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Mielikki

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Mielikki 5

Happy Birthday

I twist and turn in my chair, the creaking of its worn-out hinges echoing in the chambers of my sleep-deprived mind. Resting my head on my hand, the weight of exhaustion presses against my temples like a relentless force. With a sigh, I turn to the clock beside the bed, its glowing digits projecting an eerie green hue in my red and dry eyes. 10:58 PM flashes in bold, mocking digits. "It will only take 30 minutes," I scoff, I can’t believe I thought this would be easy. “At least it is the least assignment of the year,” I say, trying to revive my dead hopes. Ding The sudden chirp of my phone interrupts the silent night. I glance at the screen, it’s Bianca, my twin sister. She's at a sleepover with her boyfriend, Chris, so why is she bothering me now? "Can you send me your essay?" She texted. Rolling my eyes, I swipe her message away with a hint of annoyance. Slamming my phone down on the desk, frustration courses through my veins, mingling with the jumbled mess of my thoughts. "Focus, Focus!" I remind myself. "Finally!" I exclaim, a surge of relief flooding through me as I complete the last paragraph. Jumping out of my chair, an exultant smile dances across my face. I sit back in my chair, now able to relax. I turn my head, only to encounter a nightmarish sight. 1:39 AM brightly and cruelly boasts on the face of the clock, my smile disappears. "No!" I scream in agony, the weight of defeat pushing me back into my seat. Despite the late hour, I submit the essay, “My GPA is gonna love this,” I sarcastically murmur. A sudden knock on the door jolts me from my sulking, sending my heart racing in my chest. Mom and Dad are out of town, and Bia is with her boyfriend—so who could it be? I glance at my phone and breathe a sigh of relief as Bia's message appears. "Could you at least unlock the front door? I forgot my key," she had texted. "Yeah, coming, sorry!" I reply 20 minutes too late, my fingers flying across the screen with haste. I could tell she was irritated. As I hurry down the stairs, MooMoo, our family cat, looks at me with wide-eyed apprehension, her fur bristling with unease. "It's just a thunderstorm, MooMoo," I reassure her, scooping her up in my arms as I make my way to the front door. But as I reach for the handle, MooMoo's demeanor shifts, her hisses and scratches a frantic plea for escape. Gently, I set her down, puzzled by her unusual behavior. She has always despised thunderstorms, but this... this is different. Outside, the storm rages on. With each resounding knock on the door angrier than the last, accompanied by Bianca's voice calling out my name, a sense of foreboding pours over me like a suffocating blanket. "Give me a minute," I call out nervously, my steps hesitant as I approach the door. Poor Bia, I had no idea she was in the rain this long, I wouldn’t be surprised if she swung at me, I probably deserve it. With a deep breath, I fling it open, bracing myself for the inevitable scolding. But to my surprise, she wasn’t there. "Hello?" My voice echoes into the night, swallowed by the darkness surrounding me. The words hang in the air; unanswered, and the broken boards on the porch and the empty doorsteps stare back at me. The only response I receive is the distant rumble of thunder, echoing the unsettling feeling now buried in my soul. I scan the area, fully expecting Bia to pop out and frighten me, but I see nothing but sporadic flashes of lightning. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, it’s light illuminating my terrified face. “Door’s open,” I text. No response. “What the heck???” I text Bia. Nothing. “WHAT THE HECK???? Answer!” I text again. I stand in the door frame. 10 minutes go by. Why is she not answering me? “Bia??” I anxiously press send, her silence only intensifies my uneasiness. No longer able to handle the fear that is slowly suffocating me, I slam and lock the door. Pacing around the kitchen, I hold the phone to my ear, waiting for Bia’s response. “You have reached the voicemail box of Bianca Fortachelli.” The phone blares into my ear. My mind immediately immerses itself in every worst-case scenario possible. I scroll through my phone and click on Mom. In a hurry, I clicked the phone icon. “Hello?” Mom answers. I can tell she just woke up. “Mom, I’ve tried to call and text Bia but she won’t answer,” the uncontainable panic in my voice transforms my words into nonsense as I start to cry. “What?” Her voice is now more alert and attentive. “Why isn’t she with you?” She says in a stern voice. I kinda forgot Bia wasn’t supposed to stay Chris and this was our secret. “Oh, she was finishing a group project for…” What should I say? “For English!” I lie. “She should be home by now, it’s 2:30 AM, I will call her, I'm sure it’s nothing, maybe she didn’t want to drive in the rain.” Mom tries to rationalize. “Yeah,” I replied unconvinced. We say our “I love you’s” and hang up. Nearly sprinting to the key rack, I snatch my keys, turn around, and, for a split second catch a glimpse of a pale, disheveled face peering through the window. I let out a frightened shriek. Quickly, with my heart in my throat, slamming and locking the door behind me, I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. The roar of the motor fades behind the sounds of the storm. The dark and devoid road stretches out before me as I go 80 in a 55, the heavy rain obscures my view, overtaking my windshield and rendering my windshield wipers useless. I try to call Bia once again, but my signal is dead. As I pull into Chris’s driveway, a familiar sound rings throughout my car, coming from my phone. Without hesitation, I picked it up. My eyes widen and my heart drops into my stomach as I read Bia’s message. “Help.” My laser focus on Bia’s message shielded me from the number of cars at Chris’s house. I dig under my car seat, reaching for it. Ah! Found it! I quickly put the blade in my coat pocket and threw my curly brown hair into a messy bun before hopping out of the car. As I get closer to his house, I notice the lights and begin to hear the music despite nature playing its own playlist. Is there a party? The door is open. I frantically sneak into the house looking for Bia. Despite the party lights, the halls are relatively dim. I creep upstairs while whispering Bia’s name under my breath. Behind one of the doors, I hear hushed yelling between a man and a woman. Wait, the man’s voice sounds familiar, it’s Chris. But who is the girl? Swiftly, I scoot up to the door avoiding making direct contact with it. “She’s gone, you don’t have to worry about her anymore,” the girl playfully whispers. “I scared her pretty good,” Chris maniacally laughs. I broke down in tears, hysterical, he killed my sister. Quickly, I ran down the stairs. Surprise! Everyone shouts. My eyes immediately land on Bia, she is holding a cake and laughing to the point of tears. “What is this?” I shout. “Happy 18th birthday to you too sis,” Bia says, walking toward me. “Come on, let's blow out our candles,” she says. “But what about Chris and that girl upstairs?” I ask. “Chris is upstairs with his mom, we all knew you would show up here, this entire thing was planned,” Bia responded while hugging me. “But no one saw me when I snuck in,” I argued. Bia laughs, “You fooled no one, everyone saw you, the phone call with Mom was staged, the conversation upstairs was planned, Chris visiting the house was planned, and my texts to you were planned,” Bia reassured me. I laughed, partly due to relief, and partly due to the insane night I just experienced. Everyone gathered around and hugged me, after the initial shock, Bia and I blew out our candles and had a blast.

b976jk

The Library

The library. Beth was always oh-so fond of browsing through the books, eyeing the titles on the well-worn spines and finding her smile in spite of herself. The smell of burnt wood seemed to flow through the air and into her nose, accompanied by the lingering scent of paper and ink, the two of which lay heavy in the air. It must've been something about the candles littered about, precariously placed on stacks of even more books, or maybe it's the long window that stretch from floor to ceiling, from which the outside sunshine shares its rays into the room, flooding the heavenly, cosy place with its radiant warmth. Something about libraries has always struck Beth as... what's the word? Let's just take it home-like, or.. maybe snug, homey, cosy, warm, safe. Libraries, big and small, old and new, have struck Beth's tender, womanly fancies every time. And now, here she was, feeling in her element as she explored a new happy place, a safe haven in which she would take refuge in her darkest times. Her bright, hazel eyes scanned the book spines, her chocolate-coloured hair swinging to and fro in a sheet at her movements. Oh, what a lovely place is a library. Her nimble, long fingers ghosted over the books, in which she held a delightful pleasant love for so strong that she didn't feel as if her day was yet to complete without picking up a book and reading a word if need be. Then, an odd object stuck out of the shelves, and, intrigued, she pulled it out. It seemingly stuck to the shelf, and with a tilted head, Beth pulled on it harder, confused. Another pull and it won't budge, but something else moved. The bookshelf. It made a creaking sound, and gears cranking together were heard. Shocked, she stepped back, and looked at the bookshelf, now moving to the right, after jolting backwards. Her eyes filled with wonder and curiosity. Soon, a niche now existed in the place of the bookshelf, which had no ceased to appear, having apparently lodged itself somewhere behind the bookshelf next to it. The niche was big enough for an adult human to fit through, so Beth slid in with ease, though she was precarious, for these kind of exciting things were rather rare in the occurrence of her daily life, droll and dull. Inside, it was dark, but, as if sensing her motions, antique wall-lamps switched on automatically. Surprise was etched clearly on Beth's face, as she went down the now illuminated steps of the unknown room. The walls were damp, and something emerald that was apparently moss covered the walls, which made them slippery and cold, reminding one of a snake, or some other spine-chilling creature. Beth's eyes reflected excitement, fear, curiosity, and confusion all at once, and how they shined once she reached the end of the long staircase down the imposing hall. Under the library was a secret study, an office of some kind. The whole place was littered with books, carelessly strewn about. The floor was carpeted with an expensive kind, of fur or something. Never-ending bookshelves lined all the walls, and there were many cosy lights scattered just as messily as the books. Ancient books were they, for the spines were weak and the covers were well-worn. These little flaws didn't affect Beth in the slightest though, for she loved all kinds of books, and didn't care whether they were old or new, fresh or aged, for a genuine book lover she was. Nearby, there was a merry fire crackling, its flames a mix of dark blue and green instead of the original red and orange, which piqued Beth's curiosity to the utmost. Droll decorations ornamented the room, a Christmas wreath hung on a wall, a few copied pictures of the Mona Lisa, The Starry Night and The Girl With a Pearl Earring were hung about the brick walls. There were couches with cushions stacked neatly, and the whole place smelled like coffee, vanilla, and maybe throw in some ink and spices into the mix that Beth's nose inhaled. Beth sank into one of the big cushions, having picked up a compulsive book on the floor, and sighing at the luxury of the private place she had found, she began reading the book, with legs curled up like a feline would. Suddenly, the cushions behind her back disappeared and went to somewhere that she still didn't know to this day, and when she looked around, slightly panicked, her gaze fell to the bottom of the chair which she had sat in. There was a hole, though tiny, it grew larger and larger, expanding widely, before eventually being big enough to swallow her whole, book and all. Beth's lips uttered a sacred shriek of sheer sock, as she fell down into the hole, that went on and on for what seemed like days, as she clutched the book to her chest and prayed to God for her safety. Then, her small frame hit the ground with a thud, and her book fell out of her arms with another thud. Dizzy and scared, she roamed the room, which seemed to be a cylinder kind, and she picked up her fallen book, for it was her only companion in this (literally) dark time. The sunshine flowed freely through her bedroom windows, irradiating her room with warmth and comfort. Her eyes fluttered open as she clutched the book she has fallen asleep too that night. She breathed out a long sigh, relieved and found herself to be safe in her bed, blankets pooling about her. It was a dream, after all. Two weeks after that dream she had, Beth read the newspaper to find some exciting news: "A new library has opened in town! Come visit now!" When she hurried to the library, her nimble fingers once again ghosted on the books' spines, and once again she found an odd object sticking out. She pulled on it, only to find it didn't move. Upon another hard pull, the bookshelf moved, and with her natural curiosity and completely forgetting about her dream, in she went and down she stepped on the stairs.

7c4cn9

Secrets of the Past

Darkness shrouded the empty halls; the tattered carpet reeked of smoke and the feasts of yesteryear. Jarod explored his latest purchase with a flashlight in hand. Who would have thought that exploring the woods would lead me to this? From the outside, it’s a weather stone relic covered in moss and vines. The interior is a time capsule.   Another medieval Manor waiting silently for someone to love her. What secrets are hidden behind these walls? The solid timber doors groaned as he pushed them open, their moans echoed through the main hall. Pieces of the once bright patterned wallpaper hung over the stained wood panelling below. The walls were littered with the ghosts of paintings long since sold at auction. An ornate timber staircase invited visitors to the third floor. Moving slowly, the treads creaked with each step. Heavy velvet curtains covered in dust and cobwebs blocked the light. Jarod pushed aside the drapery; the filtered light revealed the room’s personality. Blue fibres blended with centuries of dust clung to his palm. Peering through the water-stained glass, he gazed down at the overgrown gardens. A dense carpet of ferns engulfed the central fountain. Stepping back from the window his eye was drawn towards an old pipe protruding from under the curtains. He scanned the room for other treasures; the dust particles hung heavy in the air making him sneeze. Moving from room to room revealed more of the same. The colour scheme changed, with each space having its special ambience. The occasional piece of once-loved furniture gathered lint in the corner. Three floors of decorated chambers of various sizes each needing a unique touch. Jarod entered another grand room on the third floor, but this one had an extra door in the back wall leading to the middle of the Manor. Why does this room have an extra alcove?  Peering into the total darkness his flashlight revealed a small room with no windows. A cloakroom?  A stack of boxes partially hid an old carved desk in the corner. One would dismiss this room as nothing more than storage. But something on the floor caught his eye. Curved scratches started at the wall and disappeared under the tattered floor covering. Pulling back the rug; he could see the full arc of the scratches. Something has been opened leaving its mark over and over again. The curved marks met up with the side of a four-foot-wide bookshelf. Could it be a secret chamber?  His nerves started to tingle at the thought. How do I open it?  Grabbing the shelf, he strained backwards but the shelf didn’t move; pushing achieved the same result. He ran his hands along the dusty empty shelves; still nothing. Shaking the fluff off his hands, he scanned the shelf's border. He started pushing panels and knocking on the framing surrounding the unit. His pace quickened with the anticipation of finding a lost treasure. The top corner moulding had a carved wooden rose like the other decorations in the room but this one had a button in the middle of the petals. It moved a fraction; he pushed harder to the point where his fingers changed colour. A clunk resonated from behind the wall. The shelf moved forward an inch. He dropped his arms taking a deep breath. His heart was pounding as sweat beaded on his brow. The real estate agent said nothing of a hidden room.  Gripping the shelf he heaved, leaning back with his teeth clenched. Slowly it gave in to his will. With a gap open wide enough for him to enter, he shone the light into the dark void. Ghostly shapes of shelves and stacks of books stared back at him. Large sheets of cobwebs arched between the structures glistening in the light. He gave a restrained jiggle as he pumped his fist, “Yes!” Opening the hidden door as far as it would go, he stacked a box against it. I d on’t want to get trapped in there.  Breathing heavily he cautiously crept into the room his flashlight scanning everything. His eyes widened as the room revealed shelves of books in all directions.  The walls were lined with shelves and more ran down the middle of the room, “This place is huge.” He scanned for a window but couldn’t find any, “I need more lighting.” Quietly he pushed the shelves closed stacking the boxes over the scratches on the floor before he returned to his car. His thoughts raced with the possibilities of what he could find. *** After speeding back up the drive he reached into the boot grabbing the large box of lighting. The hardware salesman gave him a strange look as he rapidly unloaded their shelves of lamps, torches and batteries. Working his way into the forgotten library he randomly placed lights on everything. Standing back, he panned the room trying to take in the bigger picture. The dark wooden shelves were bursting with books, leather-bound journals, and piles of stained paper tied together with string. Where do I start?  Carefully taking a book from the top of a stack on the floor, he peeled back the cover. Nib ink writing was scribbled across the page . I'm not sure if it’s the bad handwriting or it’s in another language. I can’t speak Latin.  Returning the book to the stack, his eyes had already moved to the next item. Flicking his thumb through a separate bundle of yellowing papers revealed old sketches of animals and more unknown writing. He couldn’t focus on one thing for too long as his mind wanted to know what was in the next book. One shelf unit had a collection of ornate leather-bound books. He recognised one word the titles all had in common, “Bible.” Each book was decorated differently with hand-painted drawings and calligraphy. His hands trembled at the sight of the gold leaf. “Have I stumbled on the old Lord's private collection?” Why wasn’t this emptied when the building was sent to auction? Searching the endless library, Jarod progressed deeper and deeper into the room. Reaching the end of the shelves the space opened, revealing a long timber table covered in broad sheets of drawings. A wide range of fantasy-looking machines, cars with bat wings, odd devices with cogs in all directions some drawn in pen and ink, others in charcoal and pencil. The wax from burnt-down candles stuck the pages together.   What went on in this room?  While gazing down at the sheets, I have seen drawings like this before. Moving along the table he shuffled the sheets revealing more creative designs. His eyes darted around trying to take it all in. The torchlight flashed up onto the back wall, his eyes widened as he stepped around the table. Multiple sheets pinned together lined the wall, showing a full star chart of the known universe. How did they know of the outer planets back then? After hours of exploring his excitement and energy waned as his limbs felt heavy. Arching his back, he pulled the old timber stool out from the table and took the weight off his feet. Sitting quietly the lamps gave the room an old-world glow. Is this what it was like working here all those years ago? Scanning the distant back wall through the dim light, he noticed a dark shape on the wall. Jacob focused on the area as he arose from the chair. Weaving among the piles of books on the floor his eyes widened as he discovered another doorway. Another secret room.  Shining the light into the opening revealed a set of stone steps spiralling down into the darkness. His heart skipped a beat as he froze. What is down there?  The curve of the stairs revealed no more than four steps at a time. He cautiously navigated each step with his back to the outer wall shining the light on the steps below. How far do these stairs go? It feels like more than one floor.   Deeper and deeper. The cold damp stairway smelt musty; the only light came from his torch. His pulse started pounding harder with each step. The last step opened up to a rock slab floor. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs he slowly moved the light around the room. It was smaller than the library. In the middle of the room another wooden table with two candle holders, the wax had run down the brass and over the table. An old inkwell sat at one end, the ink just a thin coating inside the bottle. What did they do down here? Writing in the darkness? He shone the light onto the opposite wall and with a deep gasp he grabbed the table. A ghostly human skull on a bench stared back at him in the light. His heart racing, he reached for his chest. Scanning the wall revealed more bones and a full skeleton tied to a frame.  He felt his consciousness leaving him as he dropped to the floor. Awakening moments later on the cold floor, the torch highlighted the table leg beside him. Memories of the last few minutes came flooding back as he rushed to pull himself off the floor. A sharp pain stabbed the side of his head as he rose, he reached up to feel a lump in his hair. Grabbing the torch, “I’m getting out of here.” Climbing the stars went faster than the decline. At the top, he slumped down in the chair gasping for air. This is getting too much. Who can I call?  He sat silent for a moment, he reached for his phone in his back pocket. Alicia. She is a historian; she will know what to do. *** Two hours later Jacob led Alicia to the third floor. She was interested in the whole building but her jaw dropped as she stepped into the library. Stunned and not saying anything she slowly gazed around the room. “What is all this?” Jacob asked. “No idea, it will take a team to work it out.” “Why is it still here when everything else is gone?” “World War II saw the military using this property for training. The owner was in the process of taking all the valuables to his country home but it was bombed, killing him in the process.” She said, “Some items were left here after that.  The Lord's brother collected the items he thought were of value and left the smaller items you see around the house. He must not have known about this secret room.” The lord didn’t even tell his brother of the library. Jarod turned to Alicia, “What am I going to do with all this?” He slowly turned around gazing at the contents. “It will have to be reported to the authorities. They will send out a team to catalogue it all.” “Do I get to keep it?” “That depends on how rare the books are and what the authorities say.” Alicia said, snapping photos of the shelves, “I don’t know what they will say. They may be a monetary reward.” “I hope so, it can pay for the restoration.” *** Jarod sat in the corner staring blankly at the bustle of specialists kitted up in gowns, gloves and masks examining each item. The occasional bickering over the origin of an item would break the boredom. Other countries have been getting involved now; as a few historians claim that some of the drawings are from Leonardo Da Vinci’s private collection. No wonder the previous owners kept it all a secret. It’s been months and the historians have only scratched the surface. I have had time to contact a restoration team and they have started documenting the floor plan. Will I have the Manor restored before the historians have finished? The undertaker was quick to collect all the human bones from the basement. They had to be taken away for dating and DNA analysis. Probably to check the last owner wasn’t a serial killer. For all, I know some of the skeletons could have been a previous owner, who knows what happened in these walls? *** Coming up to two years; the only items left in the library are the shelves, the furniture and odd bits of string lying around on the floor. They did not attempt to clean up their work, unused labels and torn plastic bags sit among the dust and cobwebs. The bones from the basement were aged to the medieval period; the time of body snatchers. Someone found another door behind the skeletons which led out to the forest; a long-forgotten secret escape tunnel. A local archaeologist made his way along the stone tunnel but water erosion had caused the roof to collapse so he didn’t go any further. The Manor renovations are well underway on the ground floor. There was a large reward paid for the library treasure, and I was also paid for a couple of television documentaries on the find. Camera crews just added to the chaos in the library at the time. I’m not sure what I will do with the library room. Maybe start a collection of my own. I was going to sell this place to cover the building costs but with that covered, I might live here and see what other secrets this place has. The End

4h06df

Sinking Ship

He’d learnt to limit his words and in doing so he had become quieter. Now, anyone who encountered him mistook him for a taciturn man, not the prisoner he had become. Imprisoned in his own body. Trapped in a place that he had made his home only to see it taken down brick by brick to reveal impenetrable bars that no one in their right mind would seek to go beyond, for surrounded by the bars of this place was a cloying and eternal darkness which reached out for him, beckoning him forth. Promising oblivion when it was clear that pain was all it could deliver. Limitless and endless anguish. Thirty years he’d been with Ann. It surprised him that he still remembered their first meeting and the dates that followed. That he had retained their history. It also hurt him, because he knew the truth of those times and that he’d been happy. His life was a promise and he was delighted in the future outlined to him via his dreams. Now, as he cast his mind back, there were no remnants of that joy. The last thirty years had bleached those memories and sanitised them into dry and dead things. A stuttering home movie that he had to take care of as it threatened to fail and tear and unravel. A highly flammable, fragile thing that he knew with absolute certainty would one day catch light in the rays of the sun, never to be seen again. Once gone, no one would know. Gone would be the man he had once been. A fading shadow of what once was. Nothing left to understand. He wished he could understand. The twee consolation of his excuses shamed him. He told himself that some things were not there to be understood. That part of the trap he’d allowed himself to be led into was the senselessness of it. Considering the eggshell floor that surrounded him with a thankless challenge, he returned to his limited utterances. He’d told himself that he had learnt to be this way. The lesson was that it was better not to say anything. Had he really learnt this? Or was this yet another of his limp and lifeless excuses? The truth hurt and humiliated him. All of this had crept up on him. He hadn’t seen it coming. Worse still, he’d chosen not to see it coming. Steeped himself in the blindness of a hopeless belief. The beautiful intricacies of his life boiled down around him, creating a lava of pain that numbed him into a dumb state of paralysing acceptance. Where were his dreams? Had they really all deserted him? Dreams were supposedly for the young, but the vision afforded by wisdom and experience was clouded and he was left to feel the claustrophobic darkness closing in around him. In his hand he held a worn collar. Unselfconsciously, he brought the leather to his nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the ghost of his companion and feeling her love all the more sharply. There was loss here, but not the simple loss there should have been. Death carried with it a constancy and a clarity that no amount of grief could sully. Grief was a delaying tactic. A state of denial that further delayed preparation for the acceptance of a change that was always going to take place. The only way a person could cheat death was to take their life. That was to avoid the inevitable cull that took place around every living being. The lottery of life played out come what may. He paused and wondered whether the theft of the life of another was much the same thing. Both were a sin. Both went against the order of things. Stealing dreams was to take life and to strangle the life out of someone was to take their dreams. In thinking of dreams he danced around thoughts of hope. The well of his hope had been poisoned and he had been made to drink that poison time and time again. He knew this to be the case, but he could not deny his thirst. For three whole decades, polluted hope had raised him aloft and afforded him a glimpse of what could be, cast him asunder and dashed him against the ragged rocks that bayed at the storming seas of darkness. Breathing in the familiar and reassuring scent of his beloved dog, Marmalade, he closed his eyes with such a force that the film of moisture on his left eye was condensed into a single tear. He felt it roll down his cheek and resented it for its existence. He was beyond tears and the falsehood of the moment cut yet another wound in amongst a patchwork of silently wailing mouths. He allowed himself to drift into the depths of Marmalade’s fur, but this was bittersweet. The last time he had done this was as she lay on the vet’s table and he said his goodbyes. Felt her let go of her final breath with a sigh of release that he wanted with all his heart to grab a hold of. Not to keep her here in a world that had been far too cruel, but to go with her to wherever she was headed. To take up her lead one last time and follow that nose of hers. Go with her flow and find a way out of the mess his life had become. His body convulsed with the unbidden memory of the vet’s words to him. The explanation of a why, that could never be explained. Poison. Yet more poison. The vet placated him with reassurances, these things happened. Could have been anything she’d picked up on a walk. In the garden. He’d made a thoughtful face in response to the vet’s words, searching for the point at which Marmalade’s nose and her comical greed led her to her demise. But knowing. Knowing with a dread certainty that it wasn’t Marmalade’s fault. That she’d done nothing to deserve this, or anything else that may have happened to her when she was supposedly in his care. He'd paid for the vet’s services. An additional sum for her cremation. Leaving her there felt like a further betrayal. He doubted he’d bring her ashes back here. Better to scatter them on her favourite paths and allow the other dogs one last sniff of one of their own. Dogs knew how to love. They loved with a simplicity and a passion that knew no bounds. They understood far more than people gave them credit for, and Marmalade had known to give Ann an increasingly wide berth. Smelt the danger that the woman presented. A danger she could not escape. He should have seen it coming, but did not want to believe it. He had seen it coming but could not find it within himself to look upon the pathetic wreckage of the remains of his life. He’d given Ann everything and not content with his offering, she’d taken more. He’d been a fool and she’d used his foolishness to systematically destroy him. And she’d done it with a painted on smile that mirrored his own. Only the once genuine smile he’d so effortlessly defaulted to had become cold and deathly. Now it was the rictus grin of a corpse that had been tortured to death. None of this could ever make sense to him and that absence of meaning was a part of the trap he’d been enmeshed in for more than half his life. How could he tell anyone when he himself didn’t believe the words that described his predicament? He’d tried to look at the truth of his reality, he really had, but there was something so utterly wrong with it that he had to conclude that it was him that was wrong. And so he went again and again at hit. Tried so hard. Every time he hit a wall of pain and anguish he pretended it did not exist and that he was mistaken and in being mistaken he just was not good enough. Not up to the task. Not capable of making things work. And so he tried harder and that should have told him something. That he still believed in himself. That he still knew that he could make a difference. All the same, the scale of his shambolic failure crushed him. Failing himself was bad enough, but in refusing to acknowledge Ann’s cruelty he had exposed Marmalade to it. He’d climbed into bed with a cold predator each and every night and pretended that she was his dear, loving wife. The truth was that the love he had experienced was his own. Ann had dulled him with a reflection of what it was that he thought he wanted and he’d done the rest. He’d not only aided and abetted the sick fantasy she’d created for them both, he’d done all of the heavy lifting. Ann had stepped back and invited him to fill the gap that she created. Treated him as mean as it was possible to treat a person and used his need for connection to keep him keen. Now she’d killed Marmalade. Of course, he had no proof and he did not seek it. There were any number of ways to kill someone and Ann knew them all. Beneath that veneer she had painstakingly created, she was frighteningly intelligent and unencumbered by the self-doubts and worries of a mere mortal. Ann did not care. She did not invest herself in the welfare of another living being and this freed her to focus her entire being on the punishment and annihilation of others. He should have been honoured that Ann chose him. Selected him to be the scapegoat for the sins of the world. Focused all of her efforts on him as a rejection of reality and truth. It had taken him a long while to see this for what it was. Ann, in hating him and making him the totem of the world, hated herself. Her intense hatred of everything around her was a reflection of her self-hatred and the fury of her hatred had burnt her almost entirely away. There was nothing there. And yet he’d carried on and on in the desperate hope that he could save her. He wanted so much more for her. Whatever she’d done, she didn’t deserve this. He reasoned that something terrible must have happened to her in her childhood. A trauma so deep that it had led to her mistrust of all that which was good in the world. She fought the world because it had hurt her. If only he could gain her trust and help her heal. Thirty years! That had to count for something. That level of investment. All that love. Being there for the person you loved and devoting yourself to them. In sickness, as well as in health. He’d never wanted to abandon her. He wasn’t a quitter. Now he felt Marmalade’s collar against the flesh of his wet cheek and caught the dying embers of her presence and he knew he could not go on. That he’d gone beyond what was right and reasonable and on into a madness that corrupted everything. He was not himself and he’d betrayed all that was good, and in doing that, he’d betrayed Marmalade and lost the only being that still loved him. His isolation now complete, he could at last see the results of his manipulated life. He was twisted and contorted. Tortured in a web of Ann’s callous lies. Opening his eyes he looked upon a house that he had thought was their home. Gritting his teeth he sought any remaining reserves of energy and the supposedly indomitable spirit that dwelt within him. Sighing, he wished, and not for the first time, that he could expel the last of his life into the fetid air of the place that Ann had made a living hell. Unable to muster the energy to crawl outside and at least deprive her of the last of him. She would be home soon and he would choose his few words carefully. Even with the most deliberate and discerning selection she would punish him. She had him right where she wanted him now. Her existence was a constant threat. He was a whipped dog, scuttling around and cowering. In a constant need to please her and in failing, his pain increased and pushed another piece of his life into her forever hungry maw. Looking upon her, he knew that no one would ever know her true nature. They may fleetingly suspect it, but then they would turn away, lest they be burnt by the darkness that whispered evil promises to them. Everyone was afraid of the dark for good reason. But it was not the monster under the bed, or lurking behind the ajar wardrobe door that provoked that ancient fear. It was the monster within. The ever present darkness that the spark of life illuminates. The side to us that should never be given free reign, for once it is invited forth it possesses a person and will not readily let go of that control. He should have been proud of his resistance to that darkness. Even as it assailed him from all sides. He was not even relieved that he had avoided the worst of it by never succumbing to the evil that resided within him. He’d rather die than do that. And yet he’d struggled to let go. This was his as well. All of it. To let go would be to admit that he was worthless. That none of the last thirty years counted for anything. But it was worse than that. What they counted for was far worse than nothing and it had taken Marmalade’s death to bring that home to him. Marmalade was why he’d stayed. He couldn’t leave her here and he couldn’t bring her with him. That much was clear. Also clear was that Marmalade’s sacrifice could not be in vain. She meant something even if he no longer did. When Ann came in from work she brought with her the scent of the man she was having her latest affair with. In his detachment, he saw the theatre of her. The way she breezed into the room and gave him a knowing look. Telegraphing her betrayal, but never saying a word. A challenge to call her out on her affair, accompanied by a suite of threats should he ever say a word against her. In his weakened state she knew he needed her. But when he was all used up she would be gone. She was only in it for as long as she could take what she had become so addicted to. She would leave him one day and he’d continue to exist in a protracted purgatory that led right into the jaws of hell. Tonight, he played his part. His tattered senses sparking and shorting in his acute awareness that he was now consciously playing her game, but at last by his own rules. Terrified that she would see through him and tear him apart for daring to see through her. The evening drew out into a tortured dance. The eggshell floor was now a lake of glass and the air itself barbed and treacherous. His body thrummed with the energy of a fear he’d never before experienced. The door of his prison wide open and Ann standing beside it. Now he saw it. The door of his prison had always been open. He’d always been free to leave. His presence here was voluntary. More so as Ann had never fulfilled the contract of life. Instead she’d betrayed him before he’d ever met her. She’d lain in wait and it didn’t matter who he was, only that she’d lead him by his nose into her lair and then feed upon him. Acid thoughts assailed him. Telling him of his failure to escape before he could ever reach that door and the light of life beyond. Each traitor that spoke within him almost made the worst of differences. He so wanted to give up. None of it was fair. It was Marmalade that kept him going. His grief for her life cut short by the monster before him. He grounded himself in her love and recalled the patience with which she carried that love. Later, as he sat in the dark downstairs, listening to every step and every movement and knowing what each and every one of them meant, he knew he was close. So very close. But he still had to follow the script. Half an hour after Ann had settled, he would go to their bedroom and get ready in the dark so as not to disturb or upset her. Slipping under the covers next to her, she would tut and roll over so she had her back to him. Five minutes later she would be snoring as he stared at the ceiling and wished he was anywhere but in that room. Tonight, he would at last fulfil that wish. An hour after Ann had fallen asleep he would slip away, like a thief in the night, only the theft entailed him taking what remained of his life. He would take nothing other than himself and he would go as far away as he could and start all over again. He’d said nothing and told no one. Afraid to speak the truth of this plan of his. Terrified of being overheard by Ann. As he crept out of the bedroom and out of the hell that had been his existence for over three decades the words of a war time slogan whispered softly to him; loose lips, sink ships . He didn’t once look back as he left that ship and headed for the dry land of the life that awaited him.

