantly upon the children and their book friends FADE OUT FADE IN EXT: LIBRARY - DAY With an arm full of books, Taylor smiles at Manny and Chelsea as they walk down the street Manny reaches over and grabs the books from Taylor relieving her of the chore. Taylor hugs him for a thank you The three walk home THE END

rfk6cb

Whispers by a Hedge

Sir George knelt down alongside the hedgerow. His hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, pressing it down to raise the tip preventing it from digging into the morning dew covered ground. The first sliver of the sun started to emerge from the horizon. His companion, Apprentice Yorri, squatted next to him. “Sir?” Yorri said softly. “Yes Yorri?” “Are you sure about this?” “Not in the slightest,” the knight said, looking at his squire with a grin. The look did not reassure Yorri, who’s brow started to dampen with perspiration. George reached into the hedgerow and removed leaves and carefully broke branches, slowly making a small hole to look through. He did his best to create a cone shape to it, giving him the largest field of view, with the smallest possible opening on the other side. The knight moved himself closer to the view hole and pressed his face against the foliage. Through the opening he had a clear view to the field beyond. A knot tied in his guts as he saw confirmation of the scout’s initial reports. About fifty yards away, as best George could estimate, stood a row of brown tents, embers lightly glowed in fire pits, horses and carts stood around the perimeter, and armed soldiers walked about. George leaned back, Yorri’s furrowed brow confirmed to George that the color left his face. Then Yorri’s curiosity pulled him to look through the opening as well. He didn’t look for as long as the knight before leaning back with a similar reaction as his master. “H-how many do you think?” Yorri asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Hard to say,” George replied, he said the words as flatly as he could to mask his own trepidation. “Guess,” Yorri said, “they’ll want that at least back at camp.” George looked at Yorri, his brow raised, a flash of his usual more lighthearted self visiting for a moment. “What? I’m right,” Yorri said, his voice getting a little louder before he realized it. He shrunk into his shoulders for a moment as they both held their breaths fearing the call of a sentry alerting the not far off war camp to their presence. None came. “I know you are,” George said softly, “so, maybe eight thousand, if I’m being a pessimist.” “And if you were being an optimist?” Yorri asked, hoping for some kind of comfort. “Seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine if we manage to capture a sentry to bring back with us.” Yorri contemplated knocking out the knight, dragging him to the enemy’s camp, and bartering for his own passage away from the coming battle. Though the impulse passed quickly. “So I take it you have a plan for capturing this sentry?” Yorri asked. “Why would I? We haven’t found one yet.” The squire stiffened his features at the reply, though knew arguing wouldn’t change it. They knelt within shouting distance of an enemy army and until a few moments ago didn’t have any concrete information about it. As if on cue from the other side of the hedgerow the pair heard the sound of armor articulating over itself that coincided with the movement of someone walking. The pair hiding looked at each other, George smirked, and Yorri rolled his eyes. The approaching soul moved slowly, with mostly regular steps. George assumed that the nearing soldier kept his focus more on the uneven ground of the field as he walked. With a heavy and silent breath George leaned again toward the small opening he made in the hedgerow. He could just make out the patrolling sentry at the edge of his field of vision. The carefully moving and well equipped soldier slowly neared their position. The knight started to do the mental calculations, both Yorri and him were lightly armed to ease their movement and make less sound. The sentry had the advantage there. They outnumbered him. Though Yorri knew the basics, up until this point had never fought outside of sparring. Without knowing more about how this soldier fought he couldn’t make an estimation of how a fight with him would fare. At the moment their best advantage remained in stealth and surprise to take their foe. He leaned back on his heels from the viewing spot. Yorri’s expression remained mostly the same, though his eyes looked at George for some reassurance. George carefully shifted closer to the younger man. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder pulling him closer to barely whisper into his ear. “It’s just one, he’s got some armor but that’s no worry. We want him alive so he’s helping us there.” “The p-plan,” Yorri barely managed to press past his lips. “When the-” he started, though cut himself off as he heard the sentry on the other side of the hedge cough loudly then spit. Their prey approached quickly, and would be past them before too long. George needed to think faster. “-sentry passes by the opening, reach out, grab him, belt’s good, ankle’s best.” Yorri’s face lost what little color remained. “Pull hard, let me do the rest.” George released his arm from around Yorri’s shoulder and leaned back on his heels slightly. “S-sir-” Yorri started before Geroge’s hand shot up and covered his mouth with his palm. The knight held them both still, listening. The sound of the careful footsteps of the patrolling sentry were gone, a deadly silence hung in the air. Beads of sweat started to roll down the sides of George’s face, catching in the stubble on his cheek left unattended due to their early morning departure from their own camp. The knight never liked to start the day without shaving, though the surprise task this morning robbed him of his usual ritual. Eventually they heard movement from beyond the hedgerow again, though not the careful steps of the sentry patrolling. The branches rustled seemingly under the inspection of a gloved hand. George’s free hand moved to his own lips, his index finger extending to carefully press against them signaling silence. The squire nodded, and George removed his hand from Yorri’s mouth. They carefully moved, Yorri closer to the opening and George just to his side. The former remained low, and the latter stood up slowly. The knight’s hand again firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, making sure it didn’t knock anything and betray their location. The sound of steps returned, though slower and more spaced. George correctly assumed the sentry’s focus now targeted the hedge and not the ground. With each step closer to them George felt his heart beat in his temples. He knew in a few steps their target would pass in front of their viewing space. Yorri would need to be quick, or their advantage would quickly be gone. After a few more steps the sound stopped, George swallowed hard. His ears straining, he heard the soft sound of a gloved hand tightening over a hilt of a sword. “Now!” George commanded as softly as he could. Yorri shot his hand through the opening, it jammed into the sentry. He first contacted a plate of the soldier’s armor, the pain of the impact rang through him, but Yorri’s hand still searched frantically for something to grip a hold of. “What the-” the sentry started. Yorris’ fingers quickly found something softer, “belt’s good,” he repeated in his head as he locked his fingers around the soldier’s belt and pulled hard. Before the sentry could finish his reactive question he felt the pull on his belt, off guard he started to fall off balance. Just as the soldier started to understand the situation George pushed himself through the hedge enough to extend his arms out and around the sentry. He locked them around the man’s neck and likewise pulled him back through the hegde. The three of them all tumbled backward, Yorri landing on his back, George on his side, and the sentry onto Yorri. A frantic movement of arms and limbs danced next to him as George quickly moved to rip off the man’s helmet. Yorri whelped under the weight of the sentry pressing him into the damp morning ground. The sentry wheezed to recover his voice from the fall and as he felt the strap of his helmet digging into the underside of his chin. With enough force the leather ripped from the rivet that attached it to the helmet. A large red imprint on the soldier’s skin showed the force required. George tossed the freed helmet aside with his left hand, and his right arm hooked around the sentry’s neck, holding it in his elbow. The knight squeezed his arm hard and brought his left hand back to grip his right wrist. With a heavy pull the sentry rolled off of Yorri, who took in a deep gasp of air, and landed on his back on top of George. The sentry gripped and clawed at the knight’s arm around his throat but still in shock and now losing air didn’t find meaningful purchase. In maybe a minute the struggling stopped, and George could feel the sentry’s body relaxing. Once he felt all movement stop he released his hold around the man’s neck. Quickly he pushed him off from on top of him. “Yorri, Yorri you dead?” The squire slowly started to pull himself up to sit, “not yet.” His voice said coarsely, his breathing more regular now. “Good,” George said before immediately moving to check their prisoner for signs of life. He leaned his cheek right above the man’s mouth, George felt shallow breaths in regular intervals against his stubbled skin. “Yorri grab the helmet, stick it back on our friend here, and help me carry him.” George commanded, his tone still quiet, but laced with the remaining adrenaline from the encounter. The squire rolled himself slightly to the side to turn his legs to the side before leaning forward to get up on fours. He scrambled to grab the helmet George tore from the sentry and did as instructed. They each hooked an arm under their prisoner’s armpits and pulled him up. Immediately they started moving back the way they originally came. The sun fully free from the horizon singled the advancing time of day, even though their whole morning to this point felt as if only a few minutes passed. “Some plan Sir,” Yorri said, through heavy breaths carrying their heavy load. “I think I broke my hand.” George gave spaced out chuckles in time with his own heavy breaths. “Where was that in my plan?”

zrrd73

Fobi Tog

Annabelle stood in line waiting anxiously as she stepped closer and closer to the front. She was waiting for the latest release of ‘No One Knows Me’. It is a book about a man living his life in the forest. Little is known about the author besides his name, Fobi Tog. He never comes to his releases. He has never done an interview. Movie producers want to make a movie about one of his books, but no one knows how to reach him. The line became shorter and shorter. Meanwhile, she had his previous book in her hands. She was hoping, just hoping that he would show up. Something about the book gave her hints. But when she made it to the front of the line, he was not there. She purchased her book, went to her car, and read the synopsis. As she drove home, she wondered, ‘Why keep yourself secret? Why wouldn’t you want people to know about you? What are you hiding?’ The next morning she had the day off so she spent her time reading the new book. She enjoyed the book. She began to picture in her head the forest inside the novel. The trees. The grass. The rocks. He began to describe a small house he built for himself. Annabelle stood up from her chair. “The best way for me to picture this is to go out into the forest and read this book.” So that is what she did. She packed a backpack with clothes, a jacket, extra shoes, and boots. She left her house and made her way to the forest. When she arrived, it was starting to rain. She put on a raincoat and started her trek through the forest. After almost three hours of walking, she came up on a small grove. She stopped to admire it. The more she looked at this grove, the more it started to seem familiar. She pulled her book out and started flipping through the pages. She stopped and read a paragraph. The large opening of the forest is where I spend most of my time. The space is amazing. I feel free. Trees surround it. Rocks make great furniture. I have a small fire in the middle where I can cook and keep warm. To the north is a perfectly shaded area for me to escape the sun's rays and keep me dry from the rain. Annabelle read the paragraph and then looked above her. The same shaded area that was mentioned in the book is right above her. The rain had stopped but was still dripping down the trees. She looked to the middle and found the fire and rocks that was used to sit on. A moment of confusion came over her. Then she realized. She looked at the paragraph again. It was written in first person. She pulled her backpack up and pulled out another book. This one was written in the third person. It was quiet around her, except for birds chirping and frogs croaking. For the most part, she ignored those sounds. But then a crunch of leaves spooked her. She quickly jumped to her feet and turned around. She couldn’t see anything except for the foliage. She heard another footstep. This one some sticks cracked. Each second the footsteps came closer and closer. Her heart was racing. She panicked and stepped back. She knew to be careful not to make any sound. She was about eight feet from the area where she heard the footsteps coming from. Then she saw that her book was still sitting on a rock. “Oh no,” she whispered. She took large steps back towards the book. When she placed her hand on the book, the vines in front of her opened up. Annabelle froze. She looked up slowly. She saw where the vines started to split. She saw a large, hairy hand on one side. Up a little further she saw an ape-like face. A rounded chin, an upward pointed nose, big black eyes, and a wild mane. The figure staring back at her was also frozen in fear. Thirty seconds went by before Annabelle screamed in terror. She had realized she was face-to-face with what she thought was an urban legend. Bigfoot. She gripped her book, pulled it close, and ran off. She leaped over a rock and went through a section of trees. “Wait!.” Bigfoot shouted. He has a deep gritty voice. One that almost sounded cartoonish. Annabelle stopped. Her eyes widened. Did I just hear that? She thought to herself. She turned around and slowly walked back. “Did. Did you just speak?” She asked even though she thought she was crazy for asking such a question. “Did you?” Bigfoot replied. Annabelle screamed again. She tried to hide behind a large rock. “What are you doing here?” Bigfoot asked. Annabelle peeked around the rock. She was shaking in fear. She stared dumbfounded at the large creature across the grove. “I, I am looking for a friend.” She replied lying to him. “What are you really doing here?” Bigfoot replied. Annabelle took a step out from behind the large rock. “This might sound a little crazy,” she said. “I was reading this book and wanted to get the full experience, so I came out here to the forest to read and happened to come across this grove. Then I noticed that it’s the same place in the book. Then you showed up.” Bigfoot stepped into the grove and sat down on the rock under the shade. He put down a stack of wood he was carrying. “I heard you in here and thought you were my assistant.” Annabelle looked confused. She sat down on the rock she was hiding behind. “You have an assistant?” She asked. “Well, yeah. I write the book, Peter edits, prints, and even publishes it. If word got out that I am the one writing these books the whole world would go mad. Peter does all the leg work for me. He takes all the profit because what am I gonna do with it?” He said with a chuckle. He stood up and walked over to a small hut he made. He pulled out a typewriter that was altered to fit his fingers. As they were talking, a sound came from behind Annabelle. She turned around to see Peter. “Oh boy.” He said. Bigfoot raised his arms at his shoulder height. “It’s okay. She's friendly.” He sat back down on the rock and looked at Annabelle. “You do know you can’t tell anyone, right?” “If word got out that Bigfoot is real, the world would go mad. He would have to go into hiding and would never write another book again.” Peter explained. Annabelle had a confused look on her face. She looked at the book she was holding it. She was enjoying the books and the stories. “Okay. But you are gonna want to stay away from writing in the first person. That is one giveaway that something might be out here.” “Told you,” Peter said toward Bigfoot. Annabelle’s expression changed as if a light went off above her head. She looked at the cover of the book in her hand. “Fobi Tog. Is that an anagram for Bigfoot?” She asked as she made eye contact with Bigfoot. “Has no one figured that out?” Bigfoot looked at her and replied. “You would be surprised how many things are hidden in this world that people haven’t found if they aren’t looking for it.”

rihvwz

Lady in Red

Can I have everyone’s attention, please? The spokesperson said, now standing, as he clinked the side of his water glass. “That’s my cue for the bathroom,” Amaya said to Roberto, her assistant and table mate. “I don’t blame you he said,” as he gave an eye roll. “I need to go and get back before they call me on stage.” Amaya was set to receive an award on behalf of her company for its generous donation and for all the volunteering efforts the employees gave for several of the charity’s campaigns. She liked to give herself a pep talk along with a once over in the mirror before she got up on stage. * I can’t breathe in this; I can’t wait to rip it off, she complained as she walked up the hallway in search of the bathroom. Amaya was wearing a sleeveless, silk-red evening gown that hugged all her curves. Her neck was adorned with a white accent scarf, decorated in red flowers. It was great for the occasion, but not for the extra 5 pounds she gained since purchasing the dress. Where the heck is the bathroom ? After about 5 minutes of wandering, she heard muffled voices in a room just ahead on the right, and she decided to head in that direction. “No! We will do it the way we planned,” a dark-haired man said, flailing his arms in frustration. “It won’t work, someone is guarding the donation box,” a young man dressed in a server’s uniform said. “Use a diversion, whatever you need to do, just do it,” he snapped back.  She listens from the doorway for a few minutes, clearly realizing this isn’t anywhere she should be. Hey, what are you doing? The dark-haired man snapped. “Umm…I was just looking for the bathroom,” Amaya said. “It’s not in here,” the young server said. “Hey, chill out man,” a long blonde-haired man said, swatting the dark-haired, snappy man on the shoulder as he came to the door. It’s down that hall and to the left he told me, gesturing with his left hand.” “Okay, thank you,” Amaya said with a wave of her hand. She took off in the opposite direction, no longer having to use the bathroom. “Excuse me,” Amaya said to the tall man, with a wired earbud in his ear, who stood guard at the door to their banquet room. “Yes, the man says as he looks down at me.” “I think someone is trying to steal the box of donations. There are a bunch of men talking about it in another room, I can show you,” she spits out without pausing. The tall man said, “I see. Come with me so you can tell your story to the head of security.” Amaya follows the man up the main hall, turning right at the end of the first, and then left. “Right in here,” he says pointing into a small room that looked like a janitor’s closet. Amaya dips her head in the doorway, “there’s no one in here,” she says attempting to retreat from the room. “Well now you are,” the man says he grasps her arm and shoves her into the room. “Hey, let go of me,” Amaya says. Her words become muffled as he shoves a napkin in her mouth, holds it there with one hand and grabs tape with his other. “This should do it,” he says as he stands back and looks at Amaya. Her mouth was adorned with duct tape, and her arms and legs were tied to the chair she was seated in. “Now don’t you go anywhere,” he said as he slipped out the door.                                                          * “And now, I’d like to introduce you to one of our most valuable donors, One Thread Ahead . If your representative, Ms. Domingo, would please join us on stage.” The audience looks around as the spotlight falls on a man standing at a back table. But it was not Amaya. “Sorry everyone, I’m not your guy, or in this case, your girl.” The crowd chuckled as the man sat back down. “Well, it seems she’s not here at the moment, so we will continue with our schedule of events,” the spokesperson said after a few more moments. The night continued: No one seemed to be concerned that she was missing in action, except Roberto. * Roberto looked down at his watch, the speeches had been over for at least 20 minutes, and Amaya still had not returned. Excusing himself from the table, Roberto began wandering the hotel halls in search of Amaya. He peeked in the banquet halls across from theirs, the hotel lobby bar, and the women’s bathroom, which had no line. Amaya was nowhere, it was as if she had vanished.  WHERE ARE YOU?!? Roberto texted for the 3 rd time. Sighing, he turns and heads back to the banquet hall. Back inside the room, servers are at each table collecting empty dishes. A young server, dressed in black and white, approached Roberto and Amaya’s table as Roberto was about 50 feet from it. The red coming from his pocket caught Roberto’s eye. “Gotcha suckers! I am coming for you Amaya!” Roberto silently cheered as he sat down and waited for the perfect moment.                                            *          *Ping* Amaya’s phone went off again in the clutch that lay on the table across from her. Her tied hands, which had long since gone numb, prevented her from reaching it, well that and the fact that she couldn’t lift herself up with the chair attached, even so, she still attempted to reach her phone. Her toes aching in protest when she tried to push her feet against the chair to lean herself forward .  Whoa! Don’t do that again . She almost fell over. That wouldn’t have been good. Giving up she sat and sat. With sweat dripping down her face, she sighed, not knowing how long she’d been in there, only that it had been too long for her, and she was ready to go. Roberto, please find me and fast! *              Roberto followed the young waiter as he exited the banquet room. The man must have felt that he was being watched because he turned around and looked at Roberto with suspicion in his eyes. His look changed into one of servitude as he said, “Can I help you with something?” “Yes, I need a refill of my sweet tea,” Roberto said as charmingly as he could. “I am sure one of the other servers in the room would love to get that for you,” the young server remarked. “You know what, you’re probably right, let me go find someone else,” Roberto said as he turned away. Thank goodness for all those magic tricks I did as a kid , Roberto thought as he pocked the keys and walk-ran toward the closest locked door. Not it. For the next half hour, Roberto went from door to door trying every key in each locked door. *                             Amaya’s breath catches at the sound of a key turning in the door, as she attempts to hold back a whimper. Amaya! Thank God,” Roberto says as he rushes through the door.              “What took you so long?” Amaya says as soon as the tape is pulled from her mouth. “I pulled the keys off his side, we only have a few minutes, they’ll be looking for me soon, I’ll explain later,” he said as he pulled at the knots in the rope. “Just cut them,” Amaya shrieked. “Do you think I have a knife in my back pocket, we are at a charity fundraiser for goodness’ sake.” “There’s got to be something in this room. Look over there,” Amaya said, pointing to a closet full of cleaning supplies and other odds and ends. Mop, bucket, broom, trash bags and spray bottles were all he saw as he scanned the area. “Not seeing anything.” He called out. Keep looking! She called back. “Ahaa found a box cutter,” he said as he grabbed it out of a small box on the lone shelf. “Great, now come on,” she urged.  Roberto sliced the knots with vigorous precision. Less than 5 minutes later, Amaya was free, and they were running through the open door. “There they are!” The dark-haired man yells to one of the other men.              Roberto grabs Amaya’s wrist as they race toward the front door.              Amaya is pulled backward as her free arm is snatched by the door guard, causing Roberto to fall backward on her.              “Hey, what’s going on here?” An officer says rushing towards the couple.              The door guard, still behind the two of them, says, “Nothing, nothing at all,” as he lets go of her arm and runs out the double doors, followed shortly after by the long-haired blonde man and none other than their young server. 

0gv6t3

Eaves Dropped Conversation

Giles sat in class on creative writing. The class had been great Giles had learnt so much about creative writing in a few weeks. Now they were going to be given homework for next week’s class. They were in the Farnborough Further Education College. The class were sitting in the canteen, well it was really lots of vending machines, at this time in the evening you could sample any chocolate bar you wanted at highly inflated prices. The healthy options that were advertised everywhere were all finished. The class got themselves plastic coffee, hot chocolate, and tea from the vending machines. Or there was the inflated costed water. At the end of our break, we all made our way back to the classroom to await our homework for next week. We all sat patiently waiting for our assignment. The teacher Mr Ronald walked into the class room smiling. ‘I want you to put on your listening hats this week. When you go a restaurant, on a train, or anywhere public listen out for conversations that are going on, eavesdrop, and write a story about the conversation that you heard. Do you all understand this?’ A few hands went up, but we understood that we had to eavesdrop on a conversation and write a story about it. The class ended a few minutes later. We all discussed how we were going to eavesdrop. ‘I have a journey on a train this week to go to Weymouth. Trains are always a good place to overhear conversations that can be on mobile phones or person to person.; Looking forward to my journey to Weymouth, took a pad with me and a good pen. My train left early in the morning and there were no good candidates on the train until we got to Southampton. Then the train filled up and I got my listening ears on. But there was nothing juicy reached Weymouth, went about my business then caught the train back again. I sat in my seat waiting for a good conversation. The train gradually filled up until it got to Bournemouth. Then with a full carriage my listening ears were on. The first conversation I heard was about last night in bed and how good my husband is. That did not last long the two women got off at the next station. But the two people that got onto the train then were a goldmine. They started talking about the shop-lifting that they had done that day in Bournemouth. They estimated that they had cleared at least five thousand pounds worth of gear. Then they talked about how they were going to sell their gear to. They were going to be met at the station in Southampton. The train stopped at Southampton; the couple got off dragging two suitcases behind them. I got off of the train as well, keeping well back I adjusted my camera to get the best possible photograph of the handover. Sure, enough the two women were met just after the barriers by two men. I took a few snaps with my camera. These would get sent to the police later. I ran back to the train and got back to my old seat. This time a man and woman were sitting behind me. I kept hoping for a good conversation. I was not disappointed. Once the train pulled out of the station, they started talking about the scam they were carrying out on my further education college. They were submitting false claims for milage that they were undertaking but they never went anywhere. Every claim was small but they did not want to attract any attention, thus small and many were far better than large claims. They were claiming between four and five claims a week. Making in the region of two hundred pounds a week. This had been going on for the past six months. Doing a quick calculation in my head that worked out to about five thousand two hundred pounds. That would make a massive hole in the budget of the college and it could end up with the college being shut down. I needed to get some photographs of who these people were. I stood up and walked to the toilet pretending to talk on my mobile. I made all the correct sounds then I walked back holding my mobile up and filming the passengers as I passed them. The man and woman in the seat behind me are on the film. That pleased me. The train on and the conversation about how they were robbing the school became even more interesting with names of other scams that were going on. These people were making serious money with their scams going on all over the town. Names were being mentioned, some of them were known to me. My interest was the leader of the gang. The conversation continued and my notebook was filling up quickly. Then they said it the name of the ring leader. Ian Ronald, that is our class tutor. It is an inside job being run by a lecturer. Need to contact the police and let them know what is going on with these scams. The train arrives at Basingstoke station, this is where change trains to get to Farnborough, the man and woman have got off of the train as well. Trying to look casual, use my mobile and check X. My notebook is in my bag hidden away. The man and woman who were discussing the scam sit on the platform seat next to me. Try to look calm and not get nervous. Put my mobile into my inside pocket of my jacket. The train to Farnborough pulls into the platform. Casually get up and walk to the train and get on. Making sure that am nowhere near the couple have been overhearing. The train leaves Basingstoke and arrives at Farnborough. Stay on the train and go to Woking and then on to Aldershot station. Go to the police station and tell them all about my story. They take a copy of the video of the pair of crooks. On Monday go back to college and the creative writing course. The police had told me to say nothing about what was overheard. They said that they would deal with matters in their way. They would not say what they were going to do. Back in class Mr Ronald ask for each person to describe what they had overheard. Talked about going to Weymouth and the items that were overheard. Did not mention anything about the scam. Five minutes later the police knock at the classroom door, they have come with the principal to arrest Mr Ronald. Mr Ronald starts shouting and getting very upset about being arrested in his classroom. The class all watch as Mr Ronald is handcuffed and lead away by the police still shouting that he is innocent. 

60xcf9

Archeology Of Enlightenment

July 17, 2164, Zion National Park, Utah Dr. Jaden Reynolds A decade ago, during a research expedition in Thailand, I met my future husband while working on our thesis in the monastery of Wat Mahathat, also called the 'Temple of Relics.'  We shared a lighthearted moment that marked the beginning of our relationship. As I stooped to brush the dirt off the ancient stone tablet, a voice behind me said, "Careful. Those tablets are known to cast a love spell on archaeologists." I turned around to see a charming smile on the face of a fellow student. "In that case," I teased, "I should be extra careful around you." We both laughed, and that encounter began a lifelong journey together. ***** Hewn out of the mountains and camouflaged to blend with the rocky cliffs of the reddish-brown mesas, the installation stands as a citadel erected to safeguard thousands of priceless volumes. Perched like an eagle of justice at the convergence of—the Colorado Plateau, the Great Basin, and the Mojave Desert, it forms a unique geomorphic location on the Markagunt and Kolob plateaus. Here, we protect, restore, and catalog forbidden books in a state-of-the-art literary laboratory, The Library Of Lost Knowledge. We are a stronghold of resistance, sequestered in stone, hidden from the government's propaganda. Every day, I watch as the sun descends below the cliffs, the sky transitions into a dusky purple, and the stars twinkle, dancing in the heavens. Zion is a spiritual place. For generations, my kin have been dedicated to serving as park rangers in this area, working in harmony with nature and safeguarding the precious artifacts found here. Our family cottage, carved from Navajo sandstone in 1934, is nestled near the Archaeology Trailhead. The architecture seems born from the whimsical imagination of Dr. Seuss in the children's storybooks we've recovered. As an archaeologist and literary historian, I'm acutely aware of the power of culture and stories, both real and imagined. This act of defiance to find and protect these books could cost me everything, even the person I hold dearest, my husband. Together, we stand as a beacon of light, illuminating humanity in our fight for the right to knowledge, truth, and free dissemination of information. Despite the constant threat of discovery, the key to restoring our culture lies within the pages of these long, forgotten books. In the early days of universal knowledge, we could possess any book, read, write, and learn without restrictions. Our internet connection granted us unlimited access to data, and we could even receive daily Bible passages on our smartphones. In 2076, the Bible was outlawed as the first book to be banned, despite being the most widely read and influential book ever written. Here, we hold the only pristine copy that once belonged to the last Pope, carefully preserved in the Vatican collection. This event marked the beginning of the end for the literary and religious worlds as we knew it, as it prohibited people from accessing their faith. All other religious texts were forbidden, choking off the only thing we had left: our beliefs and hopes. The freedom of speech, religion, and information, which had always kept society stable, was compromised. ****** Our troops swiftly unloaded the cargo, setting the chopper down and landing on the helipad. It was a treasure trove of fiction and self-help books unearthed by my husband, Dr. Benjamin Reynolds, and our team of rebels on the outskirts of New York. The Dusty Tome Archives  were sanctuaries for works initially rejected by publishing houses or deemed unworthy by the government. The books were either burned or left to rot in these remote repositories, one in every state. It was a miraculous find—the fading handwritten notes, published works, and manuscripts of some of the world's most revered authors. The collection contained the original works of female literary giants such as J.K. Rowling, Jane Austen, and Agatha Christie, all of whom were dismissed by publishers and critics at some point. I gently removed the layers of dust and debris with my brush, holding my breath with expectation and curiosity. "Unbelievable," I whispered to Benjamin in the glow of the brightly lit, clean chamber. "The world thought these works were lost forever, but here they are, waiting to be rediscovered." The first novel extracted from the container for restoration was 'Dune,' published in 1965; as I turned its yellowed pages with my gloved fingers, I felt an odd connection with a central character. Dr. Liet-Kynes, a planetary botanist and ecologist, becomes entangled in the natural processes he seeks to manipulate to aid the native population by altering the climate. The parallels between the planet Arrakis, our current political and natural environment, and this acclaimed sci-fi work were uncanny. I felt a profound kinship with this long-forgotten author, Frank Herbert, who writes that the character Dr. Liet-Kynes reflects while his planet was killing him that scientists had it all wrong, "The most persistent principles of the universe were likely accident and error." Despite facing 23 rejections, Herbert's commitment paid off, and it became the bestselling science-fiction novel ever, a testament to the power of the pen and imagination. The next book pulled from the archives was " The Chronicles of Rejection." I was stunned to discover that so many famous authors had obstacles and rejection in bringing their works to life, and I began to understand more about the journey of publishing and being an author. "Wow, did you know that Margaret Mitchell had 38 rejections before 'Gone With the Wind' was published?" I asked Benjamin, shocked to learn she had struggled for so long. "That's impressive she stuck with it, especially considering the period. Margaret's such an inspiring example of a strong female, just like you," Benjamin said, grinning. "Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen's self-help book Chicken Soup for the Soul was rejected 144 times before publication. Incredibly, they didn't give up," I said, eagerly turning to the next page for more insights. "We can sure relate to pushing forward in the wake of numerous setbacks. That's exactly what we've been doing for the past ten years. It was a risky trip, but we made it back," Benjamin said, sorting the inventory of books into categories. I smiled at his enthusiasm, nodded, and said, "We have a monumental task ahead of us, my love. But I don't doubt these books will find their place in the world again. We will ensure that they do." I continued reading aloud from the pages, finding a fascinating rejection letter dated back to 1925. Moberley Luger of the publishing house Peacock & Peacock addressed the 26-year-old author, Ernest Hemingway, expressing critical feedback on his work, " The Sun Also Rises ." The letter dripped with Luger's disdain for the author's writing style, "If I may be frank—you certainly are in your prose—I found your efforts tedious and offensive. You really are a man's man, aren't you? I wouldn't be surprised to hear that you had penned this entire story locked up at the club, ink in one hand, brandy in the other. Your bombastic, dipsomaniac, where-to-now characters had me reaching for my own glass of brandy." Benjamin said, "It proves that success in writing often comes after facing uphill battles and punctuated by lots of rejection." "It's all so fascinating," I said, realizing that "The Sun Also Rises" alludes to Ecclesiastes 1:5: Generations come, and generations go, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and sets and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. We seek contentment in things that don't provide it. By nature, entertainment, lust, and wine provide only a momentary dulling of our senses, leaving us longing for something more meaningful." "It's beautiful like you, Jaden; you mean everything to me. You're the reason behind everything I do," Benjamin whispered as he gently caressed my face before tenderly kissing my lips. I hugged him tight, feeling his strength, warmth, and passion. Looking into his eyes, I said, "Recovering these precious books has inspired me to pen our story, the Archaeology Of Enlightenment . I hope that long after we're gone, explorers will stumble upon the Library Of Lost Knowledge, discover  our history, and understand why we created it here." ****** Two hundred years later….. As the sun blazed down onto the rocky faces of the Markagunt and Kolob plateaus, a group of Librarian explorers made their way through the wild terrain of southwestern Utah. Their quest had led them to this remote landscape, where towering sandstone cliffs and alien rock formations surrounded them. After days of trekking and climbing, the team finally found a hidden artificial grotto within Zion National Park. They discovered an archaic library, its shelves lined with weathered tomes etched with the patina of time. The air was thick with the musty redolence of age-old papers. The only sound was the faintest howl of the wind against the mountains. This secret library, silenced by the government, was a fossil frozen in time, its stillness echoing the knowledge left behind. The remnants of literary history are illuminated by tiny shafts of sunlight filtering through the natural fissures in the cavern walls. The first book they unearthed was "Archaeology Of Enlightenment " by Dr. Jaden Reynolds, who co-founded the Library Of Lost Knowledge . As they pored over the mysteries hidden within the rocky chambers, the explorers realized they had stumbled upon a Garden Of Eden, a repository from long-past civilizations that had lost and found enlightenment. Authors note: This story is dedicated to my niece Aja, who just graduated with a Master's in Archeology.

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The Scrolls

13.8 billion years ago, life was not as we know it. The universe was waiting for the Big Bang to get things started. At least – this is what we are led to believe in ‘Theory’. Contrary to belief, life was abundant before the Big Bang. Our galaxy hadn’t been created yet, but there were many other galaxies, some with superior life and some without. The less advanced were about the level of where the human race was mid-1500 but most galaxies were vastly superior. Our current human life form would have seemed a very primitive form of life compared to the superior species; like comparing the brain of a goldfish to the brain of Albert Einstein. However, although these ancient species were light years ahead of our understanding and capabilities, there was one unfortunate trait that almost all intelligent life shares the desire for - power. These superior beings were no exception. At that time, the universe was governed by a committee formed from a select few of the most advanced civilisations. One powerful species was unhappy to be excluded from this committee and declared war. A few of the ruling civilisation leaders had the foresight to seal a few advanced cells in the hope of survival. These cells contained the knowledge of billions of years of evolution and the selected leaders with the cells travelled in sealed capsules, hoping that the capsules would somehow survive the war and make their way to a new universe. The war was over as quickly as it had started. There was a button pressed followed by a catastrophic explosion. The ‘Big Bang’ occurred. The shockwaves sent the capsules through space where they travelled for time eternal until they settled on newly formed planets. The leaders attempted to create life from various life forms such as plankton, with many failures. Eventually, one cell survived and flourished after 13.7 billion years, give or take. Evolution in our universe began, all thanks to one cell from an extinct universe. My new powers kicked in and I ran as fast as I could. I was, once again, at one with my surroundings. I could not only see the animals below on the plateau but I could also hear them. They knew something was about to happen and they were probably more scared than excited. In no time at all, I had travelled a great distance and I let my intuition tell me where and when to change direction. I soon found myself at the bottom of a steep rock face with an amazing, thunderous waterfall. The best I could describe it was like the old Tarzan movies I used to watch when I was a child. You know the one where Tarzan dives in from a great height and ends up fighting with a crocodile. There was heavy undergrowth all around leading up to the rock face, probably enough to cover at least two football pitches. There was a small lake, which was fed by the waterfall, and all around the lake were all the colours known to man in the shape of the most beautiful foliage. The waterfall was approximately sixty metres high and to see the top I had to angle my head as far back as physically possible. I knew what I had to do, so I went straight over and stood under the waterfall with its full torrent crashing onto my head and shoulders. The force was incredible and no ordinary man could have sustained the pressure, but then I was no ordinary man. Instinctively, I started to climb up the rock face, against the waterfall until, eventually, the rock face started to angle inwards and the water stopped trying to force me back down. When I was about three-quarters up the rock face and the waterfall was falling about ten feet behind me, I came upon a ledge. I now had goosebumps, and it wasn’t from being cold and wet. The ledge led deep into the rock face and I knew it had many tunnels leading from the initial entrance. I could feel the heat being generated from the rocks inside the cave. I sat and closed my eyes hoping for some divine intervention that would tell me what to do next but there was nothing. Whatever I had to do or find wasn’t going to just pop out at me so I got up and walked further into the cave. I guessed that whatever I was going to find was going to be further inside as this was naturally the safest place; but then who else could climb up the waterfall to reach this? I walked further in and instead of getting darker, I was able to see more clearly the deeper I went. It was, if anything, warmer and brighter. My hair was virtually dry, and my clothes were damp and not soaking as they were two minutes ago. I looked around at my surroundings and took a mental note of all that I could see. There were five tunnels leading from the main cave, creating a hand shape in my mind. I was surprised by the fact that there were no stalagmites or stalactites considering I was standing under a waterfall, but I suppose that this was due to the heat that was constantly being emitted from the internal rock face. Logically, I chose the tunnel of the index finger to explore first. The tunnel was about fifteen metres long only and at the end was a room, about half the size of the main cave, only this room had been worked on. The rock face was smooth with drawings of shapes covering the walls. I didn’t recognise the shapes or understand the significance or importance of them. I retraced my steps and returned to the main cave or the palm, as I would later refer to it. I looked around at each of the tunnel entrances and felt drawn to the ‘thumb’ tunnel. I knew this was the one from my dream the previous night. I walked along whilst letting my hand rub the length of the wall on the way down the tunnel. This one was about fifteen, maybe twenty, metres long with a room at the end. This time, the walls were not as smooth as the previous rooms. These walls had many holes in them, and in each hole, was a rolled-up parchment. I took out a parchment and saw that it was covered in symbols, like the ones on the previous smooth wall, probably some form of ancient writing. Where to start? The last thing I wanted to do was to read them in the wrong order. I walked around the room with approximately forty holes on each wall. I lifted the first scroll from the highest hole left to the room entrance and started to read the ancient text. The parchment felt like but wasn’t paper. It was stronger than anything I had held before. I couldn’t tear it if I had wanted to. The cave was warm and humid. There should have been some water damage to the scroll, but it was undamaged. This information was made to last for eternity. I turned it over and started to look at the inscription, half expecting to see something like hieroglyphics and be unable to understand what was left for me to read. The writing may not have been legible to most people, but I knew what it was telling me and when I started reading, I found that I was unable to stop. I just kept going from scroll to scroll with the need for knowledge and that need was being quenched beyond my dreams, and I was having some incredible dreams. The scrolls were one-sided, so it didn’t take too long to finish one wall. As the last scroll on the first wall was close to the ground, I found myself sitting down and reading it repeatedly. It summarised the previous scrolls and what they had to tell. I smiled and got up, took a quick run and then dived through the waterfall and into the lake. Life was good and it was about to get so much better, for everyone. I caught up with the others just in time for supper. After our meal, we sat with a bottle or two of wine around the campfire. Sara cosied up to me, and we relaxed and started to talk. “OK, I appreciate the questions that must be flowing in your head. I'll tell you all I know and get you up to speed. Remember, this is new to me so I don't have any answers, only guesswork when it comes to the unknown, and there are a lot of unknown questions that are about to flow through your heads.” The others nodded and agreed that they would let me tell my story until I was finished. “When I arrived here, I knew that something special was happening. I was destined to be here” “You witnessed some of my abilities but there has been so much more that I have kept to myself. All my senses are heightened, to an exaggerated level.” I paused, but the others kept their promise and waited for me to continue “I can hear sounds from miles away and, if I focus, can see the animals making the sounds. My senses are filled with the smells from the surrounding areas as far as the eye can see. Up on this mountain, I can even taste things that are miles away. I can’t explain it and I’m sure at the end of this Jonathan, there are related questions that you will start with” I noted that Jonathan had pen to paper. “My senses have been heightened but I think my brain is still operating at the same level. I took out all the soldiers with a branch when I could just take the guns from them. I just keep forgetting how best to use my newly found abilities.” Jonathan stopped writing and was about to speak, but Sara held a finger up to her mouth to keep him silent. She knew that something bigger was about to be revealed and she didn’t want Jonathan to start with his questions yet, not until she had heard everything I had to say. “Remember when you were at the oasis and I was away following my instincts? Well, my instincts were right as I came across something that, even for me, was quite mind-blowing” The others were still quiet but their faces were screaming at me for more. “I was led to a place (I decided that even, though they were my best friends, the place should remain anonymous) that contained all the answers. Scrolls of information about where my ancestors came from and how humans had evolved from the end of the universe, that I came from. The scrolls give the history of our universe and the history of other universes that are completely unknown to mankind” I stopped talking for the others to take in this new information. “What do you mean ‘your ancestors?” Sara asked quite anxiously. I held up my hand this time to try and explain a bit more. “In this place, there are three walls filled with scrolls. The scrolls are written on some indestructible material that I am unfamiliar with and the writing/symbols are unlike any language I have seen yet, I was able to understand them quite easily. I read one wall completely and I revealed the information I have just told you.” I looked at my companions and they nodded for me to carry on. “This is going to be the ‘hard-to-understand’ part of the story, I and my mother came from a different galaxy that is no more. My mother, if I have read the scrolls right, evolved life here on Earth. She arrived, I have no idea when, but I’m guessing it was well before T-Rex and started to experiment with genetics until she was able to start a species and from there, she continued to make various other species, each one more complex and evolved than the previous.” I stopped here because I understood that this was a lot to take in. “The scrolls don’t read like normal books, they all may look like being a page long but whilst one may take ten minutes to read, another may take hours to read, until the explanation is reached. The ancient symbols mean so much more than words. I can’t explain better than this right now, all I know is that I have two more walls to read and they could take anything from a day to twenty years to read depending on the symbols. Does any of this make sense?”  I looked around at the others. Jonathan sat with a heavily wrinkled forehead and Jack just sat twiddling his thumbs but listening intently. Sara looked at me and there was something sad in her eyes, I don’t know if it was because she just found out that her boyfriend was an alien or maybe just that she didn’t expect me to stay with her once this was all over. This was a question I planned to address myself when Jonathan was finished with his inevitable questions.  “So, what I’m saying is that my mother created life here on Earth. I have the information to continue what she had started, and my destiny here is to continue her work but also to re-filter the genetics to eradicate the unwanted genes” “Whoa, there Luke. Eradicate the unwanted genes, what the hell does that mean? Are you planning a large genocidal wipe-out of humans?” asked Jonathan. I tried not to burst into laughter “That’s not what I mean Jonathan. I’m talking about taking out certain genes, cancers etc. that my mother never had time to do. I believe she died a few Millennia before I was born, yeah, I know, and she never had the time to change what she had created. She never knew the effects of her changes until they happened so obviously this is a very time-consuming process but I believe that time is something that I have in abundance. I think now is the time for the first set of questions so that we can move on, and I mean physically as well as emotionally.” Jack spoke first, which must have irked Jonathan. “Is there any point continuing to look for the mother-load? I mean, I’d love to be rich and all, and help Jonathan’s centres but even I can see that this thing happening with you is so much more than getting a few diamonds. Imagine if you could end all diseases, then we wouldn’t need the centres in the first place. Hell, we wouldn’t need Jonathan for that matter.” Jack laughed and gave Jonathan a friendly shove. Jonathan finally got his turn, so he turned back a few pages to begin his inquisition… Jonathan started with an answer to Jack’s remark of not needing centres or himself for that matter. “The fact remains, no matter how good Luke is and if he can wipe out all disease, the problem is that this can’t happen by flicking his fingers. Developing genes and taking out certain cells that cause diseases within the body will take years, maybe even centuries, even for Luke. The people out there around all corners of the world will still be dying or suffering and so the centres are still vital, as are people like me.” We all looked at Jonathan and nodded at his wise young head. I knew he was right and that it would take a long time to tamper with certain genes. My mother took at least two hundred thousand years and a few more thousand with Mother Nature just for us to get this far. I let Jonathan know he was on the right track with his synopsis, though I didn’t tell him just how long it would take. “Luke, do you want to answer the questions as I ask them?" I pondered this over and decided it was better to, considering how many pages Jonathan was holding. “Right then, the first question is – do you know the planet or even the galaxy that your mother came from?” I laughed at this as I thought at Least Jonathan would keep it medically based and the other two would be the ones to go off on an alien tangent. “No, I have no idea where we, my mum and I, come from. I know that the scrolls tell me that my mother travelled for a very long time though how long is not stipulated. Others travelled at the same time and again I don’t know if she travelled with any of them or they travelled alone or even if she travelled with me or maybe I was born here and possibly, some half-breed. I know that we have all evolved from her genes and the genes she brought with her that contained the necessary cells for the chance to evolve whatever life form that they came across.” ‘Next question please’. “Whoa there Luke, surely you must have had the urge to read more." I tried not to get angry but remained calm as this was taking longer than required. “As I said earlier. The scrolls can take a very long time to read. They are not labelled in such a way that I can choose to read the order in which I want to learn. I must read them in the order that I have started and sensing that you were in danger took priority over me gaining the knowledge of my genetics and family tree. Besides, like I said, the scrolls can take a very long time to read so I need to return them as soon as it is right and safe for you guys. No offense but I have all the time in the world now.”