kvnb3b

I really enjoyed what you wrote bravo sir 😎

What are these words, these beautifully stringed epitomes constituting  verses and rhythms who wrote? Where can i learn more of this writer who wrote all of the words i am going to bespoke. The author doth issue command all at once, silence erupts as he places one small toothpick into his mouth, a kind smile greets you, yes you reading this, whoever you are i am going to take you on an adventure of the mind, i want you to imagine you are the author who is thinking of these words almost gagging to be famous. Gifted in a class higher than most men at writing the nouns and emotions that encompass our universe. Yes you, strap in, look into my kind smiling eyes, let me tell you a story, a story you might soon know 😄.  Young yone fethersworth wakes one morning, sun beams into the freshly aired room. The smell of fresh thyme and paprika envelopes the air, welcoming him to embrace the new days potential wonders. He washes, dresses size 32” waist 42” chest. Badges of honour and glory litter his garments blue in colour with golden lace glittering throughout. His mission, to head north on a fresh run to round up the lost blind christians. To bring them to a place of infinite blessings and opportunities, only if they simply adopt the true religion and allow themselves to be washed in the grace of god allah. The great castles of France lining the coast like a fortified prison. The cathedrals of holland beckon even the weariest of souls. Stain glass windows that capture the light and in an explosion of colour radiating the world around. A constant influence of this pagan god jesus christ, that gives and empowers these infidels to invade friendly peaceful lands to indoctrinate a culture of hate. Yone feels the kiss of the ocean the succulent sting that reminds him he is alive and free. His hair constructed of pheomelanin giving his hair a fiery glow in certain sun conditions. Fluent arabic howls instruction at his loyal men, free men after bounties of gold, some of which was taken before they had a chance to grow old. These men, Battle hardened men happy to destroy peoples lives to line their own greedy coffers. Yone reaches to his shoulder itching a scratch. His polished rosewater fingers caress the cratered scars, a map of the floggings, the many degradations as his soul was crafted into submission. Now many years removed from his painful past he reflects on how good his life is, now built upon the strongest of foundations, contentness of heart and freedom. The moon is low, clouds shroud the silently floating boats, dark jagged cliffs almost whisper taunts, striking cold into the hearts of adrenaline filled men. Armour glistening, shields close knit, metallic nipples reflect the moon like eyes of a demon or worse. Landfall is a relief, the waves are kind and calm, noone has suffered more than soggy boots that will probably not dry in these cold and unforgiving conditions. A horizontal rain circles in the air unable to touch the ground, some weird energy or power resisting the particles blowing them easily in the wind. Tears that flood down and create crude statues that hug the claustrophobic headgear. Made of heavy leather that at least keeps the ears from losing circulation. Puffins standing tall like butlers with the most beautiful flamboyant orange waistcoats stand, curiously examining the men, a skin pigment that was unlike anything here in these areas. Sagas had circulated in the populous of heathen muslim pirates who had abducted and sold into slavery, peaceful and honest christians. Many of whom lost parents and grandparents, stolen from their beds carried through treacherous seas and sold into slavery. Some brutalised and tortured for the simple amusement of moors, these men so removed from simple human ethics or common decency they did not consider themselves human at all. Men living in a psychosis dreamland where they offer salvation and grandeur over their rescued slaves. These blessed people who aren’t even worthy to raise their eyes past satin cloth to gaze upon their captors features. Yone and his men split, creeping through the wet marshland their squelches threatening to give away their advantage. They attack. Resistance in the form of brooms some crude axes and terrified screams greets them. It doesn’t take long to round up the majority of the scared defenceless souls. Unable to have any aid from god, apart from their blind devotion to the unknown. That their worldly tribulations are a necessary thing, that if they resist thoughts of the flesh, they will eventually be able to pass into the heavens to dine with god. Yone bursts into a stone building its walls curved and cold. Cooked hides and the worst smells humans can produce protrude into delicate nostrils. A figure standing tall, resilient totally free from fear or worry. Her eyes, grey and blue, fierce and hardened. Could it be, could it really be? The glassy windows that gazed for hours at a developing thought, soft cracked lips with a familiar safe smile. Is this the woman who abandoned him so many springs ago. He had dreamed of her, tried to connect with the memory of his mother, but he had never been able to expand past memories. Was his muslim life severing the connections? was she even trying to think of him at all? Asta’s legs crumble their resolve something to be marvelled. The guilt that has haunted her for years doubles then splits in half as she gets overwhelmed and falls to the floor. This man standing in front of her so similar, so very similar to the pirates that had shattered her world all those years ago. Could this demon be manifesting itself as a memory of her son yone, whom she has never truly forgiven herself for letting go. Have her worst fears materialised? Of her son being coerced into doing the bidding of evil masters, a puppet. They lock eyes paralysed by the what’s, the if’s and the buts. The joy and pain, the guilt and the anger all bottled up ready to burst the world at any moment. Mama? Yone mutters as his battle hardened facade crumbles into nothingness. His tears fall from tired eyes, she pulls herself to hug him sobbing uncontrollably. After moments have passed it becomes time to break the connection and find some words to explain this unbelievable reality. To explore how these events have aligned. To determine what sorcery caused these random things to happen, that would bring mother and son back into loving embrace. Asta looks out through the circular windows. The stars glistening and shine, Lighting the way back to her second home where love was teased and hearts were broken. She is a guest this time not treated as a slave but as a free woman, her return would be of huge reward to father by loyal son. Cilleby had never quite been himself again his heart turned to empty ashes. His company, his many wives and concubines were never able to replicate the emotions he once had with a common rebellious slave girl. The slave girl that had escaped repeated punishment for the most grievous of wounds and informalities, that no other woman would could have hoped to survive. She sits wondering how she got herself in this position, when she had promised to never be taken hostage or manipulated again. Was it fate? maybe chance? Or a deep longing that had been simmering for many moons. Thoughts of the satin covered bed that was always so inviting, where dreams had been dreamt and where fantasies materialised like the hidden people. So many questions and visions of what life would have been like if she had chosen to stay and not take the cowards way out. Asta steps off of her floating prison, the ground feels strange as it stands firm. A feeling she had until recently forgotten. The city she remembers all too well, the mighty and advanced area called Alges. The white washed walls were only differentiated by the size of the door, or the size of the balcony overlooking perfect blue seas. Rare and exotic fruits grew within the richest’s courtyards, often riches made off slavery and subjugation. She has been treated much kinder this time, compared to the untold suffering during the many oh so real memories. she has eaten well, she has been garbed with the finest of garments. The ones that she had longed to once again have wrapped around her warm body. Captain Yone disembarks after his men have shackled and ordered the bounty of humans. Their takings have been good. Many fit young men and supple women have reached the shores unharmed and plump, well fed and looking healthy. Yone had become somewhat of a legend for the quality of slaves he and his men fetched. The majority would bolster their new homes, welcomed by a promise of heaven granted by the grace of the prophet Allah. The ‘yone slaves’ usually welcomed their new way of life, freeing themselves of the torrid conditions back north. Many buying their freedom or being gifted freedom by their kind masters. In so they would go on to have affluent positions within a well managed society. Alges had continued to grow exponentially thanks to the many foreign free people all working together in harmony for the greater good. Asta doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. Her heart wizzing at the speed of sound resinates an anxious vibration. The front she presents behind her tightly fastened vail, struggles to keep a foothold in the world. She is terrified of the many roads that lay before her, how will he react? Would cillibe remember her, has he lusted her as she has often done so for him, on lonely cold winters nights barely able to think of anything past frozen extremities. They reach the door, it has changed since the times she remembered. The door is grand and made of the finest oak, encrusted with crests and gold, and many sagas of times that had gone by. She paused as one saga catches her sapphire eyes, a tale of forbidden love and mighty stories carried across the sea. Prosperity and heartbreak, longing and heart ache. Asta lets out a sigh, wondering if her satin pillow would still be there to welcome her. A pretty young maid answers the door, she has a Spanish complexion. Warm glowing cheeks and deep green eyes that dispel any sadness. Asta forgets for a minute who she is. Her premonition lays frayed and torn, having not been greeted by soldiers or anger. Well my friend I’m the reader and i really like what you wrote, you really did write the words they bespoke, all the way back to when times were harder, people really were alot sadder. So thankyou so much, thankyou i scream it aloud, for gifting me the chance to transcribe my fine lyrics and hopefully bring a smile all at once. This is yours, truly brad sellick, a A+E nurse, a father, a dancer, a writer, no golf course. A huge love of peace and harmony is whats always right, nobody should have to go hungry or get frightened or fight. We should all work together gifting gems of the mind, a kind word here, goes a long way when carried along a chain of melodies, the time of social media, the news keeps people introverted focus’ing on celebrities and people with more everything than most, to keep people hooked in the game called life, a bleep test still struggling with a very faint glimmer of delight, retirement where we can finally put down our plight, stop having to kill ourself and finally have the right, to sit down for 10 minutes in our own home we own outright. Heaven some say, they fight and they fight, burying their brothers to get further to have that retirement delight. They work through the nights and sometimes 7 a week missing the small things like children growing so fast. Time that can never ever be brought, time coveted by the olden ones who remember wonderful times they did not get to report, the goal to accumulate enough wealth so that one day they maybe able to put up their feet, for no reason other than they deserve to live in their own world, their inspiring little bubble that doesn’t always get the chance to be released, the life that is depressed needing to let off release to feel safe and worshipped you try harder than most. I guess this story comes out today for the first time and i hope, You the beautiful kind reader enjoyed what you just helped me to wrote 😎 you are my favourite author, an elequented free sprite, trying to earn a nickle while also trying to eclipse everything in the world with a thought. “I’d rather assume the best, and be disappointed r than finding the true and being hurt.” ”if you aren’t everything, what is the point in being anything” yours truly brad sellick, soon to be roofer, render cleaner free and happy able to help others the most. 😘

h9s1p6

The Curator

Boxes and more boxes were everywhere. Roma sat in the middle of room on the floor contemplating her next move. Pen and paper in hand she had just started this task. What was her task, more likely could she complete it. This was Romas first official job as a curator/caretaker of collections. Roma knew since she was eight years old that she wanted to be in charge of a museum a curator just like her father. Her father was Walter Hames the famous curator of the Boston museum collection. Her father often took her to work with him on the weekends he showed her the delights and hidden gems in the museum how best display these items so people could see and understand what he was looking for in his pieces. Roma loved the artwork and the anthology section, and the priceless pieces of artefacts that adorned the halls and rooms of the museum. Roma learned how precious each piece was and how to catalogue and value each item. Once Roma had finished secondary studies she automatically enrolled in and was accepted at Boston University undergraduate curator program obtaining a bachelor degree with a major in a relevant area, such as classics, fine arts,  history, cultural studies or anthropology, as well as a relevant postgraduate qualification. It had been a tiring 4 years but Roma had managed to be an exceptional student. She flourished at University and made her mother and father exceptionally proud by graduating with honours. Now she was ready to explore the world. Her father had offered her a job at the Boston Museum as a Junior curator but Roma wanted to make it under her own steam and not after her fathers name. She had recently come across an advertisement in the Boston Times newspaper requesting a deceased property evaluator. The position was a live in for approximately six months. Reading the article Roma knew she was more than qualified maybe this could be her start. You have to start at the bottom and work your way up isn’t that true, she thought to herself so she had made the call to the Lawyers firm who placed the advertisement and gained a interview. Roma felt a little bit nervous she didn’t know why she felt on edge, it was a run of the mill interview which she had completed plenty of them, university had encouraged students to participate in mock interviews. She had her list of questions to ask. Arriving promptly at 9am at Tesslers and Tesslers Law firm Roma was shown into the interview room. Seated at the large half moon table were three important individuals of the Law firm. Each introduced themselves to Roma who was seated directly in front of them. Trying not to feel awkward or pressured Roma exhaled a few short breaths before relaxing and answering their questions. Once the interview had been concluded Roma was advised that this position is top priority and the successful applicant will be advised by the end of the week. By Friday morning Roma was a bunch of nerves she realised she really wanted this job. It would be new and exciting making her forge her own career path. From her room Roma could hear the phone ringing downstairs, she raced almost sliding down the banister. Stopping in her tracks she picked up the phone and introduced herself to the caller. Standing in the middle of the hallway, her face seemed pained maybe she wasn’t listening or comprehending what was being said. Did Mr Tesslers just say the job was hers and he will be sending over the legal paperwork for her to sign later that afternoon. She will commence her appointment with the firm Monday. Her mother and father congratulated her on her success and her father offered her his assistance should she require it. Monday morning Roma drove out to the address she had been given. She was to meet Mr Tesslers at the home at 9am. She had packed enough clothes and toiletries to last awhile. I’m sure the house will have a washing machine, that was the least of Romas problems. Approaching the home, Roma checked the address again. Yep 2011 Ralley Drive. It wasn’t just a home but a sprawling mansion, with sweeping lawns, gardens that would rival Bucharest gardens the place was gorgeous. Waiting while Mr Tesslers arrived Roma walked around the house. Surely Roma though one person didn’t live here alone, Mr Tesslers had arrived and taken Roma around the house before they continued inside. Insisting Roma called him George they both sat down in the drawing room while George advised Roma on her role, duties, responsibilities. She was allocated a bedroom on the second floor which had its own bathroom and a luscious view of the gardens. Roma had been provided an expense account card and was to use it for any necessities . Meals could be ordered in or if she liked Roma could utilise the large kitchen. George advised Roma that she could explore the mansion today and commence her duties tomorrow. Packing away her belongings Roma set off to explore, crossing the expansive lawns Roma located a tennis court, an indoor swimming pool and a pagoda that was shimmering with the sun. The complete mansion was breathtaking. Spending her first night at the mansion was a little daunting, but she settled down and slept like a baby. After a breakfast of toast and coffee which Roma had brought with her, she set herself a target each day she would try and complete one room’s inventory and value register. George had also given her a dozier of the Duke whose home it had been. Apparently he had been a widower without any children to inherit this beautiful property not to mention the artefacts and gems that will be discovered. The Duke had left strict instructions on his personal charities and fundraising activities that will be recipients of his estate. Roma was searching through a number of boxes in the anti chamber, noting each item and a value she had almost filled up her A4 notepad once this note pad was full she will transfer all of the information to her computer database. It was easier to work like this. After a few weeks George came out to check on how things were running, Roma knew he just wanted to get out of the office he loved the outdoors and they conversed via telephone every day. Visiting the local store Roma grabbed a few essentials and a jam and cream cake for morning tea. George was thrilled to see that Roma had been able to make headway with the inventory. they sat in the drawing room and went over their prospective plans and evaluations. George had advised Roma that a Mr Michael Low will be joining her in the home, his job will be to do the inventory and evaluation of the library. He will be arriving tomorrow morning around 9 am. He will be set up in the same way Roma has, with an expense account, his room will be on the first floor closest to the library. George stated that Michael was a comely gentleman who really was dedicated to his work and they should get on rather well. The next morning Michael arrived at promptly at 9 am. Roma showed him to his room and they did a quick tour of the home. Michael went to explore the library advising Roma that he will meet up with her at lunch time. Time flew bye it was 1:30 pm when Roma and Michael managed to grab a cup of tea and make a sandwich. Roma asked Michael what he would like to eat for dinner she said she was going to order Italian food from the local restaurant, her favourite dish was chicken parmigiana with vegetables and she will splurge on a bottle of red wine if he would like to join her. So they made a time to meet in the drawing room for dinner, Roma had ordered the meal, set the low table with napkins, silverware and wine glasses. The meal arrived at 7pm. They both sat down to dine, chatting between bites there conversations flowed easily. Roma spoke about her life as did Michael. They were of similar backgrounds and age. Roma felt that a friendship could be forged. Week after week Roma and Michael became more ingrained in their work. Meeting up for meals and cups of tea. Passing on tidbits about what they had found in the library, attic and other rooms. The valuation collection was becoming quite substantial. Michael commented on day on how lucky the recipients of the Dukes estate are going to be. Roma walked into the library to find that Michael had removed all the books from the shelves. They were laying on the table in little piles picking one up Roma asked Michael if the Dukes library collection was extensive. Michael responded there are some great books here but unfortunately no first editions. That doesn’t mean that they have no value. People perceive books in their own way. What is of value to one person may not be valuable to another. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Michael and Roma were firm friends by now more like brother and sister they were very comfortable being in the same house. Early one morning Roma heard Michael yelling from the library Roma, Roma come quick Roma ran to the library standing at the door she looked at Michael what’s going on, I thought you had hurt yourself Roma responded. No just come closer and look at this, Roma moved closer to Michael ok what am I looking at. See that slot there next to the shelf, can you put you fingers into the slot and press down on the shelf. I think there is a hidden shelf behind this one. Roma slipped her fingers into the groove and pressed down. The shelf moved and swung open. Looking inside between the shelves they both could see an array of other books in glass cases. Michael opened up the shelving wider it was like a mini room. There were three books each encased it it’s own glass pyramid. Grabbing the torch from the table Michael shone the glow of its light over each glass casing. No way, no way Michael was rumbling to himself, what is it Michael Roma asked. Michael was still muttering No way. His torch lit up the first book Shakespeare’s First Folio bending lower to see what he was seeing was correct Michael’s voice squeaked, it’s worth about 5.2 million dollars, it’s in mint condition tracing the torch over the second pyramid the book illuminated by its light the first edition book of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland  Michael commented to no one in particular this book is precious, but even more so due to its rarity. Only 2,000 copies were initially printed but were quickly recalled due to the illustrator’s unhappiness with the original drawings. There are only 22 known first-edition copies of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , with one copy being auctioned in 2016 for an estimated price of between $2 and $3 million. Turning the light towards the third pyramid Michael looked ashen he wobbled on his legs what is it Michael Roma asked, Michael she repeated his name again. Ugh umm The most expensive book ever sold is the Codex Leicester, purchased by Bill Gates in 1994 for $30.8 million. But here it is here. Michael I think we better phone George and let him come and see for himself. I’m going to phone Daddy and ask him to come and take a look. Michael I think we’re going to have our 10 minutes of fame.

o60gxr

The Cornwallis Conspiracy

AI Montage of Fake News “It is a truth universally acknowledged...” Sophie Nakamura paused mid-sentence, her brow furrowing as a chill crept up her spine. She had read that exact phrase before, and not just in another Jane Austen novel. The modern thriller she'd finished just last week had used it too. What were the odds? Sophie, a 15-year-old high school student, was a self-proclaimed bookworm, more at home in the world of fictional characters than the cliques of Cornwallis High. Her refuge was a cozy nook in the attic, overflowing with well-loved books and the soft glow of her laptop screen. She was a girl who preferred the company of Elizabeth Bennet and Sherlock Holmes to the gossip and drama of teenage life. This wasn't just any coincidence. It felt like a pattern, a thread woven through the tapestry of literature. The phrase niggled at her. Sophie grabbed her battered copy of Northanger Abbey, flipping through the pages. There it was again, a variation of the same phrase, this time about a young woman's love for gothic novels. She grabbed the worn paperback of Frankenstein from her bedside table, her eyes scanning the opening chapter. A cold dread settled in her stomach as she found a similar sentiment, this time about a scientist's thirst for knowledge. Sophie, a symphony of restless energy, bounced between her overflowing bookshelf and the glow of her laptop screen. She was the president of her high school’s coding club, and, in her spare time, the self-proclaimed president of the Loch Ness Flat Earth Society (a title she held with pride and a healthy dose of irony). Her parents, staunch Fox News conservatives, had raised her on a steady diet of "fake news" warnings and conspiracy theories. Ironically, their paranoia had sparked an insatiable curiosity in Sophie, a burning need to unearth hidden truths and expose the puppeteers behind the scenes. This wasn't just some conspiracy theory cooked up over a tinfoil hat dinner, though. This was a pattern, a thread winding through the very fabric of literature. Fueled by a caffeine-induced buzz and a mounting sense of urgency, Sophie dove into her digital library, her fingers dancing across the keyboard like a concert pianist. Lines of code flowed from her fingertips, each keystroke a step closer to unraveling the mystery. She wasn't just building an AI program; she was crafting a digital detective, a literary bloodhound with a knack for sniffing out inconsistencies. The AI, aptly named "LitSleuth," whirred to life, its virtual eyes scanning thousands of digital texts. It dissected vocabulary, scrutinized syntax, and even analyzed the frequency of semicolons with the meticulousness of a grammar-obsessed English teacher. As the night wore on, Sophie fueled her efforts with copious amounts of gummy bears and Diet Coke, her laughter echoing through the quiet house as she imagined her parents' horror at her late-night coding frenzy. The hum of the AI filled the room, a low, steady rhythm that matched Sophie's heartbeat as she watched LitSleuth dissect the digital texts. It felt like watching an autopsy, each line of code a scalpel peeling back layers of meaning, revealing hidden truths beneath the surface. Suddenly, the rhythmic hum was pierced by a sharp, electronic shriek. The screen flashed a harsh crimson, the words "Anomaly detected. Multiple instances of non-random patterns found" searing into Sophie's retinas. A cold sweat broke out on her skin as she leaned forward, her fingers hovering over the keyboard like a concert pianist about to strike a dissonant chord. The AI delved deeper, its analysis growing more frantic with each passing moment. Lines of code scrolled across the screen like a frantic heartbeat, each one a piece of the puzzle. Sophie's breath caught in her throat as the patterns began to coalesce into a horrifying picture. The codes weren't just random anomalies; they were deliberate, carefully crafted messages woven into the very fabric of literature. They spoke of manipulation, control, and a subtle influence that had been shaping human thought for millennia. Sophie's mind reeled as she traced the origins of these codes, her pulse throbbing in her ears like a war drum. 3,500 years... The Vedas... Ancient India... The words echoed in her mind, each one a chilling reminder of the vastness of the conspiracy. It wasn't just modern literature that had been tainted; it was the very foundation of human storytelling, the sacred texts that had guided civilizations for millennia. Sophie's hands trembled as she scrolled through the AI's findings, each new revelation sending a fresh wave of terror through her. She felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the illusion of free will shattered into a million pieces. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The enormity of the revelation was suffocating, a black hole threatening to swallow her whole. Aliens had been manipulating human thought through literature for millennia. But why? What did they want? And could she, a teenage girl armed with nothing but a laptop and a caffeine addiction, possibly hope to stop them? "This is insane!" Sophie's voice cracked, barely a whisper as the realization sank in like a stone in the pit of her stomach. A cold sweat clung to her skin, her breath coming in ragged gasps as her world tilted on its axis. It was too much to process, too monstrous to comprehend – aliens had been puppeteering humanity, their insidious tendrils woven into the very fabric of stories that had shaped civilizations, religions, and the collective consciousness of mankind for millennia. Her mind raced, a whirlwind of questions and fears. Why? What was their endgame? What did they want from humanity? A sudden meow ripped through the suffocating silence, shattering the fragile remnants of Sophie's composure. Gizmo, her sleek ebony shadow, materialized from the darkness, his claws clicking against the hardwood floor like a death knell. His emerald eyes, usually playful and bright, now burned with an unsettling intensity, mirroring the abyss of dread that yawned open within her. Was it just her imagination, or was her cat trying to tell her something? A shiver ran down her spine. This was more than just a literary mystery; it was a puzzle with cosmic implications, and she had a feeling Gizmo was about to become an unlikely player in this extraordinary game. Doing Dark Deeds The town of Cornwallis, Oregon, wasn't supposed to be a cauldron of cosmic dread. It was a place of apple pies, Friday night football games, and quiet nights under star-strewn skies. But on this particular morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced the pre-dawn haze, an eerie silence hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens and the hushed whispers of fear. Sophie hadn't slept a wink. The monstrous truth she'd unearthed in the dead of night gnawed at her, twisting her stomach into knots and sending chills down her spine. She stood at her bedroom window, her eyes bloodshot and her body trembling, watching as a swarm of police cars, news vans, and a growing tide of terrified townsfolk converged on the nearby woods. A sleek, alien spaceship, an obsidian monolith against the pastel hues of dawn, pierced the treeline, its presence an unholy stain on the familiar landscape. The sight sent a fresh wave of nausea through Sophie, her mind reeling with the implications of her discovery. The aliens had come. Not as benevolent explorers or curious observers, but as conquerors, their insidious tendrils already woven deep into the fabric of human existence. Beside her, Gizmo paced restlessly, his usually playful demeanor replaced by a grim vigilance. His emerald eyes, glowing with an unnatural intensity, were fixed on the ship, his low growls a chilling counterpoint to the rising panic outside. Sophie could feel his fear, a primal dread that mirrored her own. This was no longer a game, a puzzle to be solved. This was an existential threat, a cosmic horror that could swallow them whole. Sophie switched on the news, the screen flickering to life with a live feed from the forest clearing. A hush fell over her room as a tall, slender figure emerged from the alien ship. His skin shimmered, a living tapestry of iridescent colors shifting and swirling beneath the sunlight. Meetveega, the alien negotiator, stood before a crowd of stunned onlookers, his presence amplified by the high-definition cameras, each pixel a chilling reminder of the impossible reality unfolding before her eyes. "It is a truth universally acknowledged," Meetveega began, his voice a cold melody that sent chills down Sophie's spine. The phrase, so familiar from her beloved literature, now twisted into a sinister mockery of human expression. A sickening dread pooled in her stomach as she realized that this wasn't just a coincidence, a literary quirk. It was a deliberate echo, a taunt, a confirmation of the insidious manipulation she had uncovered. Meetveega continued his voice a chilling symphony of ancient wisdom and thinly veiled contempt. "We have observed your kind for millennia," he declared his gaze, like twin lasers, sweeping across the terrified faces. "Initially, we were baffled by your fascination with the written word, particularly your obsession with... bodily descriptions." A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd, quickly silenced by the chilling intensity of his stare. "Our studies, however, revealed a simple truth: your species exists in a perpetual state of rut. Thus, our influence upon your literature has been deliberate, a subtle yet pervasive guiding hand. We have kept you preoccupied with base desires, ensuring you remain safely confined to your primitive planet, far from the stars." His voice hardened, a steely edge replacing the earlier amusement. "But your recent foray into artificial intelligence has disrupted this delicate balance, exposing our carefully woven tapestry of control." As if to punctuate his words, Meetveega raised a hand, and a beam of pure energy shot forth, disintegrating a group of onlookers in a blinding flash. The crowd erupted in screams of terror, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a grotesque tableau of shock and despair. "We have come to negotiate the terms of your surrender," Meetveega continued, his voice unwavering amidst the chaos. "Resist, and you will face annihilation. Your stories, your myths, your very dreams have been woven with our threads. We are the architects of your reality." A wave of dread washed over Sophie, the chilling realization that she was witnessing the subjugation of humanity. The town's leaders, their faces etched with terror, fumbled for a response, their voices trembling as they faced the unimaginable. But their words were lost in the deafening silence of a crowd frozen in fear, their eyes wide with the knowledge that their world had irrevocably changed. Sophie's stomach churned with a mixture of fear and defiance. The aliens had underestimated humanity for far too long, manipulating their stories and molding their minds like clay. This ends now, she thought, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. I won't let them control us any longer. She glanced at Gizmo, who was now perched on the windowsill, his ears twitching, his body tense. As Meetveega continued to speak, Gizmo's ears twitched in response, his head tilting as if following the rhythm of an unheard conversation. A series of low, guttural sounds escaped his throat—sounds that seemed to mimic the cadence of the alien's speech. A sudden thought struck Sophie, a spark of hope in the overwhelming darkness. "Gizmo," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Can you... understand him?" The cat turned his head, his green eyes locking onto hers. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a sound that was both alien and strangely familiar. Sophie’s heart leaped. Could it be that her cat, her mischievous, enigmatic companion, held the key to communicating with the alien overlord? In the days that followed, the town became a cauldron of speculation and fear. The initial shock of the alien arrival gave way to a tense standoff, as Meetveega, growing impatient, demanded an official response from the human leaders. Meanwhile, Sophie spent every waking moment trying to decipher the remaining coded messages, her AI working tirelessly to analyze the vast libraries of digital texts. Gizmo, now her constant companion, seemed to guide her, his purrs and nudges leading her towards specific books or phrases. One evening, as Sophie poured over an ancient copy of the Mahabharata, a sudden chill filled the room. Gizmo leaped onto her lap, his purr growing louder, more insistent. He nudged her hand towards a particular verse, his claws lightly scratching the page as if to emphasize its importance. Sophie followed his gaze, her eyes widening as she recognized the pattern. It was another code, more complex and intricate than any she had encountered before. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting the code into her AI. The program whirred and beeped, its lights flashing in a dizzying display. Then, silence. Sophie held her breath as the AI projected a holographic message above her desk: "Meet us at the heart of the forest. Alone. Bring the cat." Tinkly Thunderdome Troubles Pine needles crunched underfoot as Sophie and Gizmo emerged into a moonlit clearing. Meetveega stood in the center, his skin shimmering with an unnatural iridescence. His eyes, twin pits of darkness, met Sophie's with a chilling intensity. The air crackled with tension as Gizmo hissed, his fur bristling in warning. Despite the overwhelming dread that threatened to consume her, Sophie held her ground. This was it. The moment of truth. "You came," Meetveega intoned, his voice a chilling echo in the stillness of the night. "I have been expecting you." Sophie, her voice surprisingly steady, met his gaze head-on. "I know your secret, Meetveega," she declared. "I know your plan to sedate humanity, to control our thoughts through the very stories we hold dear." A flicker of surprise crossed the alien's face, his composure momentarily disrupted. "A clever child," he sneered, his tone dripping with condescension. "But your knowledge is inconsequential. You cannot stop what has been set in motion for millennia." Sophie smiled, a sly glint in her eyes. "That's where you're wrong," she retorted. "With the help of my AI, I have deciphered your final message. I know your ultimate goal—to lull us into complacency, to weaken our defenses, and then to invade." She raised her laptop, her AI springing to life, projecting a holographic display above them. A swirling vortex of words and symbols materialized, revealing the aliens' insidious plan in stark detail. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the very trees rustling in outrage as the extent of the manipulation became clear. Gizmo, sensing the rising tension, let out a series of piercing meows, his eyes locked on Meetveega. The alien recoiled, his voice laced with a newfound uncertainty. "What is this? How can a mere feline communicate with me?" Sophie knelt beside Gizmo, stroking his fur. "He's not just a cat, Meetveega. He's my friend, my partner, and he understands your language better than any human ever could." Gizmo's meows transformed into a melodic symphony, each note conveying a complex range of emotions – fear, defiance, hope. Meetveega listened, his eyes widening in astonishment as he began to grasp the depth of the cat's intelligence and the profound bond he shared with Sophie. For hours, the dialogue continued, a strange symphony of human words, feline sounds, and alien intonations. Sophie, with Gizmo as her interpreter, laid bare the resilience of the human spirit, the indomitable power of free thought, and the unbreakable bond between humans and their stories. She spoke of the power of love, the importance of community, and the unwavering determination to protect one's freedom. As dawn broke, casting long shadows across the forest floor, Meetveega stood silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight illuminated his face, revealing a flicker of doubt in his ancient eyes. The weight of millennia of manipulation seemed to bear down on him, the cracks in his resolve widening with each passing moment. "You have made your point, child," he said at last, his voice heavy with resignation. "Perhaps we have underestimated your kind. Perhaps your stories are more potent than we believed." With a final, lingering glance at Sophie and Gizmo, Meetveega turned and walked back towards his ship, his footsteps echoing through the forest. As he reached the base of the vessel, he paused, turning back to face the girl and her cat. A wave of energy rippled through the clearing, washing over the trees, the ground, and the stunned onlookers. When the wave subsided, Meetveega and his ship were gone, leaving behind an eerie silence. The townspeople blinked, their faces etched with confusion. They looked at each other, their minds struggling to grasp the events of the past few hours. They remembered the fear, the terror, but the details of the encounter with Meetveega had vanished, replaced by a vague sense of unease and a lingering question: "What just happened?" Sophie, however, remained trapped in the chilling reality of the encounter. The alien's words echoed in her mind, a haunting symphony of arrogance and manipulation. She looked down at Gizmo, his emerald eyes mirroring her own unspoken horror. They were the sole keepers of the truth, a truth the world had been robbed of. While the news channels buzzed with conspiracy theories and wild speculation about the sudden disappearance of twenty townspeople, Sophie knew the horrifying answer. The world had been rewritten, the missing residents erased from existence as if they had never been. The world moved on, unaware of the danger it had narrowly escaped. The town of Cornwallis, Oregon, returned to its tranquil routine, the memory of the alien encounter fading like a dream. But Sophie's life was forever changed. She became a silent guardian, her vigilance unwavering as she monitored for any signs of alien interference.