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Uncle Arthur’s Many Secrets

From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 5:36pm, July 18, 2024 Subject: This weekend Hey Andy, Just letting you know that I can’t make your BBQ this weekend. I was looking forward to having a few beers with you and the guys and maybe playing a few hands of poker once the eating is done, but I have to head to Albany in the morning. Remember my Uncle Arthur? Don’t worry, I don’t either. (Well, a little.) Anyway, he passed away a few days ago and his sister - my Aunt Bonnie out in Wisconsin - contacted me this morning to inform me that he left “certain assets” to me in his will. Most intriguing! I won’t know the details for a while but Bonnie begged me to go to his house in Albany right away to take care of his cats and locate some important documents in his library. (My recently-deceased uncle who named me in his will was wealthy enough to have a personal library? The plot thickens…) Anyway, I’m packing a bag and planning to stay up there for a little while to help manage affairs at the house and work with Bonnie on the local funeral arrangements while she lines up a flight over the next few days. Not much else to do at the moment as I await my next work assignment but I should be back by this time next week. In the meantime, you know how to reach me. Tell the boys I said hola. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:48pm, July 18, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Sorry you can’t make it this weekend. Me and the guys will look forward to the next poker game after you score your big inheritance. Crazy news, man. Barely known rich uncle dies and leaves you a possible fortune? The stuff of legends…or daydreams? LOL. Anyway, good luck there. (Don’t forget your old college roommate when you strike it rich!) See you when you get back. Talk soon man. Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 6:12pm, July 20, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Andy, Greetings from gloomy Albany! Hasn’t stopped raining since I got here. Also, I’m fairly certain these cats are plotting my demise. Other than that, things are fine and the house is basically a smallish mansion. Listen to this, while searching for the documents that my Aunt Bonnie asked me to find for her in the library I found some really interesting old books. I think we might have some pretty rare first editions here, plus some other really strange stuff. I need to do a little web research tonight to try to figure out what I’m looking at but I’ll let you know. As a newly-minted Ivy League literature professor I thought you would be interested. Maybe I will come home with a copy of In Cold Blood signed by Capote for you? - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 11:22am, July 21, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Very interesting! Bring home a signed Capote first edition for me and we can totally forget about that $80 Venmo request I sent you for golf last week. Seriously though, that sounds really amazing. Looking forward to hearing more. Andy p.s. The guys all say hello and they missed your "easy money" at the poker game last night. (Their words, not mine.) ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 9:52pm, July 22, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Andy, In addition to Capote’s In Cold Blood , so far I have already found four more signed first edition iconic novels; Heart of Darkness, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Illustrated Man and - hold on to your hat here - A Tale of Two Cities ! No telling if the autographs are legit but I don’t know why my uncle would be hoarding counterfeit-signed copies in his home library. More research necessary here but I have attached photos of the covers, bindings and the author-signed pages in each. The library has floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books on three walls and I have only checked out about a third of them so far. Stay tuned! - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 9:36am, July 23, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Okay listen. Just give me the Dickens novel and not only will I cancel the $80 Venmo request, but golf is on me for the rest of the year. I think that’s a fair deal. Seriously man, I just did a quick bit of Googling here and those books do look like legit first edition copies and the signatures look right too. Usually people take these sort of things to Sotheby’s or Christie’s, where they employ rare book experts who can authenticate them properly. Even if they’re not going to be put up for sale this is probably a good idea, just to officially document these historical items. Can’t wait to hear what you find next. I’m seriously on the edge of my seat here! Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 11:45pm, July 24, 2024 Subject: Okay, this is getting weird now… Andy, Forget about the signed first editions. I am into some strange new terrain here. Yesterday I found a number of extremely interesting books way up on one of the top shelves I hadn’t explored yet. Listen to this. I found a copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls by William Faulkner. Yes, William Faulkner! And it wasn’t just a different author’s name transposed onto the cover. It was the same third-person omniscient narrative of the Spanish Civil War, only it wasn’t written in the short staccato sentence styles and brief paragraphing of Hemingway but the long, leisurely prose of Faulkner. I’m not even a fan of Faulkner and I couldn’t put it down! Similarly, I also found a copy of The Catcher in the Rye by Dalton Trumbo and The Iliad by EE Cummings! (Seriously, I can’t make this up.) Still so many more books to look through. I am simply overwhelmed here. Stay tuned. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:51am, July 25, 2024 Subject: Re: Okay, this is getting weird now… Jamie, Okay. You’re just fucking with me now, right? You had me going with the thought of all those rare, signed first editions, but that’s at least within my fathomable universe. What you just described has to be a joke. Come on, man. What about the funeral plans? Isn’t that a big reason why you are there? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 11:56pm, July 28, 2024 Subject: Okay, this is getting weird now… Hey Andy, You’re right. I have been negligent in my funeral arrangement duties of late. I accidentally let my phone battery die out, not sure when. The truth is that I haven’t slept much in the last few days. This continues to get more and more fascinating. And no, I wasn’t kidding about those strange books I mentioned in my last message. But never mind that. I am into some truly bizarre territory now. I found some old 3-ring binders filled with dot matrix printed files listing the daily opening and closing numbers of each of the stocks contained in the Dow Jones Industrial Index running from January 1, 1977 through December 31, 2026. Andy, it has accurate stock performance data through the end of 2026! I’m sure you think I am kidding again (or maybe just crazy) but I have been watching those stock prices over the last few days and my God man they are accurate right down to the last decimal point! You think I’m joking? Here’s a random selection for tomorrow for you to check out. Merck & Co. (ticker symbol NYSE: MRK) will open the trading day at $154.34 and it will close at $156.12 per share with a total of 7.126 million shares in overall trading volume. I’m sure you won’t but you can literally bet the house on it. I guarantee it. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 9:41pm, July 29, 2024 Subject: Re: Okay, this is getting weird now… Jamie, I don’t know what to say at this point. I have been thinking about this since the market closed about 5 hours ago and I have no idea how you were able to make that prediction with such accuracy. I would call it dumb luck but I actually opened up Excel and took the time to do a little statistical modeling and what I found was that a stock prediction with that level of precision is basically like calling out the next day’s lottery numbers. Not quite that improbable but close enough that I am simply baffled. I need answers, because I just can’t believe you found an old set of stock market printouts from almost 50 years ago that can perfectly predict what will happen tomorrow. I’ve tried to call you several times but it goes straight to vmail every time and your mailbox is full. You gotta get back to me asap. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep until you do. Funeral plans? Still a concern? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 2:13am, August 1, 2024 Subject: Whole new level Hey Andy, Forget about the stock market. Forget about the rare first edition signed books. Those things are trivial. At least for now. I just found a medical manual that seems to contain advanced diagnostic techniques and curative/surgical treatments for most common, and some uncommon, forms of cancer and various other deadly diseases. I am only about halfway through it and without the benefit of a medical background it is taking me forever to research the basic terminology needed just to understand this even on a rudimentary level, but if it’s true it’s an incredible discovery and I owe it to the world to get this into the right hands once I can at least confirm its basic legitimacy. I can’t say when I will be able to call you or even write back since my time is so limited now. I don’t see this changing anytime soon. Who knows what I will find next? So much more to still be explored. I can’t worry about the funeral arrangements right now either. Before my phone died I got a message from my Aunt Bonnie saying that she had some health problems that were preventing her from flying in. I can’t remember the details but that’s just going to have to wait for now. I have far more important concerns at this point. - Jamie p.s. I have discovered a number of old hand-written notes, presumably penned by my late Uncle Arthur, warning anyone who comes across these documents against sharing them in any way. The writing is rambling and paranoid in nature and some of the warnings give me pause but how could anyone possibly just sit on all this? It would be immoral, no? ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 8:51am, August 2, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Hey Jamie, I just hope you are all right. Maybe it’s time to take a break? You were supposed to be back here a week ago. Are the cats okay at least? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 3:45am, August 5, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Hi Andy, I let the cats out a few days ago when all of the remaining cat food ran out. Don’t think I’ve seen them since. Not sure. They should be okay. It’s summer. Dude, you wouldn’t even believe what I’m looking at now. No time to explain but I will get back to you when I can. Not planning to head home anytime soon. - Jamie p.s. Please see the attached file containing stock market data for the next two years. I just ask that you don’t share this with anyone else. “Law of Unintended Consequences” and all that. ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:51am, August 6, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Jamie, I‘m really getting worried about you man. Please call me. Your Friend, Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 4:37pm, January 1, 2029 Subject: Re: Whole new level Andy, Happy New Year! Don’t worry about me. I am well. Not sure if I will ever see “you” again (that is, the “present day” you) but that is primarily a temporal and theoretical question. I have a set of guidelines to follow and I will soon find out where all the boundaries lay. I will fill you in (whatever version of “you” that might be) whenever I see you next! Stay healthy. It might be a while...for you anyway. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:01am, August 9, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Jamie, How did you change the timestamp on your email like that? Seriously, stop messing with me. What’s going on? I am really having a hard time with all of this. Can we please just talk? Andy p.s. They announced that a potential breakthrough cure had been found for various types of cancer and other diseases on the news today. I really don’t know what to think at this point. p.p.s. Thanks so much for the stock market data you forwarded. I plan to pay off my mortgage before the end of this month! ---------------------------------------------------- From: mailer-daemon@gmail.com To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 7:02am, August 9, 2024 Subject: Delivery Failure Notice: Re: Whole new level Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to: <jben****@gmail.com> The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try double-checking the recipient's email address for typos and try again. THE END