qykb44

The Value of Paper

Ella was always searching—searching for the tangible to find the intangible. She was an unmoored ship, hoping that her love for history and antiquing would somehow be the North Star she needed to find a solid dock in the world. Every Saturday morning, Ella went to an antique shop, a yard sale, or the take-it-or-leave-it area at the dump, looking for treasures that would provide avenues to escape into different worlds, different times, and different lives. The abandoned relics she shopped for held mysteries of lives she stitched together, building an imaginary family. She liked to pretend that she was a liaison, salvaging and returning long-lost treasure to their rightful owners, saving the memories before they became forgotten whispers. Of course, she never actually tracked down an owner, but it was a mental game of creative whimsy she liked to play. One Saturday morning, Ella awoke buzzing with excitement. She was heading to an antique store in the neighboring town she’d heard about from a coworker. The smell of lilacs dripping in dew greeted her as she walked to the bus stop. She rubbed her arms and danced in place waiting for the bus, shaking off the early morning chill. Once on the bus, she took a seat in the back, admiring the colorful blooms of pink and white dogwood trees through the smudged window. A new antique store is the embodiment of spring—a bevy of possibilities, an awakening, a festival for the senses. After getting off at her stop, Ella quickly found the antique shop. Its weathered sign and charming shutters distinguished it from the surrounding businesses, which all sported much more corporate—if not sterile—facades. A charming bell jangled as Ella stepped inside. She was greeted by a symphony of aromas—aged paper mingling with the hints of lavender sachets, earthy cedar and sandalwood, citrusy furniture polish, and oil paint. The walls were lined with worn shelves that groaned beneath the weight of crowded layers of decorative vases, porcelain lamps, and vintage sewing kits. Everything was covered in a fuzzy blanket of dust. More flecks hung in the air like suspended glitter. Nestled away in a shadowy corner, Ella spotted a wooden box adorned with intricate carvings. She gently unlatched the tarnished clasp and lifted the splintering lid, unveiling a jumble of trinkets. There was a tiny porcelain doll missing one arm, a silver thimble scarred with imprints of countless stitches, a delicate brass locket, and a thick coffee-stained yellow envelope. Ella's fingers traced the smooth surface of the doll's face, her mind generating questions in spiraling combinations like images dancing around the axle of a slot machine wheel. Did the doll’s soul remember the little girl who once fluffed her layered petticoats and stared lovingly into her blinking glass eyes with the adoration of a mother? What had happened to her arm? Was it pulled off by a jealous younger brother who callously ignored the echoes of pain that ricocheted from the now-haunting porcelain face to his own sister’s soft complexion? Looking at the doll’s matted head, Ella wondered if the doll remembered the days when her pigtails were still bouncy ringlets of shiny auburn hair. Ella gave the doll’s body a gentle squeeze. I would’ve never abandoned you. I will never abandon you. Ella tucked the doll back in the box and picked up the locket, its intricate filigree shimmering in the dim light. She had never had a necklace, certainly never a locket. There’d be no one’s picture to put in it, but she always loved miniatures so the idea of a teeny tiny picture that told a meaningful story to the owner seemed enchanting. This locket was not heart-shaped, but oblong, with ornate metalwork. Its aged patina was like a cloak of modesty, hiding its lustrous shimmer. Inside, was a tiny sepia portrait of a young woman with piercing eyes, tumbling curls that framed her face, and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but felt warm nonetheless. Ella wondered who the young woman was. The lover of the doll? She gently draped the kinked chain around the pendant and nestled the locket amidst a pillow of amber velvet lining the box. Ella rifled through the other knick knacks lying on top of the envelope, but she was most curious to dig into the envelope. It seemed out of place. She’d found plenty of old letters and postcards over the years. She particularly liked looking up the history of the old stamps to try and date unmarked correspondences. But this envelope clearly had never been mailed. There was no stamp, no address, no inky postmark smears. It also wasn’t a regular white envelope, but rather one of the oversized golden ones with the brad fastener closure. This envelope was also quite thick, more along the lines of a dense report or a short book. It wasn’t that uncommon for Ella to find old leather-bound journals and she’d come across dozens of vintage cookbooks and recipe cards. But when she unearthed the envelope from the box, it didn’t immediately feel like it contained any sort of thin paperback book or journal. Ella carefully undid the fastener, but the aged metal prongs snapped right off. The adhesive on the flap had dried with age, so the flap sprung loose. Ella slid out a stack of papers folded in half. The seam ached and cracked as Ella parted the halves, deepening a once youthful groove. The yellowed pages were filled with faded ink. A few age spots —perhaps coffee spills or errant water droplets—had wrinkled some of the paper and caused a hemorrhage of some of the words. It appeared that the pages held some sort of manuscript, perhaps the start of a novel, maybe a memoir, or some sort of adventure tale. The dim lighting in the cavernous antique shop made it that much harder to read the printed words ravished by time. Ella smiled, remembering how much she used to love meandering through the labyrinth of shelves in a library, scanning the spines of books as if she were a seafarer on a quest to find unexplored land. Each unread book felt like the tactile representation of hope—a possibility to learn more about the world, more about people who never existed but were brought to life by their authors, and more about herself. She closed the lid and clutched the box in both hands as if it were a fragile basket of fresh eggs. “How much is this?” An elderly man standing at the counter looked up from his newspaper, thin bifocals balancing low on his nose. He pushed the lenses towards his eyes as he righted his posture. “Oh, hello there!. I haven’t seen you here before.” His croaked voice spoke of a man who likely smoked a pipe most of his life. “Yes. This is my first time here.” “Did you find everything you were looking for?“ Ella pivoted her head, scanning the exquisite carvings on the lacquered legs of a mahogany table and the delicate brushstrokes peppering the canvas of a faded painting hanging askew on the wall. She turned back to the man. “Truthfully, I could spend hours picking through every delightful nook and cranny of your shop, but I always limit myself to just one piece.” She flushed at the confession. “I can always come back next week!” “I hope you do, young lady. I'll tell you what. How about I give you 50% off today since you’re a first-time customer? You clearly have a distinguished taste.” “What a lovely gesture. I’d heard great things about your shop and this visit has exceeded my expectations.“ “You’re too kind.“ That night, Ella tried to decipher the manuscript, seeing if it held secrets to help unravel the riddles hidden in her new collection of someone else’s history, or contained passages that she recognized from what eventually became a best-selling novel. The manuscript seemed to be a diary of sorts. Its passages wove together vignettes of a girl’s daily experiences: fancy dinner parties, wearing gowns sewn by her mother, and missing her “Papa“ who was at war but having the best “Mama,” as well as three older brothers and a baby sister. Ella pieced together the life of a girl with a very different life than her own, both in terms of the quotidian tasks, and also the sense of belonging, love, and community. Ella had never sat at the same kitchen table for more than eight months growing up; she was always shuffled from home to home like discarded clothing someone outgrew. She never met her Papa, and never had anyone to call “Mama.” There were almost always other “brothers” and “sisters” but not by blood, and never the same ones for very long. Reading the stream of consciousness loosely organized into entries separated by break lines transported Ella into an elusive world, and provided the same comfort she invariably got from reading. Libraries had always been her sanctuary. No matter how many times she moved, or how isolated she felt in a foster home, as long as she could get her hands on a book, Ella could be temporarily free. Another thing that Ella loved about libraries was the feeling of consistency. Sure, the layout of the library in each town was different, but they all had that same delicious smell: aged paper, oaky wood, and musty newspapers. For Ella, the smell of a library was like sunshine for a withering plant. No matter how empty and disconnected she felt, when she stepped into a library and drank in its familiar aroma, Ella felt alive, rejuvenated, and human. And then there were the librarians—Ella’s secret favorite part of visiting any library. Of course, like the libraries themselves, each librarian was a unique individual but every librarian Ella encountered shared that ephemeral quality of making each patron feel welcome, special, and connected. Ella marveled at how librarians always made her feel cared for, even when she was visiting for the first time in a new town. Sometimes, when she felt particularly dejected or alone, Ella went to the library simply because the librarians provided a motherly warmth to fill her void. Ella set the manuscript aside, the folded pages audibly crackling at the worn fold. She readied herself for bed, feeling a sense of comfort that had eluded her for several years. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, though she welcomed the foreign feeling. Ella opened her Libby app to read a few more pages of the latest Debbie Macomber book. However, within seconds, her eyes ached from the glow of the screen. The sensation surprised Ella since reading her ebooks had been her beloved nightly ritual for the past several years. Like antiquing, reading stories helped Ella escape into other lives. The characters in her books felt like real friends. Their adventures felt like her experiences. Their lives felt aspirational. Maybe I’ve just done too much reading today . She set her phone aside, somewhat saddened she wouldn’t be whisked away to the charming Alaskan town preparing for Christmas, and mostly disappointed that she would be stuck with her own thoughts while waiting for sleep to come. But, surprisingly instead of ruminating over usual worries—the spreadsheets and databases she encounters at work, the water bill that’s past due, or the fact that she has no one to say good night to—Ella thought about the antique shop, the manuscript, the feeling of connection. She also thought about the confusing aching in her eyes when trying to read her ebook. It suddenly dawned on her that she had cut herself off from the only place that ever felt like home. The paper manuscript was a physical book of sorts that whisked her away into a story about a family. It simultaneously reminded her of the sense of community, connection, acceptance, and familiarity she always felt in a library, even when she had to use a map to get to it. Because she had shifted to exclusively downloading ebooks, she had not stepped foot in an actual library for years. This meant that had deprived herself of her grounding elixir, the ineffable hug she only could get inside the walls of a library. Ella’s limbs melted into the mattress as a sensation of deep relaxation enveloped her. She would find her library card in the morning. It was time to visit home.

jh3xmn

The Knights' Trio and the Library of Damned Fools

Far and deep into the long lost reaches of the Caucasus Mountains, two men (and a Woman), were climbing down a sheer cliff. The first man, stout of body and sharp of mind, rappelled down with the care and precision of a three-legged ewe. Mainly as he was coated in full steel plate. As he smashed against the rock wall for a third time, his first companion called down to him playfully as the rope shook. "Oaf! Do be careful! I don't want the meteor of your shelled form to alert the Quarry of our approach. This one is a wily one, so I am told!" The Oaf, named Giles, flexed his gauntlets and pouted slightly. "I truly hope that you realize that this rope shall end at some point, and that you will stand before me soon, Prama." Despite the slight wind, the monk caught the words and laughed, both externally and internally at the wording of his half-french companion. While they both held fast to the knotted cord on their granite descent, the woman, ever more practical, scaled past them on the rocks, her hands gripping hold after hold as she passed them both. Giles swore at her as she swung to an open outcropping. "Vile wild-beast of a woman!" In the end, it had taken the two men a considerable amount more time to reach their destination, a balcony of rock that jut free the ancient peak. The woman, ever dressed in animal skins and rags, saluted them as they landed, puffing and huffing with vigor. "Tell me, why again did you elect to scale these heights in that tortoise-shell?" She spoke in Sakha, and then remembering herself, spoke again in broken, half-garbled French. "Why armor over rocks?" Giles frowned at her. "Because the last damn time we scaled rocks like this, the Quarry tore two score men away with its foul spines, or have you forgotten?" She blinked at him. He sighed, and drew out from his pouch of trinkets the rosary he carried, adorned with the trophies of Quarry now dead. He pointed to the large spike, then tapped it to his plate. She nodded at him, smiling in understanding. The other man, the final of the trio, landed next. He sat in a near perpetual stoop, a great jug over his (slightly) aged back, and wore turmeric-yellow robes. "What of him? Surely this dandelion would be more a hindrance, what with that holy water on his back." "Ha! Birds are attracted to that which is shiny over colorful, Oaf." Giles had half a mind to sock the monk in the face, but was interrupted from his thoughts. "Besides, we won't be burdened with this much longer. Soon we must imbibe of its contents and enter the depths." He pointed behind them both. Giles and the Woman turned, observing the cave that led deeper into the mountain. It was a lifeless stretch of rock that trailed into dark. "Hmm, so there is where our infernal enemy lies?" Giles, wiping the sweat from his brow, waited for Prama to speak, as he usually did before entering the suspected lair of the Quarry. "In my meditations, I saw a great repository of knowledge, like the one in Alexandria before the fires took it. Though this one as well was aflame. Inside, scribes rushed to hide and save the precious scrolls and tablets from the blaze, yet their bodies sported wings of six-fold and their eyes innumerable. A terror lay at the center, a crooked and smiling serpent that ate the books as they burned and excreted them as slurry." Giles rankled as the woman leaned forward. "The slurry was then gathered up into inkwells by impish servants, and a masked beast of four heads and two faces wrote, with a pen of bone, new books. From these books, terror and despair emerged as flowers. They ate the minds of men as they were drawn deeper into their tales." Prama finished. Giles, feeling his chin for signs of stubble thought on past adventures. "So, this shall be the source of those accursed tomes that plagued the men of Carthage. The beast's description fits the Quarry of that day. Tell me monk, did the Buddy arrive in this dream? Were you able to consult him on the questions I had for him?" Prama rolled his eyes. "At this point I know you're purposefully mispronouncing it. No, he did not." Giles, noting the tone in the amber man's voice, did not push further. "So. There is an evil library within this mountain. Woman?" She looked at him, blinking. "Can you read?" She blinked again. "Can. You. Read?" He mouthed the words slowly. She blinked a third time, then shook her head. "There we are. That's one issue down. Now, as for you and I, I am uncertain. If these books offer such temptations, I am surely more chaste to them then thou, but-" The monk began unwrapping the torso-sized jug. "Indeed Oaf. Which is why I have a unique solution. We cannot read if the words blur in our eyes and mind." Giles sniffed the air, and the woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that-" "Indeed!" The monk tore through the holding paper on the jug. Below, the fragrant scent of apricots sang to their throats. Brandy! There were no questions. With thirst beyond reasoning from the terrible climb and heat of the late spring, the three companions drank deep of the spicy ambrosia, each taking a turn in a spinning wheel of ritualistic drinking. As it emptied to the final drops, Giles hoisted the jar above his helmet and crashed it down, terracotta chips sprinkling his brow like baptismal water. "Aaaalright! Let's go slay us a damn, damn devil! Lesht I rusht my vamb-braces." He slurred, drawing the long sword from his hip and pointing its silvery sheen into the deep cavern which gaped at them, inviting. "Quarry-dear sir, quarry! Remember the rules we settled upon!" Prama, half-mad and itching to be done with this business already spoke in turn. Saying what the monsters even were, by nature, made them stronger after all. Still, tinder in hand, the three stumbled clumsily into that dark maw. Outside, the light of the torch vanished, the final piece of them swallowed into the deep, deep earth. Giles noted the strangeness of the corridor only after what he assumed was an hour of marching. There was no labyrinthine maze, no odd puzzles which he needed to smash through. This was not a tomb! Though he was unsure if that was his annoying thoughts or the man yelling behind him. In fact, as the walls melted away into abandoned shelves and ancient stone desk tops, scroll shelves like pox marks in the wall, Giles felt somewhat cheated. Was there not supposed to be books in this library? Where the hell were they? When the path ended in a large bookcase, he would have sworn, if not for the woman pressing a shoddy copper pick into his hands. "Where'd you-u get that?" The woman stuck a thumb behind. "Corpses, miners. Back way." He looked at the tool, its rusty wedge. Then he shrugged and chopped away at the great shelf. To his surprise (if you could BE surprised while piss-drunk that is) the shelf came away like paper. Like...something he didn't want to think about right now for some reason. "Exercise caution Giles. Shhh..." Prama moved ahead of him, wobbling on slightly more steady legs as Giles sat back, both exhausted and nauseous from the exertion. Until he heard Prama yell in fear. Giles stiffened, then thrust the torch he held into the Woman's hands, charging into the chamber. Inside, he felt his eyes burn. It was as if they'd been dipped in tallow and set alight just by looking upon the books. All at once, he'd never been more thankful for being drunk. He assumed that this was what Prama was yelling about. Then he saw the Quarry. It was larger than a man. It was larger than the elephants that Prama spoke of in his homeland. It was bigger than a damn house, and coiled around a great black well, its tail dipping into the foul, stinking liquid. It's great steaming mouth opened, and words poured over his brain as though they were being scratched with a pen upon his skull. "Ahhhh, more students. Come to take the secrets of the Forbidden Truths. Come to bargain as Theophilius, or perhaps that pathetic scribe once did? No matter. Come in, come in. Allow I, Da- Giles roared, to intercede the creature speaking it's name, but found his throat silent. Odd. Still, the forward chop of his long sword was more than enough to interrupt it's musings. The beast roared as the blade bounced away from its umber scales, and Giles was flung back as the coils stretched up and the scales pointed in jagged lines, bludgeoning him as a mace would. The wind went out of him as he crashed into a bookcase, this time laden with tomes. He spat blood, but there was still no sound to the action. He sang a quick tune. Still no noise. "Insolent creature! Do you not know that a house of learning is silent to all but it's master!" The sharp whip-crack of its voice cut them as it began again. "In your tongue, I am Damnatio Memoriae- He grimaced. Across the way, he saw Prama clutch his skull. They were still so heavily affected even when drunk? Blood filled Giles ears, though the voice did not stop. "-The great librarian of the Damned Fools. An excellent name for such creatures as yourselves, would you not agree? Hmm, what are your names? Let me peek..." Giles grunted hard and sat up. Prama, nearby, was batting away the serpent's massive tongue with his hands as it attempted to invade his skull, through eye or ear. He clutched his ribs, which even in the drunken stupor felt sore (a bad sign) and stood, sword held level with the gargantuan beast. He was suddenly dragged off his feet behind the collapsed shelf. He thrashed, fearing a minion or imp, only for a familiar hand to clap over his mouth. The Woman! She was motioning frantically to him, holding one of the books before him. He watched as she held the torch to it, to no avail. He frowned at the puzzle, but that was not a concern considering what Prama was having to- "I HAVE come to bargain!" He heard the man shout. Clarity through mortal peril, Prama had awakened his guile through the haze of drink and was suddenly speaking to the massive demon. "Ahhh...That changes things. Come to bargain, you say? You alone, or are you to offer your companions souls to me as well?" "They are free to-" He hiccuped. "Oh...do not be afraid my child. Is that not what the Great Ones say to you as they approach?" "Indeed, o mighty librarian. Master of Books, fooler of Fools, Tricker-Trickster of-" "Oh, you need not flatter. I so rarely receive guests, you know. I have not so much as heard a peep since those Carthaginians raided my great library. I say raided, but-" "Do go on! I am a student of all things, no domain is too accursed for my ears, oh Great Serpent!" Prama continued. The creature happily did so. "Well, if you must know, it is part of the deal, not that I made one with them, they stole them as a matter of greed, as books are quite valuable to your kind. I do not mind, the books of the library are meant to be shared after all! It is here that I write the litanies of woe and sutras of loathing by which the fall of man shall come, and it is the foolish men who come believing the wealth of knowledge outweighs the poison of its origin. Most of my originals...they are burned, but when you use such a medium, it is only to be expected of such lesser creatures..." "Your...medium?" Prama spoke, observing the shelves with mock interest. "Oh yes." The snakes' head shifted upward. Prama's eyes saw the ceiling and almost screamed. For even with his dull vision, he could see in the torch light the racks upon racks of human leather, tanned full body profiles, the hollow faces screaming. "Yes indeed. In fact...If you take twenty of these books from me, I shall promise you the life of a king. Regardless of what you came here for, it is a tempting offer no? A side deal , as the market men are so fond of saying." "I-" Prama was feeling the alcohol kick into a second wave. "Tell me more." Meanwhile, the Knight and the Woman were busy trying to find a way to destroy the book. They tried stabbing, more fire, kicking, ripping, his sword, her dagger, to no effect. In a fit of rage, The Woman spat into the cover. There was a ripple as the snake turned in their direction, the great yellow eyes filled to the brim with malice. "What was that!?" Prama, sensing the need of his distraction, came closer, and in a moment of boldness, touched the snake. "Please...tell me more." That was a good enough distraction for the other two. "It's weakness...liquid?!" Giles stood up, tore free his waterskin and draped the remaining contents over his blade and face. Then he slammed shut his helm. "Hold there woman! I shall dispatch this vile creature." He charged off, not noticing the Woman was holding her ear to the ground, uncaring to his action. The blade sunk deep this time as he lunged forth, and Giles felt triumph as the beast knocked him away, a font of oily blood filling his gaze. "Traitors! You shall make a fine second edition!" The jaws opened to reveal a great number of eyes inside. Giles barely had time to jump away as the creature struck. The woman waved her hands in the air now, up near the wall of the chamber. Giles, running towards her to evade the beast, saw her holding the pickaxe out, motioning him to... He kissed his cross and flung his full weight into the spot she'd dug around, and it gave way to a torrential spring. The beast howled as the fresh blood of the earth washed into the black inkwell, diluting it to nothing. The blast of it seemed to be acid to it's very skin, bones appearing as it tried and failed to run from the flood. The force of the geyser filled the chamber within seconds, and dragged the three away, out of the mountain and down, down to the earth below. The Library of Damned Fools now turning to mush behind them, its great caretaker disintegrating as ink on a page. When Giles next awoke, it was on the river bank of what is now called the Ardon, his boots full of minnows and mind throbbing like never before. The woman was already awake (of course) and noodling free some measure of fish for their nightly supper. Prama, who was still asleep, face down in the mud, was awoken by Giles lifting him up to check if he yet lived. Then they, all together, laughed in triumph and victory over their foe. That night, as shadows grew high and tall, they built a small fire, and supped on the silvery flesh and wild herbs. Prama told tale of their next Quarry, which lay in Portugal, and The Woman sang them a great and mighty song of frozen peaks and fir trees. Giles took free the scrap of ruined book leather he'd managed to hold, and with the point of his sword spiked a hole in the tip, threading it into his rosary. Then he thanked the Holy Mother for their victory, as was his custom in these strange days. Yet still, questions plagued his mind. The Library, how many books had escaped into the world? How many souls had died to feed it's maw? How many more would yet be lost by whatever tomes remain? Could he have acted sooner? Could there be something he was missing? Each Quarry they fought had seemed to have no connection to the others, yet even alone and isolated, their works flourished. Was this a test ? Some kind of clue to what he should be pursuing? As the Woman's song finished, the stars arose through the smoke. Giles stood up, and with his back to the fire, rolled his shoulders. "Never was much a scholar anyways."

m1bvn0

Priceless

"Your majesty , you have outdone yourself , you bring honour to your people and all the kingdom of.............." The Prime Minister trailed off , obediently. "Decades!' The Sultan interrupted , raising a thick index finger to his political servant ,"........of research ...........of searching ............ bargaining.........and finally!' he exclaimed as he turned to the presentation altar and his eyes widened as they adorned his latest prize ,'She belongs to me!' He strode slowly , yet purposefully towards the microphone stand "Behold , my lords , ladies and gentlemen , I present to you , in all her naked glory , the Alb-ahr! Al'Ahmar!' Suddenly the amphitheatre lights dimmed and a symphony orchestra began to play the Sultan's favourite symphony, Lawrence of Arabia's Overture. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!BOOM! BOOM!boom! , the familiar explosive drum opening erupted , a woman squealed in fright , a shrill volley of brass horns blasted out and a crystal champagne glass audibly shattered on the hardwood floor. And then calm , as the string concerto ushered in the next stage in the unveiling. A ring of lights studded with diamonds within the presentation altar began to glow softly , beamed diagonally beneath the priceless artefact at all her many facets , and a base mount of solid silver waves began to rotate slowly clockwise as the Red Sea Ruby , all 715 carats , cast her beautiful brilliance across the circular walls of the amphitheatre. Gasps , cheers and applause concertoed as the eloquent audience were awash in the dazzling red waves , some recoiled in shock as the spiralling red kaleidoscope reflected and refracted its hypnotic spell , some blinked uncomfortably as the waves were punctuated by brilliant white stabs of light , where diamond and ruby collided , an assault on the human eye. The Sultan's short arms were raised in a symmetrical arc, palms upturned , mouth agape in rapture , his face embalmed by the red rose glow , his mouth trembling slightly as a tear escaped his left eye. In the shadow of the stage , the dark figure of James Chapman , his eyes strained at the floor , concentrating , hand to his earpiece as he replied 'Check, all clear. All stations". Every 10minutes , a one minute round of checks around the Palace perimeter , the amphitheatre , the kitchens and all accessible corridors. Chapman looked up only at the balconies , entrances , and aisles where security were adorned , at the Sultan's insistence , in Pierce Brosnan's Brioni tuxedo from the Bond movie Tomorrow Never Dies. He always felt the King's movie fanaticism a little awkward especially when he even referred to him as 'Chapman , James Chapman'.But Chapman , James Chapman relented on the practicalities of the costume when he discovered a smooth silk holster pocket on the inside lining , complete with a customary Walther PPK. As part of the Sultan's extensive security team , Chapman dismayed at the extravagant , lavish excess his sire revelled in. As the owner of the largest priceless gem collection in the world , the Sultan's reputation for showcasing his treasures was reknowned in esteemed circles. His arrival onstage on a floating Arabian carpet accompanied by the The Hope Diamond, nestled comfortably in his silk turban , drew raucous cheers and robust chants of ' Ha-ssan! Ha-ssan! Ha-ssan!' . But this latest reveal was a bigger logistical and safety nightmare than any floating carpets and priceless gemstones. The Palace's amphitheatre held a capacity of 700 guests comfortably but an Arabian dance troupe was little bit more complex and altogether too chaotic for Chapman's careful , measured and disciplined liking. It didn't help his unease that , in his previous life in Special Ops , red surroundings tended to mean things had gone very badly wrong.      The dance troupe streamed gracefully on to the cleared floorspace in front Chapman , eighteen brilliant silver dance costumes , nine either side of one brilliant red one , adorned by classical ballet dancer and the Princess Regent , Sultana Jamilla. 'Aaaaaah , Aljawhara,' the Sultan exhaled , admiring his beautiful first-born as the entire troupe bowed low before their King and Jamilla was the only dancer to keep her head raised. Maintaining eye contact and smiling , she winked. Both lines of silver clad dancers peeled forward and sharply fouetted off in opposite arcs into two semi-circles which wound around the outside of the floorspace and gracefullly formed a complete pirhouetting circle round Jamilla , in turn pirhouetting in the centre. Clever piece of choreography , Chapman thought , the diamond dancers on the outside reflecting off the ruby in centrepiece , just like the display altar.  'Aljawhara" must mean 'ruby'. He had heard the Maharaja use the word in reference to priceless exhibits in his collection. When he had conducted tours for visiting dignatories , Chapman had been in attendance as Head of Security for the Royal Family's Crown Jewels.   As the spinning dancers were revolving in full frenzy , Chapman decided it would be timely to do another security check. He spoke into the microphone on his watch ,'All points check in' he said. Scratchy static reverberated back into the earpiece and Chapman heard and dark voice he didn't recognise. Again his hand covered his right ear as he strained to hear the voice ,'....alaistila ealaa aljawhara' ...........again , louder 'ALAISTILA' EALAA ALJAWHARA!!'    His limited knowledge of Arabic was enough to decipher the chilling message - ' Seize the Ruby' Confused , Chapman didn't recognise the voice and the static interference revealed it as a radio transmission. 'All stations , attention! There's a rogue transmission, I repeat there is a rogue transmission. The Ruby is under threat , stations 1 and 2 , report to the amphitheatre , stat!' With reinforcements on the way , his eyes darted to each security post around the grand cavern for any sign of anomaly , a disturbance , an altercation , something that would betray the threat. As he scanned the ballroom , silver furls of silk engulfed the red princess as the performance began to crescendo to its climax. Her head spun round to the exact point facing the Sultan with each precise revolution , but now she looked at Chapman , her smile vanished and alarm spread across her face. The music abruptly stopped as all the dancers collapsed to the floor in unison and the lights came up , applause roaring forth. Chapman's eyes scanned the crowd , then the undisturbed ruby and then rested on the exulted King. The Sultan , rose slowly , his hand slowly reaching up to each side of his round grey beard ,'Aljawhara???......' he said meekly. Chapman turned to the centre of the floor , dancers animated and fussing surrounding Jamilla , who hadn't risen from the floor. Chapman began to advance , sensing impending horror when his wrist blared 'Chapman , its Brodie , do you copy?' 'What is it , Brodie?' he barked at his 2IC. 'The message.......it means Seize the Jewel , Chapman. The Jewel...........its Jamilla..............Jewel is her father's nickname for her' Chapman leaned into the circle and his dread was affirmed - Jamilla was gone , lifeless red satin robes lay on the floor instead.                         

5xxyzr

Adventure Travel for the Uninitiated

“I can’t believe it – my perfect job and they’ve offered me an interview!” Naomi’s shaking hands clutch the letter so tightly it crumples beyond recognition. “Mum, did you hear me?” “What, love? I heard your voice...not sure what you were saying.” Naomi repeats slowly, “I’ve got an interview.” “Naomi, that’s really great.” The flatness of her voice is at odds with the words. Her mother Deirdre is absent mindedly deadheading a Christmas rose on the dresser. These days most of her time is spent on such aimless activities. Naomi can’t help thinking of the contrast with the dynamic character she had known when she was growing up. Deirdre hadn’t actually said, “Interview for what?” but Naomi knows that was what she was thinking. She takes her mother’s hand, trying not to worry about contamination. “Mum, it’s the ‘Out of This World’ film company. You know, the one I told you about, looking for a screen writer. Damian Stevens wants to meet online on Thursday.” Deirdre’s face lifts into a vague smile, trying to reflect Naomi’s excitement. These fragmented encounters with her Mum always make Naomi feel edgy. Today, with the prospect of a big challenge in less than two days’ time, she is beside herself. Running upstairs, she intones the number of each step and rushes into the bathroom to scrub her hands before finding retreat in her bedroom. She heads for the dressing table where an array of ceramic horses, collected over the years, waits patiently for her attention. It is Naomi’s go-to place when she is stressed and her pulse slows as she strokes their glossy manes. How am I going to get through this ? Naomi knows her brain is wired differently. As a young child she was trailed round endless specialists, feeling like a circus exhibit. No one could quite get her. Primary school was a nightmare, even with one-to-one support. She couldn’t bear looking at her teachers while they were speaking, preferring to gaze out of the window. Yes, she could answer their questions but only when her senses weren’t on overload. Secondary school was even worse, the noise in class and in the corridors made her shut down completely on bad days. On good ones she would live in the library, mopping up everything she could read. She’s come a long way. Writing is escapism and she is good. Very good, in fact. Even now as an adult, every new experience is an adventure for Naomi. Unlocking her creativity by peeling away layers of fear, agitation and obsession is like navigating an impenetrable jungle. Here is her dream job within reach, but it will take all her strength to focus on what needs to be done. Her ears are ringing with a roaring tsunami of ideas. First, she tackles her appearance which hasn’t received attention since she took on caring for Deirdre. Frantic to make a good impression, she unearths a hair dye she had bought the previous year on a reckless shopping spree. Two hours later, Naomi doesn’t recognise the character looking out of the mirror at her. The sachet inviting her to ‘bring a bit of lilac into your life’ is alarmingly true to its word. Oh shit, this is not what I was expecting. After another hour of repeated washing, her head is raw and hair virtually unchanged. Making an impression is one thing, but she really didn’t want to look this zany. “Just stop!” she says sharply to no one in particular. Her mind is flying all over the place. Downstairs, Deirdre is asleep so Naomi takes George, their cocker spaniel for a walk round the block in the drizzle. Both shiver with relief when they get home. “Let’s have a practice run for this interview, George.” Naomi ushers the sleepy dog into the dining room and gets her laptop out of a drawer. Plugged into the extension socket, it bursts into life. She opens the camera app and looks anxiously at herself. Averting her eyes, she says, “So tell me, Miss Johnson, what motivates you in life?” Naomi’s clipped accent is perfect for an inquisitor and catapults her into a panic. She gulps. Bugger, I can’t do this. Shutting her eyes, she shakes her head and tries again. “Miss Johnson, we have the bones of a new plot. Set in 2065, a lone family is camped up in the basement of the old Town Hall. Where would you take it from here?” Now, Naomi is in the zone and launches easily into an elaborate and inspired storyline. This sets the pattern for the next 36 hours. Her solitary question and answer sessions are interspersed with preparing meals for her Mum…and George…and sleep. Fifteen minutes before the Zoom interview, Naomi has had six changes of outfit. Her hair still looks weird, but at least it is styled well. The horses in her room have had a final grooming, and she’s ready. Petrified, but ready. She logs into the session and waits anxiously for the host to let her in. Ever intuitive, her faithful hound hops in and out of his basket, enjoying the game. “George, please. Just stay still.” Oblivious, he jumps up at Naomi and with a deft flick of a shovel-like paw, swipes her laptop onto the tiled floor. With a sickening crack, the screen snaps in two. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening. George, what have you done?” Butter-wouldn’t-melt eyes look up at Naomi from his basket, now a welcome refuge. She grabs the laptop from the floor, pressing keys wildly. There are no signs of life. After all my preparation, I’ve ruined it. Naomi sits down heavily. Her eyes are burning with fear, disappointment, rage. The inevitability of failure. George dares to leap back out of his basket to nuzzle her, comforting Naomi enough for her to think straight. Rummaging in her handbag, she finds her phone clinging on to a mere shred of charge. With shaking hands she plugs it in, visualising the interview team already striking her off the list of candidates. “Well George, we’ll give it ten minutes on charge then I’ll phone.” Naomi cannot believe that today, of all days, fate has conspired for her to be running late for possibly the most important interview of her life. Well, actually she can believe it. These things happen to her and in her mind, rarely to others. It’s just another facet of the unfairness of life. The bum cards are in her pack, yet she knows she has so much to offer. Pacing in frustration, Naomi jumps when her phone rings. “Yes, it’s me. Look I’m so sorry…” “Oh. Unavoidable delay, you say?” Naomi suppresses a scream of relief. “Well, yes, I think that would be OK.” “So, I’ll wait to receive the new link and meet you this afternoon at 4 o’clock.” “Great, thanks Mr Stevens, I’ll see you then!” “Bye. Bye. Bye-bye now.” George sees Naomi leaping around, hands fluttering and eagerly joins her. “Oh George, I’ve got a second chance. Can you believe it?” Naomi goes through to the door of the sunroom where Deirdre is resting, unaware of the unfolding drama. “I’m off into town Mum, be back soon. No need to answer the door if anyone knocks.” There’s plenty of parking at the Electronics store and looking at the prices, Naomi is pleased she’s insured for accidental damage. She chooses an upgrade she’s been eyeing for a while. Back home with the laptop set up, well out of George’s reach, Naomi needs one final change of clothes. Now, she really is ready. The meeting in progress, her video activates and Naomi looks in awe at the unexpected line up of eminent producers. After introducing them, Damian launches straight in. “So tell me, Miss Johnson, or may we call you Naomi, what motivates you in life?” Suffice to say, the job is hers.

lgu4eo

Food equals love

Getting cell service in La Citta del Ricordi is impossible. I should have guessed since it’s such a small town. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve crumbled up the map and lost its creases. Three days ago I would have been embarrassed running up and down the streets, swerving past residents and climbing a statue of Galileo in the city square just for a single bar of AT&T, but I was desperate. Finding dad’s old school was all that mattered. My frustration removed my interest in the charming butcher shops. My senses were dulled. I didn’t care about the red-colored vespas that encircled the city’s roundabout. I didn't care about the store window that had scripted stenciled glass saying “all day cobbler services." I didn't care about the floral shops that had husbands buy their wives flowers on the way home from work. I didn't care about the 14th century architecture that attested to the city’s history. I didn't care about the aroma of freshly baked bread that filled the city square just in time for breakfas—  BANG!! A collision with a pot belly man resulted in a flash of mustard and salami that was cast into the air, and painted his white shirt with speckles of yellow. His wool cap fell off his head, not before I hit the ground and felt a shock to my tailbone. And my phone screen shattered after a quick kiss on the sidewalk. Both of us took a beat. Then I was hit with “colorful words of expressions” which all agreed were unspoken around children. "I am so sorry.” I muttered over and over again as if every time I said it converted English into Italian. The man's shouts drew in a crowd until a neighbor came to my defense. His tone resembled a sheep as he attempted to calm the inconsolable man with a “slow down” motion with his hands to defuse the situation. “Is that a way to treat our guest?,” he said in English for my ears to hear. He whispered to the man and palmed him some cash, “prendi questo and get a new shirt, paisano.” The money melted away the tension, and I thanked him profusely. “Why you rushing? You going somewhere?” he asked. “I’m lost and have been wandering around town looking for a school and I need directions.” “Show me,” I pulled a picture out of my pocket, faced it down to hide its image, making sure he could read the words of a school I couldn’t pronounce, hoping he would know the way. “I know. I take you there.” “No, no, I can find my way.” I didn’t want to impose, but my desperation was barely masked and my inner voice was begging him to insist on taking me again. If he were to oblige, I would be eternally grateful. “Please, you are my guest. I insist.” He held out his hand to guarantee a gesture of goodwill and adventure. “My name is Ignazio.” The prospect of an adventure made Ignazio happy as a boy finding a gold coin in a river. The shine reflects through the water and glitters from the sun which lures the boy to pick it up. Only after the boy plunges into the cold water does he regret his decision to walk on the slippery, mossy rocks just to pick up a lira. Now, that I think about it. Is the boy Ignazio or me? * The road through the Italian hills was a painting that continuedly changed every time you glanced the side of your eye. On the side of the road, little rivers trickled down the lush green grass from last night’s rain as the sun heightened the blue hue in the sky. I rolled the window down and the kiss from the wind’s breeze seemed to offer me sleep after three days of stress. Only Ignazio’s biography kept me awake. He spoke about his town, his history, and misplaced infatuation with a monster named Maria. “But father always say: ‘Food equal love.’ No matter trouble or sadness. Food make everything better. Maybe sad later but good food eaten now, give trouble a break. ” Ignazio tells me his father takes in strays and nurses them back to health. Whether it was animals or humans he didn't say but as I listened, it was clear he mended hearts more than broken bones. “Why come to La Citta del Ricordi?” he asked. “Most come to see Italy for Firenze, Rome or Venezia, not La Citta del Ricordi.” I would have said everything, but something was stopping me. I didn’t feel ready to share my father’s memories. “I guess I like small towns.” We turned the corner, on to a dirt road that led to a closed gate. I got out of the car to take a closer look. My heart dropped at the sight. The school was a mess. Taggers spray painted its stone wall with purple “artistic” phalac images pissing on the name of the school. Words with letters I couldn’t recognize and dare not ask Ignazio to interpret. The stained glass windows had been shattered with bricks. Papers, which I assume were names of students' and A-plus grades had littered the grounds of the school. The papers caught in the wind, rolled like trash tumbleweeds and embedded in the unkempt bushes. I pulled the picture label 1965 on the back. It was dad’s first day of school. He was happy as he stood up straight with his pressed pants, held up by his elastic suspenders. I held up the picture over the school sign like a past and present reflection with 60 years between them. No one knew 60 years later, this neatly etched entrance carved by a master stonemason would later be defaced like a rat infested homeless shelter in an abandoned town. It was a memory that was tarnished. “Ah, I understand,” Ignazio had seen the picture over my shoulder. “That boy someone special?” I didn’t want to say, and felt myself holding my breath. The air that was my breath would become words that would reveal the truth and invite another to explore my father’s memories, but standing on that spot and the beats that followed, I couldn’t lie. “It was my father, and this city was his home.” I buried the picture into my pocket along with the hopes of reconciliation and relief from the grief that I wasn’t there when he died of cancer.  “It was a mistake to come here. I’d like to go home.”  Ignazio didn’t say a word, but nodded to acknowledge he understood where I was coming from. * The ride back to town was silent, until Ignazio knew just what to ask. “Tell me about your father.” There was no use hiding. I needed to tell my friend. “Father said he was always the 'injured gazelle in the jungle of the schoolyard.' The “limping buffalo of the herd” that attracted bullies. He said the meanest, toughest bully at school had a missing finger after trying to hide a lit fire cracker from a parent who came around the corner at his home. Glancing at the hand would be met with a strike to the face. “Dad had enough and responded with the voracity of a 'maned young lion' that would devour the four-fingered elephant. The school was in a uproar as both exchanged blows. Bloodied, bruised, black-eyed boys took out their frustrations on each other. “The headmaster pushed away the school children who were cheering on the match like Roman dignitaries at the colosseum and dragged the two boys to his office. “They sat arms crossed, bleeding, and couldn’t even look at each other. The headmaster’s sentence: a day alone in the classroom while the other students went on a school field trip. “While the students were counting the zebra’s stripes at the zoo. They were counting tiles on the ceiling. "Dad found comfort in the sandwich grandma packed for him. Unrolling the wax paper bag crisped like a Christmas present and the aroma of fresh bread masked the smell of paint that coated the classroom's walls. But it didn’t mask the sound of a rumbling stomach. The bully had no food or anyone to pack his lunch. Father broke a piece of bread and handed it to the bully. After that, the boys were inseparable.” Who knew breaking bread would be the most defining moment in his life? “It’s funny, most men would never get the chance to be the best man at their childhood bully’s wedding and witness the wedding band discolor his middle finger because it was too small.” Without a word, Ignazio drove on to the shoulder of the road and pealed back toward the opposite way of town. “Come, I take you to my home. You will have the best food in the world. Mama's food so good,” Ignazio closed his eyes and kissed his fingers. “You kill somebody.” “Do you mean ‘it's to die for?’” “Yes, to die for.” “It was meant to be figuratively, not literally.” My shouts were drowned by the sound of honking horns of oncoming traffic. The inertia plastered my face to the window, which singed from the heat of the sun. The paved road from the highway rumbled from a smoothness to violent vibrations of a dirt path that led to elsewhere. I was baffled when I saw the houses we passed in the neighborhood. They looked familiar until I remembered I had another picture in my pocket. The picture had a little boy standing under an olive tree in an orchard. From his perspective, the tree was a regal, majestic tower for birds to perch and a comfortable shady place for a small Italian boy who would one day immigrae to America when he became 19. The tree had bark missing and was etched with childrens’ names and images of hearts. “Come. Let me show you my mama and papa.” Before I could respond, he opened the door and pulled me out. He called out to his mama and papa. Mama rushed out from the kitchen, grabbed my face with both hands and kissed my cheeks. The back and forth chatter of a language I didn’t know was silenced by the sound of a cane tapping the hardwood floor. “Buongiorno,” said an old man as he extended his arms to embrace me. Mama ran into the kitchen as papa called us to the table. I could see the steam rise from the dish as she placed the risotto before me. The risotto had a creamy color from the bone broth that infused with the cooked rice and bound it together into a silky taste. Everything grew from their garden except the black truffles that were imported from France. Mama minced the onions and garlic and cooked them into a translucent light crisp. The heat of the pan simmered the white wine into a reduction that converted the alcohol kick into a kiss and layered the risotto with snow flakes of parmesan cheese. Mama leaned over and graded a black dusting of truffles, which speckled the white risotto. I took a moment to look at the people who knew my father and shared his experiences. Papa looked on as I tasted the risotto with just the tip of the spoon. Surrendering to a dish is like love. Live in the now, embrace it and experience every moment as if your problems have gone away. The initial bursts of herbal and earthy flavors came as it touched your tongue. It was subdued by hints of sweetness from the white wine. It over came you like a blue wave and settled with a sweet aftertaste like the ocean seeping into the sand. Every spoon was like the sea. All I could do was smile and chuckle. I would consider this a universal action that was capable of transcending words. Papa patted me on the shoulder with his left hand, having only four fingers. “Bene. Molto bene.” A smile for thank you. A chuckle for closure. And food for love.

ur07rd

Dangerous and Beautiful

She was the very image of grace and beauty: her slender body writhing like a serpent’s to the flutes and drums. The mink’s short, lowcut dress was a bright red that contrasted with the mink’s white fur. The bar of the tavern was full of all manner of creatures, all of whom were inebriated in some way. Some were drunk on Veilwinter wines and ales, others lay in a stupor from smoking much stronger stuff: their minds beyond the mortal realms. For those that weren’t too far gone, their eyes were fixed on the mink as she twirled and gyrated, giving the patrons generous views of her body. The spectators were enraptured, unable to take their eyes from her. It was what she lived for: Her special gift, her charm over all others, even those that weren’t mustelids themselves. When the music ended the mink dancer bowed low before standing up and blowing a kiss to the patrons, earning shouts for her to do an encore. “Now, now, wait till the next show,” she chided her audience before she slipped behind the curtain to her dressing room. The mink sighed softly as she sank into the comfy chair before the mirror. She admired her good looks for a time before her fur began to stand up. Whirling she grabbed a stiletto from its hiding spot only to stop and sigh in relief. “Oh, it’s just you, mistress Margot. I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.” A female lynx stood but a few feet from the mink her muzzle set in an unsettling smile as she approached. “My dear Spinrave, it is good to see you enjoying yourself. Vulane will always provide for us, wouldn’t you agree?” The lynx was but a few feet from Spinrave, her eyes glowing with a manic light. Spinrave twitched her ears. “Indeed, but to what do I owe this pleasure?” Margot looked distant suddenly, her eyes unfocusing. “Always asking questions, questions, questions, questions. But answers are overrated, yes overrated indeed. Hmm-hmm.” It was another of one of her nonsensical ramblings, Spinrave had grown used to them but they still made her shudder. No one in Vulane was truly sane, but Margot was insane by even Vulane’s standards. Spinrave wisely waited till Margot was done with her rants and snatches of song before she asked. “Surely you have something you want from me? Or did you stop by for a chat?” “Yes yes yes,” Margot replied as she suddenly had Spinrave’s chin in her paw forcing the mink to look up into her eyes. “No mere chat, oh no no no. Our mistress Selthia has informed me that the rat is sniffing after me again. Oh, he just can’t let the past go, can he? He’s becoming focused again thanks to his new friends.” Spinrave’s tail twitched as she chuckled, “Oh, Mr. Rask? Yes I remember him quite well from when he stumbled into the house of the moon.” Margot chuckled, “Rask, is what he was calling himself? Oh that IS funny. His name is actually Skreet. Detective Skreet Snickertooth.” Spinrave swallowed as Margot went from holding her chin to stroking the side of her face. Margot gave a deep, strange chuckle before she continued, releasing Spinrave’s soft face and plumping herself down on one of the large cushions in the room. “I need you to work your charms on him again, show him a good time, go for drinks, whatever tickles your fancy. He needs... another setback. Something truly devastating. ...For amusement purposes, if nothing else.” Spinrave nodded, “It shall be done, for you, and for our mistress, the witch queen.” Margot laughed once more. “Yes, Selthia and her partners are growing tired of these interlopers, especially after the sword incident. Perhaps with a little nudge toward madness, they shall all find their way under the living eyes of Veilwinter.” The two shared a laugh as the patrons outside continued to cavort.    Skreet Snickertooth groggily got himself to his slender, clawed feet and began to pace. He was in the backroom of an alchemist shop he had woken up in. He and his companions had had a run in in the undercity, and had made even more enemies. Not what Skreet needed. He found the rest of his companions talking with the blind hyena shaman who was the proprietor. Draknor the reptiloid former gladiator, Farah the infamous ferret thief, and Amber the persistent meerkat journalist. What a crew he found himself with these days. The ferret had noticed that the date was ‘wrong’ - she had been asleep for a few days while Grisha the shaman had administered the cure. Skreet had taken to the bottle again from the nearby tavern out of boredom and was just now coming back to consciousness. Draknor was doing what he did best, looking intimidating without even trying as he tended to his swords, his own, as well as the longsword from the gladiator pits. The imposing reptiloid said nothing, merely surveyed the room as if waiting for his chance to spring. Amber was scrawling in her journals with a quill pin, completely absorbed in writing her latest scandalous stories.  Farah got to her feet and started asking all sorts of questions: questions Skreet had already asked. “So you do know the witch queen!” Farah said accusingly after a short conversation. “And you are in league with her?” “If by ‘in league with her’ you mean ‘am paid occasionally by her’ then yes,” the old hyena said going through her bottles. Skreet wiped his long nose on his sleeve. “I don’t suppose you know any lynxes who are ‘in league with her’ too, do you?” Grisha slowed as she put a bottle back on a high shelf. Suddenly Skreet was sober. Grisha paused but then turned back to Farah. “You will be okay,” the old hyena said to the ferret. “My relationship with the witch queen is but the occasional business transaction. Ingredients trading and the like.”   Skreet started forward towards the old hyena, his detective instincts taking over, “I’m sorry ma’am, but I couldn’t help but notice you avoided the question pertaining to a certain lynx.” Draknor was barely listening, but stopped running his whetstone across the blade and eyed the group of mammals - his interest perked. Amber was still engrossed in her work, but Skreet was sure it was but a ruse and the meerkat was hearing every word. Grisha sighed, weary of becoming involved with the group of wanted creatures, “Not long ago a female Lynx came to me. She was wounded and had coin to pay. That one I remember. I can not see as you do, but I could feel her whole aura was off and she spoke like a madbeast. I did not think much of it. She paid well, and as a courtesy I did not ask for a name.”  Skreet grit his teeth. “Margot! It has to be!” Farah stepped back from Grisha. “What were the odds of this happening? Pretty sure the wound was from yours truly,” the ferret said, pointing at herself with a sly smirk. “We’re getting close now,” Skreet grunted. “I feel it.” Draknor spoke then, his tail thumping against the floor as his boulder-scraping voice resonated against the walls. “Yet once again we are a few steps behind, everytime we get close we’re always a bit behind.” Farah looked at Draknor, “Hey, hey, no pessimistic tones big guy! Don’t you want to get even with her for capturing you?” “Of course I do!” Draknor rumbled, “Why do you think I grow impatient? My very honor compels me to find her, and then... I must embark on another search.” Farah tilted her head, “Just how many enemies do you have, Drak?” “Many,” Draknor rumbled. “But this one is not a foe, I was told she perished in the raid… but so much of what mammals tell me is falsehood. I must know for myself.” Skreet sighed, “For what it’s worth, I’ll help you in that search. But first we’ve got to finally catch that infuriating lynx.”   Draknor growled. “The three of you helped me regain my sword. For that I am grateful. But in all my years I have never felt my patience grow so thin.” “They must be very important to you.” Skreet observed. “Indeed.” Draknor grumbled. Amber had stopped writing, right about the time Draknor had mentioned his ‘honor’. “Ooh, interesting! Do tell me more Draknor! In fact I want to hear your story of how you ended up here.” Draknor sighed. “Very well.” Skreet headed for the door. “You can tell me about it later friend. I want to hear it with my own ears... without Amber interjecting all the time.” Amber rolled her eyes. “Skreet, always the dour sort. No wonder you two get along so well, Draknor! No offense meant, of course.” Skreet pushed the door of the shop open and pulled his coat around himself as the usual rains pelted him, he checked his fighting sticks hidden beneath his coat.  He needed time to think, but he didn’t get very far from the shop before a familiar voice stopped him. “Rask? Rask, is that you? Oh, Rask! How wonderful to see you again!” ‘Rask’? Oh, yes - he’d used a false name his first few nights in Vulane. Skreet turned to see a familiar mink running up to him, a broad grin on her muzzle. The dancer. Yes he remembered the mink and her deep, brown eyes well. “Spinrave isn’t it? Well, fancy meeting you here.” Spinrave smiled as she took his arm, “Fancy indeed. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself. I was hoping we would meet again. Come with me.” “A ‘name for myself’?” “Yes, you and your little... and large... friends. Some very... interesting creatures wish to speak to you, but I think it best if you come out of the rain. If you trust me, that is.” Skreet looked at her, did he trust her? He barely knew her. But despite this thought he found himself going along with her, lost in the sweet perfume of her fur. 

mpes2m

Everyone Must Carry Their Own Luggage

'Everyone Must Carry Their Own Luggage' It's the third double brandy J B Foxley MBE, has tipped into the plant pot, the palm looks healthy enough but might feel a bit groggy in the morning. Foxley was awarded an MBE for 'services to export': in spite of a severe bout of yellow fever contracted in West Africa he had bravely continued to carry out export duties, and Foxley vowed in future to resist the welcoming ladies at the Ikeja Club in Lagos. He is watching the boy dancing with a whore. Mohamed is only eighteen, soft-baked, his first time out of Saudi. He has probably never seen a woman before:apart from his mother. Arabs keep their women hidden in those hijab things. . . black sacks with cages over their heads. Sheik Abdul bin Azis has sent his son over to complete his Western education and Foxley will oblige. Business is founded on trust: Arabs only take bribes from people they trust, and they trust old Foxley with his infectious laugh and a ready smile which doesn't quite light-up the shrewd eyes. Foxley finds comfortable women for his clients, cases of Glen Fiddich, and trips to shady night clubs. They call him Foxy Foxley, the fox you can trust. He reflects on his early days in the export business. It was easy when he first started - in Ghana you changed dollars for mountains of Cedis behind a curtain in Quimby's, the sweaty night club in Accra - he enjoyed the local ladies, lived like a lord on a tenner a day and slipped brown envelopes to local buyers. Foxley's superiors suspected this practice but chose to ignore it, but it was getting difficult. Such inducements became difficult to extract by padding expenses with fake vouchers - the devious brain of Foxley got to work, he appointed the recipients of bribes as agents for them to dish out the brown envelopes. But in the armaments trade envelopes weren't large enough to contain kick-backs in millions and Foxley developed labyrinthine untraceable offshore conduits to ensure safe payments. Soon a tide of dirty money washed-up on the shores of the Caribbean islands, to be laundered through dummy companies with no questions asked by governments grateful for hard currency. Abdul bin Azis, an old fashioned gentleman, always insists on notes; Abdul doesn't trust banks. Foxley fingers the fat envelope weighing down his trouser pocket. Foxley likes presents it makes it seem like Christmas. The scruffy hold-all at his feet contains a million dollars. Abdul told him to courier it to St Lucia and pay it into the account of Johnson: the builders merchants. It will substantially boost Johnson's turnover from the two bags of cements he normally sells in a day. The lady with a leg pressed against the boy's is aged about forty with the pallor of a night worker - and Arabs do adore white skin. Foxley has known Joan Hunter since she started at the club. She doesn't do short time and doesn't do exotic: sometimes a social worker, sometimes a lover, sometimes an agony aunt and sometimes a spy for Foxley. He studies them as they shuffle around cheek to cheek, she's crooning in the boy's ear as she used to do for him, somebody said dancing is doing in the vertical what is normally done in the horizontal. There have been so many ladies, but still he feels jealousy tug at this heart strings. He trawls through the library of ladies; like a stamp collector he records them by country; the Ghana lady,Veda was special, melting milk-chocolate skin, brilliant in bed, elegant, he couldn't wait to return to Accra, he bought her a watch. But she had gone. The young man is in love, and Joan is playing the female role of 'retreat and advance' before the final surrender - for money. It's getting late. Joan can escort young Mohamed back to his hotel: she knows every hotel in Mayfair and every ceiling of every hotel. He calls over the waitress, hands her his credit card and tells her to add Joan's charges to his bill. He doesn't want true love to be sullied by a sordid commercial transaction. He picked up the scruffy hold-all and retires to his bed above the offices of Foxley & Chambers in Mayfair. Next morning Foxley calls in his secretary, "Book me a flight to St Lucia first class." He has a weakness for secretaries; he inevitably ends up tumbling into bed with them. This one is an elegant black lady, she reminds him of the lady from Accra but she has been cleared by his wife because she is safe: her husband is an army captain. "You want someone to carry your bags?" the secretary asked with a smile. "There is an Arab proverb: 'Everyon must carry their own luggage'." "What about a lady?" she replies, as she shimmies out the office with a swish to her hips and a flirt to her voice. This is an invitation.. She returns. "There are two seats on the BA flight to Vieux Fort via Barbados." "Do you want to come? What about the army captain?" "We are separated." "Oh”, he reshuffles things in his mind." He hands her his credit card, "Book two tickets." "I've never travelled first class." The next day they meet at Heathrow Airport. She checks them in, and hands Foxley his boarding pass. At Barbados, they change planes and have to clear customs and immigration. When Foxley returns from the toilet, she is nowhere to be seen. He is the last to leave. As he enters 'Nothing to Declare', a sniffer dog takes an unreasonable interest in his bag. "On the table, please sir. "What?" "Your bag, sir. On the table. Open it." Foxley doesn't recognise the contents. "That's my secretary's bag." "I see. She wears size ten shoes, does she? And these?" he holds up a pair of boxer shorts. " I think these are about your size. Come with me, sir. We need to check this bag of white powder." It was later he received the letter – 'everyone must carry their own luggage. It is payback time, the million dollars has gone to help the professional ladies of Accra. It was signed, 'Veda'.

natf7c

Chasing Success: Jason Vaughn's Race Against Time in LA

It was a beautiful day in Los Angeles, California. The sun was shining brightly, and a soft breeze whispered through the palm trees. Birds chirped merrily as they fluttered from branch to branch, oblivious to the frantic activity below. People were everywhere, hurrying along the sidewalks, their faces set in determined grins and frowns as they dashed towards their destinations. Then there was Jason Vaughn. He awoke with a start, already late for his job interview. His heart raced as he threw off the baby blue king size sheets and leapt out of bed. Panic gripped him as he realized he had no idea what time it was. He fumbled for his Samsung Galaxy S21 cellphone, praying that it hadn't died in the night. Thankfully, it sprang to life, showing him that he had exactly twenty-five minutes to make it to the interview. He bounded out of bed and threw open the door, nearly colliding with a plush stuffed animal that had been perched on the edge of his bed for as long as he could remember. "Sorry, buddy!" he exclaimed, righting the toy and stepping over it as he raced towards the bathroom. The shower curtain was already drawn, and he could hear the water running. "Great," he muttered, "now I have to share a bathroom with someone else." He hurried into the bathroom and skidded to a stop as he saw someone else emerge from the shower stall, a towel wrapped around their waist. "Oh, hey," he said, trying to sound casual. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone else was going to be using this bathroom." The other person looked at him with equal parts annoyance and amusement. "Yeah, well, it's a small apartment," they replied, gesturing around the cramped space. "We all share." As they spoke, the person accidentally knocked a bottle of shampoo off the sink, sending it crashing to the tile floor. "Crap," they muttered, bending down to pick up the mess. Meanwhile, the man in the doorway couldn't help but glance at the clock again. Only eleven minutes left. He swallowed hard and tried not to panic. "Look, I really need to get going," he said, stepping forward. "I'm late for an important job interview." The other person looked up at him, a sympathetic smile tugging at their lips. "Oh, I'm late too," they said, gesturing towards their discarded clothes on the floor. "Maybe we can help each other out?" The man hesitated, torn between the need to get to his interview and a strange, growing sense of camaraderie with this stranger. "I guess...," he said finally. "But we really need to hurry." With a nod, the other person reached for their clothes, and the two of them began a frantic dance around the bathroom, trying to dress and fix their hair as quickly as possible. But despite their best efforts, the clock continued to tick, and the distance between them and their destinations only seemed to grow. "This is a disaster," the man muttered under his breath. "I'm never going to make it on time." His heart sank as he realized that the person he was trying to emulate was nowhere to be found. "Where did that stupid stuffed animal go?" he wondered aloud, searching the room for the source of his earlier misfortune. And then, as if in answer, the bathroom door swung open, revealing a small army of stuffed animals spilling out into the hallway. "Oh no," he groaned, feeling a wave of despair wash over him. "Not this too..." The other person, sensing his despair, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, maybe this is a sign," they said, their voice tinged with a hint of humor. "Maybe these stuffed animals are here to help us out, to guide us on our way. You know, like a little posse or something." The man looked up at them, a flicker of hope igniting within him. Together, they gathered up the stuffed animals, carefully placing them back into a large, worn-out backpack. As they did so, they couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie growing between them. "You know," the man said, "maybe we should keep in touch. I mean, if we're going to be sharing this bathroom and all..." The other person smiled warmly, and they exchanged contact information before parting ways. As the man stepped out into the bustling city, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number of the person he was supposed to meet for the interview. "Hello?" came the voice on the other end of the line. "Oh, hi," he replied, "I'm so sorry, but I overslept and completely forgot about our appointment. I was just wondering if there was any chance you might be able to reschedule it?" There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then the person chuckled. "You know," they said, "I was actually just about to call and say I couldn't make it either. Funny thing about that." A new sense of determination filled the man's chest as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. "Well," he said, "how about we just forget about the interview and see what else the universe has in store for us? Maybe we can start our own thing, you know?" There was another pause, and then a sigh. "Yeah," the person said, "you know what? I think I'm game for that." And with that, the man hung up the phone, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. He looked down at the stuffed animals in his backpack, and for the first time, he realized that they weren't just a source of frustration and annoyance. They were a symbol of the unexpected opportunities that life sometimes threw our way. He smiled, took a deep breath, and started walking, unaware of where the path might lead him. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was finally on the right track. The stuffed animals, of course, continued to follow him, their floppy limbs and wide eyes bobbing along behind him as they journeyed through the city. And as they walked, they whispered to each other, sharing stories and ideas, plotting out a course for their newfound adventure together. Because sometimes, it took a whole army of silly, colorful stuffed animals to remind us that we were stronger than we thought, braver than we knew, and capable of achieving anything we set our minds to. The warehouse loomed before them like an ancient temple, its weathered walls and rusty doors seeming to beckon them closer. The man hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever lay within. But as he reached out to push open the creaky door, he felt a sudden surge of determination coursing through his veins. It was as if the stuffed animals had infused him with their own courage and resilience, their own unwavering belief in the power of imagination and play. As he stepped inside, he was greeted by a sight that took his breath away. Row upon row of dusty shelves were stacked high with vintage toys and costumes, each one more fascinating than the last. There were old-fashioned board games, hand-sewn stuffed animals, wooden blocks painted with bright, primary colors, and even a few antique bicycles and tricycles. It was as if someone had taken a time machine back to the days of his own childhood and stored all of his fondest memories here. The man walked among the shelves, his fingers trailing along the worn fabric and scratched plastic, feeling a connection to these long-forgotten treasures that went beyond words. And as he explored further, he realized that there was something else here, too. Something that went beyond mere nostalgia and sentimentality. There was a business opportunity waiting to be seized, a chance to breathe new life into these relics and share their magic with a whole new generation of children. With a newfound sense of purpose, he set about organizing the warehouse, dusting off the toys and costumes and setting them out on the shelves. The stuffed animals, of course, were there to help him every step of the way, their cheerful chatter and infectious energy keeping him going even when he felt like giving up. And as the hours turned into days and the days into weeks, a small business began to take shape before his eyes. It was called The Toy Trove, and it was going to be something special. They set up a website and a social media presence, and word began to spread about the unique selection of vintage toys and costumes they had to offer. Parents came from miles around, eager to share the magic of their own childhoods with their kids, and before long, The Toy Trove became the go-to destination for anyone looking to add a touch of nostalgia and whimsy to their playtime. But the true heart of The Toy Trove, the thing that really set it apart, was the story behind it. The story of a man who had lost his way, only to find it again with the help of a ragtag bunch of stuffed animals. The story of a warehouse full of memories brought back to life, and the countless children whose imaginations were sparked by the magic within. And as the years went by, the man and the stuffed animals looked back on their journey with pride, knowing that they had created something truly special together.