vk7sub

The Temptation of Laura Marsh

If temptation is the work of the devil, then why are the houses of God so full of it? It’s been five years since my baptism, and I’ve been thrown out of more cathedrals than I’ve been into confessionals. They have all these closed velvet curtains and little rope barriers between silver posts. They even have doors marked “Private”. How are you supposed to resist that? It’s like putting a big red button up with a sign that says: “Do not press”. My investigations started locally, with St. Peter’s – very apt since he’s the keeper of the keys, right? The least the custodians could have done was to secure the appropriate locks, but apparently, they are too trusting of their visitors. Slipping through a narrow, arched door from the nave (this one read “no public access”), I was amused to discover the storeroom for the gift shop. I must have known that stuff was held somewhere on site, but there is something unexpectedly irreverent about shelves and shelves of cardboard boxes of supposedly sacred items. I had never considered that such important symbols as the crucifix and the miraculous medal must be mass produced for the tourist market. But there they were – delivered by the van load and stashed in the dark until stock got low, like an ecclesiastical supermarket. It was on my third trip out of town that I was first apprehended in my explorations. Sister Margaret, the Parish Sister at St Michael's, opened the door to the vestry to discover me thumbing my way through the splendid priests’ outfits. Was ‘outfit’ an appropriate word to use for the sacred costumes they wear to preach in? Was ‘costume’ an appropriate word? Apparently not. Sister Margaret was a stern, but kindly woman and took a few minutes to talk me through the alb and amice, the stole, cincture and chasuble. She pointed out the grand mitre - a ceremonial hat reserved only for bishops, before she asked me, politely but firmly, to return to the public areas of the cathedral, and stay in them. I’m fairly sure she followed me about for the next thirty minutes, and very sure she’s the reason I didn’t return to St Michael’s for a more in-depth examination of the building. Since then, I’ve been removed from offices, corridors, tunnels, staff toilets, stairwells, crypts and cloisters more times than I can remember. And, though I have never sustained any injuries, it has not always been so dignified as when Sister Margaret started my education with an overview of the vestments. The three volunteers at St Jude’s who found me in the treasury room (not the public one – where’s the fun in that?) not only manhandled me out onto the street, but threatened to call the police if I ever came back. I can only assume I was added to some kind of Catholic blacklist after that particular excursion, because, in the years that have followed, I have felt watched whenever I set foot in a church or cathedral. That didn’t stop me from making my inspections of the fascinating back rooms of God’s houses. I just had to be more discrete. I didn’t go so far as to wear a mask or make up, but I did dye my hair blonde and throw on a pair of sunglasses when I attended St John’s. A brief trip down a cordoned off stairwell and through a couple of arched wooden doors (the second one was difficult to unbolt) led me to a magnificent library. I flicked a light switch to reveal a tired prayer book resting on an ancient oak table near the door. Along each of the four stone walls stood wooden bookshelves, carved with angel wings and crosses on the ends of each bay and olive branches across the tops. The stonework above curved into an exquisite, vaulted ceiling, from which hung a series of ornate chandeliers – electric now, but I could imagine the room being candle lit a long time ago. The books housed here were leather-bound and had no spine labels like a modern library. Instead, small paper shelf markers in little brass frames sat underneath them and gave away their contents. Some of the titles were Latin. Actually, a lot of them were, and there was a great deal of gold leaf in view. An excited smile broke across my lips and my fingers tingled with the desire to lift a few volumes from their resting places, open the ancient covers, flick through illuminated texts and - Footsteps and a loud cough in the adjoining room, and I ran to hide. The only place I could conceal myself was under the old table. I skittered across to it and ducked underneath just as the door swung open, and in walked a man in full vestments and carrying a mitre. A bishop, no less! I steadied my breathing and watched in silence as he crossed the stone floor towards my hiding place. He hovered a moment at the table, then paced to the far corner of the room. He was no longer carrying his mitre. In his hand now was the old prayer book. He pressed his foot quite deliberately against the bottom of the shelving on the far wall. There was an audible clunk and the shelves swung open towards him. The bishop stepped through the gap and pulled the shelves shut behind himself. I made my way out of the vaulted library as quickly as I could, dashing back up the stairs and rejoining the other, less adventurous, tourists in the chapel of St Mary. A week later I returned, better equipped and ready to investigate further. I slipped down the stairwell a few minutes before mass was due to start – everyone would be too busy to notice me, and I shouldn’t be disturbed for a while. The first door was easy to open again and the second still stiff but manageable. Once inside the library, I opened my backpack and removed my Maglite and camera. Without the light from the chandeliers the room was filled with eerie shadows, creeping like the finger bone relics of dead saints across the flag stone floor. I scurried to the corner where the bishop had clunked open the shelves and I copied his movements. The same bay of shelving opened before me onto a dark passageway at the end of which a fire was burning. Taking a final look back into the library, I stepped forward and shone my torch against the passageway walls. More shelves. More books. A secret library within a secret library! I cast the light around. The books at this end of the corridor were much more modern than those at the other; they were still leather bound but less dusty and more uniform in size. I picked a recent one off the shelf and let the cover fall open in my hands. It was some sort of ledger. Handwritten entries detailed names, addresses and dates, and in the final column strange words were written, some were crossed out, others were not. The dates were recent. The last one being the same date I had first discovered the secret library, just one week ago. The entry for that date read: Stella Banbury – 23 Monkswood Lane – 1 st May 2023 – Hebethel I took a photograph of the page. I returned the book to the shelf and ran the beam from my Maglite down the corridor. The smoke from the fire was sulphurous and starting to sting my eyes, but curiosity was stronger than discomfort. I crept towards the flames, pausing to listen and observe after each careful step. I took several photos on the way. After a minute or so the corridor opened out onto a huge fireplace with carved stone seats on either side. Images of the devil decorated the back rests, ugly fanged faces with horns and flaming bodies standing on cloven hooves. I dared not sit down. “Why would a bishop have a fireplace dedicated to Lucifer?” I wondered, out loud, snapping photo after photo. “Laura Marsh? I’ve been expecting you.” The voice was deep and silky, seductive. I spun round looking for someone behind me, but the voice was coming from the flames. “Is this a trick?” “No trick. Though I am famous for those.” The fire burned brighter, and the flames licked higher. They wavered into each other and interlocked like a hellish collage of reds and yellows, until a face appeared within them. The lips were curled into a cruel smile and the eyes glowed white hot. Above the hairline were two sharp horns. “Won’t you let me show you one?” “You can’t seriously be the devil?” “Tell me, Laura, what would you do in return for eternal life? Would you contribute to my library? It’s rather beautiful, yes?” There were footsteps in the corridor behind me and I turned to face them, torch shaking in my hand. I could tell from the outline of the clothing that it was the bishop on his way towards me. I wasn’t sure what was worse, being tempted by the devil himself or having a bishop discover me in that situation. As he reached a few steps away from me, I rummaged in my backpack and pulled out my rosary beads. Maybe it was time to pray. “Ah, you must be Laura, and I see you’ve met my friend already,” said the bishop, gesturing towards the fire. He held out his hand below mine and I obediently dropped my rosary into it. “Interesting thing about these"- He held it up before his face - "the mass produced ones are never blessed before purchase. Not even in cathedral gift shops. I can’t imagine a girl with your lack of reverence for all things holy has ever bothered to put hers before a priest.” “You know who I am?” “We’ve been watching you quite closely, hoping you would make your way down here.” The bishop rolled the rosary in his palm and flung it into the fire where it hissed and spat. "We thought it would take more persuasion, but we didn’t really have to do much at all. You’re quite the explorer.” “What do you want?” I asked. The bishop put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “I want to retire. Eternal life is wonderful for a few hundred years, truly wonderful. I have seen so many things. But at some point, I got tired. And heaven, though it sounds like a paradise, when you really think about it, its all about serving God, being a slave to his whims. Honestly the work must never end. Just when you think you’re ready for a nice long rest, there’s praying and worship and being holy to get in the way of it.” “You’re not serious?” “I’m absolutely serious. And I’ve found the way out.” The bishop gestured again towards the demonic face in the fireplace. “This way I can either be a ruler in Hell, or I can choose complete oblivion. Nothingness. I simply cease to exist. The latter is sounding more and more attractive each day. But first I must find my replacement.” “What do you want me to do about it?” My breath felt short. “Laura, Laura. I am asking you to take my place.” “I’m not a bishop.” “You don’t have to be. A cleaner or a librarian, a scholar or a restoration expert, any number of people, could just as easily slip down here unnoticed once a week. And you would be well paid for your supposed work. Of course, the real work is much more interesting. Let me explain.” The bishop took a seat next to the fire and indicated for me to do the same. My legs were a little wobbly, so I sat down on the stone seat and became intensely aware that my skin was being warmed by something quite evil. The deal sounded simple. In exchange for delivering demons to take possession of human hosts, I would be granted eternal life (or at least, life for as long as I should want it). But the devil was, as ever, in the details. "Lucifer will bring the soul of a demon through the fire into our secret inner library once a week. You will collect the prayer book from the table in the outer library and check the current ledger for the name and address of the next victim." The bishop stumbled over the word 'victim' but it sounded correct to me. Correct and distasteful. I realised I was holding my breath and let out a sharp puff of air before inhaling more sulphur. The bishop glanced at the face in the fire. "Then you'll open the prayer book to reveal the hollowed-out page block and place it in front of the fire to receive the demon. Their essence resembles a twisting red flame but don't worry, it isn’t hot to the touch. Once concealed in the book you will carry the demon back through the library, up the stairs, across the chapel and out of the west doors. Keep it shut in the book until you locate the host, releasing it nearby when that person is sleeping, drunk, or otherwise vulnerable." This sounded awful. Awful and fanciful. Surely no one was actually doing this? The bishop went on. "Then watch the host for a few hours and see whether the demon is starting to take control, and record the outcome in the current ledger. If the demon doesn’t succeed, you cross his name out, return him to the fire, and he tries again the following week." I sat in stunned silence, staring at the bishop. I had almost forgotten that Lucifer himself was in the room. “You have a week to think it over.” The flames grew higher as the silky voice filled my ears. “Only one week. If you decide not to join our cause you will go back to living your normal life, but I would appreciate it if you refrained from future ventures into my realm.” I drove home electrified by fear and adrenaline, stoked by intrigue and curiosity. Eternal life? Was it real? Were demons even real? Had I really spoken with the devil? I was going to have to go back just to see if I had imagined the whole thing or not – and if I hadn’t, well, I had a big decision to make. I got home, pulled the curtains closed and checked the images in my camera. Evidently the demon Hebethel had failed on several occasions recently. His name was crossed out next to five different entries in the ledger. He must be getting desperate. Stephen Hackles – 1a Peregrine Street – 3 rd April 2023 – Hebethel Petra Singleton – 18 Bendigo Court – 10 th April 2023 – Hebethel Mark Castlemain – 12 Beaufort Close – 17 th April 2023 – Hebethel Cassie Drunbridge – 8 Pearlview Drive – 24 th April 2023 – Hebethel Stella Banbury – 23 Monkswood Lane – 1 st May 2023 – Hebethel I stewed on it for two days. There were six days left until the next possession attempt on May 8th, and the day after that, the devil expected me back in the library to announce my choice. I wondered if Hebethel was as nervous as I was. I wondered how many chances he would get, and what the punishment would be for repeated failure. I wondered what would happen to me if I refused a deal with the devil. Or indeed, if I took one. Last night, the evening of May 8 th 2023, I stayed home at Trueman Avenue, rolling my options around in my head. I hadn’t visited a church or cathedral all week. Perhaps that was for the best. Maybe if I took the deal it would occupy me enough to stop me from trespassing into other strange situations. It could prevent me from getting into all kinds of other predicaments that are better avoided. What is better avoided than a deal with the devil? Not much. I opened a bottle of vodka and a bottle of coke. I can’t remember which one I used as the mixer, but they were both empty when I scraped myself out of bed this morning and slumped into the bottom of the shower. The water and steam didn’t help, and my trembling hands were not much use with the soap. Two strong coffees made me almost pass for human, and buttered toast enabled me to stand up without puking. Driving wasn’t an option, so I caught a train. Its rhythm on the tracks jarred my stomach and the driver’s voice over the speakers pounded in my skull. I arrived at St Johns with my head in pieces, but my mind made up: I’d take the deal. I’d definitely take the deal. I had no idea how I came to the conclusion, but I knew, I just knew. I stumbled across the nave into the chapel, sneaked clumsily down the stairs, pushed open the doors, collected the prayer book, crossed the library and jammed my foot against the bottom shelf. The bay opened with a clunk and I stepped inside. I couldn’t help but wonder if Hebethel had finally met success, so I plucked the most recent ledger from the wall and flipped the pages. And then I knew. I knew how the decision had come to me so easily this morning. The unlucky demon had a new line in the book, only this time, his name was not crossed out: Laura Marsh – 5 Trueman Avenue – 8 th May 2023 – Hebethel 

u7saxb

The Library That Saved The Monk

Satya woke up tired, sore and disgruntled. His legs were covered in rashes from insect bites, and he was throwing up anything he ate. He thought to himself, “What’s the point of this whole journey?, I just want it to end so I can go back. There’s nothing I’m learning by being here”. A few years ago, Satya’s master had sent him away from the monastery. The young man was a quick learner, and nothing short of genius. This was also his undoing. He knew he was better than the rest of the monks. During his time at the monastery, he often secretly dreamed of the day he would be made the head of the monastery. It was obvious to him. He was the strongest, fastest and smartest of all the monks at the monastery. During Satya’s last few weeks at the monastery, his master had become increasingly uneasy with his demeanour. He needed to teach the young man a lesson, but didn’t know how. The day marked the 433rd birthday of the monastery, and was open to outsiders. Early in the morning, some tourists came by for a tour. They had large cameras, expensive clothes and seemed to be in a hurry. That day Satya was given the duty of being at the door of the monastery to welcome any guests that arrived. A young woman from the group came and sat next to Satya. She was bored of getting pictures clicked and thought it was an utter waste of time to be sitting in this room with one’s eyes closed. She was an ambitious girl that often dreamed of a career in politics. After plonking herself beside Satya, she bluntly said, “why are you monks so boring? All your life you pretty much stay in this one area, sitting with your eyes closed, hoping some miracle is going to descend upon you. In a few years, I’m going to be traveling around the country actually changing people’s lives.” For a moment Satya couldn’t find his tongue. He was not used to speaking to women, and had never met someone that thought the life of a monk was pointless. He started to stammer and couldn’t find his words. This was unusual for him. In front of the other monks he always had the wittiest answers. The young woman looked at his red face and started laughing. “You monks are not even taught to speak properly, what a waste of human potential!”. Satya lost his temper. He shouted, “in a few decades when you see no meaning in your life, don’t come to our monastery to seek peace. I will be head of this monastery and see to it that you are not accepted here!!” Satya’s master and quite a few other monks heard Satya’s remarks. A sudden silence settled over the monastery. That evening Satya’s master summoned him to his room. “Satya, what you said to the young girl today was unacceptable. You have shamed the monastery. Please pack your things, and tomorrow at the crack of dawn you will go on an adventure. Your quest is to find a secret, hidden library. Here is a map. The journey will last a couple of years. You will not be allowed back to the monastery until you find the library. You think you know all the answers to life, but you know nothing.” Satya looked out of the small cave, as the first rays of light hit the trees outside. An uncontrollable wave of anger swept over him. He thought to himself, “I will never go back to that godforsaken monastery, even if they beg me to return.” The map his master had given him was wrong, or maybe he had missed the library somehow. He had spent the last four years, going up and down one valley, and the next, trying to find the library. He had given up hope of finding the library, when a week ago he met a strange traveller. The traveller said he had been to the secret library. Based on his instructions, it was just at the bottom of the next valley. He should be able to reach there by this evening. He had tried and failed to find the library so many times that he didn’t have an ounce of excitement left in him. He thought, “What can a stupid library have to offer me?” As he began his descent into the next valley, a wave of helplessness swept over him. “What was the point of this life, of this journey?”. Satya had recently been battling suicidal thoughts on a daily basis. The pressure started to build up around his chest, and it became difficult to breathe. He stopped and sat down on a rock. The rock was on a steep cliff, about 200 metres high. The thought sneaked into his mind, “What if I just throw myself off this rock?. Nobody will even know or care. I have nobody, being brought to the monastery at just a few months old. Even my brothers at the monastery don’t care about me anymore.” He stood up and looked over the edge of the rock, down into the valley. His fingers and toes started tingling with sweat. He took a step closer to the edge, and suddenly it seemed like the sounds around him got stronger, the colours of nature became more bright. The young girl from his last day at the monastery popped into his mind. She was right, “the life of a monk was absolutely pointless”. With that he took a step off the rock, down into the valley. It felt so warm and cozy, was this how the afterlife felt like? Somebody started to shake him violently. Satya opened his eyes to find the strange traveller over him. “What the hell were you thinking, jumping off that rock?? Luckily you fell on a thick layer of straw I was collecting to keep the library warm for the upcoming winter.” Satya sheepishly said, “I didn’t jump, I slipped off the edge”. Satya looked around at the library, and was surprised. Where were all the books? He had taken all this effort to come to this empty place? At the corner of his eye he glimpsed a light. He got up and made his way to the light. There was one small book that rested on the bookshelf under the light. Aha. There’s one book here. He called out to the strange traveller, “Is there just one book in this massive library?” The stranger started laughing, “Boy, in this special library, you don’t find a book to read, the book you are meant to read finds you”. Satya picked up the small book off the shelf. The traveller called out, “I’ll head out to get us something to eat, you enjoy your book”. Satya barely heard him. His heart was racing. The book was titled, “The Head Of The Monastery Committed Suicide”. As Satya began reading the book, he felt all kinds of emotions. A part of him that he had forgotten, was rekindled. It felt like the book was a part of his own thoughts. It resonated so strongly with him, and yet everything in there was completely new. A fresh perspective, but arising from within. He quickly finished reading the book, and soon another light turned on in a far corner of the library. He began running towards the light and found another book under the light. Over the next few weeks, Satya hardly slept, from one book to the next. He had never felt so alive. Each book felt like a new Satya was being revealed to himself. A few years later, Satya still inside the library had totally transformed. The library was full to bursting with all the books Satya had received. The more he read, the more he realised how little he knew. It was time to make his journey back to the monastery. He had been away for 12 long years, and he was sure his master would be worried. As he was leaving the library, a book came crashing down from the shelves. It was titled, “The Girl Who Dreamed A New Political Order”. Satya picked it up and decided to take it with him. On his long journey home, he came across a sprawling city. Hungry, he went into a baker’s shop. A newspaper lay open on one of the tables. A picture caught Satya’s attention. It was the image of the young woman who had visited the monastery. An article highlighted how she had brought so much change to city in the past five years, but had just handed in her resignation citing that the ‘system was too corrupt’. Satya asked the baker about where he could find the lady. After quickly eating his sandwich, he went in search of her office. Upon finding the building, Satya brushed his robes, and checked his hair in the reflection of a car window. His heart had begun to beat. How many times in the past years he had cursed this lady. He thought, ‘nothing good can come from meeting her again. Maybe I should just leave. Then it dawned on him, that she was the reason he found the secret library. He took a deep breath and entered the building. A lady at the reception asked him what he was doing there. He pointed to the picture in the newspaper and said that he had come to meet this lady. The receptionist laughed, and said “The lady you want to meet, hates monks. She thinks they are a plague to society. She’s not in a good mood, better you leave her and go on your way”. Satya insisted that he had something to give the lady, and wouldn’t leave until he had personally handed it to her. The receptionist called the lady on the intercom and told her that there was a monk waiting to meet her. “He says he has something to give you”. The lady replied with scorn, “Probably some book in the hopes of converting me or something. I’d rather not waste my time. Please take whatever he has to offer and send him away.” Satya handed the book over to the receptionist and told her to tell the lady that he was the monk that shouted at her when she visited the monastery with her family. He begged her forgiveness.” Satya left the building and continued his journey to the monastery. Soon after he left, the lady came out of her office and walked past the receptionist. The receptionist handed her the book saying that the monk was the one who had shouted at her in the monastery many years ago. The lady glanced at the book, and her heart skipped a beat. She went back to her office and couldn’t stop reading the book. A few hours later, she called the president’s office and asked to withdraw her resignation. She was not going to give up yet. How is it that this book arrived at the perfectly right time to push me to continue on my journey? How did the monk know? Upon reaching the monastery, Satya noticed very few people around. Everything seemed to be silent. He walked into the main building and saw a few of the other monks in tears. Satya’s master had passed away that morning. Satya felt a stone in his belly. All the monks had been discussing who should be the head of the monastery to take over after the master’s death. One of the monks looked at Satya and said, “We all took you for dead. The fact that you have returned the same day that master died, is a sign that you should be head of the monastery.” Satya looked at the monks around him and started laughing. No, thank you my brothers, but I have returned to the monastery to write. “To write???” The monks stared at him incredulously. “Yes to write, so that I may rekindle others with a spark. So that my books may one day discover them. It is the best way I can serve our departed master. Many minds listlessly await his teachings to discover them.” 

90sscp

The Last Spark

Hours had already passed as we walked aimlessly. I felt the wind beginning to whistle, bringing with it the deadly cold of the desert night. We set up our tent and lit our campfire. "Honestly, Tom. You know this is a fairy tale. Sure, we have some evidence, but that´s nothing like the Indiana Jones movies you loved so much when we were teenagers." Leo's pessimism had become routine over the past month. After being fired from his job as a chemistry teacher, it seemed another person had taken over his body. "Man, I get it. But we agreed to do this together and we’ve chased every possible and impossible clue around the globe. We know enough. The Great Library of Alexandria was never burned, it was hidden!" "Only you believe that, Tom... I don’t know what made me agree to this. Tomorrow is our final deadline. According to the map, it should be here, and we found nothing today." "Leo, you and I are teachers. It´s true I'm a history teacher, which would be much cooler for me to see what´s inside the library, but imagine how many other things we may find. We always dreamed of this." I had little bargaining power left. In fact, we had been here for nine days and hadn’t found a single old scroll. "Tomorrow, the last day." "Okay. Let’s search behind that dune at sunrise and then near that yellow rock we haven’t checked yet," I said, pointing to the locations. We got up early. We quickly packed our backpacks and left our tent there to save time; we could collect everything on our way back. We had little time before the sun became scorching. "Yes, as we imagined... Nothing behind this stupid pile of sand." "Yeah, let’s head to the rock." By the time we arrived, it was almost 11 AM, and we managed to shelter from the sun behind the shadow cast by the rock. "Look at this, Leo! It looks like a crank!" "Hm... That’s not a crank." Moving closer to examine it, he continued: "It’s a miniature sundial. Notice the markings around it, they’re symmetrical..." "Wow, what are the chances this is related to the Library?" "There are lots of these sundials out there, stop trying to find connections in everything. And please don’t touch it. You could break it. Later, the local authorities will see and say you vandalized some random historical site. I don’t want trouble, Tom, let’s just go home." "Okay. Let’s wait for the sun to go down a bit, and we’ll head back to the tent. I can’t believe we found nothing." As soon as I said that, I felt a sudden tremor. The ground beneath the rock began to open, revealing the entrance to a monumental staircase. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Everything seemed meticulously well-preserved, almost as if a supernatural force was keeping everything in perfect condition. "I can’t believe it." Leo said. "Neither can I, but look at the sundial! It’s noon now, maybe this door only opens when the sun is directly above us! Let’s go, quickly!" We rushed in, and I hadn’t seen a trace of a smile on his face in a long time. It seemed a spark had ignited. For a brief moment, he looked like my childhood brother. The passage led us to an underground chamber of unimaginable proportions. I could hear echoes of sounds I couldn’t even understand where they were coming from. Illuminated by the same magical glow as the stairs, I slipped on one of the stone pieces forming the floor, so polished and well-maintained they were. Shelves upon shelves of ancient scrolls, books, and artifacts filled the space, relics from another time. In the center of the chamber stood a solitary figure, a man with flowing hair and a robe that didn’t seem from such a distant era. "Welcome, travelers," said the man, his voice echoing through the chamber. "I am Klygor, the Guardian of the Library." I stepped closer, Leo behind me. "Is this truly the lost Library of Alexandria?" Klygor nodded. "Indeed, it is. Preserved in secrecy for centuries, hidden from the ravages of time and man. Only those worthy of gathering all the clues and enduring ten days in the desert sun can enter, and once inside, they may stay for only a month, learning all the library has to offer. But beware, you can take nothing with you except what you carry in your minds." We couldn’t waste any time. "Leo! I found out that Socrates never actually existed. Plato invented this character, but the ideas were almost all his!" "Interesting. I’m discovering many things too..." Each day that passed, I got fewer answers from him "Let’s sleep, man. We’ll continue studying more tomorrow." "Feel free... I’ll sleep later." Everyday, I slept and woke up with him already reading and searching for new things. But it seemed the more he read, the more his soul faded. Like a drug addict, the more you use or smoke something, the greater the amount needed for the same effect. He was searching for something that wasn’t there. "Leo, what are you looking for? Talk to me." "I... I want to learn more. The only thing I know how to do is learn." "What do you mean?" "Everyone tells me I don´t know how to be a good teacher. Maybe they are right." " Yes, you do like learning new things, but you always loved teaching!" "No, Tom. I don’t know how to teach and never did. I was just very good at grasping things at first glance." We had reached our last day. "Hey, Klygor. Where are you!?" I shouted. "I am here, traveler Tom. At the foot of the Staircase, awaiting your departure... Time is running out." "Leo, it’s time. Let’s go, we’ve seen everything we needed, we have material to tell people for ages!" "Wait, Tom. I’m just finishing this piece of parchment. It seems interesting..." "No, man!! We don’t have any more time, let’s go!" "I have nothing to do out there, Tom. It’s the second time I’ve been fired, schools always say I lack the necessary teaching skills." "What are you talking about? Every week while we still lived with our mother, we received letters from students thanking you, saying you changed their lives. I never received anything like that!" "You were never fired." Silence. I had no response to that. "You taught me everything I know about the art of teaching. If you don’t know, I don’t know either." "None of that matters... That’s not how the world works, and you know it. Sometimes, I feel I should have just kept quiet and accepted teaching the way the principals wanted." "Leo... what’s worth more, a student transformed for life or a happy principal?" "Huh? tell me, now. You always - " "Gentlemen, I must interrupt. If you don’t leave within moments, one will have to stay and become the new guardian of the Library. That’s what happened to me almost 90 years ago. I was so focused on some revelations completely different from our History, that I didn’t notice the suns rising and setting. When I realized it, the former librarian had already left, sealing here forever. You’re the first I’ve seen in all this time. I’m doing you the favor of letting you decide; I don’t want to leave here with negative energies from having tricked someone." "Give us five minutes!" "I’m not the one controlling the magic of this place. I’m waiting at the top of the stairs until the final moment." "Leo, it’s now, let’s go!" "I’m not going, and you know it..." "Please, I don’t know how to teach without your advices!" "Tom, I found a spark of happiness here. Knowing that at least learning is something I’ve always been able to do and no one could take that away from me... " I heard the sands starting to assemble. I ran up as fast as I could, and at the last moment, I turned to see him one last time. In the distance, I could see, with the same sad face, he opened another book.

hnbb4r

Le Carte Rouge

Rod had that stupid smile that says he knows what life is all about as he joined Angie back on the street. He shoulder bumps her to communicate something good has happened. They are on the way to the motel and away from the book store. Rod looks at Angie, holding a book at chest level. Angie gives in, ‘Okay, what is the book?’  Rod smiles broadly holding the book closer to his chest. ‘It is the book.’ Angie smirks, ‘What book?’ she asks, looking both ways as they cross the street. Rod slowly shakes his head as he looks both ways while crossing. ‘The book.’ ‘What is that the name of the book…the book?’ she smiles, returning his smile, then she looks seriously at him. ‘You don’t mean the book?’ ‘Yep, I do mean the book.’ he steps up with her on the curb and stops. Rod holds the book outward with his fingertips gently holding its edges. ‘ Angela Demarche, may I introduce you to the Le Carte Rouge.’ He passes it gently to her and she takes it with crossed brow. ‘Naw, can’t be.’ she opens it and her eyes widen. She reads aloud, ‘Le Carte Rouge.’ she looks up at Rod, ‘But, this can’t be.’ Shaking her head to fathom the finding. ‘Come on, Angie, think of it without the comedy. Henri says, as we are leaving, and rather secretly, to find some book for him that will somehow find me and voila it finds me in this city with all its libraries and book shops. I mean, what are the chances?’ taking the book back and softly patting the book black leather bindings with his fingertips. She smirks in thought, ‘Okay, this is the book? The exact same book? The title is exactly the same?’ ‘This is exactly the same name.’ Rod looks at it then back to her without opening it. ‘Let me see it again?’ Angie puts out a hand. ‘Don’t open it again until we get back to the room though. I looks kind of brittle.’ He hands it over to her. ‘The cover is strong but the pages look, you know, kind of, like if a breeze comes it might all blow away. Probably why they were throwing it away.’ She runs her fingers upon the edges of the gold leaf pages, nodding at the book’s apparently fragility. She finds herself smiling at the richness in texture of the binding and smells from the types of trees and cotton used in the production of the paper. ‘This is a beautiful book. Yeah, I agree we should hurry and get back to the room, Rod. Play it safe.’ She holds the book against her breast and quickens her pace. ‘You are into it now.’ ‘Things happen, Rod, and this is too interesting to just accept or acknowledge without seeing what we have here and pulling up a conclusion. Finding this like that can both be easy to grasp and difficult to understand but there is a book here and it has a certain resonance for me that I do not remember ever having with a book. This is very interesting.’ In the room, Rod opens the curtains and goes over to the phone. He pauses to look through the list of numbers to dial Haiti and Henri. The phone connects and rings the double ringing that after the couple of years of living in the Caribbean he still wasn’t used to. ‘Allo?’ Henri’s voice sounded tinny. ‘Henri? This is Rod. I found your book, the Le Carte Rouge. We found it.’ Rod looked over at Angie who, without taking her jacket off was laying on the bed with pillows propped to work her fingers through the book. ‘Rod. You found Le Carte Rouge? Oh, my god, this is wonderful. This is wonderful. I had a feeling. No. I knew.’ There was a pause and Rod knew some instructions were on the way. Henri the lawyer was quelling his excitement. ‘Okay, this is what you do: first, put the book in a safe place, like your pack, no, wrap it in something protective. It has to be sensitive, no? Wrap it good and put it in your backpack or the duffel, no backpack because when you get on the plane you carry it, no, you carry it with you. Do not put it above but at your foot, feet, no?’ ‘Henri, wait, man. We just got it and our flight isn’t until tomorrow, but we were thinking of spending some time down in Key West.’ ‘No!’ Henri almost shouted, ‘that is not what you do. Please, this is so important. You have something that is powerful and must be gotten here as soon as possible… Rod, do you understand me? This is an urgent thing, my friend. I will pay for a ticket for the next flight you can get and I will pay for you to return to the States and Key West and I will pay for you to have a good room in Key West for a week if you want, but please bring Le Carte Rouge back to Haiti.’ ‘Back? Did you mean it was in Haiti before or do you mean just to bring it there?’ ‘I will explain it all to you when you are here. It is a long story. Where do you have the book now?’ ‘Angie has it on the bed.’ ‘Okay. Now, wrap it and put it in your backpack.’ ‘It might be a little hard to get it away from her.’ Rod chuckled, looking at Angie’s intense expression and concentration. ‘She is reading it?’ there was alarm in Henri’s voice over the phone. ‘Yeah, she…’ ‘Tell her to put it down now.’ ‘Hunh?’ ‘Hurry. It is dangerous, Rod.’ ‘Dangerous?’ ‘Yes, please tell her to put it down now.’ ‘Angie, Henri says to put the book down.’ She looks over to Rod blinking herself back to the motel room. ‘What?’ ‘Put it down. Henri says to put it down now.’ She looks at Rod, then the book, then the phone in his hand. Angie gently closes the book to the point that her index finger marking her page allows. ‘Okay, she stopped reading it.’ ‘Put it in the backpack.’ Henri ordered. ‘Look Henri,’ Rod did not like the tone, ‘we will get the book to you and take you up on Key West. I will check and see about the flight and switching the tickets and pay with you refunding, so see you as soon as possible.’ ‘Let me know and I will pick you up at the airport.’ ‘Okay. Bye, now.’ Rod hung up trying to stop the irritation at being ordered around. Angie was already back in the book and lightly smiling. ‘Angie, he said to put the book down. Maybe it has poison on the pages or something weird.’ ‘Yeah, right.’ Angie nodded comically. ‘Look at this pen and ink.’ She turned the book so Rod could see. He moved over to look down at a detailed scene of a man and a woman peering over a ravine of tangled growth reaching down into a black abyss with writhing figures etched in outlines of grotesque and mournful stares. He could make out their mouths twisted in anguish and did not want to look at the illustration again. ‘Put down the book, Angie.’ She looked at Rod, ‘Don’t you see what we have here?’ ‘I think I am seeing too much.’ ‘No, not the hocus-pocus stuff but the value of a book like this? I think we have some money here, Rod.’ Rod slowly shakes his head, ‘No, Angie. This is Henri’s book and it is not a good one to do anything with but give to the guy.’ ‘Fuck him, Rod. He is just gonna sell it and I’ll bet for a fortune. He is a treasure hunter, for god’s sake.’ ‘He is a lawyer for treasure hunters. Henri never gets his hands dirty. Naw, there is something about this book that he knows and we don’t. Look, when we get the book to Haiti, we keep it until he explains what it is and what it is about and what he plans on doing with it. Then, we make up our minds about what we will do about it.’ Angie looks at Rod incredulously. ‘Rod,’ she said in an exasperated tone, ‘we have the book. We found the book. This is right here in our hands. Let’s go to an antique book dealer, look one up in the phone book, and see what a value is. Then, we make up our minds about what to do with it. Shit, I really wish I could remember half of the Latin I had in school, just a third. Some of this stuff is just phenomenal… the stuff I can get that is. But my conjugation is no good anymore and I only can get some of the stuff. Mixtures of stuff are just not translatable but amounts are and the warnings are simple.’ ‘Warnings?’ Rod’s eyebrows raise up. ‘What warnings?’ ‘Relax, it’s just some stuff about some of these mixings, potions, you know the dangerous stuff he told you, woouooo, hahahaha.’ ‘Hey, Angie, what if there is a danger with this kind of thing?’ ‘Look, I am not touching the pages too much and I doubt the words can kill, so…, look, Rod, I didn’t know you were so tender, man.’ Rod frowned. ‘You know, you are right. I got caught up in his thing. This might be valuable and we take it to him? Strange. I don’t know what came over me.’ Rod shakes his head and looks down the book, then at Angie’s concentrated face fixed on the elaborate pages of mixed inks. There are browns and whites and some hints of pink with a thread of red slightly visible. The pages are not rotten, just lightly papered, like rice paper but of some other material. The colours of the images almost move with an unfocussed vibrancy. He moves closer with the paper tending toward glowing behind the inked words. He licks his lips in curiosity, and bends over to study the scripted words almost all joined with interlocking curlicues and slants. Rod blinks and pulls his head back. The book seems to draw him in and he recognises it. ‘Angie.’ he shouted to her though she was only a few inches from his mouth. She jerked her head up, ‘What?’ she was looking around the room and toward the door. ‘Something about that book makes me want to go into it.’ he says with wide eyes. She smiled, ’Yeah, exactly. That was what you were yelling in my ear about?’ He moved back a bit, ’Unhunh. I don’t like this.’ Angie smirks, exhaling impatience, ‘Cut it out, back off. Take a walk or something. I know, I am hungry and you must be too. Why not go out and get us some Chinese from that place down the street?’ He looks down at her, trying not to look at the book. His mouth opens but no words would come out. He did not know what he wanted to say. He breathes in deeply and comes to the conclusion that her logic overshadows what was becoming his superstition. Henri planted that see, Rod thinks to himself. Maybe some air was exactly what he needed, and food, especially Chinese food was a very good idea. He nods in agreement, but she is already back studying the book. Rod goes to the door, opens it, looks back at Angie laying comfortably on the bed with the book hiding her nose but her eyes completely staring and moving in the tiniest of jerks. He wondered if he was falling in love with her. ‘What do you want? Duck? Chow Mein? Pan fried noodles?’ She looks and up back at her place in the book. ‘Yeah.’ He goes out and closes the door softly. It is hot outside. Rod walks between two parked cars, a black one and a beige one. He is noticing pieces of paper on the ground and a broken whistle laying under one of the tires of the beige car. It was almost dark already and the amber street lights seem slightly blurred. When he returned with the meals she gave him a hungry look that he recognised as a swelling of passion. He must have reacted in a protective of his person way because she physically backed off. They ate in silence. He wanted to ask her what she found in her study of the book but felt it was wrong somehow. When they finished she acted shyly when taking his paper plate. She took the boxes and everything into the bathroom. The shower ran with pressure and he felt relieved like things were going back to normal. Then the thought came to him of why had he thought things were not already normal? He could not sleep. The air conditioning made noises and the bed creaked when he or she turned even slightly. There was a drip in the bathroom that he did not want to investigate and loose his chance to fall asleep. He did not want to look at Angie though he feeling an erection thinking about her lying next to him. His mind raced with snatches of dream that were probably just thoughts. Sailing, water and placid horizons that were neither the sea nor the land. No people. The window drapes were pulled back and a street light gave contrast to the room’s shapes. The dead television on its weird, long, dark table that was a chest that could not be used. The curving shadowed lamps sitting on the side tables, on each side of the bed, with small hoods that let the little baldness of the bulbs show just slightly above. Rod pulled his covers to the side careful not to wake Angie. He forgot why he pulled them off as he was rising and just lay back down and pulled them back up to keep off the dull chill of the air conditioning. The book lay on her side table aside her lamp. He swallowed, wanting to reach over her to get it though he knew nothing in Latin. That realisation had him smirk, ‘What am I going to do with the thing? Hold it? Lick it?’ Rod grinned with that thought. Then, he looked at her with a touch of dread. What would she do if he licked the cover? He looked down at her and was shocked to find her looking back at him. ‘Rod,’ she smiled, do you want to lick something?’ He jerked his head back. Her face in the street light held a smile. Her eyes were intense in a stare that he did not know. She pulled the sheet off the bed and parted her pubic skin and hair, still staring at him. ‘Lick.’ Rod breathed easier recognising that that was what she was talking about, not that she heard his thoughts. They both slept late the next morning. The plane they were taking was to leave within two hours and they had to get to the airport so there was a hurrying with no showers. Rod wiped his stickiness off with a damp towel and she laughed fully dressed with the Carte Rouge under her arm. They made the flight. They followed the orders and placed the backpack holding the precious book in a plastic bag under the seat in front of them and smiled at each other. When the plane landed they waited until most of the passengers were off and all the jostling with bundles and children and pushings were gone. Rod picked up the pack that seemed lighter, so he unsnapped the the two catches, loosened the drawstrings and looked at this underwear and socks but no book. He tilted his head and dug his hand into the pack only finding softness. He looked at Angie who was looking down at the pack. ‘What the fuck?’ Rod told the back of the seat with its worn magazine in a torn holder. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed the torn holder before, then remembered what he was doing and pulled out his underwear. Angie looked at him, then at the underwear, then back to him. ‘Shit.’ When they met Henri in the echoing airport hall, he said before they said anything, ‘You lost it?’ Rod’s mouth opened. ‘How did you know?’ Henri smiled and said matter of factly, ‘Because it is at my home in my book case.’ ‘Henri,’ Rod rolled the word out, ‘what do you mean?’ ‘This morning when I came down for breakfast, Michelle, the maid, you met her, she said that a book was on the floor and told me I should not leave old, maybe valuable books on the floor. She had put it up on my bookshelf. I went over and saw what it was and thought you guys had played a trick on me but there were no flights before this one. I looked through it and took some photos on what I needed to.’ He smiled at both of them. ‘You did good.’ A month later Henri was dead. The book disappeared again. Rod and Angie broke up on that same day after finding out about Henri. Rod left Haiti for the States and never returned. Angie opened a beauty parlour.