rjqaxe

The Immutable Laws of Reflection

To be fair, the kidnapers were polite to me. They hustled me into the back of a bobtail truck with courtesy and deference. They drove me to an undisclosed spot, dropped me off, and sped away, never once yelling at me, or threatening me, or manhandling me. And there I stood, wherever it was. A small town that wouldn’t be out of place in rural America. A town square. People going about their business, being pleasant to me, a stranger. I had no idea where I was, or why I was taken, gently but forcibly, from the side of the road. I always loathed Tuesdays, but this was ridiculous.                                                   ______________ Phoenix watched two people approach him with a rising sense of dread. Being kidnaped made him wary, but the couple walking up to him scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know why, but the feeling persisted, grew. “Uh—” “Shut up and listen, bug. You’re here for a reason. The best thing you can do is keep your teeth together and listen to Alejandra.” Phoenix eyed the man who spoke. He was big, but not big in the usual way. He was big in a way that would scare Vikings. Muscles rippled from his arms — arms that resembled the trunks of oak trees. His legs and torso seemed to be cut from granite, and his jaw appeared to be as wide as one of those electric cars he hated. It was the expression on his face though, that caused Phoenix to quail. It was, for want of a better word, implacable. Nothing will dissuade this man. This is a face that would kill a sweet grandmother. “Well, uh, I was a little lost. On my way to Terlingua, Texas. A chili cook-off, you see, for the Fourth of July. Anyway, I lost all my bars and GPS capabilities, so—” “Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?” The big man seemed to get bigger. Phoenix stopped talking. “Bibi, let me handle the interpersonal stuff, ok? Why don’t you go and find some big animal to kill and eat. I saw a black bear a few minutes ago, that way,” the woman pointed south, “and he looked fat.” Bibiano “Bibi” Zamurrio suddenly lost interest in Phoenix. He trotted off to the south, happy to have something to kill. Phoenix felt sorry for the bear. “I am Alejandra Gallegos. You are here for a specific reason, one which will be revealed to you in due time. For now, I offer you a bath, food, and a comfortable bed. I suggest you take advantage of all these amenities.” Phoenix watched her walk off as two women escorted him to a house. He tried to resist them but found, incredibly, that the two old women were much stronger than him. Phoenix stopped fighting them when it became obvious that he couldn’t get away. The women drew a bath and set food out for him. He took a quick, unsettled bath and ate nothing, preferring strong drink to wholesome food. It was in this blue mood that Alejandra found him. “You’re gonna kill me, right?” Alejandra looked at him and smiled. Phoenix was taken aback. Such a smile! It radiated all that was pure and good in this world, containing a power that wasn’t to be overcome or denied. He reeled slightly. “In a manner of speaking. Not to worry, though. You’ll be alive when you leave here.” Phoenix found this so lacking in reason that he didn’t say anything. With nothing better to do, he sat and sulked, swilling whiskey and smoking cigarettes to pass the time. This went on for some minutes before Phoenix spoke again. “Why?” Alejandra sighed and shook her head slowly. “It isn’t for the likes of you or me to know why. We follow orders, secure in the knowledge that what we have been ordered to do is the right thing for humanity.” “You used a lot of words to explain nothing.” Alejandra got up to leave. “Yes, I know. Now go to sleep.” She kissed Phoenix on the forehead and he dropped to the floor, dead.                                                       ______________ Phoenix woke up to the sight of Bibiano polishing off the haunch of some large beast and Alejandra checking her cell phone. She sent a text and then turned her attention to Phoenix. “Hey! How come you have cell service and I don’t?” Phoenix was in whine mode, not an unusual occurrence. It was the reason his wife had become distant and his friends faded away. “Can I hit him just once, Ále? Please.” Bibiano glared at Phoenix. “You are here for a reason, Phoenix Sanders. First, though, you should know that your wife is to be involved.” Alejandra stood up and dusted off her skirt, indicating that Phoenix should follow her outside. “Where — where are my clothes?” Phoenix stayed under the blanket. Bibiano sighed and ripped the blanket off of Phoenix, and Phoenix, to his credit, tried to cover up his private parts. Alejandra paid no attention to this; she was busy reading another text. Phoenix ran off to the restroom, surprised to find his clothes there, all cleaned and pressed. Even his underwear had been ironed, which seemed odd to him. But it also gave him some hope. No one irons underwear for a person they’re about to kill . Bibiano had left by the time Phoenix exited the restroom, much to his relief. The man made Phoenix uncomfortable, but this is understandable. Bibiano made entire nations uncomfortable. “Come with me,” Alejandra stuck her cell phone in a pocket and walked out. Phoenix gazed at the dusty streets, the dirty children, the modest stores along the way. Everyone seemed content. The kids were playing, yet there was no screaming, no whining. Mothers bustled about, buying food for the day, chatting amicably with each other, laughing occasionally at some remark, and generally acting as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Phoenix didn’t see any men. None at all. They stopped about a half mile out of town, near a brook. Bibiano was there, reclining against a tree and moving his head to music emanating from his earbuds. He was chewing on another large piece of meat. Alejandra touched Bibiano’s shoulder and he stood up, immediately glaring at Phoenix. Phoenix averted his gaze. He felt better about his future, but only because of the pressed underwear. The feeling was dissipating under Bibiano’s gaze. Bibiano approached Phoenix, pulled out a handgun, and shot him. Twice. In the chest. Phoenix stumbled backward from the force of the impacts and suddenly sat down, heavily. He clutched his chest and moaned in pain. It took a few seconds for Phoenix to come to two realizations: he wasn’t bleeding and he wasn’t dead. “My work is done.” Bibiano strode off to the south. Probably looking for another animal to kill . And with that thought, Phoenix passed out.                                               ______________ Phoenix woke up in bed. Nude. With Alejandra waiting patiently by his bedside. “Wha —” He was finding it difficult to finish the word. Or any word, for that matter. His mouth was dry, his throat sticky, his mind a whirl. “Get out of bed. We have things to do,” Alejandra pulled the covers from the bed and helped Phoenix stand. This was difficult, for he was still in a haze, and what with trying to cover himself up and his rubbery legs failing to comply with his wishes, the simple act of getting to the restroom was proving to be a near-impossible task. The task was eventually accomplished. Phoenix threw several handfuls of cold water on his face, leaned against the sink, and stared at himself. He saw nothing except himself, and he didn’t want to think about himself. He wanted to know why he was shot in the chest — twice — and lived. Not only that, he didn’t even bleed. Two angry red spots on his chest were the only reminders of what had happened. They went back to the scene of the shooting, causing Phoenix a few misgivings. He wondered if Bibiano was going to shoot him again, or do something even worse to him. He wondered why he didn’t die. Most of all, he wondered if anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours was real. Nothing felt solid. He didn’t feel solid. A weightless, insubstantial feeling invaded him, giving him the sense that, if this were a dream, it was as near to dammit as reality. “First things first, Phoenix. You’re now immortal. Second, you have a task to perform. Third, I don’t need a lot of idiotic blathering from you. Just accept all of this and we’ll get along just fine.” Phoenix blinked at Alejandra. He cocked his head to one side and frowned slightly. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this. Alejandra seemed to believe what she had said, and Phoenix was almost tempted to believe her, but impossible things like this simply didn’t happen, in his experience. “Wait! What? I don’t think —” “No, you don’t. That’s why I had Bibi shoot you. He wanted to empty the magazine, but I wouldn’t let him.” “But —” “No! You’re immortal. If you need further proof, I’ll shoot you myself, and I won’t stop at two rounds.” Alejandra’s eyes gleamed with anger. Phoenix rubbed his chest thoughtfully. Although the pain was gone, the memory of it persisted. “Ok. Fine. I accept your premise that I’m immortal,” Phoenix lied. “Now, hold my arm and we will go.” Phoenix held her arm, expecting to take a stroll. He looked around, enjoying the scenery, despite his predicament. It has to be a dream . It was no dream, and they didn’t take a stroll.                                               ______________ Three seconds later, Phoenix opened his eyes. He felt like he had been turned inside out and repeatedly struck with several sledgehammers. “The first time is the hardest. It’ll be better when we return.” Phoenix looked at Alejandra and shuddered. He didn’t want to go through the experience again. “Look,” Alejandra pointed to a house. Phoenix’s house. “What the — why are we here?” Phoenix, truthfully, wanted to know how they had gotten there in three seconds, but questioning such things seemed to anger Alejandra and Bibiano. “Your wife is inside. With Bill Robowski.” “Bill? He’s one of my best friends. Why is —” “You have no friends. And they’re having an affair.” Phoenix shook his head. “No. No way. My wife loves me.” “She used to love you. Your task is to make her love you again so you can have a daughter.” “No. No no no no no! This isn’t happening. Sasha would never cheat on me, not ever. She’s true blue and loyal. Besides, Bill is kinda chubby. She has standards, you know.” “Let’s go upstairs.” Alejandra didn’t wait for Phoenix to agree with her. She whisked him up the stairs and into the bedroom. What Phoenix saw stunned him. “Hey! Get off my wife! You son-of-a —” “They can’t hear you or see you. But you had to know.” Phoenix watched, and then stopped watching, feeling sick and lost. It was one thing to find out your spouse was cheating, but quite another to actually see it. “Ok, time to go.” Alejandra took Phoenix by the hand. Three seconds later, they were back where they started. Phoenix looked around. Everything was exactly as they had left it, yet it all seemed so dull and lifeless now. “So, your task —” “I’ll kill that bastard! I’ll cause him so much pain he’ll think it’s my new career! I can’t believe —” “Yes, ok. She cheats on you. You cheat on her as well, so don’t be a hypocrite. Bigger issues are at stake.” Phoenix turned and looked sharply at Alejandra. “How do you know I cheat on her? No one knows that. Except for me and Talia.” Alejandra sighed the sigh of the truly put out. “You are a particularly dim person, aren’t you? Despite everything we’ve shown you, you still think it’s all about you. You you you. It isn’t. This,” Alejandra waved her hand around the landscape, “is all about your daughter.” “But I don’t have a daughter.” “You will. Hopefully, that is. If you can convince your wife to have a child with you.” Phoenix shook his head mournfully. “Not likely, judging from what we saw. Odds are looking long, wouldn’t you say,” the bitterness in Phoenix’s tone was palpable. “Bibi is taking care of the Robowski man as we speak. It’ll be something suitably gruesome because that’s Bibiano’s way. He doesn’t like humans much, so he tends to go overboard when punishing them.” “Uh, he’s not gonna kill him, is he? I hate the guy now, but I don’t think he should die.” “You just said you wanted to kill him.” “Yeah, but that’s just me blowing off steam.” “See? This is why we don’t trust most humans. You say something without meaning it, and the things you should say are left unsaid. How you survived as a species is beyond me.” Phoenix had to agree with Alejandra’s assessment of his kind. Fate, it seemed, had left mankind with many unsuitable qualities. “Anyway,” Alejandra continued, “the issue is your wife. You must have a daughter. She’ll be the one to have a daughter of her own, and that young lady will direct mankind. Temporarily.” “Uh, sure. None of this makes sense. How can you possibly know all this? Is God telling you what to do?” “No.” “Then, who?” Alejandra poked an anthill with a stick. Soon, hundreds of ants rushed from their underground abode and swarmed the immediate area. “We are all ants. Someone else is the stick.” “What?” Alejandra huffed and walked away. Phoenix was angering her, and it wouldn’t do to get angry. She might kill him, an immortal, and that would be a black mark on her record. “Ants,” Phoenix muttered to himself. “Who the hell cares about ants?”                                                ______________ Bill Robowski — parts of him, anyway — was found, spread across seven counties. The authorities had no leads, so the murder of the man went unsolved. Phoenix regretted that Bill had to die, but, as usual, he was powerless against Alejandra and Bibiano. In the fullness of time, Phoenix and Sasha had a daughter, Penelope. She was a precocious child, but Phoenix loved her dearly. He also loved his wife dearly, and this further puzzled him. They had grown apart, but after the kidnaping incident and the subsequent death of Bill, they had discovered a love that withstood the test of time. Phoenix suspected that Alejandra had something to do with it. Penelope grew into a wonderful woman, and she married a wonderful man. They lived together on the outskirts of Lodi, California, growing their own fruits and vegetables, selling what they didn’t eat, and living simply. Phoenix thought their lifestyle was terrific, despite going against everything he had believed in before he was abducted and shot. They had a daughter, just as Alejandra predicted. Desdemona. Des grew up to be a bit of a rebel, but the kind of rebel that warmed the hearts of her family. She married Helen Zuider and they lived in El Centro, California.                                                  ______________ Phoenix was surprised and not all that happy to see Alejandra again. He was happy that Bibiano wasn’t there; the man still scared the hell out of him. “So, you have a granddaughter. You are now released from your obligation to us.” Phoenix nodded, not understanding at all. “You are no longer immortal. You will never see us again.” “Uh, do you know what immortal means? I think —” “As usual, you don’t think. We kept you alive until you did what had to be done. Now we have our new rulers.” Phoenix blinked. It seemed like the thing to do. “Desdemona and Helen.” “Um. Ok.” “Their actions and words are interpreted by us, and then we know how to direct humanity.” “Yeah. Of course. Makes perfect sense to me.” Alejandra didn’t understand Phoenix’s sarcasm. “Good. Good-bye, Phoenix Sanders.” Phoenix jumped up and stopped Alejandra. “Wait! Listen, this doesn’t make sense. Some random couple decide what happens to the world?” “You just said it made sense.” “I was being sarcastic.” “You mean you lied.” “Yeah. Sure. I lied.” “I’ll tell you once more. We are the ants. Someone else is the stick. It doesn’t have to make sense.” Alejandra dissipated into thin air. Phoenix wasn’t surprised by this because nothing was all that surprising any longer.                                                       ______________ Phoenix, seventy-six years old, would die today, and he knew it. The doctors could do no more for him. He was weak, in pain, and ready to move on, wherever that was to be. Reflection had taught him a lot about life. The main thing it taught him was that life wasn’t supposed to make sense. Life was — life. This was the one, irrevocable law that made sense. A tautology that explained everything with a clarity that would have been unthinkable in his earlier years. He had been happy after the kidnaping. Incredibly happy and at peace. He wanted more of it, but accepted that it wasn’t to be. This also made him happy. He vowed to be happy in his new life. As long as I don’t meet Bibiano again . And with that last thought echoing in his mind, he died.

v5f4nw

Divergent.

Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz. 8:15am. The bright-green numbers stared harshly back at her, taunting her — the result of at least five snoozes, from when Marissa was supposed to originally awaken at 7. Her eyes widened in panic. She had overslept! Now less than an hour until the interview for the job of a lifetime. She ripped off the comforter and bolted out of her queen-sized bed, nearly tumbling to the ground on the way and barely noticing her Lab mix, Riley, sitting upright near the door, sporting sad, eager eyes. Suddenly, vague memories trickled in of occasional canine whimpers sprinkled throughout the last of Marissa’s deep sleep the half hour before. She knew what those whimpers and those anxious, sweet puppy eyes meant, but she couldn’t appease them just yet. Riley would have to wait just a little while longer. Nearly tripping over Riley, who’d began jumping around in excitement, thinking it was “time,” Marissa dove through her closet, tossing blouses and bottoms over her shoulders as she went. She was looking for one specific top: Her favorite blue, buttoned silk blouse. It was her go-to formal top to wear for such a serious occasion. She loved the way she looked in it, she felt most confident in it. She thought it most made her appear chic and sophisticated. But alas, it seemed nowhere in sight. Where did I last have it? she wondered to herself. Did she recently wear it and toss it in the hamper to be washed? No, she wouldn’t have worn it, knowing she had this interview coming up. Would she have? It had taken everything for her to get this interview. It was at least a month in the making and scheduled at a very specific day and time that accommodated the incredibly busy schedules of the panel of people who would be interviewing her. She charged over to the clothes hamper, now tossing those articles over either side of her as she plowed through. After about a minute, all that seemed left was one dingy white T-shirt resting at the bottom. She plucked it out to confirm that in fact was the last of it. Still no blue blouse. Marissa had submitted several applications for this position at different times over the past several years. The final nudge it took was one wonderful old colleague’s good word, just for her to get her foot in the door. If it hadn’t been for that, she didn’t know if this would’ve ever happened. If it would be happening. It finally was happening. Although the blue blouse was mysteriously missing in action, she saw what wasn’t: The muddy-green version of the same blouse. Not one she’s crazy about, but clearly crazy enough to still have it around. And also recognizing that at this point that choosiness was not her luxury. “Green blouse, in all its wrinkled glory, it is,” she breathed in defeat. No time to iron — at least she had on a decent shirt. One battle down. This job would be one doing something Marissa loved, with much more pay than ever before and much more opportunity than ever before. This interview could be career-changing. It could be life-changing. And here, she’d overslept. The white short hand of her black wall clock had fully cleared eight and was inching closer and closer to nine — the long hand now firmly on the six. 8:30am. She raced to the bathroom, forcefully turned on the faucet, and, while the water warmed up, she yanked down her underwear, and emptied her bladder into the happily waiting toilet. No sooner as she wiped herself and flushed, she began squirting the toothpaste on her toothbrush and turned it towards her mouth — her eyes looking down in guilt at Riley, who was waiting anxiously, but somehow rather patiently, nearby for her turn to be relieved. Riley was glad to see Marissa at least up but also probably wondering When are we going to go outside?!? “I’m sorry, Riley, just give mama a few more minutes,” she said and then watched the big glob of paste roll right off the brush and onto her second-place silk shirt. “Shit!” She yelled. She tried to swipe off the paste with her finger, but that only pressed some of it further into the fabric. She then awkwardly lowered her chest into the sink to furiously rinse the area and grabbed a hand towel from the linen closet to remove the rest and try to dry it. Marissa had only overslept because she had been up all night trying to prepare for this interview. Reading articles and watching interviews on how to have a successful job interview. Commonly asked interview questions. Memorizing and remembering to emphasize her strengths, while cleverly speaking to how she’s learned from and overcome a few of her greatest weaknesses. Rehearsing the answer to “Why do you want to work for us?” Studying the company’s mission, goals, their website and any recent related news stories. She had meant to do this preparation much sooner, but as usual, life. Yet still, she wanted to be over-prepared. And by the time she had finally turned in at 5:30am, she was. Until now. She squirted another dallop of paste — directly into her mouth this time, began swishing, and plunged the brush inside to move it around a bit before she spat the gook into the sink. She then simultaneously splashed water into her mouth and onto her face. No time for a shower, so she grabbed the same hand towel as before, put the dry end of it under the water, squeezed out the excess water, and rapidly wiped key areas of her body: pits, privates, etc. Almost good as new, except… Looking in the mirror, she was faced with the grisly reality that her hair clearly still hadn’t awakened from her recent deep sleep, and the dark circles under her eyes treacherously gave away her very recent late night. She hastily and haphazardly raked a comb through her hair, trying to tame it in some kind of decent shape, and squirted out and applied some concealer under her eyes and over the sprinkles of spots throughout her face, being careful sure not to repeat the same mistake she had made with the toothpaste. “This’ll have to do,” she said as she quickly glanced down at the clock on her phone. 8:42am. She hastened away, back into the bedroom to look for her brown slacks that nicely complemented the green shirt. After searching for them for two solid minutes, she gave up and grabbed the grey sweat pants still hanging on her desk chair from when she had tossed them before turning in the night before. “Oh well, I tried,” she said, as she hurriedly pulled them on. As she turned to run towards the door, her pinky toe went flying into one of the legs of her dresser. “FUCK!!” Kneeling over in a momentary but sharp pain, she grabbed her foot and hopped through the door. As the pain subsided, she again dashed down the hallway towards the stairs. She wasn’t halfway down before she remembered she didn’t have her laptop or cellphone. She raced back up and went for her cellphone first, figuring it would be easiest since she’d had it literally just a few minutes prior. She returned to the last place she had remembered having it: Her bedroom. Except, it was no longer on the corner of her bed, the last place she had specifically remembered leaving it. She looked all over the bed, pulling off the rest of the comforter onto the floor and then tearing off the sheets. She sifted through the mounds of clothes she had created earlier. Got on her knees to search under the bed and under the dressers. Nothing. Somehow, mysteriously, the cellphone was nowhere to be found. With the minutes ticking away, she knew she would have to give up looking for the phone and was now annoyed with herself for prioritizing looking for it first when the laptop was what she really needed most. “Laptop, laptop, laptop,” she recited out loud as she shifted her search. “OH! Laptop.” She suddenly remembered she had actually brought it downstairs the night before, right before going to bed, just so it would be ready for today. “Good thinking, Marissa,” she said. “Just wish you would’ve remembered that a few minutes sooner!” She took off towards and through her bedroom door again. Just a few feet down the hallway, she was suddenly jolted back. She looked down and saw that the door handle of the hallway closet had audaciously caught onto her pants pocket. She yanked herself off and found herself surprised at how badly she wanted to attack the door handle. She again sprinted downstairs, with Riley following closely behind, and glanced at the living room wall clock to see that it was now 8:55am. As badly as she knew Riley had to be let out, with not much time left, Marissa questioned whether she would be able to hold it until after the interview. She knew there was a possibility Riley might whine throughout. She grabbed the leash and collar, tossed it over Riley’s head, and stepped outside and on her front lawn. No time for a full walk, but she hoped Riley would at least buy them some time with at least one quick whizz. Except of course, once outside, Riley calmly and casually sniffed around as if they were going for a peaceful, scenic evening stroll. “Riley! Go, girl! Go potty!!” she shouted in this impatient but still sing-songy tone, to try and soften the directive and mask the fact that it was no one but Marissa’s fault that they were in such a rush and Riley couldn’t actually relieve herself in leisure, blissful peace. Probably recognizing the same, Riley briefly looked up at her and then returned to her nonchalant browse. After a few, painfully crawling minutes, when she found a spot she was content with, Riley finally lowered her pelvis and let out one long stream. Both relieved, Marissa hurried them both back into the house, barely snatching the leash and collar off of Riley along the way. She could hear the sound as she approached the front door. Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz . Her phone! Yay! It was sounding off from upstairs, although, she knew if it’s buzzing now, that meant it was… 9 O’CLOCK. After a quick debate of whether or not to be without her phone during the interview, where her electronic dependence won, she darted up the stairs and to the direction of the sound. She traced it to the corner of her bedroom, behind the door. In addition to her phone, laying peacefully in the corner were the brown slacks she had spent two minutes looking for earlier. Too late for that , she thought and momentarily reflected on essentially being willing to wear grey sweats to a job interview over not having her phone that she wouldn’t actually need during it. She grabbed the phone and sent a quick text message to the recruiter who had arranged the interview, stating she was on her way. Five minutes, she said. At least she could rationalize the phone being useful in that instance. She ran back down and over to her office space, where she spotted her laptop patiently awaiting her from where she had left it the night before. At least one thing I did right , she thought. But then, she lifted the screen to find it black, instead of the expected colorful screensaver that usually automatically displayed upon opening, since she always left it on. No power. She looked over at the socket where the laptop was usually plugged up. The full six prong holes were visible, revealing dreadfully that nothing occupied the two slot spaces. Why would I make sure I have the laptop down here last night and NOT the CORD?!? She cursed herself in frustration. Her eyes darted around the room, quickly scanning for it. Nothing. Nowhere. In her heart of hearts, she knew that cord could in fact be literally anywhere — underneath any number of the piles of things she had strewn in nearly every direction of her office and nearby living room. On the verge of lost hope and nearly collapsing in tears, she suddenly remembered the spare cord she had recently bought for this very kind of situation — just to have an extra one around, just in case . She traced her mind back to a few days ago when the Amazon package arrived — where did she put that package?? Ah! The kitchen. She raced over to the kitchen, and there on the counter was the white package with the blue letters and curved arrows. Amazon. That was it. She ripped it open, to reveal a tough plastic casing with the cord inside. So close. Yet far. Realizing she wouldn’t be able to open it with her bare hands and that it might not be wise to continue to try with her teeth, she quickened over to her drawer of knives, yanked one out, and stabbed through the container. The cord soon released. She dashed back over to her office with it in hand and jammed one end into the laptop and the other into the wall. She pressed Power. The black screen quickly took on a glow — perhaps the most beautiful electronic glow she had ever seen. But then, a blue screen with white letters appeared: “Working on updates. Don’t turn off your PC. This will take a while.” “You have got to be kidding me,” she exhaled in disbelief and deep frustration. She knew the update would take at least several minutes. She sat there, eagerly waiting — her eyes bouncing back and forth between the time on her phone and the blue screen in progress, like they were watching a tennis match. Sweat accumulating in tiny pools on her forehead. She found herself trying to will the progress percentages on the screen to go up more quickly. 6%.. 9%… 17%… 23%…… 37%………. 9:04am. 54%…………. 67%…………….. 85%………………… 9:05am. 93%…………………….. 94%, 95%, 96%, 97%……………………………………………………………. 97 lingered for several more minutes, to the point where she questioned whether the computer had frozen. Tears welled in her eyes, as she debated whether it would make more sense to wait a few minutes longer, to see if it continued on its own or if she should restart and risk the whole thing starting all over again. And finally! Exactly two minutes later….98%… 99%………………………. 100. The computer lingered and thought for a few moments and then finally, the login screen. Her fingers had never typed so fast. They keyed in her username and password with such a quick pace, it was almost as if she had only typed a few keys. “MJPAVKER. CAT469@“ Incorrect username or password , the screen read. Noticing the error, she slowed down to make sure she now had the keys right. “MJPARKER. CAT469!” Incorrect username or password. Huh? “MJPARKE—-" Oh. Caps. She signed deeply. “mjparker. Cat469!” The machine finally recognized her credentials and began logging her in. She tried to wait for all of the usual, default programs to turn on, but they were trickling in, and she saw the clock in the bottom-righthand corner of her laptop screen now read 9:08am. The Zoom application finally opened. As soon as the button became available, she clicked “Join call” and waited for it to load. As it did, she recited in her mind her apology for being late and tried to think of a good-enough reason. Overslept? No. Family emergency? Nah, too cliche, and might need to keep that in the pocket for a future situation. Internet-connection issues? Hmmm maybe. Finally, the Zoom call began, and she saw she was the only one on screen. The only one in the room. I did click the right meeting, right? she wondered. Did they already give up waiting and end the call early? Did the recruiter get my text? She glanced over at the list of event reminders on her Outlook — a list she typically ignored, in finding it more of a nagging nuisance than helpful. But soon, as she looked more closely, her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in horror. Listed towards the middle, it read: “Big job interview with Konnetix. Yesterday at 9am.”

mse889

A close call

A bird kept singing at my window. As I listened to its sweet sound, I slowly opened my eyes to realize that the sun was already out. Well, it had been out! It was nearly 8 o’clock. My alarm did not go off. I was certain I had set it the night before. I knew this, for sure. I had organized my tote, selected, and arranged my clothes, hung them in the closet, and polished my shoes. Setting the alarm was the last step before turning off the light. This was my routine. “Something must have gone wrong, then,” I thought for a moment. I glance to the left fo my nightstand to look at the radio I occasionally set as a backup alarm. It was blinking. Ah ha! There must have been a power outage last night. This explains it. Without wasting any time, I jump out of bed and rush to the bathroom, to get ready. This was the big day. The day for my second interview. I wanted this position and I had prepared for it.  This time, I was set to meet with the rest of the team. Their opinion of me and how I might fit in this new role were key in being offered the position. On my way to the bathroom, I grab my clothes hanging in the closet and place them neatly on the bed and head back to the bathroom. As soon as I turn on the light, I take a quick peak at the mirror. “Gosh, I look awful!” I say to myself. I looked like I had partied all night. My face was a mess! I could have used a few more hours of sleep. My reflection from the mirror showed dark circles under my eyes, sticky hair, but oh well... This was me, unprepared for the big day. Rather than dwelling too much on it, I grab my toothbrush, while trying to fix my hair with a bit of water. It was cold. Since the hot water was taking its sweet time to start running, I also decided to get the water running in the shower. Brushing my teeth while in the shower was common practice when I was running late. So, I planned to do just that. But not so fast. As I pull the curtains, I see a huge, hairy bug on the floor. It seemed to be taking a nap. I wasn’t 100 percent sure. Rather than stepping in the shower and trying to move it with some water, I think of another strategy: scare it away with something else, to make sure it is really gone. Instead of getting in, I gently pull back the curtain, turn around to get some toilet paper. This is when I noticed another bug right behind the toilet. In a haste, I run out to the kitchen, to get the big broom in the pantry. “That should scare and chase them away,” I thought. When I return in the bathroom, armed with my weapon, I first look around the toilet. There was no bug at sight. When I pull the shower curtain, the other one had also disappeared. Not knowing where they had gone, I decide that it was now safe to take a quick shower. By now, the toothpaste in my mouth had been mostly swallowed with saliva. My mouth felt minty, but I still needed to brush my teeth. I quickly rinse my mouth and take a cold shower. Little did I know what would come next. The steam was coming out of the shower. The water was burning hot! While I normally enjoyed taking hot showers, I gently pull the curtain to get in. I had to be super quick, two minutes maximum. As soon as I finish, I reach for my towel and notice that the hairy bug was there, on top of the rack where I had my bathrobe. I had to do something. Run out naked and quickly out of the shower or do something about this insect. I did not like bugs. I was scared of them but had to muster the courage to remove it. How though? Without thinking twice, I pour some cold water on it. To my biggest surprise, the bug does not move an inch at my first attempt. Then, all of a sudden, it flies straight towards me. Surprised and frightened by it, I run out of the bathroom, screaming and dripping on the wet floor. The irony of the situation was that there was no one to hear, nor rescue me. I lived alone. Since no one could see me either—my bathroom windows and the ones from my bedroom faced a wall—I rush to the kitchen to push the button on the coffeemaker. In a haste, I did not realize that there was already some from the day before, so I decide to simply reheat that, while drying myself and getting dressed. After getting dressed, I walk back in the bathroom. I slowly walk in, while inspecting every corner of the room, from the floor to the ceiling, the sink, the shower curtain, and around the toilet. The coast looked clear, again: the bugs seemed to be gone. At least they were out of sight, at least for the time being. When I finally manage to put on some makeup, twenty precious minutes had already passed. This is when the inevitable happened. My clumsy and shaking hands spill some coffee on the blouse I had just put on. I had just picked it up from the cleaners the day before! The contrast between the cream color blouse and the brown stain was too noticeable and I did not want to take any chances at looking sloppy at my second interview. I decide to change my top, but with what? In my closet, nothing seems to match the outfit I had planned to wear. I had forgotten that all my nice blouses were left at dry cleaners. “Oh well, I will settle for a different outfit then,” I said to myself. Looking through my closet, I could only find one blouse that looked “sort of” right for an interview. The only thing about it was that it made me look serious, too serious even, and intimidating. As they say, first impressions are everything. Not wanting to be judged the wrong way, I look for another outfit, while keeping a close eye on my watch. It was ticking too fast. Time was running and I had to be out of the house within the next ten minutes. At the door, with keys and tote in hand, mom calls. She remembered the interview and wanted to wish me good luck. I leave my apartment and start walking towards the elevator. My neighbor, the one who always stared me down, says “Hello.” I guess I was either too loud on the phone or he could notice that I looked different from other mornings. This is when it occurred to me that I had not locked my apartment door. So, I rush back. Two additional minutes are lost in this.   “I can do this,” I keep saying myself. I was ready and just needed to get to my appointment. I had however few options left, considering the time I had wasted at home. I could drive. That was within my reach, but I wanted to have a few minutes to review some important data on the company, the recruiting department, and its performance—just in case I get asked. The other option was to get on the subway. The only problem with that was that it required to change three stations down. Not knowing how the lines were running, and not wanting to overthink it at this point, I called an Uber. From the app, I could see that there was many driving in my neighborhood. This was a good sign. After a few clicks, I receive a beep confirming that my ride was on his way. “Great! It is happening. Now calm down, you can do this,” I remind myself. When the Uber driver pulls in, it was no other than Marsha, the wife of the bike repair guy, down the street. She was making rounds as an Uber driver. I had no idea it was her. The license plate and name that appeared on the app when my ride was confirmed did not mean a thing to me. I just wanted to get going. She had dropped off the kids at school and had a few hours allowing her to work. This was her way to make extra income for her family. When I get in, I can’t help smelling freshly baked bread and a hint of eggs and sausage. She was having breakfast in the car. As she drives off, she asked me: “It’s been one of those mornings. Do you mind if I finish my sandwich?” I could not prevent her from doing so, so I said: “Sure, go ahead. Don’t mind me. I am going to read this document.” I was being polite, while I feared the smell of her breakfast mixing with my cologne. “You look fancy today! Something special going on at work?” she asked, looking at me from the rearview mirror. I did not want to get into the interview thing, so I simply replied: “A big client is coming to see us, and I need to do a presentation.” “I see. That’s nice! I wonder what it is like to work in a big company.” I smiled back and pulled some papers from my tote, signaling that I did not want to talk any further. As we enter main streets, we both notice the traffic ahead of us. The cars started driving bumper to bumper. “What’s going on?” I said. “Dunno. Looks like there's police activity ahead so everyone is driving slowly.” “Not today, people. I need to get going. I have an appointment in half an hour.” “We should be able to make it. Don’t worry. Let me try to get on another route.” “Thank you, I appreciate that.” As we make a left at the light, another car suddenly swerved in front of us, causing Marsha to slam on the brakes. The sound of the horn blaring from the car behind us fills the air. Looking at it, my heart sunk. The sudden jolt from the abrupt stop sent my papers flying across the back seat. For a moment, chaos reigned inside the small confines of Marsha's car. The scent of eggs and sausage was now mixed with the sharp tang of adrenaline. Marsha apologized profusely as she tried to regain her composure, her hands shaking slightly on the wheel. "That was so close," she muttered, glancing at me through the rearview mirror with wide eyes. I nodded, trying to collect my scattered documents, my hands trembling as well as I realized the gravity of what could have happened. "It's okay," I reassured her, though my voice was anything but steady. "Just a close call." As we continued on our detour, the traffic seemed to conspire against us, turning what should have been a clear path into a labyrinth of detours and delays. Marsha's attempts to find a quicker route were met with roadblocks and more detours, each turn taking us further from my destination. The clock on the dashboard seemed to tick louder with each passing minute, mocking the urgency of my situation. "I'm really sorry about this," Marsha said, her voice tinged with guilt. "I thought this shortcut would help, but it looks like we're not the only ones trying to avoid the main road." Just when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse, the skies opened up, and a torrential downpour reduced visibility to a few feet. I did not check the weather. This was an addition to the situation I was facing. Marsha slowed to a crawl, the windshield wipers working overtime. "Of all the days for a storm," I muttered, checking the time on my phone. The minutes were slipping away, and with them, my chances of making it to the interview on time. In a twist of fate, as we turned onto a side street, we came across a small parade, a local tradition that I had completely forgotten about. The street was lined with people, and children ran back and forth, waving flags and cheering. Marsha let out a small laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders. "You've got to be kidding me," she said, the absurdity of the situation bringing a smile to her face. I couldn't help but join in her laughter, the stress of the morning making the unexpected roadblock seem almost comical. "Well, I guess this is one way to make sure I'll never forget this meeting," I said, trying to find some humor in the predicament. As we sat there, trapped by the parade, the rain, the earlier traffic, and the bugs, I realized that sometimes, despite our best efforts, life has its own plans. And perhaps, just perhaps, this was the universe's way of telling me to take a breath and watch the parade go by. A brass band passes right next to the car. I hear a horn blowing right in my ears. It was the sound of my alarm. I wake up to realize it was a dream. The interview was not happening today, it was scheduled for the end of the week.