s8jzm3

Sanctuary

“Captain Charles Vane will be victorious!” The boy cheered as he held up a large toy ship finely made from wood. His Father looked to him, and frowned, as they played joyously in the boy's room. A large King-size bed, fine linen sheets, filled with wooden horses and dolls made from cotton. Some moonlight shone from a large balcony that opened to a beach of water that met with the chaotic sea. “Charles Vane is a brute Edward, you know this.” His Father told him. Edward was taken a little back. “He travels the sea, he wins battles.” Edward retorted as he held the toy ship above him and shook it in the air. “But there is more to being a man than winning battles. A man must look after what is their responsibility. A man must be decent to good god-fearing people.” He looked into his sons’ eyes hoping that he was listening. The boy kept swaying the ship around in the air, the sounds of the waves echoed slightly from the sea. “It's bedtime, my young lord.” The father muttered, taking the ships from his son. “Are we going to sail the sea again Father?” Edward asked, as his father walked to the door. “We are here for a reason my boy. We must protect each other from men…” The father turned around and looked at his son again. “… Men like Charles Vane. They are after us because the King asked Your father to look after some things. Something important to England.” He explained and opened the door. “The men who sing in the garden?” Edward called in a whisper as he knew he was being rather cheeky. His father chuckled ever so slightly and then simply shook his head before opening the door. On the other side, Edward watched his mother and Father talk in hushed voices. He quickly clambered out of bed and tiptoed closer to the door. He looked to his mother, who wore a long gown of yellow, her cleavage quite open, White cheeks, and rosy, red lips the color of blood. His father wore a long navy coat, and a plain white shirt with frills at the neck and around the collar. As he got closer his father shut the boy's door. An inch of space was at the top and bottom of the door, that sound and air often drifted through. “I know it is tonight Haymitch.” His mother whispered. Edward could hear his father Haymitch sigh and imagined him rolling his eyes as he sometimes did when talking to Edwards's Mother. “Yes, it is. I know what you’re going to say. It's barbaric, it's unnecessary, but you don’t know this woman. You don’t know those people or this island. There was a silence, and Edward wondered if his parents knew what he had been up to. If they knew that he often snuck past the guards and spoke to the people in the garden. “It's just so close to Edward, I can't begin to describe how wrong it feels.” His Mother muttered. “I know, but this is to protect him, to protect you too. If we do this a few more times, these people will become allies and before long we’ll be off this island.” Haymitch whispered. “This is for the King, not us…How about just coming with me, you can see that we can work with these people out here. If we keep them pleased, they are not to be feared.” His Father explained. Edward raised his eyebrow and had an idea. He put his leather boots on and crept out to the small balcony. He pushed himself through the white rails of the balcony onto the roof and crawled quickly over it, to look down upon a large garden, hanging flowers everywhere, white polished staircases that lead to a stone courtyard. With benches and wooden walkways. A single guard held onto a musket and looked past the courtyard to a large cage of singing men. The men were dirty, tired, and wore torn clothes, at least thirty of them were pushed together in the cage, but alas they sang heatedly. “What will we do with a drunken sailor, what will we do with a drunken sailor? Early in the morning!” The guard watched them blankly, his hands holding tightly onto his musket. Edward looked over the garden and spotted two more guards standing by the back gates of the house. He crept quickly over the roof and lowered his body to a wooden walkway. He scanned around himself and stayed crouched. Edward was skipping over the pearl-white wooden walkway when he heard footsteps walking towards him, so he pushed into a bush as he recognized the voice of his father and mother again. “She’s arrived,” Haymitch muttered. “We should place a guard in front of Edwards's room.” His mother noted. Edward trembled slightly as fear fevered in his body. “Her rage only extends to those in the cage.” His Father muttered. Their voices trailed off and Edward wondered why anyone would be angry with them. He pushed himself out of the bush and crawled onto a grass path that had faded from footfall. Edward kept his body small and glued himself near bushes and trees. Large birds flapped through the trees. large mosquitos tempted to sting him, as Edward snuck through the garden. He turned a corner and saw the cage fifty feet ahead of him. In front of the cage a large hole at least fifteen feet deep, that wasn’t there the last time Edward visited them. He put his head up slightly and scanned around the area. Still, the only guard near the cage of slaves was the one watching them. Edward got on his hands and knees and crawled past the deep hole, wondering what it was for. He looked up and smiled as he saw his friend Chike. A large man wearing the remains of a white tunic, that looked more like a white net. Pink scars across some of the man's chest and arms. The man scowled slightly and shook his head a little to Edward. Edward crawled next to the cage, most of the thirty men inside looked at him and chuckled slightly. “ Little lord.” One of them whispered. A couple of the others in the cage kept singing. “We're home'ard bound across the blue sea, Good-bye fare-you-well, we wish you well, We're home'ard bound to the old counterie, Goodbye fare-you-well, we're home'ard bound!” Edward looked up to the one he was most fond of. “Hello, Chike.” And smiled up at him. “Not tonight little lord. I think your father is going to visit us.” Chike’s thick voice muttered as he shook his head sternly. “But it's been two days, and I’m good at not being caught.” “It's too dangerous child. You don’t understand how much your father would hate seeing you talk to us.” Edward looked up to his friend's eyes and wondered what he meant by that before they heard voices coming their way. Edward pushed quickly into the cage. Chike tried to hold him out of the cage, but Edward muttered quickly. “I'll get in trouble, and maybe if they see me with you all, it would be worse for you,” Edward whispered, pushing slightly further into the crowd of caged men, Chike allowed it. Most looked at him and gave a slightly bewildered smirk as Edward pushed in and disappeared from the outside as some of the men including Chike circled him.  Edwards's nose wrinkled at the stench, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he held his mouth and nose. Edwards's Father was at the front, with another guard holding onto a musket. Next to him was a woman, dressed in a ratty dress that someone fifty years earlier might have gotten married in. The white veil was half-holed, a vast hat that cast a shadow over the women. As she looked at the cage it was difficult not to notice a red jewel in place of one of her eyes. Haymitch trembled slightly at the women as she inspected the caged men. Behind her three men with blades at their sides, glaring at the British soldiers with muskets. “Indeed, I recognize a few of them. These are the ones,” she muttered; her voice floated through the air like a chill. “So this is sufficient?” Haymitch asked. The lady held out one of her obscenely long fingernails. At the end of her nails, a silver chain hung with the skull of a crow chained. The lady slowly drifted the skull from left to right. She whispered some unrecognizable words and closed her eyes. The wind seemed to pick up and blow with a certain ticklish cold as everyone stood silent. “The island is pleased with this offering. These men abandoned their homeland in search of their own greed and lust. They shall be returned to the earth that they betrayed.” The lady echoed. The men in the cage grumbled, and a few spat near the ground where the lady was standing. Chike pulled on Edwards's shoulders as he tried to get a peer at the lady. Chike pushed him behind him and whispered “Go… now.” Edward stepped back a little, but he had the anger in the lady's voice. He grabbed onto Chike’s hand. “If you come with me.”  Chike tutted his teeth and shook his head. The lady stretched her fingertip and felt the air between them. She smiled as her nose seemed to pick up an unusual stench. Her rubied eye caught the moonlight and glowed for a fraction of a second. “What do you want with my lord's island?” She muttered softly to Haymitch. Haymitch beads of sweat glistened under the stars. “Protection from pirates. Protection from anyone who might come after the crown?” he announced. “Are thee a King of some land?” She turned to him; her eyes closed as she felt what was around her and listened to the guards' low murmur of chitter-chatter. She smelt deeply the coconut trees and the sea air. “No of course not. I am simply a protector of England, the crown, and civility.” Haymitch responded trying to control his annoyance. “Above all else?” “I would give my life for my King.” “So, your treasure for your King of England, is that what you need protecting?” “Along with the people here?” Haymitch took back and whispered a little. The lady opened her one normal eye and got closer to him. “All of the people here?” she whispered peering at the guards with muskets dotted around the estate. “Well…most of them,” Haymitch admitted, hoping the others hadn’t heard. The lady nodded smirking between her rotting teeth. “Then it is just, then it is worthy of our lord. You bring those that don’t belong, those thieving, raping, sneakin' sorts to this place of worship and decide to pay its most mighty price.” She pledged powerfully into the sky. Haymitch thought about her words for a moment before nodding, his veins pounded, sweat dripped from his nose. Haymitch held onto his wife’s hand and made sure she stayed. “Stay with me.” He asked her. Guards in long red coats that dusted the ground, thick black leather boots, and tricorne hats shoveled wood and tinder into the hole quickly. “What is going to happen?” Edward asked aloud. Chike shook his head. “Little lord, you must go now. This is serious.” The other men in the cage had their feet planted to the cage, as they realized what was about to happen some of them tried to break the thick wooden cage or cling onto it for their dear life. Sparks cast into the hole and It blazed a flame. The lady smelled it, ran her fingers over her body, and looked to the sky. “Does thou please thy wonderous and mighty?!” she screamed. The flame danced a second before turning blue for a couple of seconds before returning to its usual orange. The most joyous smile erupted over the lady's lips. She wriggled her body as if her heart had just begun beating for the first time. Her people marched quickly to the back of the cage. The men inside started beating against the wooden bars of the cage. Chike grabbed Edwards's hand and started pushing and pulling against the other men, anything to yank them from the side of the cage, desperately tried to find any kind of hole for Edward to pass through. The other men mostly ignored him, but continued trying to rip the cage open, they yelled and screamed, and some cried as they felt the heat rise. “Get out little lord, now!” Chike screamed louder than the rest. Haymitch heard Chike’s voice and wondered what he could mean. He peered into the cage and tried to see the faces of everyone in the cage. He saw a flash of a clean white tunic, and a body that seemed much too small for anyone that should be in the cage. The island's people pushed the cage further toward the flaming pit. The natives smacked at the padlock keeping the cage shut, so the door sprung open. As it started to bend upwards those inside screamed desperately. Most grasping onto the bars of the cage or each other. “Wait… Wait!” Haymitch called. The cage tipped over and everyone inside almost instantly fell into the blaze. Haymitch and his wife saw the beaten and almost naked bodies of the men they were willing to sacrifice, followed by the white tunic, and the auburn hair of their son. A glimpse of his chubby cheeks for a moment before the fire started to engulf him. “No, no, no Edward!” The screams of the mother could be heard throughout the entire island. Haymitch immediately strode forward and was about to jump in the fire itself. The island's people grabbed his shoulders, and they put a couple of cutlasses to his and his wife's throat, but Haymitch continued to wrestle for his son. “The island should not take more than what satisfies it.” The woman whispered across the pit of fire, but Haymitch could hear her like she was right next to him. Screams erupted as flesh was turned to ash. Haymitch writhed and wriggled for the body near the edge of the pit, the one he knew the name of. The one just out of reach of him. His wife wept desperately as she laid her hand out to the flaming pit. When there were no voices, no more shouts or screams heard coming from the pit, all that could be heard was the lick of flames searing the final pieces of flesh. Dark clouds bellowed into the sky. Haymitch kneeled staring at the collection of bones that was much smaller than the others. The lady strutted, her stained gown floating through some ash, she grasped some playfully in the air. The lady softly massaged her fingers over Haymitch’s cheek, her nail making a tiny cut near his lip. “For those that pay the ultimate sacrifice, they may call this island home for as long as they live.” And she was gone, as were the other natives of the island as if they were smoke that had dispersed into the sky. Haymitch and his wife knelt still sobbing, they cried until they couldn’t any longer. Their guards watched them with their muskets by their side, unsure of what they had just seen. Haymitch closed his eyes and felt the breeze, it seemed more powerful than before, and he heard the sea. The chaos of the waves crashed with more ferocity. He could feel, see, and taste more intensely than ever before. The wind rubbed on him like it was something he could reach out and grab. It played music into his ear, a soft melody of percussion, It was quiet and slow at first but sped up into a booming voice that sounded like it could spit thunder. “You my child have a new crown to protect!”

cuir3s

THE SECRET LIBRARY OF MYTHRIA

Picture this, I found myself deep within the enigmatic Whispering Woods. It's where the trees whisper secrets like chatty grandmothers, “Did you hear about Oakley? She’s sprouting new leaves!” And the streams, oh man, they play practical jokes like they’re auditioning for a prank show. They wait until you’re not looking and—splash! —right in the face. It’s like the forest version of a whoopee cushion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Finn, the adventurer. Or, as my companions affectionately dub me, “The one who stumbles upon treasure despite his missteps.” It’s almost like a superpower. My foot has a homing device if there’s a banana peel within a hundred miles. But hey, it’s a talent. Some people have GPS, and I have GTS—Goes To Stumble. Now, let's return to the tale. I find myself in these woods, right? And it’s like nature’s very own comedy club. Birds are chirping in perfect timing as if they’re rehearsing their stand-up routines for open mic night. And the squirrels, oh the squirrels, they’re like miniature parkour experts on a sugar high. One moment they’re there, the next they’re gone, leaving you questioning if you just witnessed a rodent rave in your imagination. Here I am, in pursuit of the elusive Diamond Dragonfly. Sounds majestic, doesn't it? But it’s more like a shimmering mosquito with a severe attention deficit. I’m stumbling through the woods, swatting at this iridescent pest resembling a deranged mime. And, of course, I managed to lose my way. I mean, utterly and hopelessly lost. Like GPS says, “You’re on your own, pal,” lost. As I’m meandering, I catch sight of this faint, pinkish glow flickering through the trees. And I ponder, “Is that a celebration, or am I about to encounter extraterrestrial life?” You never know in these woods. So, I resolve to investigate because why not? It’s not like I have a superior plan. I push through the undergrowth and stumble upon this colossal oak tree. I’m talking gigantic, like a skyscraper for squirrels. If this tree had a reception, it’d inquire if you desired a room with a view. At the base of this behemoth, there’s a trapdoor. Not just any trapdoor, but one with glowing runes around it. The kind of thing that screams, “You’re either finding treasure or releasing a curse.” And let me tell you, I’ve got a 50/50 track record on those. These runes are humming some weird, magical tune like if you gave a toddler a synthesizer. “Only the seeker of laughs may enter,” it says. And I’m like, “Well, I did laugh when I fell into that mud puddle this morning.” So, I pull the door open, and it creaks like an old man trying to get out of a chair. It’s like the door’s auditioning for a horror movie sound effect. I go, the flashlight in hand, and each step sounds like a cartoon—boings, squeaks, and even a whoopee cushion or two. I’m half expecting a giant anvil to drop on my head. I reach the bottom, and it’s warmer than my Aunt Mabel’s kitchen at Christmas. Smells like old books and freshly baked cookies. I think, “Either I’ve found a magical library, or I’m about to get eaten by a very literate witch.” I step into this underground chamber, walls lined with bookshelves taller than my apartment building. There’s a grand table covered in scrolls and maps and wait for it—a rubber chicken and clown shoes. It’s like the wizard Merlin moonlighting as a stand-up comedian. I’m flipping through books like “The Art of Prank Calls” and “Chronicles of the Clown Kings.” And there’s this book, “The Guide to Legendary Laughs.” It’s got illustrations that are so funny that I’m half expecting them to jump off the page and give me a high five. Then I found this section marked “Forbidden Funnies.” The shelves are chained up like they’re holding Hannibal Lecter’s joke book. And the signs are like, “Beware: Laughter is powerful, but power can corrupt absolutely.” And I’m like, “Is this a library or a Jedi temple for comedians?” So, naturally, I pick the lock. Because, hey, who can resist an excellent forbidden funny? The book I pull out is ancient. It’s called “The Tome of Forgotten Pranks.” And as soon as I open it, blue smoke puffs out like it’s vaping mischief. Suddenly, this voice booms, “Who dares to unlock the forbidden?” I look up and see this spectral librarian floating above me. She’s got this glow like she’s been binging on radioactive ghost stories and invisible suspenders snapping against her. I think, “Great, I’m about to get ghost-wedged.” “I-I'm Finn,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m just... curious.” She grins. “Curiosity is fine, but laughter can be a dangerous weapon. The knowledge here is powerful. In the wrong hands, it can bring great hilarity—and chaos.” I nod, closing the book like I’m defusing a bomb. “I get it. But why hide all this?” She sighs, shimmering like a glitchy hologram. “Long ago, a dark jester tried to use this library’s power for chaos. So, the jesters hid it away. Only those with pure intentions and a good sense of humor can find it.” So, there I am, standing in the middle of this magical, laugh-filled library, promising to use these jokes wisely. Who wouldn’t want to save the world with a good punchline? Imagine defeating a villain by making them laugh so hard they forget their evil plans. "Hey, Dr. Doom, what did the tomato say to the cucumber? You’re in a pickle now!" Bam, the world was saved. I settle into the Secret Library of Mythria like a kid in a candy store—or, more accurately, like a comedian in a joke factory. I spend months diving into these books and let me tell you, it’s the ultimate comedy boot camp. Forget boring workouts; I’m doing stand-up squats and one-liner lunges. I even start dreaming in punchlines. One night, I dreamt I was a carrot in a stand-up competition, and my best joke was, “Lettuce turnip the beet!” I woke up laughing so hard I nearly fell out of my hammock. Every day in the library is a new adventure. Once, I found a scroll titled "The Ultimate Practical Joke: How to Make the Moon Disappear." It turns out it was just a recipe for an invisibility punch—note to yourself and do not drink that before a date. Another day, I discovered a map that led to a hidden section called "The Comedy Vault." It was like Fort Knox, but instead of gold bars, it had joke bars. “Why did the scarecrow become a successful comedian? Because he was outstanding in his field!” The best part? The library isn’t just books. It’s got these enchanted artifacts. I find a rubber chicken that squawks out punchlines when you squeeze it. "Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!" I also found a pair of oversized clown shoes that squeak out classic one-liners with every step. I tell you, there’s nothing like walking around and hearing, “I told my wife she was drawing her eyebrows too high. She looked surprised.” And then there’s the laughter. Oh, the laughter! The library walls are enchanted to echo with the laughter of everyone who’s ever told a joke there. It’s like having a built-in audience that never gets tired. You could tell the same joke ten times, and the laughter gets louder each time. It’s comedy heaven. But it’s not all fun and games. The books and scrolls also teach me the power of humor to heal and unite people. I read about ancient jesters who used humor to ease tensions during wars and clowns who brought smiles to the faces of the sick and the weary. It’s a reminder that laughter isn’t just about jokes—it’s about connection, joy, and sometimes, survival. After months of this comedic treasure hunt, I feel ready to share what I’ve learned. Every time I leave the library, I take a bit of that magic with me. My backpack contains joke books, enchanted whoopee cushions, and scrolls of timeless wisdom. I hit the road, ready to bring laughter to every corner of the world. I start performing in taverns, town squares, and anywhere people will listen. And the reactions are priceless. I once made a grumpy blacksmith laugh so hard that he forged a horseshoe into a perfect circle. A farmer’s laugh was so contagious it got his chickens clucking in rhythm. And during a particularly tough winter, my jokes helped keep spirits high and bellies warm with laughter. And that’s how I found the Secret Library of Mythria. It taught me that sometimes, the best adventures start with getting hopelessly lost. And who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll stumble into your hidden library or find a book that makes you laugh until your sides hurt. Thank you, and goodnight! And remember, always keep a good joke in your back pocket—it might save the day.

rvhrxk

Library 51 and the Alien Conspiracy

To: Frank Delaney Editor@thewashingtonpost.com Subject: anthropological finds linking past to the future I, Dr. J. Emmit Hardy, Professor of Archeology at the University of Montana, former navy seal and marine sniper, stumbled upon something I should not have and in the excitement of the moment, I took it. Now they are after me. I don’t know who they are, other than the keepers of secrets, the guardians of mysteries. Could be the Vatican or some other religious organization, a collaboration of world governments, or some secret society. I probably sound out of my mind but wait until I tell you what I have uncovered. It all started in what I like to call the broiler, a.k.a. southern Iraq, in an area once known as Mesopotamia. It was in that barren landscape that I and a group of archaeologists came upon a rather suspiciously lonely looking hill, more of a large mound I would say. We had started excavating as soon as the Iraqi government lifted their ban on archeological excavations. After years of careful digging, we dug down where we found an entrance to an upper chamber that led down to the heart of what we presume will be a ziggurat. In the lowest portion of the structure, we found what we named the Library of the Anunnaki, the collective name for the Sumerian gods. The library consisted of hundreds of stone tablets, most of them broken, some shattered, even to the point of dust. I found one large piece, rough in my hands, chipped, not without its damage. I blew it off and noticed it was written in cuneiform. The translation goes: Origin………. Primitive species DNA spliced………. producing male child………. male children produced and raised to farm and………. production cumbersome………… remove Y………. first female child for reproduction presented to first male……... uprising………. Usurpers cast out of gardens and mines………. debauchery throughout………. murder………. war………. Meteor causing mass………. Fleeing planet, will return. Obviously defaced, what I concluded from the text was that the text was not written by human hands. Rather, it was a document left for us by who early humans considered gods. It tells us that we originated from a primitive species (apes, or Cro-Magnon Man perhaps, maybe even some early form of homo sapiens) having their DNA spliced with that of an alien race, producing a child that we now call a human being. Given the success of the experiment, they created more, until they figured natural reproduction to be a viable process. These children grew up working on farms and in mines for the alien race. It goes on to say there was an uprising. Some were cast out where they lived wildly without law or rule. A lot of text is missing, but it goes on to explain the flood was caused by a meteor, probably crashing in the sea nearby. At that time, the aliens left, promising to return. My biggest question is, return to do what? This tablet destroys god-centric religions, proving that we were created through the advanced science of an alien race, putting an end to ancient beliefs. It would also take away power from institutions such as the Catholic Papacy. Old traditions will die hard, but the word of God will no longer hold credence in the minds of the majority again. This is a world altering find. That is why I had it carbon dated for its legitimacy, taking it to an old friend. Dr. Phillip Baker at Oxford University did some carbon dating. The tablet predates the Sumerian use of cuneiform for literary purposes by a thousand years. We realized then that it was truly an extraordinary find. While Phillip and I celebrated with the champagne he had been saving for such an occasion, men in black suits paid us a visit trying to seize the tablets. With a distraction made by Dr. Baker, I escaped out the back. From the hallway I heard shots fired. I knew my dear friend’s fate and feared it would be my own if I did not run. I assumed knowing what was on the tablet put my life in jeopardy. I was pursued by them and what looked like a private security detailed, armed, muscular men dressed in black. They chased me through the streets at high speed. I was scared out of my mind, even taking to the sidewalk to avoid stoplights. I made it to the airport where I evaded capture and caught a plane back to the states. The tablet is now hidden safely where no one will ever find it. I still wanted answers. Why are they returning? When will they return? Why were they here in the first place? I knew of one place that had the answer. I put to use all my military training to sneak into the most heavily guarded military base in the US. I broke into Area 51. I’ll save you the details. It’s a process of inching through the desert dressed like a bush for three days, monitoring security patterns, cutting chain-link, and choking people out for their security badges and weapons, turning up loose ends, until finally I found what I was looking for – the Area 51 Library. The library is a massive collection of written statements, voice recordings, pictures, videos, blueprints, documents on everyone who has claimed abduction or sighting, documentation of people who have been abducted or visited and have no recollection of it, and archeological evidence. The most disturbing artifact I found was a 1950’s recording of an alien being questioned under duress giving the same account on the tablet, filling in the gaps. Apparently, there is another planet in our solar system that passes the sun every six thousand years. They survive in biodomes but require extra fuel and food that they get from earth when their planet gets within flying distance. The air on earth is toxic to them, so they wear suits, some wear armor over their suits resembling animals known to humans to strike fear in them. They have a spy station on the dark side of the moon where they operate out of one of their biodomes, watching us, occasionally experimenting on us, or coming down to replenish food. The Alien went on to explain that they tried to quell the violence within humans, who murdered each other and started wars for territory, before the flood. As they watched on over the centuries, war and hate spread like wildfire across the land as humans flourished. They decided since humans still believed in gods, they would send them a representative from God. He explained the insemination of Mary and the resurrection of the man we call Jesus – he was revived from a coma using advanced medical procedures and lifted up in a small spy shuttle under the cover of smoke. He is at the station now and will return with the others when the other planet draws near. His purpose was to teach people how to live peacefully, choosing people to carry on his work after he was gone, to spread it around the world. The alien said things didn’t go as planned, calling us wicked and violent. His final statement was that when the planet returns, those who fight will be destroyed and those who don’t will be enslaved. Area 51 is only guarded by the US. They are not running it. I was discovered by a man with a heavy European accent and, of course, dressed in a black suit. I grabbed the recording and fought my way past him, then through three levels of private security before getting past the military detail on the outside. I’m sure these men know where I live. I’m taking a big risk contacting you, but the public deserves to know the truth. They need to prepare to fight the coming onslaught. So far, governments have kept everything a secret, selling off technologies like cellular communications and nuclear power. I have the recording safely hidden away with the tablet. I have the evidence if you want to proceed with the story.  To: J. Emmit Hardy drdigit@gmail.com Reply: anthropological finds linking past to the future Dr. Hardy, I’ll be honest with you, if it weren’t for your credentials and the background check I ran on you, I would be telling you to take this to the tabloids. Since you are an esteemed professor of sound mind with a military background, I suppose your story warrants some attention. Meet me at Malone’s at noon on Thursday for lunch. They are usually busy so there should not be any scenes made in there if you are followed. Try not to be followed. Bring the evidence. Depending on it, we will see where we go from there. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When I saw Dr. Hardy walk into Malone’s that day, he was not what I was expecting. I was looking for an unshaved old man with wild hair acting a little erratically. No, this was your Indiana Jones type professor, middle aged, lean and sun kissed. Far from erratic, his eyes scanned the restaurant before approaching me with a duffle bag. “Mr. Delaney?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Emmit Hardy. Glad you took the time to see me.” His eyes missed no detail of what was going on around him. He was even checking reflections in the smallest objects to see behind him. “Did you bring the evidence?” The first thing he pulls out is an old reel-to-reel and lays it on the table as he goes for the next item in his bag. “What am I going to do with that?” “Listen to it.” “I thought you would have recorded it on your cell phone.” “I wasn’t about to take a cell phone into Area 51. You’re the news. Don’t you have a reel-to-reel player?” “Well, yeah, back at the newsroom.” “Here, check this out. Carefully.” He displays a bundle of rags gentler than if it were a baby. He unwraps it to reveal the stone tablet, chipped and cracked with a series of markings on it that meant nothing to me. “I’ll have to take your professional word on what that is. What I’m interested in is on that reel. But first, we eat.” “I don’t think we have time for that, Frank. Be casual, but two guys in black suits and sunglasses just walked in.” “Relax, guys in suits eat here all the time.” “Not with security details. Let’s head out the back. Slowly, they haven’t made us yet.” I thought Emmit might be schizophrenic, but when we got out to the alley, two guys were waiting with guns. Now, I would love to give you a play-by-play of what happened next, but it happened too fast. Somehow, Emmit managed to disarm and knock unconscious two men in a matter of seconds. He took their guns, putting one in his waistband. “Can I have a gun?” “No,” he chuckled. We ran to the news building. When we got there, we were spotted by more guys in black suits and their security details. We took off in the other direction with them on our heels. I pulled out my cell and made a phone call. “Susan, I need you to get those old duffle bags out of storage and five other people. Here is what I need you to do.” Emmit and I took the long way to The Lincoln Memorial. There, we ran into six people with bags similar to the one Emmit was carrying. We all bumped and shoved, switching bags several times. When we were done mixing up the bags, some took cabs, some ran, some strolled. They grabbed Marcus and checked his bag, only to find gym clothes and a phone book. Later that night, Emmit and I met with Susan to retrieve the real bag. She asked what was going on, but all I could tell her was to read the morning’s paper. Emmit was able to sneak me pass some of the men in black suits and their muscle so I could write up the story. I wrote frantically, the words flowing from my mind straight to the screen. I barely got it through pre-press in time to make the front page. I rushed it out to the printers myself. They were in the middle of putting on the plates that were supposed to run and were not thrilled about the last-minute change, but now people know where they came from and can prepare for the future.