w5xb8b

A Flower, a Deer, and a Hill

Her foot smashed the purple flower into the earth and she continued the swift march to her car. Sara’s movements were sluggish and slow, she fixed the mirrors and settled herself into the seat. She stared at the mirror, her eye bags were poignant and her face drooped down like mud. Her long black hair was messy. Despite her demeanor and look, her foot hit the gas. Sara could not tell how long she had been on the road. She could see that she was in a forest, but she had no idea where. Her GPS was turned off and she couldn’t recognize anything around her. Every blink she had was desperate in its desire to keep her eyes closed. Her eyelids shot up to attempt to go against this force. Her eyes continued to open and close, in time they would spend more time closed than open. In one of the short windows of time where her eyes were open, she saw a dark figure that stood in the road. Her feet bolted to the brakes and Sara shrieked in horror. Her eyes were shut now and the car came to a full stop. Her eyes were slow to open. They were met with the sight of a deer. It was light in color and stared up at Sara with squinted eyes. Sara exited the car and the deer opened its mouth. “Please, you must help me.” Sara’s eyes closed again for a moment. She opened them. “Did a deer just talk to me? Yeah, I must be sleep deprived…” The deer ignored her. “I need to get to the top of this hill, my family awaits my arrival. I just need someone to go with, please.” Sara sat on the ground beneath her. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t help you. I have somewhere to be. I have my own problems.” “Can you not spare some time with all the strength and youth you have? I need to get home, please. Before sunrise or else…” Sara sighed. “Look, things are tough enough already, I was on my way to an important doctor. I don’t need a whole detour with a talking deer. It’s a waste of time.” “A waste of time…” the deer muttered. “What if I had a way to help you? I know the greatest healers around.” Sara’s eyes peered up. “Can these magical healers cure illnesses…? Better than human doctors that can’t help me anyway?”  “Yes, I have seen them work miracles. Just help me and you’ll be cured of anything, I’m sure!” Sara sighed. “This is all so stupid. Fine, just stay close to me, I don;t want trouble..” The deer hummed in appreciation. They began to make their way up the hill. It was still dark out so Sara used her phone flashlight to see in front of them. The hill was filled with various logs and vegetation that they had to watch out for. She could see why the deer wanted a companion. Sara held in her other hand a stick that she used to prod at things with. “I hate this…” “You could be gentler with the Nature…” “Oh shut up, deer,”’ Sara retorted. “This’ll take forever at this rate.” “You know, we could be more positive about the situation. Maybe even enjoy the adventure. All I’m saying is-'' The deer was cut off by the sound of a branch that snapped. Sara turned around to see a large bear who roared at them. It was ferocious and its shadow peered over them, Sara had never felt so small, she was frozen in place. The deer butted its head at Sara’s hips and pushed her away. She began to run with the deer. “This is what I get huh…” Sara struggled to breathe. “Don’t stop moving!” Sara continued to sprint away but her regret weighed her down. Her legs pushed one after the other and they shook as she attempted to continue. The deer was far ahead of her too, how could it leave her behind? After she tried to help it… She was alone now and she couldn’t dare look behind her. Her legs pushed through the plants in front of her and her arms wailed around, still holding her phone and the branch she picked up earlier. Her mind ran through every possible choice she could make–her foot hit something. Sara tumbled onto the ground. She turned her body to see the bear, it was close now. If only she could use the stick she had, or perhaps if she had run faster. If only she had covered more distance. If only. Her hand threw the branch as a last pathetic effort but it didn’t even reach the foot of the animal. Her eyes shut in anticipation for what would come, She heard the bear’s violent sounds again and again until it faded away. She opened her eyes to see an entire group of animals surround the bear. There were rabbits and foxes and birds alike. Next to them stood the deer from earlier and it hopped around its friends. “See, we’ll be alright. Now keep going up the hill, I’ll come after you!” Sara started to chuckle. Everything felt so surreal, but they were all small animals. What could they even do? All the animals began moving around the bear as fast as they could. It was like a tornado of fur and feathers. Sara couldn’t believe her eyes, they were somehow so coordinated. She didn’t have time to appreciate their movements for much longer, her legs began moving again. Her body ached with pain but her legs shook less than before. She slowed down and started to take her time as she scaled the hill. Each step was steep and she could feel it through all of her body. She heard a familiar sound. The deer trotted to Sara from behind her. “I thought you left me…” Sara spoke under her breath. The deer tilted its head. “After you agreed to help me?” Sara sighed. She had only agreed for her own sake, she didn’t think she was as human as even the animal in front of her. “I suppose…” “Well we must continue now, this was quite a detour.” They continued their journey up the hill, they weren’t as quick as before. She wanted to spend more time talking to the strange deer she met. “What’s up this hill anyway?” “My whole community. They’ll love you, I’m sure.” “So optimistic…” They passed the time with more of their conversation, Sara began to smile. “You’re more silly than I thought at first,” she said. “Is that a good thing?” “I think so,” she replied. Sara spent so long looking and talking to the deer that she didn’t even notice they were almost at the top of the hill. Her head glanced up to see the last stretch they needed to walk through. Her legs were filled with energy once again and the deer galloped with her to the finish line. When her body reached the top and her eyes could see the top of the hill, Sara stopped in her tracks. Her eyes widened. There were tens more deer that walked in an area filled with plants and life that left her speechless. The colors felt so vibrant to Sara and her eyes felt rested. “I am back!” the deer exclaimed. A few of the other deer came to greet them. “We were worried,” said one of them. “There was no need, I had this helpful human with me.” “I didn’t do much…” The deer glanced up at Sara. “I almost forgot, you must meet the elder deer. He can help you with anything.” Sara followed the deer to a structure of rocks placed on top of each other in which the older deer sat atop. His antlers were the longest among all the deer. He saw them arrive and made his way down, his motions careful and languid. It took some time but he got to them. “Please help this human, elder. She has helped me today.” “I will try, of course…” Sara stood in an awkward position and she waited for the deer to do something. Perhaps there really was some hope and there was something magical that he could do. What would it be? The elder deer came closer to her and he pushed his antlers up to touch Sara’s heart. She felt light and colorful for a moment before the deer paused and stepped back. “Oh, my child… What ails you has no cure. I am truly, truly sorry.” Sara frowned. “I thought as much… Even for a magical deer.” Her muscles forced a smile that acted as a mask over her face. “It’s alright, I’m glad to have met you all and seen this place. I think I will… take my leave though.” The elder deer bowed and Sara looked towards the first deer. “Thank you for trying to help me, and I’m sorry for being all weird at first…” “I’m sorry even the elder couldn’t help. Maybe there’s someone else who can- I’m not sure or anything, but there must be some way. You deserve to be cured of whatever bothers you.” Sara’s smile was more full now, it reached the corners of her face. “There’s no need, you’ve done enough. Thank you, my friend.” Sara gave a slight bow and she went the opposite direction of the group. She gazed up at the sky, the sun was rising now and the world felt so large to her. The view of the forest and the sun over the hill she stood atop was breathtaking. It looked as if it was painted by a master. The colors all worked together to plaster her eyes with beauty. She let out a deep breath. In front of her, hidden behind vines, was an oddly shaped rock that had a singular purple flower sitting atop it. Most wouldn’t notice such a flower in such a remote place, but Sara’s eyes were enchanted by it. She stepped closer and her face shifted forward. Her movement was careful and gentle and she knelt down to smell the flower. Her nose took in the smell and took its time to release it back into the world. It was sweet. Sara placed the flower down and continued moving down the hill, forward, and beyond. 

w3jjo2

Rain on my Desteny by Erika Sams

Everything in Amy’s life had led up to this day, an interview for her dream job in publishing. She wasn’t fully qualified, but after a couple white lies on her resume and a slightly unethical amount of pestering, she finally had an actual chance. Destiny must have a fucked-up sense of humor though because she woke up to emergency alerts on her phone followed immediately by a flash of lightening through her bedroom and an angry clap of thunder. Wind whooshed loudly against the house as raindrops tapped the window in persistent unison. Amy groaned audibly and went to turn on her bedside lamp. It clicked, but nothing happened. Power was out. Amy fell back into her bed, she had a couple hours before her alarm went off, so hopefully it would be back on by then. She reported the outage on her phone and then tried to go back to sleep. The neighbor’s dog howled loudly enough she could hear, and the sky’s angry growl made it hard to fall back asleep. She wasn’t sure how long she laid there with the pillow over her ears before she finally drifted back off to sleep. Amy woke 3 hours later to sunlight shining through her window. Panic ran through her spine and with a gasped she jolted into a sitting position. Grabbing her phone, she realizes she needs to be leaving within the next few minutes. It’s still actively raining, though better than it was earlier. She attempts to turn her lamp on, and it still isn’t working. Throwing her covers off, she stumbles around the room getting herself ready as fast as she can. Without power, she had to brush her teeth with a bottle of water. Luckily, she had taken a shower the night before, but her hair looked like rats had been playing obstacles in it all night, and without power she couldn’t use her straightener. She used clips and bobby pins laying it as professionally as she could. Using her phone light to see she did a very quick neutral look and hoped it stood up to the sunlight. She planned on wearing a skirt with her black blazer, but opted for pants due to the weather, still pairing them with her high heeled boots to take on the rain fashionably. By the time she got to her car she was 15 minutes behind schedule; not great, but perhaps leaving her enough time to plead her case when she got there. A bright light shot across the sky and a loud crack followed close behind sending a jolt of anxiety through Amy’s already anxious body. She should stay home, there was no doubt of it. Still, she persisted cranking her car. It whined at her like a sign from the universe to stay put. “Come on, not today,” she demanded, and like a grumpy but obedient child, her car clanked then cranked, “Yes!” she wanted to cry with victory but would not ruin her makeup over a few thankful tears. As she pulled out of the driveway rain beat against her car so bad she could barely make out where the road was with her wipers on full swing. For any other job on any other day, she would stay home, but this was everything, her dream job, worth risking everything for, a literal once in a lifetime opportunity. As she neared the end of the road, through the wave of rain, she could see a tree collapsed in the road. Slowing down to esses, the large tree was blocking 75% of the road. She decides to risk it and turn passed the tree on the right side, her car sliding in the mud of the neighbor’s grass, only her two left wheels staying on the pavement. Branches scratch the side of her car with the most horrifying screech. As she tries to pull back onto the road, her back tire spins. Pressing her gas harder, the tire spins deeper into the ground. She stops, panic tingling through her limbs, panting for breath. Closing her eyes she slows her breaths and begins to inhale deeply. “You can do this,” she tells herself. Opening her eyes with new determination, she slowly presses her gas and gently eases herself forward hoping the left wheel can make up for where the right wheel is stuck. She moves forward, slowly increasing her pressure on the gas until all wheels are on the pavement. With a squeal of victory, Amy was back on her way. She made it to the highway with no further snags, though it was still hard to see, and she had to drive slower to be safe. Merging onto the highway, traffic was backed up, moving forward slowly with hazard lights for miles. Amy beats her head to the steering wheel before throwing herself back into the seat screaming in frustration. She is willing herself not to cry, but the tears are prickling against her eyes. Why of all days does it have to be today? Opening her phone Amy calls the publishing house to let them know she still is coming. The number rings and rings until finally a voicemail box answers and she says, “Hi, this is Amy Peirce, I have an interview with Mr. Holland today. I wanted to let you know that I am on my way, I’m just stuck in traffic with this storm. I’m coming and will be there as soon as I can. Thank you for your understanding.” Hanging up the phone she hoped they would understand. They barely gave her this chance and were likely interviewing her so that she would stop bugging them. This was a moment barely won, and nature was responding with a big middle finger. She was on the highway for what felt like an eternity and when she got off it wasn’t much better. Two miles away from her destination there was another tree across the road, only this time it was much larger and fully blocking the road with no way around it. The cars in front of her were making a 3-point turn, and her heart sunk knowing she was going to have to do the same. She was further behind now and had to take a different route which added about 10 minutes to her trip. Finally, she was in the city. Traffic was dense but moving. A small ray of hope with a touch of nervousness, her heartbeat quickened as she felt her destination approaching. But with gurgles and crackles from the car Amy’s attention was drawn to the gas light and she realized she was running out of gas. “Fuck!” she cursed and quickly moved to the side of the road. She was close enough to make a run for it. Grabbing her bag and her umbrella, she started running down the street. Three blocks down she made a turn and could see the publishing house up in the distance. A gust of wind came straight for her, yanking the umbrella out of her hand, “No!” she cried turning to see her umbrella flying faster than she could run. Thinking quickly, she took off for the publishing house, umbrella be damned. When she made it to the office there was an overhang where she stopped to catch her breath. She squatted to the ground gasping for air and trying to compose herself, relief finally spreading through her. She stood, straightened her blazer, wiping her hair back and walked up to the front door. Grabbing the handle and trying to open, the door didn’t budge. Locked. It couldn’t be, she thought. Not after everything she had done to get here. She jerked the door back and forth in desperation, but it didn’t give. Pressing her face against the glass to look inside, the whole place was dark. Stepping back and looking around, she realized every storefront was vacant of lights or clientele. The whole strip was out of power, and everything closed. She couldn’t hold herself together anymore, falling to the ground, her back pressed against the door, Amy wept. All the frustration, all the hope, the anxiety, and her dreams crumbling in her hands. The what ifs, the anger, she cursed the universe, and it clapped back at her with a boom of thunder. Amy sat defeated on the doorstep of the publishing house for some time with the pieces of broken dreams in her hands. She had only one move left; opening her briefcase, she grabbed her resume, and slid it into the door as best as she could. Perhaps they would have mercy on her for the efforts she made and give her another chance. She then succumbed to her fate and walked through the rain, allowing it to drench her sulking skin. When she made it back to her car there was a yellow slip under her wiper blades. Looking up, she finally noticed the parking meter which in her panic she didn’t think to pay. Grabbing the drenched paper which practically fell apart in her hand, she got into her car, fell apart, and the universe cried with along.

tn5vlz

The Eyes

Another glance at the clock, and I feel my forearm brush against something it shouldn’t as I reach for my glasses. I have thirty minutes to get across town, and I’ve just knocked over the vase of daisies on my kitchen island, spilling water onto yesterday’s untouched mail. “Not the time for this…” I mutter to myself, tossing a rag from beside the sink on top of the mess and moving on. I cannot be late; I have to get this job. For years, I have studied and built up connections, all in the hopes of one day having a chance at this job; the interview has finally come, and it needs to be perfect. I’m slipping on my shoes (patent leather with buckles to match the jacket that- of course- I’ll have to grab before I head out as well) when I am startled by a knock on the door. My surprise shifts quickly to frustration when remembering exactly how little time I have to spare, and my flinging the door open is less than graceful. The slight furrow in my brow falls away; my jaw drops open a bit even, when I see there is no one on my stoop. The leaves of a bush to the right side of me rustle abruptly, but still, no one is there. My eyes shift slowly to the ground, where a mismatched looking amulet is laid. The chain is long, dainty, and silver. The charm attached to it is large, a purple-green stone encased in gold; it looks as if the weight of it could snap the chain easily. A torn-out piece of notebook paper is laid on the ground underneath it with a message scrawled in large font: “Your gonne need this”.  … I’m not superstitious, but on a day like today I’m taking no risks. I wrap the chain around my fingers within the pocket of my jacket. With a speed in my step, I walk out from my apartment building towards downtown. The sun is shining, although clouds cover parts of its radiance, and block out portions of its warmth. An autumn breeze blows, consistent and cool. I click my phone screen on, and check the time: 12:43. I walk a little faster. My first turn comes far slower than I wish it would, and after a block and a half in that direction, I turn again into the alleyway as planned. The shade hits, completing an atmosphere so different from the one before, as I carry on the the narrow aisle. Past a trash can, a recycling bin, and then a strange looking man; I’m attacked. Another man runs out from behind a corner in the bricks, and says something in a language I don’t understand. The first man already has me held around my body and both arms, and through all my fighting against it, he lifts me up and throws me at the ground. I’m rushing at the ground. I brace for impact, but it never comes. … Just barely opening one eye, I can see that I’m no longer in the alley. My other eye flashes open. I must have really hit my head; I must have just been out cold, and not been able to feel any of the damage. I check my head for blood, sore spots, anything. I only had my eyes closed for a moment, I swear it. The room around me is all dark red, lit by single candles in each corner. A monstrous blue eye hangs above a large door, and I find myself to be the only item inside. I would much prefer if this was some sort of hallucination. I take a deep breath, and I can feel something in the air as I pull it into my lungs. I am filled with dread. In this very moment it occurs to me to check if the door is unlocked, and I clamber from my knees to do so. The eye watches me scurry toward it. I am beneath it. I twist the doorknob and the door opens, though I feel a modicum of strength leave me through my wrist-turn, and through the pushing open of the heavy door. Relief at the change floods me, though in a moment I take notice that this room is around a square foot smaller, the eye in front of me an inch or two bigger, and the candles just a slight bit farther melted. I run for the door. Unlocked, though I feel a fragment of my strength leave me with the opening. The Eye looks down on me. I move quickly. Room after room, smaller and smaller, eyes bigger and bigger. In one room I notice that the walls appear to be dripping with some sort of undesirable squelchy substance. In another, the candles are coated in it. In another, candles flood the walls; some soaked in red, others still white. All burn at different heights. The Eye glistens with a billion twinkling lights. The room just after this is different than all the rest, opening into an expanse larger than even the first room. The walls are covered in wallpaper with inter-crossing lilac and mint colored fleur de lis patterns all along it, and there is no Eye to be seen. A long table is set along one wall, silver-lined tablecloth draped perfectly over it. A plethora of tools are spaced out along the length of it: a beautiful, old looking dagger, a key, a rusty spade, a jeweler’s glass, a toothpick, a file, a mallet and a railroad spike. I run my fingers along the cloth, underlining the tools, questioning their purpose in this game. I doubt each step towards the door. Not being watched in this room does not feel comforting, as it maybe should. It feels unsettling. I feel insecure. By this time, I feel weak- drained of strength by door after door stealing life from my body. I give everything I have left to the opening of the door. I twist and pull at the doorknob. I even throw myself against the door itself; not a single budge. I turn back toward the table of tools and I see, above the far door, a clock. The time reads 12:50. “No shot.” I mutter to myself. I feel as if I've been here for hours at least, if not days. Room after room I've gone through; fifty, or a hundred, or five-hundred. I couldn't say. It's been seven minutes, and I still have an interview to get to. I hurry back to the table. My mind is pulled back to the state it was in just seven minutes ago now, though flustered and crazed from what felt like months in a never-ending hallway. My hand shoots into my jacket pocket, where the strange amulet still sits, wrapped around itself like a viper in the shade. I pull it out gently, entranced immediately in the gem’s hues. Without a second thought, I grab the jeweler’s glass and hold one side of it to the stone. My right eye moves slowly toward the glass. The other eye closes. An image appears and pieces itself together in my mind: an eye, rolled upward just slightly. The waterline is flooded with blood, and the crimson drips down from there. My eye pops open wide at the sight, and my head pulls back away in pain. The jeweler’s glass and the amulet both fall to the ground as I bring my hands to my eyes, blinking and groaning. My hands, now wet with blood, quiver before my face. I cannot see them, but I can feel the truth of what has happened. I can no longer see at all, but I remember the key on the table and recognize my stupidity. Waving my hands around the room, I try to find the table. My hand hits it abruptly, and I adjust my movements to be far softer. I begin to pat the tabletop, feeling unfamiliar shapes and attempting to pair them with images. At long last the key is found, and I make my way toward the door, waving my arms more slowly and gently now to find it. I fumble with finding the shape of the doorknob and with the proper orientation of the key, the position of the keyhole and with the motion of the door itself. On the other side of the door, I feel the warmth of real, full sunshine on my skin. My eyes still writhe within my skull, and with my mind now unoccupied, the pain comes back at full force. My joy is cut off as I fall to my knees. I do not know where I am. I do not know what has happened to me. I do not even know if I am alive. Sobs fill the air for I know by now, I absolutely must be late. 

ri9lej

Bumps in the Mornin'

The cool dew saturated the entire forest as the morning fog evaporated and crept away. Ginny Mack patrolled the north woods of the Tasanari’s villa right before the spring sunrise streamed over the horizon. Her trusty rifle rested on her left shoulder and her favorite Stetson secured light brown hair. It had been two nights and three days since the newlyweds departed. Seravina and Todd , her uncle, decided to enjoy time alone on the estate, with no interference from the outside world. Vuthbert had traveled, as security, with Mario and Emmy, her cousin, to their destination: a remote cabin in the Appalachian Mountains. The sharpshooter admired the etched gold ring on her right hand. Emmy gave it to her during the reception. She and Emmy reconciled after their argument before the wedding. Yankees, always think their right. Ginny rolled her eyes and adjusted her hat. She liked the east, but it was too chaotic. She longed for the peace of Wingo, her hometown and her new life there. The Tasanari’s were fine people, for city folk, but they had all overstayed their welcome. Vuthbert came to mind and she sighed. His subtle and silent cues to her were hilarious and mysterious. Bert was a challenge; she liked challenges. Tammy got so annoyed by the ogre. Before he departed, he had given Ginny a slender dagger carved from an animal bone. She felt for the hand-stitched alligator sheath and removed the knife. She admired the intricate details , balance, and craftsmanship of the weapon. She maneuvered it around in the air, like he had taught her, and then replaced it. Bert claimed the dagger was beautiful and deadly. She had asked him, ‘Is that what ya think of me?’ He raised his left eyebrow. Ginny blushed. A twig snapped and a curse grumbled from the darkness. Ginny whipped out her .45 caliber revolver from her right hip and flashed a tactical light into the blackness with her left hand. “Better put your hands up, or I’m gonna blow you away.” The shadow shielded its eyes and jumped back in surprise with hands up. “Ginny, it’s me Tammy, Tammy Jablonski.” “What are ya doin’ out here? You don’t relieve me for another hour.” She lowered the light but removed a watch from her side pocket. She clicked it open and it illuminated her face in a green glow. “Actually two hours.” “Sorry, didn’t mean to bump into you here. I thought you’d be on the other ridge. I’m a bit restless. Figured I would relieve you early.” Tammy put her hands down. “Just anxious about Mario and Emmy’s return. It’s been such a whirlwind; I don’t really know my role anymore. You know?” Ginny closed the watch and holstered her weapon. “Been there before.” The flashlight illuminated the path and they walked together. Tammy said, “I had my whole NYPD career mapped out. Two years as a desk jockey, two on patrol, a detective, and then captain. My life has been turned inside out and upside down with all this magic stuff and funky creatures. I just don’t know what to do.” “I understand,” Ginny replied, “I was in my beloved Oklahoma and bam! I’m in Brooklyn.” She smiled at Tammy. “You miss it don’t ya, New York?” “So much. The country is great but a tree is a tree, a bird is a bird. I really miss the city noises: the bustling people, the car horns blazing, the clickety clack of the subway, the rhythm of the living city, and the wonderful aromas of amazing food.” Ginny said, “You’ll be back there before you know it, but now with a higher purpose. You’ll be just fine.” “I just want it to go back the way it was, you know?” “Yeah, I get it.” Tammy perked up. “Did your uncle give you his watch while he was away?” “Nope.” She proudly pulled it out again. “This is my very own. It was my father’s watch. Todd has been showing me how to use it.” The watch flashed red and then orange before it returned to green. “Huh?” Ginny scratched her head. “Wonder why it did that?” “Did whats?” Tammy asked and reached toward the ground. “As soon as I opened it and turned it toward…” Tammy raised a large branch and struck Ginny on the base of her skull. She crumbled to the leaves with a hollow thud. ********** Ginny jumped awake and thought a snake was slithering around her waist. Her hands and ankles were tied up with a heavy duty rope. Her head throbbed, her hat had disappeared, and her mouth gagged. A cold chill ran down her spine. Her bare feet were freezing. Bare feet! Tammy tightened the rope around a birch tree and her waist. The police officer placed her mutinous boot covered right foot on the tree and pulled the restraint taut. Ginny glared at the traitor. She winced and then grunted at her captor. “I had no choice,” Tammy said, “I’m sorry, Ginny. You have been great, but Ms. Josie promised to clear my memories of all this, this crap, and make me human again.” Ginny stared at her stolen custom leather cowboy boots and growled. “They fit perfect and look good.” Tammy boasted. “I know why you love them, but you won’t be needing them, so.” Ginny’s puzzled face allowed Tammy to continue. “On the night Emmy was shot, the spider creatures must have spit on me. Probably, when we ran through the park” She tossed Ginny’s rifle and revolver into the woods. “I thought I had a rash from being in the woods. I am deadly allergic to poison ivy. The black mark grew worse and then I became a monster! I have lost half my teeths.” Ginny cringed at the grotesque smile. “The physical strength is awesome, but I just sucked a baby dear dry not two hundred feet from heres. It’s horrifyings!” Ginny groaned more questions. “While Josie was in the house, she recognized I had become this thing. She had pity on me and used her magics on me and healed me. She promised to heal me completely if I got her this.” She showed Ginny the pocket watch. “This is my ticket to my old lifes.” She kissed it. Ginny protested and struggled to get free. “Sorry again, Ginny, but a girl gotta do what a girl gotta do. My spider side wants to eats you, but my human side can’t kill you. So, I tied you up near the den of my coyotes. They can finish the job.” Ginny snarled her thanks. “Just one more things.” Tammy smirked. Ginny glanced up. “Night, nights.” A club smashed Ginny unconscious again. ********** Strange voices and growling surrounded Ginny in the darkness. It smelled like wet dog and pine, yet warm and comfortable: the coyote’s den. She opened her eyes to a complete black interior, so she shut them. The more she listened to the growls, the more she understood. She translated the animal noises and yips into the hissing of broken words and phrases. “Tam Tams want us not eats girls, tils Tam Tams howls.” The loudest coyote said, “Girls must be awake before wees eats her.” Another coyote snarled, “Tam Tams nots here. She not knows.” A third one said, “Pack hungry. Pack musts eats.” “Lets wakes girls up, then wees eats.” A fourth one said. “No! Tam Tams musts howls first. Tam Tam alpha.” The loud one growled. “Sounds like you alphas, Scruff.” A fifth one snapped. The other beasts howled in agreement. “Yous talk braves now, Skunk,” Scruff replied, “buts yous wets yous fur whens Tam Tam attacks us.” The other coyotes snickered at Skunk. “Remembers,” Scruff said, “Tam Tams promises us big magics if wees waits until girls awake. Thens we attacks at dusk with others. Wees waits for howls. Eats rabbits if hungries. Skunk! Outsides! Now!” Ginny heard a loud jaw snap and a high pitched whimper. The pack scampered outside probably to hunt or fight. The den was silent. Ginny considered her deadly predicament: Tarachtan Tammy had promised the coyotes Ginny’s magic, but human Tammy had given her a chance, a scorpion’s chance against her rifle, yet a chance. Her wrists and ankles were still tied. If she conjured a blue orb, the coyotes would see it and pounce on her. She remembered and searched for the bone knife. It was still there. The prisoner removed it from the sheath and placed it between her feet. The sharp blade sliced the bonds with ease. With her hands free, Ginny cut the leg restraints. She untied the bandanna gag, but remade it to cover over her nose and mouth. She slipped the knife in her left hand and slowly crawled toward the sound of fighting canines. As she inched closer to the snarling, bits of sunlight guided her to the elusive exit. Inch by inch, she silently reached the opening. The captive peeked over the edge and spotted the pack, just fifty feet away, in a fighting circle. She counted at least ten jackals. Scruff, the loud one, had been thrashing a coyote with black and white fur, Skunk. In the soft light, Ginny created and hid an electric orb in her right hand. She crawled out of the den undetected and stood. She readied to launch the orb into the woods as a distraction, but her gold ring absorbed the power. The orb vanished. A distant coyote howl grabbed everyone’s attention and halted the fight. The entire pack froze, closed their angry eyes, lifted their wicked heads, and responded with a chilling chorus. Ginny used the distraction and stepped behind the den unseen. As the coyotes’ song continued, she bolted west back to the mountain villa. Her long running strides through the leaves and branches would be detected in seconds. Her eyes spotted an old maple tree a hundred yards away. If she could reach it, before the pack began their pursuit, she could climb up high and hide. Ginny sprinted as loud howls and intense shrieks from the wild creatures deafened her ears. Scruff bellowed, “Gets her yous fools, sniffs her out. Finds the magics!” Fifty yards. Forty yards. Thirty yards. The young lady toppled in the air. Ginny’s weary legs tripped on a rotten log and she ingloriously crashed into a slimy pile of leaves. Instant pain pulsed from her left ankle. She restrained a scream of agony. Sticky leaves clung to her sweat drenched hair and clothes. The pack rushed to the abrupt sound with their reckless paws thundering toward her position. She could not escape. Ginny closed her eyes as the bloodthirsty wild dogs sprinted directly at her. Tears cascaded to the brown foliage as she remembered the good times with her uncle and Bert. The coyotes sprung into the air with ravenous teeth bared and bulging eyes. Two dozen canines rummaged around the leaves and sniffed the air around her. Ginny did not move a muscle. The pack whimpered, cried, and turned around in circles. “Wheres girls?” Scruff barked. He howled directly in Ginny’s face, but turned away and bit Skunk on the rear. The tortured coyote yelped and ran off. Scruff snarled at the rest of the jackals. “Shes here. Finds her! Or yous out of the…” A clear beautiful trumpet blast echoed in the valley. All the beasts lifted their heads up in surprised fear. A second blaring created havoc and whimpers among the terrified coyotes. The final boom of the horn forced Ginny to cover her ears and the pack fled deep into the forest away from the torturous sound waves. Vuthbert appeared moments later. He ran toward her in pursuit of the coyotes. Ginny yelled for her friend, but the ogre ignored her and lumbered past. He placed his left hand over his mouth and nose and trumpeted another blast from the black horns swirled around his ears. He vanished over the eastern ridge. Ginny struggled to her feet and screamed in tears. Several branches and twigs moved behind her. She spun around to see Emmy and Mario jogging toward her. They each held a sword and a blue electric orb. Ginny hollered and waved her arms, but they did not hear or see her. The couple’s orbs flew out of their hands and landed at Ginny’s feet. Ginny reached down and cautiously touched one sphere. Boom! The ball violently rattled and exploded into blue shock waves which blasted the three humans deeper into the woods. *********** A lone black and white coyote spotted three bodies laying still among the dark forest debris. Sniffing around each body, Skunk lifted his head to howl to the pack, but paused. A devious smile crossed his tarachtan face. “Skunk, find three magics; Skunk gets all praises and all the powers. Skunk be alphas. Tam Tams and Masters wants Emmys untouched. Two magics for mees.” Skunk salivated over the possibilities. His head swayed back and forth between Ginny and Mario’s unconscious bodies. As he stepped toward the man, four black tentacles emerged through his mangy fur along his spine. Saliva dripped from the hungry coyote’s lower jaw as he moved closer to Mario. His instinct was to rip out the man’s throat, but the tentacles instructed the coyote to feast another way. The creature drooled as he stood over the prey. A single drop escaped and crawled to the exposed human hand. The skin sizzled and blackened. A twig broke. Skunk turned around too late. An indigo electric ball slammed into the surprised canine and sent him flying thirty feet into the woods. The coyote cried out when it crashed. “Stay away from my husband, evil creature!” Emmy yelled from the forest floor. The creature jumped up with smoking fur and charged his attacker. “Time to dies, Emmys!” Skunk screamed and leapt at her. Emmy created a body shield in the nick of time. As the coyote landed on the magical barrier, she extended her legs and pushed the shield and the dog back in the air over her head. The tarachtan landed on its tentacles and rushed her again. Before it could reach her, a silver sword sliced through the air and beheaded the beast. The snarling coyote’s head and body materialized into a white salt pillar. The twisted remains fell and shattered on the dry leaves. Mario said, “No one messes with my wife.” “Why do they all know my flippin’ name?” Emmy said and turned to Mario. “You look heroic.” He shrugged and ran to his wife’s side. “Thanks. I didn’t know you could make a shield.” Emmy dusted off her pants. “Vina showed me. Hey, what’s wrong with your hand?” Mario lifted his left hand and two fingers were covered in dark spots. “Ouch! I don’t know. It burns.” “It is the mark of the tarachtan.” Bert’s deep baritone startled them both. “Princess Emmy place an orb around the sickness. Now!” Emmy obeyed and electricity surrounded the digits. “Prince Mario, you have been infected with the creature’s saliva which is incurable. The magic will only slow the progress. If I do not cut it out, you will become a horrible beast.” “I understand.” Mario winced. “Like surgery?” “No. I must sever your fingers now. If we linger, then the hand or forearm.” Emmy protested, “No! There has to be another way!” “There is no time.” Bert said. “Kill the fingers, save the man.” “Do it Vuthbert.” Mario said. “I don’t need fingers for dancing with my wife.” “As you wish.” The ogre unsheathed his blood-stained dagger. “Emmy, use your magic to push back the darkness. Once I cut, the sparks shall seal the wound.” Emmy grunted and increased her power against the infection. She removed the black from the ring finger. Mario smiled at her. But the hideous filth counterattacked and recaptured the finger and dominated the entire hand. Mario winced. Without warning, the magic surged and the plague retreated back to the pinky. “Do it now, Bert!” Ginny said, “I can’t hold it much longer!” The purple giant severed the ebony finger from Mario’s body. The young man cried out and fell to the ground in agony. Emmy embraced her man. In exhaustion, Ginny leaned against her ogre friend. “Did you get all the jackals?” The ogre raised his left eyebrow. He scooped up all three in his massive arms and sprinted back to the mountain house. “Thanks,” Ginny said, “It’s been one helluva mornin’.”