y5kjfo

Is It True?

Sky Ranch Retirement Community Santa Rosa, NM June 2002 Grady was the only one who was awake in the recreation room at Sky Ranch Retirement Community. He was watching reruns of M.A.S.H. on Channel 12. No one, not even God Himself, dared disturb this sacred nightly viewing ritual of the antics of the 4077 MASH Unit. It was a known rule within the community, written in stone, that no one should venture into the recreation room and disturb him. No one, no matter how many dozens of times he had seen the episode.   Sitting there with a dying cigarette between the fingers on his left hand, Grady could not ignore the young man pacing in the waiting room where Bear Willits sat manning the afterhours reception desk. He found it difficult concentrating on Hawkeye and Trapper John as they pulled another hilarious prank on Major Burns. The door to the rec room was ajar and Grady could not help as he kept craning his neck to get a good look at the stranger pacing just beyond the slightly open door. It had been a while since the last one had shown up here asking if it was true. Grady had no doubt the stranger pacing in the next room, wanted to know. He wanted to know if it was true. He was no different from all the others that had come before him. They all wanted to know the same thing; is it true. He would send this one away empty handed just like all the rest. Crushing out his long dead cigarette in the overfilled ashtray next to where he was sitting, Grady readied himself to meet the young man in the waiting room. The evening rerun now over, the credits began to roll by on the television screen. The overhead light suddenly came on. The shock of the bright light woke some of the sleeping residents that had sacked out on the couch or in one of the cushioned easy chairs facing the television. “Whaaa-” Abe rose from the couch rubbing his eyes. “Go to bed, Mr. Rosen.” Bear said as he entered the Recreation Room followed by the stranger who had been pacing in the waiting area. “Sure.” He was having trouble keeping his dentures in place, but he managed to get to his feet and walk out of the well-lit room. “Mr. Kane, you need to get to your room.” Bear gently tapped the sleeping man on the shoulder. The sleeping man sat up immediately. Despite his giant stature, Bear Willits was a patient, kind man who worked at the retirement community for over ten years. He had come from the Hopi Nation in the north in Shiprock which was near the Four Corners. His jet-black hair was streaked with distinguishing silver streaks, a stark contrast to his dark skin.  “Is it midnight?” Mr. Kane shook his head free of sleep cobwebs.  “No, it's just seven.” Bear smiled as Ceril Kane rose from his easy chair. Yawning and stretching, Ceril stopped to gaze at Ellis who had not even noticed he was there. He pointed to Ellis, but Bear put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Ceril shrugged and yawned again as he started toward the open door. Ellis noted that Bear was clearly one of the favorite members of the staff at Sky Ranch.  There was only one who was awake watching the television and Ellis assumed that this was the man he had been looking for.  “Are you Grady Kid Lawton?” The young man wearing thick glasses and carrying a briefcase asked. “Who wants to know?” He glared at the young man. It had been a long time since Grady had been referred to as Kid. He remembered the day he was led into court with a group of reporters all shouting out for his attention. Each of them armed with pads and tape recorders, all shouting, “There he is, Grady Kid Lawton!”  His unwillingness to speak on his own behalf ended up costing him ten years in a state penitentiary. His lawyer begged him to make a statement that he got the gold from a known fugitive named William Bonny. He refused to do so and paid for it. He never told anyone about that however. There were some details that were best left buried, just like the gold for the Dalton payroll of 1886 that Grady was accused of stealing. “I am Ellis Wisely.” He sat in the chair vacated by Ceril, “I’m from Celebrity Magazine. Have you ever heard of it?” “Can’t say I have.” He took the business card Ellis offered him. Putting it in his shirt pocket, Grady studied Ellis, noting how he seemed to be a bit jumpy and somewhat uncomfortable in his white shirt, his skinny tie and suit jacket that did not match his trousers. Not that Grady was any sort of fashion expert, but he did have a knack for reading a person and he did not like what he was reading from Ellis. “We are the most popular magazine in the nation.” Ellis puffed himself up a bit. “And what in tar-nation do you want with me?” Grady turned off the television and resumed his cushioned chair.  “Yeah, what would you want to talk to Grady for?” Ceril asked. “I work for the Human-Interest Section run by Elsa Banion.” He explained as he opened his briefcase with a snap. This Ellis guy was no different than all the rest of them, Grady thought as he shrugged his shoulders before lighting another cigarette. He even waved his hand and grimaced as Grady blew the smoke in his direction. For years he had been told by doctors that smoking was bad for you, but Grady had outlived most of them do-gooders, so hang ‘em, he would go to his grave with a cigarette at the corner of his mouth. “What do you want to know, Mr. Wiser?” Grady asked as he leaned back in the easy chair, he was sitting in like he was the crowned king of France. “Wisely.” Ellis smiled as he corrected him, “Is it true?” “Is what true?” Grady blew some more smoke in Ellis’ direction.  Ellis waved the smoke away with his hand and then reached into his jacket pocket. From his inside pocket, Ellis presented him with a yellow newspaper clipping. Carefully opening the newspaper, Grady saw the article Dennis Watson had written for the Albuquerque Gazette back in September 1947 when Grady had been hauling nuclear material for the United States Army at Alamogordo Nuclear Test Site. What started out as a routine haul ended in an epic adventure across the entire state of New Mexico as Billy Smith said so long to all of his traveling companions.  It seemed like yesterday as he gazed at the picture he had taken when he and Billy rode into Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Billy had Grady stop the truck in the middle of the small town. Somberly, Billy got out and slowly walked over to the monument, proclaiming this was where Billy the Kid was buried after his fateful meeting with Marshall Pat Garrett. It was all written on the aging plaque that hung on the marble monument. Unexpectedly, Billy removed his hat, placing it over his heart as he bowed his head. In their time together, Billy had never displayed any inkling of prayer or reverence to higher power, but here he was in the light of day, hat off and head bent in some sort of prayer or reverence to the deceased. Moved by what he was seeing and not thinking about it, Grady went into the truck and reached under his bench seat to retrieve his Kodak camera. Finding Billy still in solemn prayer, Grady snapped the photograph. It turned out to be a photograph worthy of the front page of the Albuquerque Gazette with Dennis Watson’s story beneath the picture. Since the monument was prominent next to the old man, Watson left little doubt that he believed Billy Smith was really Billy the Kid. Many notorious outlaws came to the New Mexico Territory back then since it was an easy place to vanish from an unwanted past. But as far as Grady Lawton was concerned, it was this article that changed his life’s direction for both the good and the bad. Mostly for the bad he reasoned even as his fading vision scanned the forgotten artifact that had suddenly come back to life. “You read the article; I assume.” Grady handed Ellis the article back. “Yes, but there seems to be some doubt about the validity.” Ellis put the article in his opened briefcase, noticing how Grady’s hands shook as he did so. “Is it true? That’s all I want to know, and I will leave you be.” It would be so easy for Grady to say, “Yes, it’s all true.” The only problem was, it wasn’t true and there was no straight line to the truth. For almost fifty years, the truth was an enigma clothed in Wild West legend and tall tales. “In this article, Watson claims that you picked up a hitchhiker who claimed to be Billy the Kid.” Ellis shrugged. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bear hovering by the partially open door. “The man I picked up said his name was Billy Smith.” Grady shook his head. “So why did Watson claim otherwise?” Ellis asked. “He got it wrong.” Grady sighed. “Folks wanted it to be right, but it weren’t. He was just some hot shot reporter.” Grady paused as he glanced at Ellis, “Who wanted to save his father’s newspaper that was goin’ bankrupt. He just thought he was right.” Grady’s smile ran contrary to the article. “Seems like he was pretty sure.” Ellis nodded. “Maybe you should ask him.” Grady snapped. “Shortly after he wrote that, he quit being a reporter. The newspaper went belly-up.” “I see.” Ellis shook his head. “Visiting hours are over, Mr. Wisely.” Bear announced as he entered the room. “Is that so?” Ellis glanced at his wristwatch. “I thought you said I could stay until nine. It isn’t nine yet.” “I reserve the right to change the hours, if I feel it is necessary for the well-being of our residents. I believe that time has come. Mr. Lawton has told you what you wanted to hear, but it seems that is not enough.” “Listen, I drove ten hours on Interstate 40 from Los Angeles.” He rose and looked up into Bear’s dark eyes. He was nearly a head shorter than the big man, but Ellis had learned to be persistent and his irritation with the situation was beginning to show. “I just want to know if it’s true or not.” “You had your chance and now it’s time for you to leave.” Bear insisted. “Wait.” Grady held up his right hand. Bear did a double take, but then he shrugged and left the room without another word. Grady rubbed his eyes, “The truth is, Billy Smith never said he was the Kid. He did tell me stories about the Lincoln County Wars of the 1880’s and how he rode with the Regulators against the Dalton Gang, but he never said he was Billy the Kid.” “Can you tell me what he did say?” Ellis sat down and put his elbows on his knees. “I’m interested.” “Sure.” Grady smiled, “But it’s quite a tale.” “I got time, Mr. Lawton.” Ellis pulled out a tape recorder from his briefcase. “I ain’t never told no one this story.” He shrugged, “It sounds like quite a whopper, but every word I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth.” “Shall we begin.” Ellis pressed the record button on his player. “Why doncha come for breakfast around nine? I’m kind of tuckered out.” Grady bowed his head. “Sure. I can be here when you want.” He patted Grady’s hand and stood up, “Until tomorrow morning.” “See ya then, sonny.” Grady chuckled as Ellis walked out of the room. He waved to Bear as he exited the building.  ********** Ellis drove his rental Fiat back to his motel, The Highway Queen with a neon lit ten-foot woman dressed in scant pool attire. Parking in front of his room, he fumbled for his room key and walked into the icebox room with the air conditioner running full blast.  Home sweet home, he shivered. Before being assigned this story, Ellis spent a lot of research on William Bonny known as Billy the Kid, but nothing in the research seemed to line up with the article Dennis Watson wrote his sensational story for the Albuquerque Gazette on September 30, 1947. According to his research, Ellis found, Billy Smith and Billy the Kid were two completely different people entirely. He began to suspect that Dennis Watson was trying to sensationalize the story for his own infamy. This was not uncommon for journalists to do when the facts of the story they were working on were mundane and boring.  If the truth be known, Ellis loathed this assignment to begin with. With the worst kept secret at the Human-Interest Section, Ellis had developed an intimate relationship with his boss, Elsa Bannion, but it seemed that her interest in him began to wane. There were little things said and done that clued him into that fact. And then there was the owner of the lucrative magazine, Harvey Pinkston who had a reputation as a playboy. His eye seemed to be targeting Elsa Bannion and now that he was in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, there was nothing standing in his way to make a romantic connection with Elsa. He was pretty sure that was taking place right at this moment since his last phone call only got her answering service. Elsa was compulsive when it came to her phone, so Ellis was to conclude she was with Harvey. While he wished he was wrong about that, there was nothing to contradict his conclusion, just like Grady Lawton had done earlier in the evening. He turned off the lamp next to his bed and listened to the trucks zipping by the roadside motel on Interstate 40. Hopefully, he would be headed back to Los Angeles sometime tomorrow as long as Grady did not turn this story into some convoluted story about some Wild West adventure, but that too seemed quite unlikely.  Sleep would not come easy. Not tonight. 

qbr0r8

ETERNAL LIBRARY: THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE UNIVERSE

Long before the rise of man when the world was dark there came a great light from the sky. A great ship descended into a dark world. Inside the ship was the greatest race to ever inhabit the universe. They are called the creators. The creators were the first evolution of humanity. They called their new home Avalonia. The creators created the oceans, the trees, plants and animals. Overtime the creators created the second evolution of humanity in their image. The creators built great cities and within those great cities, a great library was built. Which housed the greatest knowledge the universe has ever known. A millennia passed since the creators arrived in Avalonia and since their first landing many generations of humans have been all with the knowledge of the creators. The creators have spread their seed and their knowledge throughout the known galaxy. Many planets bore the fruit of knowledge of the creators. Many more libraries of knowledge were created but only one remains eternal. Many more generations have passed and the generations of humans created by the creators continued to flourish until one moment in their history when everything changed. The creators simply vanished leaving their creations on the many planets they call home. The humans on each planet were left with the knowledge of the creators. The humans didn't use the knowledge wisely and ultimately all the knowledge was lost including the libraries expect for the one that remains eternal. Deep inside I knew the existence of humanity was part of something greater. We were put on this planet to be something more. We were created by a powerful race of humans to carry on their legacy but over the course of thousands of years we lost it all. I must find and figure out what we lost. It's my destiny. I dreamed about something greater than myself. Something greater than humanity. A library filled with the knowledge of the universe is somewhere out beyond the stars waiting for me to find. Atria is my home the fourth planet the creators created this I know. The records of the past show it. It also shows one of the great libraries once stood on Atrian grounds but the library is no more. Their maybe more libraries out beyond the stars but one bears the name eternal. That one has been lost since the first creation. I aim to find that one. Beyond the stars there are more planets that house the libraries. To those planets I will go and find the one that is eternal. I don't know what I will find but it's a risk I must take. To Aqua Terra, Azurella also known as the water planets are known creations of the creators. To Amarantha and Inter Nova are also known creations of the creators. All these planets have one thing in common. The great libraries of the creators were built there. Atria, my home world was also created by the creators and too many of my people no known library was ever built on Atria but a long-ago war destroyed half of Atria and possible the library. The records are proof there was a library on Atria. I have what I need. Now it's time for me to set off on my journey. Lucky for me I have my own space ship. Just because the great library is no more and no one knows it doesn't mean the creators knowledge was lost. Some of their knowledge was left for us. The record I found suggest only four of the many planets the creators created house the great libraries. One of them has to be the one that is eternal. I set off into the stars. My first stop is Aqua Terra. One of the many water planets. I fire up the FTL and in four hours I arrive at Aqua Terra. I scan the planet and to my amazement there is a large structure on the southern end of the planet. The inhabitants of Aqua Terra primarily live on the northern end of the planet. I land my ship safely on the water. I put my water gear on. I open the door and jump into the water. I follow the coordinates to the location of the library. Not much of a library. I enter through one of the side openings. Something must be holding the water back. I beginning going up one of the hallways. I look around. I don't see much. The books are weathered down. I keep going down the long hallway until I reach a door. I open the door and enter. All the books are weathered down expect for one. This book is in good condition. I pick up the book and open it. It's not a book but a journal. I start to read the journal, Wow, this was written by one of the creators. "We left our home to seed the rest of the known galaxy. I will miss my home. I will miss my library. Many more will be created. One day I will return to Avalonia." "We seeded many more planets and built many more libraries. Our creations are beautiful but something happened to us. We must leave Avalonia or all will be lost. We entrust our libraries and all our knowledge to our creations. Our eternal library, we will hide forever." Avalonia, I never heard of that planet. I leave the library and go back to my ship. I go to the next planet, another water planet. I found the same thing I found on Aqua Terra, a journal talking about Avalonia. I go to the next two planets Amarantha and Inter Nova and I found the same thing, two more journals written by the creators talking about Avalonia. I spread the journals out looking for clues. I examine each journal one by one and bang hidden beneath the words are numbers. I write them down. They look like coordinates. These must be coordinates to Avalonia. I punch in the coordinates. There it is Avalonia. I fire up the FTL. I'm on my way to Avalonia. The creators first home, first creation and hopefully the site of the one that is eternal. As my ship travels to Avalonia, I keep reading the journals of the creators. This is amazing. One of the journals written by a creator whose name is Minta talks about how the libraries were created. But what the journals don't talk about is how we were created or why the vanished. After ten hours my ship drops out of FTL. This is Avalonia. I scan the planet. My scans don't pick up anything. I go back to the journals. I read each one. The journals talk about a large structure between a mountain and a waterfall. I scan the planet again. My scans pick up something on the southern end of the planet. I go down to Avalonia. The planet is beautiful. No sign of life. I wonder why that is. I see the mountain range. I fly around the mountain. I spot a waterfall. It must be in there. I land my ship. I open the door and walk out. I'm speechless. I never see anything so beautiful and colorful. I scan the area with my scanner. I'm picking up something. I walk in the direction of the waterfall. What's that up ahead? I see what looks like the figure of a person. As I get near, I see the figure looking at me. My scans showed no sign of life. "Hello my name is Minta creator of the library, creator of everything." Oh My God! I'm seeing one of the creators. "You have found the eternal library filled with the knowledge of the universe. You are worthy to be in the presence of those who breath life into you. Welcome my child." "The knowledge of creation is too great for our creations. We hid this knowledge because no one human is worthy of the knowledge that is held in the eternal library. Only you are worthy. Enter." I enter the library. Wow beyond wow. So much to be discovered. I walk around looking at the great works the creators did. I don't know where to begin. I take one book after another reading about everything the creators created from the first space ship to the many great cities they built, to the math and medicine they created and the history of creation. I'm looking at everything the creators ever worked on. Everything they built and made including us humans. This is amazing. I continue to read it all. Thank you creators for leaving this for me, for us.