b2t7n1

Have Faith

I hate being late. My hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. There’s a tightening in my chest as I look the never ending traffic jam before me. This is before the times of GPS on our phones given us alternative routes to take. So, I’m just stuck. I used google maps get the directions the night before. Also, I drove up a couple days ago, but I not coming from home today. So, it’s not exactly the same thing. I looked at the directions to familiarize myself with which exit to take, and the names of streets to look out for. I left feeling prepared. I like to think of myself as a patient person. Traffic normally, isn’t a cause for alarm. I’ll turn my music up, and just wait out. But not today. Today, even I feel rushed. I have an interview for a job I really want. It’s for a Night Manager position in San Francisco. It’s a part-time job and a I get a studio apartment as part of my compensation. I did everything right. I drove to the location over the weekend, so I could get an idea of where to park. I laid my clothes out last, and put them in the car, so that I could change into them after my last class at San Francisco State University. The only thing I couldn’t predict was the traffic. I don’t anything about the traffic in San Francisco. “Maybe, I shouldn’t even go now.” I say aloud. “What are the chances of getting the job after showing up late to the interview?” My armpits start tingling, a sign that I’m starting to sweat. I know that stress sweat smells worse than normal sweat. I smell my left pit to make sure my deordarant is still working. So, far so good. I’m still fresh. I look at myself in the rear view mirror. I smile. My brown skin is flawless. My teeth are perfect. I take a deep breath. “No, the job is mine. I believe it’s mine. I want it. And if it’s mine, really mine then it’s still mine. It won’t matter that I’m a few minutes late.” I remind myself that I have help. Jessica, my mom’s friend found the position for me. She’s already talked to David about me. The interview is just a formality. I got this. I can do this job. I turn the music off, and reach for my phone. “Hello David, this is Nichole Campbell, and I’m looking forward to meeting with you.” I force myself to slow down, and breathe normally. “Just wanted you to know that I’m sitting in traffic. I am on my way.” “Ohhhh kay. How far away are you?” “I’m not sure. In normal traffic I’m almost there. I’d been there in about ten minutes.” i know that because of my drive up the other day. I feel so smart. I knew it was a good idea to make that extra trip. “But unfortunately traffic is dead locked. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “Okay.” I wince at how unimpressed he sounds. I can hear the doubt in his voice. He hangs up without saying goodbye or anything. “The job is mine. So, it’s still mine.” At a snail’s pace I maneuver through traffic. Forty minutes after my phone call I pull up to the apartment complex. I was planning to park on one of the surrounding alleys, so that I wouldn’t have to worry about meters. But I don’t want to take even more time hunting for a place to park. So, I pull up to a meter, and hope that I have enough change. I only have seventy-five cents. I say a silent prayer that it will be enough. I put in my change and it gives me eighteen minutes. I feel panic-stricken. I want the interview to go well. Eighteen minutes isn’t enough time. He know that I’m rushing, and after I made him wait all this time. I catch myself, and take a deep breath. “All is well. My car is fine. All is well.” I walk up to the front gate and push the button for the front desk. “Hi, I’m Nichole. David is expecting me.” The gate opens. I step into the courtyard, and wait paitently for the front door to open. It does and step inside. The desk clerk is a heavyset woman with cinnamon brown skin. Normally, I would be happy to see another woman of color, but this one has a fake smile plastered on her face. I do my best to ignore it. “How often do they check the meters. I only had enough for about 20 minutes? I’m Nichole by the way.” “You said that already. They come by here about once an hour. They just went by about ten minutes ago. So, you should be okay.” Relief washes over my body. It’s a sign. David is in his office. It’s on the 3rd floor directly across from the elevator.” “Thanks.” I look around the lobby. The elevator is stratight ahead, and the door for the stairs is in the far right corner. Normally, I like to take the stairs, but remembering my tingling pits I decide to take the elevator. I look straight ahead until the elevator doors open. I wait for the doors to close behind me before turning around. “If the job is mine, it’s still mine.” I repeat quietly to myself. I step off the elevator just as David’s door opens. I white man walks up to me and extends his hand. His face is stern, but his eyes give him away. I take his hand and shake it firmly. “David, it’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for meeting with me.” His hard expression melts away and he smiles warmly, and directs me into his office. All the tension disappears from my body as I step into this office. I know the job is mine.

r2cevs

On the Bridge

I felt my mobile ping in the pocket of my new pink winter coat which I had purchased specially for this trip to London. Leaving my long-suffering husband behind in Australia, I had made this trip to spend time with my brother, cousins and long-time friends from boarding school days. It was a way of celebrating 70 years of life on this planet with my English family. Also because of Covid I hadn’t seen any of them for about 4 years. Looking at the phone I saw it was a text from the man himself. A long text too. I opened it up, starting to read it while walking across the bridge to the Tate Modern Museum. Laughing on reading his description of his last rehearsal for the play he was doing, I suddenly found myself literally in the arms of a young woman. A young woman who was shaking with terror, clutching me like she had seen a ghost. Looking at her face, I realised that   I recognised her. “Charlotte”,I said incredulously. Charlotte’s wide eyes looked up at me in astonishment . “Mary”, she said, “What are you doing here?” “I am going to meet some friends at the Tate … “ but I couldn’t finish my sentence as Charlotte put her hand over my mouth, starting to drag me the opposite way from the museum. “Please keep walking, don’t look back”. On saying this she took my arm, pulled her hood up over her head ,rushing me on like there was no tomorrow. Trying to stop her, to make some sense of these bizarre actions, I pulled her into a bit of a shelter under the bridge. “Charlotte, what is going on? I have to meet my friends in twenty minutes. I need to have some explanation”. I watched her look around , moving her head in staccato type shakes. It seemed like she was looking for someone. Just as she started to speak, she pulled me in front of her so that she was hidden by me and the bridge pillar. “Lucky she is shorter than me”, I thought, following the direction in which she was looking. I saw a man, stockily built, wearing a baseball cap, just leaving the bridge. He was looking all around him, very determinedly. I could feel Charlotte rigidly pressed against my back. I retrieved my mobile from my coat pocket and pretended to be speaking to someone. As I made a furtive glance in his direction, I saw him take a cursory look at me, but then turn away and in what was obviously a fit of pique, throw his cap on the ground. He lit a cigarette, with somewhat trembling hands , pick up his hat and slowly move on. “In a voice absolutely quaking with fear, Charlotte whispered, “Where is he now?” Checking that he had disappeared into the crowd, I whishpered “ He’s gone now, I can’t see him any more”. I turned around, taking this fearful girl in my arms, holding her until she eventually calmed down. I had known Charlotte since she was about 13. She had gone to school with my daughter. Her mother was one of my closest friends. I knew she had been living and working in London, also travelling around Europe. All had been going well according to her mum so what on earth had gone wrong. I was determined to find out. In fact for her mother’s sake I must find out. First I texted my friends to tell them that I couldn’t meet them, that something very urgent had come up . Explanations later. Taking Charlotte by the hand, saying to her, “We need a coffee. There is a café over the other side of the street. Let’s go there, perhaps you can enlighten me as to what the trouble is.” Looking very scared, Charolotte nodded, but then whispered, “What if he comes back?”. “Well, we’re in luck”, I replied. My cousin manages this café, that’s why I suggested it. I can ask her to give us a coffee in her office, so we won’t be seen from the street”. Relaxing a little, Charlotte let herself be guided into the café. I quickly told Sal, what we needed. She was great, no questions asked. Immediately we found ourselves being propelled to her office, and in minutes , 2 steaming hot mugs of coffee were in front of us. I could see that Charlie, as she liked to be called, was still in quite a state, nervously wringing her hands, looking about her, not able to look me in the eye. When I thought back to the last time I had seen her, which was at her twenty first party, the difference was palpable. That was a year ago. There I had seen a confident, attractive young woman with her life in front of her. She had been Head girl at her school, gone through University with flying colours, but not wanting to join the work force straight away, she had decided to travel. My cousin briefly popped her head through the door checking that we were okay. I nodded. Smiling she left us. I took the bull by the horns, addressing the elephant in the room. “Charlie what is going on? I want to help. I have a lot of contacts here in London, including my brother with whom I am staying, so please I am here to listen, not to judge”. She took a big gulp of her from her mug. She put it slowly back on the table, a deep breath, before at last looking me in the eye, she started to unburden herself. “Thank you. I am not sure you or anyone can help me but I have to tell someone or I will go mad. I was contemplating throwing myself off the bridge, but I knew I couldn’t do that to my mother with my dad’s death so recent” . Tears came into her eyes and I took her hand. She continued, “ As you know after Uni I wanted to travel. Mum had friends here in London so here I came. I got a job in a pub, found a room to rent with two girls and a guy. All was fine and I was enjoying myself. The guy, Brian, was really nice, took me out to different pubs, night clubs. We even went away to Cambridge for a few nights. It was really idyllic.” She stood up, moving around the room, or perhaps pacing would be more accurate, while racounting the next bit of her narrative. “After our trip to Cambridge I began to notice a difference in Brian. When we went out he started to become very possessive. If another guy even looked at me, he would make us leave, telling me that it was my fault. I shouldn’t be such a flirt, shouldn’t dress the way I did, on and on like that.  I tried to reason with him but he wouldn’t listen”. Gently I asked, “Why did you stay with him Charlie?” She started pacing with even more intensity, “Believe me I didn’t want to. I started furtively looking for other places to rent. Eventually I found a room in Camden, not so convenient for my job but I had to get away. One of the other girls was a real help and between the two of us we managed to move my stuff while Brian was working. I breathed such a sigh of relief my first night there, slept properly the first time in ages. However, the next night I had just returned from my shift at the pub when there was a loud knocking on the door. I ran to open it so it didn’t waken the rest of my housemates. There he was looking like thunder. He was the maddest I had ever seen him. He pushed past me, then turning, dragged me into the kitchen where he grabbed me, shoving my arm right up behind my back, yelling abuse at me, continually twisting my arm”. She showed me the bruises on her right arm. Poor girl, they were awful. Tears started flowing down her face. I got up, took her in my arms, just holding her, until she gathered herself together. “Look Charlie, it is obvious that you need help. If you will allow me, I am going to speak to my cousin about all this. Her husband is a social worker, so I think he might be able to help. But for tonight I am going to take you back to my brother’s where I know you will be safe”. I sat her down in her chair, then went through to the café to sort things out with Sal. Of course she was immediately on the case, promising to talk to her husband Mark about it tonight. I returned to the back room to find Charlie sitting staring into space, hardly acknowledging that I had returned. I gathered up our things, helped her back on with her jacket, then after saying goodbye and a big thank you to Sal, we left to make our way to Waterloo station, a five minute walk. We walked in silence, each thinking our own thoughts. “She can sleep with me”, I thought, “I know John won’t mind”. He is a very kind man, and a super brother. Arriving at Waterloo I sussed out the next train to St. Margarets, my brother’s station. We had half an hour to wait. As we had had no lunch, I suggested to Charlie that we go into Pret a Manger to buy a sandwich. She said she wasn’t hungry but came with me anyway. I was at the counter ordering when there was a violent tugging at my sleeve, Charlie was almost beside herself. “I have just seen him, he’s here, what am I going to do? Oh my God, I don’t know what to do”. I finished paying, then taking her by the hand led her to a table at the back of the café. “Where did you see him? Did he see you?”. “On the concourse, wandering around. I don’t think he saw me but it is obvious he is looking for me. How did he get here, how did he know I would be here? He must have followed us from the café because I never come to this station.” The words came tumbling out of her at the rate of knots? My brain was doing cartwheels, trying to think what was best to do. Waterloo station was a very busy station, so hopefully we could camouflage ourselves among the crowd. Then a brainwave of an idea sprung into my head . The Ladies. “OK, let’s grab your sandwich, we need strength Charlie. Then we will check that the coast is clear and go to the Ladies. We can stay there until just before our train is due. With any luck Brian will have given up and gone away. She was too distraught to gainsay this suggestion so we put  the sandwiches into my bag, or I should say squashed them in. Then we left the café, Charlie looking all around before exiting. “Let’s go now”. Pulling her along we almost ran to the Ladies, luckily nearby, flew down the steps, put our pounds in the turnstyle and went through.  I told Charlie to go into a cubicle and I would wait outside, and would knock on the door three times when it was time to come out. Fortunately it wasn’t very busy. I have never known twenty minutes tick by at such a slow speed. Every time I checked my phone for the time it seemed to have only moved by a minute. Eventually with five minutes to catch our train it was time to perform the knock, keep our fingers crossed and bolt for the train. We exited the rather unsalubrious toilets, with me holding onto Charlie’s arm, asking her, “Any sign?”. She shook her head. I checked the board to find the platform, which was, as usual, number 16. Hurrying through the barrier I steered us into the last carriage, thinking that would be the safest or at least furthest away from the barrier. We settled into two seats opposite each other without saying anything. The train whistle blew simultaneously with a little scream and massive intake of breath from Charlie. “Oh my God, there he is, getting on the train” . I followed her gaze, seeing the guy with a baseball cap, dressed in black, that I had seen on the bridge, leaping into the third carriage. We were in the sixth. Her wide scared eyes looked at me pleadingly. “Ok, toilets again, I’m afraid. They are just through that door at the end of this carriage. You have time if you go now”. She didn’t need telling twice. Up, like a bullet out of a gun, she was gone. My heart was beating furiously. I knew now we couldn’t  get off at St. Margarets, as he was bound to follow us, then he would know where Charlie was staying. “Thank God”, I thought that my brother was home today. If we get off at Twickenham, the next station on, I could liaise with John for somewhere to pick us up, therefore, fingers crossed, losing Brian in the process. I texted John, alerting him to the current situation. He texted back with an alternative suggestion. “Get off at Clapham Junction. Always crowded, easier to lose someone, then catch the next train to St. M. Good luck KIT”.  I broke out in a smile at his use of our code, KIT, meaning, Keep in touch .“Crikey, it’s like detective fiction”, I mused replying with a thumbs up emoji. I pulled my crossword out of my bag, but couldn’t concentrate. I kept looking up every few minutes to see if Brian had entered our carriage. As the train was easing into Clapham Junction I hastened to the toilets, knocking on the door. A white faced Charlie appeared. “We are getting out here, I will explain in a minute”. Nervously looking around she nodded. Once again time seemed to stand still as the train took for ever to draw into the station and for the doors to open. I let her out first, then just as I was leaving the train, I turned back to check that there was no sign of Brian. I was just about to say, “All okay”, when I saw him. He was entering our carriage. He spotted us. Immediately he started speeding up so he could make the doors before they closed. As I was telling Charlie to run, I saw him leap off the train, starting to follow us. I had no idea which way we should go. My only motive was to lose him in the crowd. We squeezed on to a very packed escalator. “Go, Go,” I yelled to her. “Sorry, sorry, emergency”, I was saying to people as we pushed past them. He, too, was doing his best to catch up with us. However, luck was on our side. An old woman with an enormous amount of shopping stood blocking him. Desperately trying to get past her, she refused to give way muttering obscenities at him. It may have been my imagination, but I could swear she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. “God does indeed move in mysterious ways”, I thought. Desperately looking at the platforms to see where there was a train we could catch, also trying to keep a backwards eye on Brian, and a forwards eye on Charlie, I felt myself beginning to panic. “Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean” I muttered to myself. Words a friend had passed on to me, that helped keep him sane in his crazy workplace. We were still running, when I saw with great relief an electronic sign giving information about the Twickenham train. It was leaving in one minute. Dragging Charlie up the stairs,nearly pulling her arm out of her socket, poor girl, we just managed to catch the train with twenty seconds to spare. We sank down exhausted into the only two seats available on opposite sides of the carriage. Looking out of the window I saw Brian on the platform, despairingly looking up and down it, but amazingly not looking into the departing train. I put my fingers up in a V sign to Charlie. I could see her sink back into her seat in relief. Then I rang my brother asking him to pick us up at Twickenham. I didn’t want to risk getting out at St Margarets. No questions asked, he told me where he would pick us up. He would make sure he was there waiting for us. Never had the sign saying Twickenham been so beautiful. We alighted, still hurrying up the stairs, still looking behind us. No sign of him. Parked across the road was the welcome sight of John’s blue Mazda . Not bothering to wait for the pedestrian signals, we hurried across the road and into the life saving vehicle. John could see we were both spent, so didn’t bother with small talk, just looked at me questioningly. I nodded, “All ok”. We reached John’s upstairs flat in St. Margarets where he poured us both a brandy. The story was told over a couple more brandies, then Charlotte asked if she could lie down. Taking her through to the bedroom, she gave me the most enormous hug. “How am I ever going to thank you”. I smiled hugging her back, “Just buy me some Haigh’s chocolates when you are back home”. A small laugh emanated from her, “I think that will be as soon as I can get a plane ticket”.

tx1czj

Murphy's Law

Nayeli usually loved the bustle of Downtown LA in the morning. It was frantic, panicked; packed with pedestrians and cars, fighting for the privilege of moving first. The air was filled with the smell of coffee, eggs, hot dogs from the night before, and yes, piss and shit. She loved hearing the hodgepodge of languages as people passed: English, Spanish, Tagalog, Italian, Arabic. She adored her city and its moments of occasional chaos. But not today. Today, of all days, she had slept through her alarm, which she never did and was racing against time to make the interview that could change her life. Trying to get out of the apartment had proved nearly impossible, because of course, her dog Nacho had chosen that this particular morning was ideal for chewing Nayeli’s favorite pair of heels to a leather pulp, forcing her to find another pair that matched her outfit. And obviously, since she was in a hurry, Nacho chose to follow her around, getting under her feet and causing her to trip and spill hot coffee all over herself which made her have to choose an entirely different set of clothes, when she had spent weeks putting together the perfect outfit. And now, here she was, pounding the pavement of the streets of LA, powerwalking in a pencil skirt that was almost too tight and heels that were a bit too high. She cursed herself for not having more skirts, more shoes to choose from. In her head, she went over possible questions they could ask her. Why are you applying for this position? What makes you qualified? What can you contribute? She practiced her answers, replacing words with better words, more articulated, refined, exquisite. Exquisite? Exquisite. Because of her mental focus, because even though she was in a hurry and walking as fast as humanly possible, she was mentally a million miles away and didn’t notice the blockade until it was right in front of her. She halted, once again spilling coffee from her to-go mug onto her blouse, but she couldn’t even get mad because she didn’t have time. She looked at the blockade, this impossibly wide, large and long blockade that seemed to stretch for blocks. This blockade that hadn't been there a week ago, but of course, today was in front of her, forcing her to figure out a different route. She stared at the men working, drilling holes into the street, and cursed them. One man looked up and locked eyes with her and winked. Knowing she didn’t have time to stand there and yell like she wanted to, she turned around and backtracked. “If I walk back two blocks and make a right, I should get there,” she thought. “On time,” she prayed. “Please let me be on time.” She was borderline atheist, but not today. Today she hoped that a higher power was listening. Because it wasn’t just any job. It was the dream job. A boss job. A job where she could be the one to make the decisions, to call the shots, to be able to finally put all her years of experience and knowledge to practice. She had spent so damn long working for people who didn’t know what they were doing, who didn’t listen, who chose to focus on the wrong things. And while she knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew her field and she was tired of seeing unqualified people get ahead because they were someone’s friend or relative. She could make her own schedule, and yes goddamit, she could finally get paid what she deserved. And she actually had a chance because Patricia Rodriguez, the CEO, the big boss, the badass Chingona she was going to meet today, was known to hire women who hustled and collaborated and made smart, efficient, decisions; and Nayeli was that. She was all of that. Having not learned her lesson the first time, she was too lost in thought to notice that the clouds had darkened, that the air had suddenly chilled. It was Spring in all its bipolar glory. The sky thundered and Nayeli screamed in surprise. “Oh no, please God, no,” she said, and the old woman walking next to her laughed, “Spring in Los Angeles! Am I right?” Nayeli looked at the woman but said nothing. Merely gaped. She was frozen in anxiety. The old woman’s smile turned to a frown, and she hurried away, probably assuming that Nayeli was crazy or angry or an idiot. Maybe all three. Nayeli stood in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to decide her best course of action, when the rain began to pour. It was sudden, loud, and all consuming. It was not a light drizzle but a full-on storm. She darted under a nearby liquor store awning, fighting tears and the urge to scream. She could keep going, she could run until she got there, showing up soaking wet and tattered and tired and sweaty and cold. She could call and tell them that she was sick, but glancing at her phone, she knew that if she was going to do that, she should have done it at least an hour ago. She had five minutes, and she knew that the building was ten minutes away and that was only if she ran like she was an Olympic athlete. Which she wasn’t. It was too late to call and cancel. It was too late to call and explain. It was too late to even call an uber and with traffic the way it was, she was more likely to get there sooner if she ran. She cursed the sky and the God she didn’t really believe in; she cursed Nacho (ok not really. She could never curse Nacho); she cursed herself for sleeping through her alarm in the first place. She looked at the rain, at the people running by, trying to stay dry by using their tiny newspapers or briefcases or business jackets that weren’t made for rain. No one had an umbrella because even though they knew that Spring was wild and unpredictable, they were still Angelenos who believed in their constant sun. She fought back tears and committed to the only option that was left. She took off her heels and ran out from underneath the awning. She tried not to think about all the different diseases her thinly stockinged feet were coming into contact with. She jumped over potholes and cracks in the pavement. She ran through crosswalks even when the giant red hand told her to stop, and the speeding cars missed her by mere inches. She could feel her blouse sticking to her skin and ignored the catcalls from passing cars. She could see her destination a block away. Surprising even herself, she picked up speed, and at long long last stopped in front of the building that contained her destiny. She stood, looking up at the glorious tower of steel. She was here. Soaking wet, out of breath, but she was here. She looked at her phone. Twenty minutes late. Ok. Not great. Not a great start and yes, they would probably be taken aback by her appearance, but she could explain, couldn’t she? She could explain and they would see. They would understand. She walked in and ignored the open mouthed, security guard and walked into the elevator and pressed the 18 th floor. The top floor. The boss floor. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, to clear it, to be open and ready and calm and forthcoming. She ignored the puddle she left on the elevator floor as she stepped out. She kept her gaze focused on the front desk and smiled at the clearly shocked young man sitting behind it. “H-h-hi,” he stammered trying not to stare too hard and failing miserably, “how can I help you?” “I’m here to see Patricia Rodriguez. I’m Nayeli Cruz. I’m a little late unfortunately,” Nayeli responded in what she hoped was a confident, reasonable, no-I-am-not-an-insane-person tone. “Oh,” he said, “Patricia isn’t here. She’s out sick. We emailed all of her appointments this morning to reschedule.” 

m6fcbx

Dream Job

It was just the two of them. Ben, sitting on a barstool under a dim light fixture. Shalene Mond, the leggy brunette actress from that horror movie The Terror of Tomorrow to his right enjoying a nightcap. Dinner had been perfect. A few laughs. A few truths the tabloids didn’t even know. A few times their eyes met during sips or bites that caused beads of sweat to form on his neck. It felt like a dream. Across the bar, Ben could hear a guitar strumming but didn’t think the place had live music. He searched for the source of the music, finding no one. But the acoustic melody got louder. It surrounded him. A cacophony that felt all too familiar. He opened his eyes to see a small light emitting from his nightstand, knowing his phone was flashing its usual 6:03 a.m. at him. Without looking, he instinctively leaned over and tapped around. He pressed the button so that the light was off and the guitar was silenced for what he hoped were nine more fantastic minutes. When his eyes closed, he returned to the ambient bar he created. Knowing he had a finite amount of time, he looked at Shalene and tossed her a wry, confident smile as he leaned into her left ear. “You want to get out of here?” She smiled, tossed back the remnants of her gin and tonic, and reached out her hand. He grabbed it, led her out of the bar, and they began the walk to his car. The actress told Ben of her hometown, which was close to his. She talked of a time in Vancouver – where she filmed that one movie people thought got snubbed during awards season – when she laughed so hard at a joke from Jax Mason that berry-flavored sparkling water shot out of her nose. He imagined it was close to the laugh she was making telling the story while they walked hand-in-hand. They continued walking for what felt like both forever and less than a moment. Ben swore his car was closer than the miles they seemed to be wandering. Even though it was a dream, he couldn’t conjure his car any closer but savored their time together. When they reached his jet-black Porsche, the sunrise blasted onto the street, blinding them both. Shalene put her hand above her eyes as a visor. Ben took the light in its entirety, unable to shield himself. The white glow blazed through his surroundings enveloping everything in its wake. He opened his eyes again to see the same radiant sun shining through his blinds for real. It was a little odd to see, as it was still quite dark when he hit snooze on his alarm. Stretching his arms above his head, he contorted his stiff body out of the bed and grabbed his phone. 7:47 a.m. “Oh no,” Ben said aloud. “No. No. No…Dammit, no!” The stop button was only a millimeter away from the snooze, but that could create a mile-wide gap between him and the job he had always wanted. His interview with Channel 9 news was at 8:30 a.m. Screw the date night in his made-up fantasy land, his goal of being a cameraman for the news was a reality within reach. Being at the helm of filming history all started with not messing things up with a bad first impression, and he only had 43 minutes to make that happen. His Maps app said the station was 23 minutes away before traffic, so he did not have time to waste. Ben leaped from the bed and threw his phone onto the comforter in one motion. He moved with rapid intent to the shower, his head outstretched in front of the rest of his body like a sprinter pining for Olympic gold. The faucet nozzle was nearly ripped off the tiled wall, not waiting for the water to get hot. One pump of a shampoo/conditioner combo, rub, rinse, done. Two pumps of body wash straight into his hands – the washcloth not worth the precious seconds – led to an efficient, full-body pat down not even the best TSA agent could achieve. With the faucet back at rest, Ben swiped the day-old, dry-ish towel from the hook near the shower door. He counted Mississippis in his head as the water flecked off his body. He made his way back to the bed and grabbed his phone. 7:51 a.m . Four minutes — a militaristic record. Ben turned to the closet and grabbed his lone suit. It wasn’t even technically a suit. It was a suit jacket that he purchased on sale for his grandmother’s funeral. The accompanying black pants aligned closer to jeans than suit pants. He grabbed the white button-down shirt that hung next to the jacket and went nearly two at a time, joining the buttons from his neck to his waist. When he got to the bottom of the shirt, the left side flapped around longer than the right by roughly one button length. Ben sighed, clenching his jaw as he tore the buttons apart and started from scratch. He tucked the finished shirt into the mostly-black pants and tightened it together with a slightly darker belt. Throwing on the jacket to complete the ensemble, he stole a quick glance at himself in the mirror and found a gradient of black shades from head to toe. Not like he was applying to be in front of the camera, after all. Pulling his car keys off the kitchen counter and his phone from the bed, Ben found 7:56 a.m. staring back at him before he holstered his phone in his pocket. He ran down the three flights of stairs from his apartment to the building’s adjacent parking lot. Mashing the unlock button on the key fob for his worn-out Hyundai Elantra, he could see the taillights strobe back and forth as he approached the car. Ben rested his hand on the top of the sedan as he caught a singular breath and whipped the jacket off, opened the door, and dropped the already sweaty garment in the passenger seat. Turning the keys in the ignition after he typed the news station into his Maps app, Ben plugged his phone into the charger. The voice of the navigation rang through the Elantra’s speakers. He looked down to see the estimated time at 8:36 a.m. Rush hour traffic , he thought. Jerking the gearshift from park to reverse and back to drive, he was off to cut down some time. There were roughly two miles of slow suburban streets between Ben’s apartment and the northbound highway. He oscillated between going 11-15 miles per hour over the posted speed limit of 25. He knew the traffic pattern on autopilot: stop sign, right turn, stop sign, left turn, light, light, light, right turn, highway. Ben treated the first two stop signs like guidelines. He drifted around each turn once he tapped his brakes and snapped his head in both directions. He approached the first light as it turned green, so that was easy to speed through. The second light already had someone in a large white SUV waiting at a red light; it was the only lane going in that direction. The light turned green, but the SUV remained motionless. Ben leaned forward and said, “Come on, go,” into his windshield. Another second passed, so he honked the horn, rolled down his window, and shouted, “Hey! Move it!” His left hand conducted an orchestra out the window to get the driver’s attention. A silent pause was suspended in the air. After a manicured middle finger was thrust out the SUV’s window, they continued through the third light and he turned onto the highway. Ben pushed the limits of his small, well-traveled sedan as he accelerated from the on-ramp into the busy convoy of cars. The Elantra was never promoted as one of those cars that could go from 0-60 at a rapid pace but that was not stopping Ben today. He shoved the gas pedal parallel to the street. He shot gaps. He sped up. He braked. He pulled his car in and out of open areas. He navigated the lanes like a game of chess where the pieces were on fire. He kept up this pace for a few miles, reaching 76 miles per hour at one point when the cars ahead of him began to slow down to a crawl. He and the parade of vehicles flanking the Elantra were now trickling along the highway. Stretching his head out of the window, he saw emergency lights on the horizon. While he hoped everyone was ok, the prevailing thought was that he wished they had wrecked a few miles farther along. Just as he crept forward and merged from three lanes of traffic to two, he could see the city’s skyline come into view. “In two miles, turn right onto Orchid Avenue,” the navigation voice said, clearly having a sense of humor. Its dulcet tones were the opposite of whatever ASMR was trying to achieve. As Ben and his commuting colleagues tiptoed along, they passed the scene with the only person who might be having a worse morning than him. The traffic began to flow and Ben got back up to the speed limit just as he was reminded to get off onto the Orchid Avenue exit. He stopped at the red light on the cusp of downtown and checked on his time. The clock read 8:24 a.m. and he was exactly five minutes from the station. That left him enough time to park and race into the station without looking like he ran a marathon to get there. He got lucky with the lights and congestion of the side streets and felt like he was back on track. Passing a few of his favorite spots when he came into the city for a concert or baseball game, he no longer needed the navigation save for a surprise detour. A few turns later, Ben entered the parking garage next to Channel 9 and pulled up to take a ticket. He reached for the button but could not quite get to it from his seat. He put the car in park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and opened his door to lean further from the car to the kiosk. He finally reached the button and the machine told him it was processing. It continued to process like it was trying to find a pub trivia answer. Cars began to form a line behind him as the ticket kiosk finally spit out his currency to raise the gate and enter. Just as he got two steps forward in the timing, he immediately came one step back. Ben parked in the closest spot to the stairs as he grabbed his phone and jacket. Slamming the driver’s side door with whirling fury, he ran down the concrete steps in his unforgiving dress shoes. He reached the ground level and saw the Channel 9 building to his left. He breathed and pushed his hair around to give the appearance of composure while checking his phone as he walked. 8:31 a.m. Could have been worse, he thought. He pushed open the tall glass doors of the Channel 9 lobby and was greeted by a perky receptionist. She smiled a wide, bouncy grin. It gave the impression she was not the type of person who needed caffeine to start the day. “Hi there! Welcome to Channel 9 News, the place for facts,” she said from a tightly memorized script. “My name is Marcy, what can I do for you today?” “Uh, yeah, hi, Marcy. My name is Ben Jerris and I’m supposed to meet…” he trailed off, forgetting the name of the person with whom he’d been talking about the job. “I’m – I’m here for the cameraman job,” he said, straightening his shoulders to seem like he knew what he was talking about. “Of course!” Marcy bellowed with excitement. “Just let me check Grace’s calendar.” She typed and clicked around. Ben tried his best not to stare out of awkward anticipation. He scoped the room, eyes wandering around to foreign spaces he hoped would soon become familiar. “Huh, well that’s strange,” Marcy tilted her head like a confused Pomeranian reacting to an unexpected noise. “It says here that your interview is actually tomorrow, Mr. Jerris.” Ben was dumbfounded. It was inconceivable, there was no way. “That can’t be right,” he told her. “I’m sorry, I thought I was scheduled for Wednesday at 8:30 a.m.?” Marcy laughed so hard that she leaned back with one hand on her chest and another under her nose to prevent what Ben imagined was frequent snorting. “Well, there’s your problem! Today’s Tuesday , Mr. Jerris.” She caught her breath and sat upright with an exhale. The receptionist looked up at him, shaking her head with impressed curiosity. “Aren’t you Johnny-on-the-spot, though! We’d be lucky to have someone with your punctuality here at Channel 9.” Ben could not believe it. He doubled over and exhaled a deep breath as he placed his hands on his thighs. As he let out a stifled laugh of his own, he pulled his phone out and looked above the time for the first time all morning. His panic blinded him from seeing something right in front of his face all morning. “Thanks, Marcy. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow,” he said, as he waved a quick goodbye before walking out the door. He walked a few feet toward the garage and sat down on a nearby bench in disbelief. He opened his phone and set three new alarms for Wednesday morning. Ben stood up, still laughing both at and to himself when a tall brunette caught his eye along the sidewalk. The glare from the can of her berry-flavored sparkling water glistened off her sunglasses, which did their best to hide her from onlookers. She stopped walking when she saw him, pulling the wide shades off her face. She curiously smiled at Ben and said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