6yvex3

The Lady in the red dress

A young girl in a white dress with a black paper doll pattern on it looked down from the branch of an oak tree. She was sitting very carefully on the branch as she didn’t want to get her dress dirty. Mummy would be cross and besides she didn’t want to alert anyone to her presence up in the tree. Down below her mother’s cocktail party was taking place. She knew she was supposed to be in bed  but she wasn’t tired and she was mesmerised by the lady in the red dress. This lady was her aunt. She was beautiful, extremely stylish and superbly elegant. She was laughing, her head thrown back and her perfect white teeth showing. The curls in her hair were waving in the light summer breeze. The cause of her laughter was a man. Margaret didn’t know this man, but she instinctively knew that she didn’t trust him.  He looked suave, the proverbial tall, dark and handsome , expensively dressed. She had also been watching him as well as her Aunt and although she was only nine she somehow knew there was something suspicious about him. He had been moving around the guests and mostly talking to the women there and then he had spotted her aunt who just happened to be standing alone. He had immediately moved over to her and fallen on his knees very dramatically and seemed to Margaret to be admiring her aunt’s beauty. Her aunt hadn’t appeared embarrassed but had beguilingly held out her champagne flute to him and he was refilling it with the bottle of champagne he had in his hand. Margaret loved her aunt with a passion. She was her mother’s sister and sometimes she thought she loved her more than her mother. She looked down from the tree and there right below her was the man. His face was right up to her Aunt’s , quite threateningly she thought. Carefully she moved down a branch or two to hear what he was saying. “I need you to get away from this rubbish, come up to London, so we can do what we’ve planned”. As her aunt tried to turn her head, his hand came up as quick as lightening, holding her head in place. “Well?” Looking up her aunt saw her watching them, Margaret saw the fear in her eyes, but her voice belied that. With her usual cheerfulness calling out,“Margaret what are you doing up there, come down and join us. There’s some orange juice here for you”. Margaret felt she had no option so she climbed down as carefully as she could and found herself looking up at the man. He was holding out the orange juice to her which she took thanking him and then instinctively moved closer to her aunt. Just then her mother spotted her and immediately came over and asked her why she was still out here and not in bed. “Oh Adele”, said her aunt,”the child just wants to have some fun”. “Yes Tess maybe, but it is way past her bed time. Off you go now Margaret”. Her mother marched off. Her aunt hugged her saying, “It will be school holidays soon so you can come and stay with me and we can do all our favourite things together”. The man who was watching both Margaret and her aunt with that sardonic look that good looking men often seem to have on their faces, saw the child’s face light up with pure undisguised delight and saw her hug her aunt mouthing, “ thankyou” and then run off to catch up with her mother. Tess’s face changed and became slightly guarded though she looked up at the man with misty eyes saying,“No Tony we can’t start this again, it’s over. I’ve moved on since..well, you know what happened, what we did”. Tony looked at her for what seemed like an eternity and then he turned her face to his and kissed her long and hard on the mouth and walked away. Margaret, who hadn’t yet gone inside, as her mother had stopped to talk to someone, saw this exchange between her aunt and the man and although she was only young , she knew with a child’s instinctiveness that her Aunt was unhappy. The weekend following the party, Margaret and her father went into their nearest city, Lincoln, as her father had some business to do with the Dean of the Cathedral. It was a drive of about 10 kilometres. They parked the car in the usual place near the Castle and hand in hand walked into the great Cathedral. “I’m meeting a friend in the coffee shop, do you want to come with me or have an explore and then come to us?”. “ I’ll explore and then come to the coffee shop,please Daddy”, Margaret said, squeezing his big warm hand with her little cold one. “Of course my darling, see you soon, don’t be too long” and her father strode off. She was making her way back to the coffee shop when glancing in at one of the side chapels she saw “The Man”. However, he was not alone, he was with a lady who was certainly not Aunt Tess and he was kissing her. To Margaret’s innocent eyes every kiss seemed shocking, but seeing it in one of the Cathedral’s chapels was even worse. She was so stunned by the scene that she stood rooted to the spot though something inside her was telling her to move off quickly. The lady had her back to her but Tony was facing her. His eyes were closed, but he must have felt a presence for he opened them and saw her, the look on his face told Margaret that he was definitely not happy to see her there. Arriving at the coffee shop, she stopped and took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. She didn’t want her father asking any awkward questions. Her eyes spotted him almost immediately. She ran over, sinking into the seat next to him. He was still in conversation with his friend, so she was glad not to have to talk straight away. She needed to digest what she had seen. The school holidays arrived and on the Friday evening of the first week she heard her mother on the telephone. She knew immediately to whom she was talking. It was her Aunt. Her mother’s voice always had this slightly pinched edge to it whenever she was talking to her sister. The upshot of the call was that she was to go to London to stay with Aunt Tess. She felt a frisson of excitement when she knew this was the plan for she adored her Aunt and loved London. Margaret loved the train trip to London. It always seemed so exciting to be going to the capital. A friend of her father’s was on the same train, so she was sitting with him. Luckily he hid himself behind his newspaper all the way, so she could amuse herself. She had her new mobile phone, book and some sandwiches. Soon enough they were arriving at Kings Cross station. Her aunt was waiting at the barrier, swooping her up in a massive hug before guiding her into a waiting taxi. Margaret never had to think of what to say to Tess who was always full of chit chat and seemed to know all the latest gossip. Settling herself into her usual bedroom, Margaret quickly unpacked her things, drinking in the ambience of this beautiful room, and loving hearing the traffic noise outside. Then she heard Aunt Tess call her, “Margaret come down for tea and look who has come to join us”. She leapt down the stairs, two at a time, presuming that it would be her aunt’s great friend Irene, who ,also was a lot of fun. As she entered the family room with enthusiasm, she came to an abrupt halt. The guest was not Irene. It was Tony. “Well look who we have here, little Margie” , he said in that condescending way adults have on talking to children. Margaret felt her mouth had gone so dry she couldn’t speak. Being polite, she knew she had to say something. She managed to squeak out an “Hello”. She sidled over to Tess who put an arm around her, whispering in her ear, “Tony has a surprise to tell us about, but lets sit down to tea first.” Tea went by in a bit of a blur, Margaret forcing herself to eat. “So, darling, what is this surprise you have for us girls, something good, I hope”. Tony leant back in his chair. “Well, the weather is going to be fine tomorrow so what about a drive into the country?” There is this house that I need to look at for one of my clients which happens to be near Hever Castle. I hear that someone is keen on Anne Boleyn”. With that remark, he looked straight at Margaret, a look that made her feel incredibly uncomfortable. “That sounds like a perfect day out, doesn’t it Margaret?” She nodded, adding, so that she didn’t seem ungrateful, “I have always wanted to go to Hever”. Tony left soon after that conversation in order “To do business for tomorrow”, according to him. Her aunt saw him out, leaving Margaret to clear away the tea things . Tess was a very, very long time coming downstairs 

1sf78t

The Treasure

There is a storm that is raining with thunder. I awake in the middle of the night with terror dreams again. This nightmare doesn't go away so easily. Susan, why are you awake again hearing a voice so rough? It's my father Steven again, oh sweetheart what's going on, you must sleep to go to school went to bed as my father said, I couldn't sleep at all. I stood very worried about my night terror dreams. It is trying to tell me something unknown, feel the chills inside of me in this nightmare as if so real. This must be something more, a nightmare, it is a warning. It's so scary and intense it's a big picture of a man in red flames. He only sees his face laughing in hell. Given having this dream about this secret library it's a desolate old building. abandoned and creepy. I need to find the truth about this place and why I am dreaming about this I see so many crying people so loud in this nightmare. They practice some kind of magic. I looked on my computer in search of this old building. I called John to come this evening for dinner and we need to talk. John rang the bell Susan I am so glad that you are here. Let's get to this address the building exit, and let's check out, this night terror goes on and on with this creepy building, which is an old library, we need to look for answers. john said what are we going to search for. Anything there is any kind of hiding map that's in my dream is given on repeating repeatedly. We went inside the secret library to the building. John this so freaks out, it's too dark. They present something evil inside the old building. get a flashlight, Susan, John let's stay together. We need to look more forward. Let's do this right now; suddenly John fell into a basement; he got so scared and far into some dead people's skulls and dead people's fingers and bodies in the basement. I am dying inside this hole. John goes freighting into a choke. get me out of this place, it's only dead bodies in this secret library basement. Don't worry about going to get some help Susan replied nervously, hear a voice get out of here you doom yourself. Why are you here now Susan Star running from Starred she feels it's too dark. Oh my god, we not getting out here alive and I don't know my way out, books start falling and it's too cold in here. They have a secret doorway to get out. She sees a black dog barking. He has big teeth and is very sharp. The dog from hell its eyes are red it gives on, follow me it's a beast itself some books fell in my head. I Grabbed one and hit him in the face and nose He disappeared, I ran into a big clumsy room with dirty scoop ugly furniture with an incredibly old door that is broken. What's next is I'm going to be buried alive in this library. Help, help Susan yell out. She sees a man unfired a crusty voice Welcome to my world, Susan you are going to die with us, we are going to open the gates of hell for you. What it's this runout, let's do prayers. He was the wicked man, Dr. Rischard Why did you come here to destroy my inner peace in my own world of malice, I want your soul because it's pure and innocent and would be mine. My body is shaking, I don't know what to do, I won't die like this, I won't surrender so easily to an evil spirit. She felt too scared and nervous. I will fight back to the end do you hear me. Susan the voices saying free us from him we want to be free. He has captivated us in this hole eternally we want you to free us, Susan screams Icterical, tell me the way out of here. I need help to get John to fall into a hole and need medical help, He is still in terror of this terrible night. this book fell from a shelf. It was the diary of Dr. Rischard all his criminals intended; he was a real monster. How he tortures them one by one for his inner pleasure. This was a secret book with the spoken words of a murderer. Susan sees a light she runs into running so fast. She feels her heart beating so hard. There are secret doors to follow the light to the end, and that's what she did, the light was trying to get her out of there. Susan ran through a light it was a broken window go through a window she saw the streets out of the building. She calls the paramedics her mobile phone starts working again with a signal. They finally got out with John out from the basement. He had broken his legs. We are lucky to be alive. John said to Susan. She has the diary of Dr. Rischard in her hands the book that would tell the world the real monster he was went he was alive. He disappeared without a crease. Now the world would know the truth about this man. His secret life is no longer an honorable man only a killer. Dr. Rischard 1950 killed and tortured remained dead and murdered people putting all their victims in this secret library building, some became axes and other skulls. His body was found in the basement hanging himself. He committed suicide. He was obsessed with black magic and Witchcraft, He sacrificed human beings, and he wanted to become immortal, He left a diary of everything that he did to his victim. He was too scared to go to prison his madness was too much, so many women and elderly people were the ones he picked to kill. Susan and John became heroes when this investigation came forward everything the mystery of hiding treasures and maps concluded. Susan has a hidden gift; she can communicate with the spirit world. They close this building as years pass no one knows the creepy old building where so many souls are trapped in the darkness. Thanks to these two teenagers the souls are free and are now resting. All souls are now buried on Christian ground.

jbai21

The Weight-to-Oar Ratio

Jorton, the only town allowed in Trungen Forest and home of Lady Nimmo, is having its first secret meeting. Of course, since it's a secret, everyone knows about it. The Stumper Guard deployed to Lady Nimmo's house to prevent eavesdropping. They chased off teenagers from one side of Lady Nimmo's house to find their parents on the other side. When they escorted them away, dwarfs snuck to the back. Everyone pressed to know what the hush-hush was all about. Inside Lady Nimmo's house, the messenger from Selwyn addressed the room containing Lady Nimmo, Jor, Oakaford, Flimlet, and the spirit of Trungen. "The King was clear that his message be kept secret. He made me swear." "My stumpers are doing their best," Lady Nimmo said before an idea hit her. "Let's take this meeting to the art room. It's in the middle of the house, with no windows." The art room wasn't conducive to a meeting but was secure from prying ears. Everyone stood along the walls except for Lady Nimmo, who sat in her sewing chair. "I'm sorry for the tiny room," Lady Nimmo said. "No trouble at all, my Lady," the messenger said. "You have the floor." The messenger straightened, "Yes, my Lady." He paused for dramatic effect. "A week ago, the Eye of Duran was stolen." The messenger paused again, presumably for another dramatic effect. "And what is this Eye?" "The Eye? Is it possible you know nothing about the Eye of Duran?" "I assure you, it is." "Yes. Excuse me, my Lady." He cleared his throat. "The Eye of Duran is a magic orb that monitors the borders of Selwyn." He continued his habit of pausing. "So, you can see why we must retrieve it." "It is obvious, but what does the Eye have to do with me?" "Our spies have discovered the location of the Eye on a small island in the Sea of Grindle. The King believes your magic ability could be used to recover it." "It would be no challenge for Selwyn's navy," Jor said. "You would think," the messenger answered. "However, the island is protected by fire-bolt dragons." Flimlet whistled, "Ship destroyers." "These are no ordinary thieves if they're in league with dragons," Jor said. "So, what is the King thinking?" "We have a three-person underwater boat to sneak onto the island. Once there, she could covertly build an army of stumpers, then overwhelm the small fortress holding the orb." The room was silent. "It takes time to carve my stumpers. I would need dozens, or over a hundred, to do the job." "The King understands it might take some time." "How are we to remain concealed while I build this army?" "There is a cave on the west side of the island. Our spies used it. It has a small entrance that leads to a large cave." The meeting droned on and on, like most meetings do. There were motions made and seconded to go and not to go. Eventually, Lady Nimmo used her executive privilege as Duchess of Jorton to override all motions. She decided she would try. After some more boring minutes, they elected Jor and the spirit of Trungen to accompany her. To maintain secrecy, they started a rumor that Lady Nimmo was invited to Selwyn to receive its highest civilian honor from the King. The three adventurers headed east, then circled west to Izen, the Selwyn port city on the Sea of Grindle. They were to rendezvous with Captain Wington on his ship, the White Tsunami. If this were a high fantasy story, like Lord of the Rings, we would have followed the three as they traveled through intense lands full of peril. They would have fought monsters. They would have revealed more about their backstories. However, this is not a high fantasy story; it is a low fantasy story, so they walked for a few days, and nothing eventful happened. So, let's skip the boring part and jump onto Captain Wington's ship leaving port. Captain Wington beamed proudly, "May I give you a tour of the White Tsunami?" "Lead the way," Jor said. "Did you know she's the pride of Selwyn's navy?" Captain Wington said. "Yes, she is the fastest and newest. She has 120 oar-power. Sixteen catapults. Three archer towers. One hundred archers. Do you think any ship would challenge us? Do you?" "I'd think they'd be foolish, too," Lady Nimmo said. "You think so? Well, you'd be correct." The Captain took them to the underwater boat mounted above the stern. A crane held the wooden craft, which was made from a gigantic hollowed-out tree and polished to perfection. A large cork was wedged into the bow, and a turbine was built onto the stern. On top was a tube-like spyglass. "There are three seats inside," the Captain beamed. "Each seat has a different job to do. The first seat handles the steering oar, the middle mans the vertical eyeglass, and the last spins the accelerator wheel attached to the turbine. That turbine is state-of-the-art technology. It will propel your little craft as fast as a boat with ten oar-power. Isn't that amazing?" They were impressed. Lady Nimmo asked about the entrance. "Well, you see, that contraption removes the cork to allow access." He pointed to an external press mounted to the ship. "Once seated, we will use a special mallet made for the giant cork and hammer it back in place." "How will we exit?" Lady Nimmo asked. "A special press is mounted to the ceiling of your boat. Unmount it, attach it to the three brackets in the bow, and crank away. The press plate will push the cork free." "That is ingenious, but how will we hammer the cork back in place to return?" "That will be tricky. We stashed two mallets into the floor, but unfortunately, someone will have to hammer it in place from the outside." "Someone must be left behind! Why are we only now hearing about this?" Lady Nimmo turned red. "I'm sure it was an oversight," the Captain said. He would have continued his pathetic line of excuses had he not been interrupted by archers shouting from the towers warning of approaching ships. The Captain called for his spyglass. "That's impossible! They're gaining!" A Hollywood-handsome man walked over while the Captain was spying on the oncoming ships. His hair was the envy of every woman – long, wavy, and black. He was tall and muscular. His white shirt was half unbuttoned, revealing just the right amount of chest hair. He smiled, showing the whitest teeth Lady Nimmo had ever seen. "I'm Travis. You must be Lady Nimmo," he said, holding her hand and gently kissing it. Jor cut in, "And I'm Jor, her father." "Ahh, Travis, just the man I wanted to see," the Captain said as he handed Travis the spyglass. "Are they gaining on us?" "I'd say they are." "How is that possible? We have a 120 oar-powered ship." "Oar-power is tricky. It depends on so many factors: the weight-to-oar ratio, the rowers' strength, and the ship's design." Travis studied the smaller ships. "The weight-to-oar ratio is probably at work here. Look. Those ships are much smaller and lighter, yet I count 80 oars." "Well, no matter. They will be on us within a couple of hours," the Captain resolved to ensure the mission did not fail. "We will turn to face our predators. Let's see how they like our teeth." "Yes, Captain!" Travis relayed the orders to the crew. "Lady Nimmo," the Captain said. "After we fully turn, we will lower your craft into the water. We will fight to give you as much time as we can." The three loaded into the tiny boat, and Travis hammered the cork back into place. He shouted as loud as he could, "Are you ready?" They shouted back in the affirmative. "Then, good luck!" The crane lowered the underwater boat into the water. The craft's weight was proportioned perfectly to float underwater only a couple of feet; the vertical spyglass was all that could be seen. The White Tsunami and the underwater craft sailed in opposite directions. "I hope everyone on the White Tsunami will be okay," Lady Nimmo said. "I wonder who's on those ships," Jor said. Trungen watched through the spyglass, "They're too far for me to be certain. But my guess is the shadow elves." They carried out their assigned duties in silence, knowing the danger. If those ships got past the White Tsumami, they would be snagged like fish in a net. Jor spun the accelerator wheel faster, trusting Captain Wington would give them enough time to reach the island. Lady Nimmo wondered if she could create an army of stumpers solely for fighting. Creating them for defense was one thing. She ignored her apprehension. Soon, her doubts would be answered. There was nothing that could be done now but steer.

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