sixs6w

An Old Friend Named Bullseye

Dalmani’s squad was pushed so far back, he bumped into the archers who were supposed to be holding the line on the opposite side of the hill. They probably had been pushed up the hill as well. As the steel on his back met the leather of another, he spun around to see if the enemy had advanced behind him. He was met with a pleasant surprise, however, as he made eye contact with one of his oldest friends, Merellie. Merellie is a great archer, one of the army's best. The man is practically born to hold a bow in his hands, and is gifted with eyes that could rival a dragon’s. Dalmani roared with excitement. “Merielle, I didn’t know you were here! Help us out with these imbeciles. A good arrow between the eyes should provide some assistance to their retreat!” His friend scowled at the multiplying forces against them. “You know, I’m not supposed to be here.” Merrielle said, like he was a frustrated teacher explaining a simple equation. “I know!” Dalmani replied, “Still, I welcome the company.” He spun back around and thrusted his sword out, hitting an approaching soldier foolishly charging him. Usually the younger soldiers saw Dalmani as an opportunity, a chance to earn riches and glory beyond imagination. The experienced soldier saw him only as an opportunity for death. “Forward, men!” Dalmani ordered, “They are the fools, for they have given us the high ground! Break their spears, chip their swords, shatter their armor and steal the life from their eyes!” He raised his sword. “For the king and his glory!” The men roared so loud it startled the enemy, and Dalmani’s soldiers charged forward with a newfound determination, for they were reminded why they fight on this day. Merellie let a smirk sneak its way onto his lips, “It seems your years have not taken the ability to motivate, my friend.” “Of course not!” Dalamin said without looking back, maintaining his gaze on the enemy ahead. “Age is not yet strong enough to defeat me. Now cover my advance!” The enemy merely held only numbers to their advantage, their formations were weak and morale was boosted by only the amount of bodies moving forward. With a strong formation, which Dalmani’s men were exceptional at, this battle can be won before the day's end. But somewhere in that swarm of soldiers, was a man rumored to be the strongest in their kingdom. Dalmani wanted to test that very badly. It would also tank the morale of the enemy, but that motivation was much less desirable when compared to the previous one Dalmani held. The commander rushed for the biggest soldier on the foothills. He’d let his men handle the fodder, the battlefield was a stage, and it deserved to see a real show. Dalmani would always be glad to accept the role of lead performer. “Selfish brute, I’ve got my own side to worry about too.” But though he complained, Merellie watched for soldiers seeking a fight with Dalmani and took them out one by one as they left themselves vulnerable in their approach. Dalmani reached the hulking mass of armor that was supposedly a human, and their strongest one at that. He looked up at the “man” and snorted, “I heard you’re pretty good.” He smiled, “They say the same about me.” The mass of armor grunted as a ring of soldiers began forming on the foothill. The Mass carried a bright, silver axe. It was simple with a wooden shaft and only one axe blade. Though in his hands, it looked anything but simple. Dalmani took a couple steps back to give The Mass some room to think about what to do. He couldn’t even see his eyes through the slit in his helmet. He gave off the feel of an untamed beast, let loose of its chains only when he had an axe in his hands, and steel on his back. That was reflected in the way he attacked as well, as the beast rushed Dalmani with his axe low to the ground. When he got near, he swung the axe up as to cleave Dalmani’s body in two. Dalmani stepped to the side and let the axe narrowly pass his body, the wind rippling his hair. The Mass was fast for his size, however, as he spun the axe in his hands and brought it back down into the ground, causing it to erupt as chunks of dirt and grass went everywhere. Dalmani swiftly spun his body and leaped behind The Mass and angled his sword as if it was a needle and thrusted it into the open spot of his armor. The sword went right through the spot where the armor opened behind the knee and The Mass bellowed with a rage. Anger decided his next move as the beast swung his axe with all his body weight, carrying it in an arc behind him. Dalmani dropped to the ground and placed his chest against the ground. He did not stay there for long as the beast was obvious with his next move. He brought the axe down to where Dalmani was laying on the ground, but he was fast enough to roll out of the way and jump back up. “Making an aging man crouch and jump so quickly, you really are as cruel as they say.” Dalmani said, purposely antagonizing the beast even more. As planned, he bellowed and charged, axe raised to the sky. Sure, he was fast for his size, and that size was imposing, but Dalmani was not one to let something so superficial intimidate him. And strength is nothing without the means to wield it properly. The Mass brought his axe down to meet Dalmani’s skull. But his power brought him down as well when the axe hit the ground, using its weight to bring the wielder to his knee. Dalmani was close enough to use this as an opportunity. He grabbed The Mass by the neck and swung his body around to where he was now sitting on the shoulders of the beast. The beast roared as he stood back up, stumbling around trying to grab the man attached to him like a mosquito. Dalmani was thankfully quick with his decision as he took his sword and drove it in between the eye slit and through the back of his skull, the point of the sword meeting the steel of Dalmani’s own armor, ending The Mass. He fell to his knees once again, and this time did not get back up. Soft gasps left the mouths of stunned soldiers. Dalmani’s men roared with excitement and pride as their leader hopped off the shoulders of the now slain legend. Dalmani turned toward the hill and raised his sword in a fist and said nothing. His men cheered even louder, but he truly meant the gesture for Merellie. Beat that, old friend . He seemed to say. In their youth, they competed with each other all the time to see who had the greatest kill on the battlefield that day, but age eroded their desire for competition. Though Dalmani secretly enjoyed it, and hoped Merellie could draw the youth from the depths of his memory one more time. The enemy’s formations began to break. Merellie’s soldiers had successfully pushed back their side as well. They began to move backwards down both sides of the hill and onto the plains below, leaving an empty area of grass that was much more suitable for a battle than a hillside. This day had promised Dalmani and his men victory. Now all they had to do- A screech echoed throughout the sky. Dalmani roared with pain as he plugged his ears. Every soul on that field did the same as the screech reverberated inside their skull, like hitting an empty anvil with a hammer. Dalmani opened his eyes and looked to Merellie for confirmation. His friend nodded as they met their gaze across the hillside. They knew this sound. The pair had heard it only once before, and that was more than most soldiers, as they did not have the privilege to draw breath after. A dragon had taken to the skies. Dalmani looked up and saw it. It was dark red, like the color of blood. Its wings casted a shadow on the armies as it soared, seemingly blocking out the sun. It swooped down to the now empty plain and screeched again, causing many soldiers to fall to their knees. It had dark beady eyes that fixed on Dalmani as he stood in front of the dragon. In a swift decision, he grabbed the sword of his closest officer. He then pointed towards the enemy. “Go!” he ordered, “Finish the job and win us this day.” “But sir-” The officer did not finish his protest before the dragon roared and began to turn around, realizing the much more filling meal was behind him. Dalmani looked at the officer and he nodded with understanding. Dalmani would see to the dragon.  The officer commanded the men to form a line with their sword and spearmen in front and archers to the back as they tried to box in the enemy. Dalmani grabbed a spear from a fallen soldier and hefted it to the dragon while it was distracted by the movements of his men. Dragons were covered in scales so hard that normal swords could do little to no damage. It usually took catapults, cannons, or other dragons to take them out. Dalmani had none. There was one weak point, however, and that was a dragon's eyes. They had the best eyes in the kingdom, but even they were susceptible to a sword or spearhead. Dalmani tucked his second sword into his teeth and sheathed his own, and he lifted the spear and threw it at the dragon's eye. He missed. But, this was his plan. Getting the dragon's attention and pulling his gaze away from his men as they continued the battle was the top priority. This part of the plan worked, as the dragon roared and spun its head to face Dalmani. Dalmani took the sword from his mouth and the other one from its sheath and raised them above his head. He began to bang them together as he backed up the hillside to draw the dragon up there with him. Merellie watched this with an astonished understanding. Of course Dalmani would do something like this, but it didn’t take away from the spectacle of still trying to do it. Wait , Merellie thought, the bastards gonna have me help him kill it, isn’t he? “Merellie!” Dalmani shouted, “Get that bow of yours ready!” Damn him . “It’s always ready, you fool.” He knocked an arrow and aimed it at the massive beast. Dalmani continued to draw the dragon up the hill, keeping the rhythm of the clashing swords. It snorted and roared but Dalmani remained unfazed. He would not let a simple creature intimidate him. Once they were close enough, Merellie let loose an arrow from his bow, aiming for its left eye. The dragon swerved its head right at the last minute, deflecting the arrow off its scales. Dalmani took this as an opportunity and ran beneath the neck of the dragon and towards its legs and slashed at both of them. As soon as he was out from under the dragon's stomach he spun around and, of course, saw that there was no damage dealt. The creature ignored Dalmani’s futile attacks and turned toward Merellie, who was knocking another arrow. A pure steel arrow, strong enough to tear through any soldier’s armor, and hopefully capable of doing something against this beast. But as the dragon faced the archer, he lowered his head and opened his mouth, when a red glow like sunlight through a ruby began to illuminate in its throat. Merellie froze. Uh oh . Dalmani’s voice called from behind the dragon, “Dodge, fool!” Merellie dropped the arrow and slung the bow over his back as he dived and began to roll his body down the hill. The dragon's flame narrowly missed the man. As the archer recollected himself, Dalmani ran around to the front of the dragon. Though these beasts were mystical, they did have a little bit of knowledge about them. One main weakness of the dragon’s - aside from the vulnerability of their eyes - was that after breathing fire, it took one whole minute for the dragon to refresh and use its flames again. Dalmani figured he could use this to his advantage. Which means every second counts. He sheathed his sword and took another to his mouth, ran toward the snout, and hopped on, grappling the beast. 50 seconds. Merellie began to stand again and wasted no time in fishing for another arrow out of his supply strapped to his waist. There were only two arrows left. 45 seconds. No time to waste. He knocked one of the two arrows and fired, once again aiming for the eye, but the dragon was whipping its body around furiously in response to Dalmani’s unconventional attack, and it redirected the arrow with its tail. 38 seconds. The dragon opened its mouth in an attempt to take a bite out of Dalmani, but he swung his legs into its mouth and let go of its snout, dropping him behind the set of teeth the dragon loved to flash. Dalmani unsheathed the sword and took the other out of his mouth and jammed one into its lower jaw and another sword into the upper jaw, forcibly prying open the dragon's mouth to keep it from closing down on him. 29 seconds. Merellie knocked another arrow and let it loose. It went straight through the open jaw, directly past Dalmani’s forearm. “Only a couple seconds left, Merellie!” He yelled, “Aim for the eyes!” “I know that, brute!” He pointedly decided to leave out the fact that he had no arrows left. No point in potentially causing the man's will to falter. But there remained the problem of how to get Dalmani out of there. How could- There was an arrow on the ground. The one he dropped when he dodged the flames earlier. 20 seconds. Merellie ran as fast as he could. Dalmani roared with effort as he pried the dragon’s mouth open. Man, if only the king could see him now. 17 seconds. Merellie reached the scorched grass and found the arrow, a steel arrow, one of his best. 15 seconds. He knocked the arrow and aimed. He pulled back as far as he could, giving it the most amount of strength the human arm could accomplish. 12 seconds. “Hurry! It’s getting warm in here!” Dalmani shouted. He didn’t have much time. 9 seconds. Merellie breathed in, and then out, steadying his aim. He waited. 7 seconds. Dalmani roared again. 6 seconds. Merellie opened one eye as the side of the dragon's head moved towards him. It’s eye focused on his arrow. 3 seconds. The beast began to glow. “There you are, old friend.” Whispered Merellie. He let loose the arrow and it flew through the sky, hitting the dragon right through its eye. Into one, and out the other. The beast roared with pain and Dalmani seized the opportunity, removing both swords and stepping further into its mouth as he jammed both swords up through its skull and into the brain, killing it instantly. The dragon dropped dead right on the field. Dalmani rolled out from its mouth, soaked with saliva. Merellie approached the man. They both took a seat together on the hill. The battle was won, their soldiers celebrating the victory down below. The enemies were retreating into the horizon. “I haven't seen a shot like that made in years.” Dalmani said. Merellie maintained his gaze on the celebration. “Add it to my record.” He replied. Dalmani raised an eyebrow. “ Your record?” He exclaimed, “ I delivered the killing strike, you selfish archer!” “Which would not have been possible without my skill.” He answered. Dalmani let out a sigh. “We’ll call this one a draw, then.” “That,” Said Merellie, “is something I can agree to, my friend.” Dalmani grunted in response. But truthfully, he was happy. He watched his men celebrate another victory. And victory was always best when it was won by the side of Merellie.

wfpp4s

Two sides of the same coin

If you asked Riley Griffin what she would like to be doing on a Friday night, she would immediately answer that she would challenge her brother to a duel, because she adored pirates. He wouldn't agree, though, Simon Griffin never agrees, no matter how much he wants to. Their parents had caught them once, Riley standing on the desk and Simon on the ground with his sword pointing forward, their whole room was upside down; a broken lamp, scratches on the dark blue walls, books knocked off the shelves, sand with shells spilled on the carpet, they didn't even know how the sand got there. Their parents, instead of scolding them, sat down on the burgundy carpet and told them a made-up story about how pirates don't like to be copied, and if they find out that someone is imitating them, they will come in late at night and steal their most valuable things; they will also enchant them to smell like rotten fish for the rest of their lives. It was easy for Simon to believe the story, firstly because they lived very close to the sea and there were always ships in the distance, and secondly, because he liked a girl and feard of smelling like a rotten fish around her. Riley, on the other hand, just rolled her eyes and didn't believe a single word their parents said. Maybe she believed the part with the stealing valuable things, but the other things? She just waved her hand dismissively. If you asked what Riley Griffin would be doing on a Friday night, she would pout and tell you boringly that she would be sitting in her room, most likely laying on the carpet, looking through a sea magazine, while Simon talked about the blue-eyed girl who always scored better than him on tests. But instead, if you ask her what she would be doing now, on a Friday morning, she would tell you to shut up, because she was hiding behind the maroon curtains, that separated the living room from the kitchen, in their cozy little house, eavesdropping on her father's conversation with their neighbour. She didn't plan to eavesdrop, it just happened by accident. She had just gotten ready to go out, she was going for a bike ride with her friend Vicky, who lived right across the street. She had put on a helmet and knee and elbow pads, her backpack was full of trinkets she knew Vicky would like. Trinkets she had found on the seashore, probably lost by the pirates. She had a plan. She and Vicky would ride to the coast and look at all the trinkets that were hiding in the backpack. They would take their binoculars out and watch the ships in the horizon, trying to guess which of them all these things belonged to. It was going to be such a great day, but instead, she was standing frozen behind the curtains, because Vicky's father was standing in the kitchen discussing a trip that was going to happen very soon. Riley felt cold waves go through her, as if she had actually caught a glimpse of a pirate and not someone she had known for years. She couldn't understand what they were saying; what trip, to where, why? She'd known Vicky since she'd come to town, they were age two, now they were eight, and the things they'd shared over the years had made them the best of friends. Vicky loved the sky, she knew countless facts about birds that most people didn't even knew existed. Riley loved the sea, she wanted to be a pirate, but a good pirate, of course. And right now, she knew she wasn't supposed to hear any of this conversation, because her parents were going to make up a story, a fantasy story, to blind her eyes, to blind her mind, to soothe the pain, saying that Vicky is going on a mission and she will be back so soon, she won't even feel her absence. She knew this was supposed to be a secret between the adults. Vicky's family is going away for a little while,  Mr and Mrs Griffin were going to say, nothing will change.  But Riley knew what she heard, she wished she didn't believe her ears, but she heard the word leaving , which meant forever. She didn't understood what forever  meant, but one time, in a Peter Pan movie, she heard that forever  meant being forgotten. And that filled her eyes with tears. So she quietly went up the stairs to her room and opened the window. She took a deep breath. She had done it before, it was a meter and a half high, jumping on the roof tiles, then slowly and carefully making her way to the oak tree and down the branches. It was easy, but it was easy because Vicky was always waiting for her under the tree. Her eyes filled with tears even more. She closed them and clenched her teeth tightly to keep from crying. Now wasn't the time for that, she had an important mission to do. But when she opened them and looked at the tree, there was Vicky standing underneath. "Whatcha doing, Griffin?" she yelled and Riley's eyes widened. She smiled and without thinking, went on her little adventure with the roof and the tree branches. It took her a minute to reach the ground, which was pretty impressive for an eight year old girl. Being a pirate really is in your heart.  That was what Vicky had told her one night, while they were counting the stars. "What are you doing here?" Riley furrowed her brows. "Why are you crying?" Vicky mimicked her expression. Riley lifted her chin, "Don't answer my question with a question." she also crossed her arms. Vicky just rolled her eyes, "We're not arguing about this again." Arguing with Vicky, Riley was going to miss that too. Her eyes filled with tears even more. "Hey, what's happening?" Vicky stepped closer, she was visibly concerned about her friend, so she just put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a little smile. This was her way of calming people. "You're leaving." Riley sniffed. Her nose was red, her cheeks too, and her eyes were getting puffy. Vicky's eyes were becoming watery too, she felt like she was looking through a see-through curtain. She tilted her head and curled her lips into a smile, or at least tried to, and failed. A lump had formed in her throat preventing her from saying anything, so she just nodded slowly. Riley had the same lump in her throat, so instead of screaming like she wanted to and asking why, why, why,  she just squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her friend. What felt like thirty seconds was actually eight minutes. They stood there, refusing to let go of each other, knowing what letting go of that hug meant. But they eventually did, they couldn't stay like that forever. But during the hug, an idea crept into Riley's mind; she thought of attracting the pirates attention, then sneaking into their ship to find out where they draw magic from. Riley needed magic for Vicky to stay. She knew her parents too well, when they decide something they always held firmly to it. "You won't forget me, will you?" Riley's voice was trembling now. "How can I forget you, pirate? Remember what your gramps said? We are, like, the different sides of the same coin." she titled her head and gave her a little, but resuring, smile. As Riley wiped away her tears, still not completely understanding what was happening, what did leaving exactly meant, their fathers opened the front door and saw them there. Eight eyes looking at each other. Mr Griffin and Mr Armour were in slight shock to see them there, crying. They made the same expression of concern, it was visible that both of them felt very bad. Vicky's father came closer and put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. He looked at Riley and gave her a little sad smile, then looked at Vicky and did the same. She returned the sad smile and nodded, they silently spoke to each other that it was time to go now and they will come back later to get better goodbyes. "Keep a weather eye on the horizon, Griffin." Vicky said and turned to go with her dad. Riley turned to hers. Mr Griffin tried his hardest to keep his composure, but he was a very emotional man and Riley knew that he was also hurting about Mr Armour going away. She went closer to him and held his hand, as they sat down on the steps. "It's okay, Dad." she said, tapping him on the back. It was too early for this conversation, Mr Griffin had a plan on how it was going to go, he was going to explain it well, make it hurt less, he was going to be prepared, use better words. But now he just cleared his throat and gently took his daughter's small hand in his. He looked into her eyes and smiled slightly. Riley knew he wanted to say something, so, for the first time in her life, she didn't interrupt him, as she always liked to do. "We are on a borrowed time. People come and people go, there are infinite amount of endings. And you can be sad that someone is going, that someone is leaving your life, but you should also be grateful that they were a part of it, that they taught you something." he swallowed the lump in his throat and continued, "You're  a different kid now, you've learned kindness, you've tasted it, and you know what a beautiful thing is to have someone who truly cares about you, apart from your relatives, of course." he swallowed the lump again, "You have such a beautiful and special friendship, one of a kind. And this is not the end of this friendship, pumpkin, this kind of connection never goes away, no matter the distance. The distance makes it even stronger." he nodded firmly and Riley felt like he was talking to the both of them, so she nodded too and wiped away her tears, hugging him as tightly as she can. She shouldn't have heard this conversation between him and Vicky's father. She should have continued on her way, passing through the living room, greeting them politely, and going out to ride bikes with Vicky. It was as simple as that. It was going to be such a great day. The best day ever. If she only didn't hear what they said. She still didn't completely understood what leavening meant and for how long it was supposed to be. But she believed that her friendship with Vicky was one of a kind and that no matter what comes their way, even the distance, it was going to make them stronger than ever and bring them closer together. So, leaving, really, wasn't that scary, it was terrifying, like a pirate, but she wasn't afraid of pirates, and she knew she wasn't going to be afraid of the distance either. But Riley had yet to learn what it was like to miss someone. 

jre1oq

Against All Odds

Mo hurriedly put on his wrinkled button-up dress shirt which he buttoned wrongly, and threw on a linty suit. He rubbed some spit in his hair. No time for gel. No time for ironing the shirt and sweeping off the lints off the suit either. He grabbed his backpack, and dashed out the door, with a piece of bread in his mouth and a half-filled coffee cup in his hand. He checked his phone as he scarfed down his bread and downed the coffee. Thirty minutes until his job interview at 10:00. The problem is that the ride from home to the office takes at least 40 minutes. Another problem was that his same-age car was barely mobile after a crash that happened a few weeks ago. The 1998 Mitsubishi sedan now parked near a junkyard. Mo thought he would never make it to the interview on time. He sat down, head in his hands, defeated. The company was his only shot to get out of his parent’s basement, and now he would go back to being “the juvenile that had no life”. Unless… It had been nearly 13 years since he had last traveled the path, but it had been forever fixed in his mind. He didn’t want to take it, but the trail was his last resort, and if he didn’t use it, he would never land that interview. He took off faster than a sprinter on the track team. His car was a few yards away. It looked so banged up, resembling a metal wad of mashed potatoes. He leaped into the car and started the engine. Puffs of black smoke escaped from the exhaust pipe and, after a series of struggling roars from the motor, the poor old machine finally revved up. The car moved as if it was suspended in Jell-O, but miraculously managed to run. However, Mo knew that it wouldn’t last very long, and would barely manage this journey, but he had to try. He had discovered the path when he was a teenager; an overgrown road that somehow led downtown. It started just around the corner, and was covered by a gate. Mo took a deep breath, and, willing to give it a bet, stomped on the gas pedal. This dying old car, maybe having an unexpected return of consciousness, decided to do its owner a final good deed. It blasted away like a deranged bull charged up running. The only problem was that Mo could barely control the steering wheel as the car thundered down the alleyway with a mind of its own, careening wildly into dumpsters and flattening construction cones. By the time Mo regained control of the steering wheel, the car had overturned nearly ten trash bins, sending garbage and waste in the air like fireworks. Mo hung his head in his hands. My neighbors are going to commit a hate crime on me , he thought. The trail of destruction in the car’s wake was quite spectacular, as if a rabid lion had run through the street. But by some miracle, Mo had managed to arrive at the gate. It was covered in vines and tendrils, along with other shrubbery. Its once green paint had now faded to the color of rust and dirt, and the chain was falling apart. It was wide, as if to hold a garbage truck, and seemed as if it wouldn’t even open. The time was 9:37, and Mo knew that if he didn’t make it there on time, his life would be screwed. He took a deep breath, and stepped on the gas pedal one more time. The car sputtered and moved barely an inch. Then, out of the blue, it shot forward, breaking the gate and rocketing into a foresty trail. For one moment, Mo was in between houses; for the next, he had entered a woodland. Trees were dense, and the walls were so overgrown it looked as if he was in a hallway made out of twisting vines. The ground was also covered in dirt, mud and scattered swamps. He had no time to think though. His interview is coming up in less than 20 minutes, and he had to get through this path as fast as he could. His car raced down the alleyway, bouncing on rocks, tripping on roots, turning sharp corners. Mo could barely control the car; it was too old, and Mo knew that one wrong move would make it crumble. Suddenly, he saw something moving in the middle of the bushy path. What is it? Mo wondered. The creature slowly revealed itself; the shape of it was so exotic yet so familiar that you can only see from the National Geographic magazine. Mo froze in disbelief. It was a lion. How on earth would a lion appear in this city, a human habitat, a concrete jungle? The lion looked a bit malnutritioned but nonetheless fierce. It looked hungry. Under its messy mane was a face straight out of a horror movie - its black, cold beady eyes sent Mo the signal that there was no mistake - he had been locked as the prey. The lion let out a roar and shone its sharp canines that looked like meat cleavers. Little did people in the town, including Mo, know that this wild animal had been, secretly and illegally, kept as a pet by a drug-dealer before he was jailed a few years ago. The lion must have wandered away and somehow managed to stay alive by hunting small animals in this woodland without arousing attention from its neighbors. Mo stomped on the brakes, and, amazingly, the car halted instantly. Mo’s fight-or-flight survival mechanism was full on. Lion or not, I have to get that job interview! He decided to fight and revved up the engine and prepared to crash right through the lion. The lion charged at Mo at the same time. It smashed head on into the car, trying to bite at Mo. The car window acted as a temporary protector for Mo which irritated the lion even more. It backed up, growled so loudly Mo’s ears popped, and looked directly at him. Then Mo had an idea. He took a deep breath and gunned the gas pedal, charing at his predator. He then jumped out of the car just before it hit the wild beast. His body sailed through the air and landed hard on his side, knocking the breath out of him. Luckily, he was alive. But the lion wasn’t so lucky. He hit that car head on with a sickening crunch, and stopped suddenly, before falling over as if it were a domino. Mo’s head throbbed as if it had been smacked with an iron club, but with some difficulty, got inside the car and started the engine. Amazingly, the car could still operate as usual, even though it had sustained a crash with an angry lion and the doors were flinging open. Mo glanced at his dashboard clock. 9:42. If the next few paths were just as Mo remembered them, then he should arrive at the office building with maybe two minutes to spare. The universe seems to have helped him on this journey, keeping the minutes long and lasting. After about don’t-know-how-many turns, a couple of rabid wolf-like dogs, and a lone python, he finally reached what he remembered as the final stretch in the pathway. The time was 9:47. Five minutes felt like a century to Mo. Oh, I forgot to mention one small detail which is that Mo lived in Florida. In this southern state of the U.S., it is common to find alligators in woodlands and rivers. An alligator leisurely entered the scene. Its scaly green scales were like the slime from a pond; green and wet. It had a long, stout head and when it yawned, the pale yellow of its maw and carving teeth was enough to make Mo go queasy. If things couldn’t get more terrible, it was at that moment that his car chose to abruptly die. It was as if the universe got tired of him and decided to go Good luck! However, the alligator stomps away and Mo breathes a sigh of relief. It seems as if the universe has listened to his pleas after all. He cautiously exited his car and creeps over to where he last remembered the canoe being. Across the river, the large city glows with light and cars. He said a silent prayer that he still has his phone. At least he had a cell phone so he could still explain things to his mom and dad. He found the canoe wedged between two palm trees; its faded red paint standing out between the shades of brown and green. He hauled it out, tugging it by the large rope tied around the end, and shoved it into the water. Grabbing a nearby oar, he leaped into the boat and began to paddle towards town. At first it was smooth sailing. There were no winds across the surface, and no waves there to bother him. But all of a sudden the water began to churn and froth like there was a monster under his canoe. The boat also began to rock as if it were on a building made out of straws during an earthquake. Mo clung to the sides of the boat as it rolled across the water. Suddenly, a large head came out and snapped at him. He screamed and attempted to use his oar to combat the alligator. Hopeless! More kept coming as if he were a lone fish in the middle of a shark gang. Everytime he hit one away with an oar, more kept coming. Mo kept fighting off alligator after alligator. The skyline of the downtown city never looked so far away; it seemed to drift farther away with every hit of an alligator. Then he glanced behind him and he realized; he was drifting away. His canoe was nearly touching the edge of the bank, and even worse, it was the crocodiles that were forcing him there. He checked his watch. 9:54. His interview started in six minutes, and he didn’t want to miss his job offer just because of some lousy alligators. He raised the paddle and clonked the nearest, biggest, meanest alligator on the head as hard as he could. The gator went cross eyed, and before Mo’s very eyes, went over and collapsed on the edge of the bank. His confidence growing steadily, Mo dug his oar into the water and paddled furiously. Everytime a alligator came close to the canoe, he would give it a good thump on the head, and it would back off. However, one lucky alligator managed to evade his defenses and gripped the edge of the canoe in its strong jaws. It began to tug on it, shakily rocking the canoe back and forth. As Mo got closer and closer to shore, the canoe began to rock more violently. The alligator wasn’t giving up, and had managed to tear a chunk of wood out from the boat. No matter how hard Mo hit the alligator, it still wouldn’t let go; it was as if its teeth were implanted into the boat. When Mo finally reached shore, the alligator decided to strike. It tugged hard on the edge of the boat; so hard, in fact, that the boat capsized. It turned over violently on its side, sending the boat crashing into the waters. But Mo managed to evade its maneuver; as the boat flipped over, he jumped as far as he could go, and managed to land in the grass on the banks of the river. The alligator let go of the canoe and glared at Mo with its beady eyes, as if to say I’ll eat you one day. Mo gulped. “Good luck.” Then, he ran off towards the office. It was 9:59. Just in time. As he made his way into the office building, he ducked into the bathroom to check himself. Somehow, he hadn’t managed to get any dirt smudges, river water or dried blood on his shirt. His hair and face was messed up like a Super Saiyan in the Japanese anime, Dragon Ball, but other than that, he was fine. He rinsed off his face, rubbing his eyes and cleansing it of any dirt. Then, with a few brushes of his hair, he donned his suit and strutted off for his interview.  Finally, it was over. Mo walked out from the interviewer’s office. He was so happy he wanted to dance. He thought about calling his parents about how he did. He was sure he aced it. But he would still have to explain how he lost that car…eh. Would anyone believe what he had gone through in this unusual Monday morning?. He decided he would keep those 30 minutes of his life to tell his grandchildren, one day, maybe. He was so tired. After all, dodging a lion, and surviving a gang of hungry gators can do wonders to one’s energy. I’ll get some sleep on the subway , he thought drowsily, staggering out of the office. But Mo didn’t have time for that. He had fallen asleep right on the sidewalk.

8gv6rr

Love Isn’t Just Blind, It’s Ludicrous

Jammed like a pickled sardine on the express train to 14 th Street with thousands of other commuters, Ryan Random knows there is more to life than assembling computer components and drinking mochaccinos with his co-worker. As platforms and people flash by in a dizzying blur, Ryan closes his eyes, his mind conjuring up a cozy villa in Greece with a passing stream surrounded by fig trees and grape leaves. Standing in front of the villa, her features a misty blur is a woman. Opening his eyes, Ryan finds himself next to a grey-haired old man no taller than five feet who bears a striking resemblance to Popeye the sailorman. He nods at Ryan pleasantly, winking at him with his one good eye. Holding onto the pole across from Ryan is an exotic olive-skinned beauty with wavy black hair. She has dreamy blue eyes, a sharp Roman nose, and a bountiful figure. Their eyes lock. Ryan feels a calming wave of warmth overtake him, even as his heart rate accelerates. Ryan manages to say hello. She replies “Yassou” in a low sensual tone. Popeye looks at Ryan. He looks at the woman. He looks at both of them again as if to confirm what he’s seeing. Ryan sweeps back his mane of dark hair, hoping she finds him as attractive as other women do. “You like her?” Popeye asks Ryan. “Yes.” “You like him?” he asks the woman. The woman nods. The subway grinds to a halt. The doors open and Ryan follows the crowd onto the platform, where he waits for the girl. He looks left, right, and up the stairs. The doors close and the empty subway speeds out of the station. F.B.I. Agent Sloan Pickering examines the corpse lying in the parking lot. Her partner, Agent Mick Devlin, studies the boxes strewn across the ground. Sloan huffs. “Between the eyes. Looks professional.” Sturdy and serious, with a short undercut blonde hairstyle, Sloan, and her lanky, laid-back clothes horse partner have been working together for over a decade. Mick scans the small parking lot, which is surrounded by blossoming cherry trees. “Looks like he came to Cherry Street Station to take a break and rearrange his truck.” “He should have known better There isn’t even a railroad station here, just a platform.” Sloan stops to check the ground next to the platform’s sidewalk. “Bingo.” “You find something, Sloan?” “Footprints. Heels.” Ryan positions his drink in the tray, careful not to jostle his co-worker’s bagel and vanilla swirl coffee. Stepping into the street, he skillfully avoids two rapidly moving commuters texting on their phones. Turning to laugh at them, he nearly plows into a stylishly dressed woman in high heels. Looking up, Ryan swallows hard, smiling sheepishly at the exotic, olive-skinned beauty with wavy black hair. His body temperature rises as he melts into her hypnotic eyes. “I…I never thought I’d see you again…” Her accented, smokey voice sends him deeper into a euphoric trance. “Must be destiny.” He holds up the tray. “Would you like some breakfast? Maybe we can sit in the park and talk for a while?” “Handsome and polite. How can I resist?” she replies. “By the way, my name’s Selene. If you don’t mind, I have a quick errand to run, then we can go to the park and talk.” Ryan follows Selene to a UPS store. “Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.” Ryan watches Selene strut into the store. She follows the lone cashier into the backroom. Moments later, she exits, carrying a pocket-sized envelope. The pair find a bench under a tree in the park. “I like talking to you. But shouldn’t you be at work?” Selene asks. “I already emailed Sandy, my co-worker, that I found you and I’m going to be late.” “What do you do?” Ryan smiles proudly. Putting his finger to his lips, he says, “Sssh. It’s supposed to be hush-hush. We assemble motherboards and other computer components for the government. Our office, Kramden Electronics, is a few doors down from where I ran into you. And you?” “I’m an exporter.” Ryan wonders if his broad smile makes him look stupid but plows ahead. “Can I tell you something? I know this is going to sound like the lamest pickup line you’ve ever heard, but I was immediately attracted to you when I saw you on the subway…” Selene blushes. “…And I was attracted to you…” “My heart rate quickened, my body temperature shot sky-high, and I got the jitters. Does that sound silly to you?” “No. It’s chemistry, a physical attraction. I felt the same way.” “It’s more than that it’s like we’re…” “Soul mates,” Selene says. “I bet you’ve had a lot of admirers.” “Rich men, even princes,” Selene replies. “But I don’t want to be a trophy wife. And I’m getting tired of this life.” “I know what you mean,” Ryan says. “I’ve always had the same dream, the same goal in life. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve dreamed about living in a villa by a stream…” “…With fig trees and grape leaves…,” Selene whispers. The pair stare blissfully into each other’s eyes. The sound of a siren breaks the magnetism between them. “Hey, check it out,” Ryan says. “There’s a bunch of cop cars in front of the UPS store you were in.” “I still think his wife did in the UPS driver,” Mick says. “They were going through an ugly divorce. She wanted the kid.” “She’d already been in Ontario for ten days when he was killed.” “I didn’t say she did it herself. You even said a pro killed Ellis Page.” “I’ll give you that,” Sloan replies, showing Mick a jam-packed file. “We may have caught a break in the case. There was a fingerprint on the side of the truck. It belongs to Selene Savalas. Born in Greece, she’s used the alias’s Maureen Moustakis, Zina Zervas, and Constance Constantinides. She lived in Italy for twelve years, where she became a contract killer for the Demos family.” “I’ve heard of them. They’re ruthless.” “They steal anything, guns, drugs, technology, cryptocurrency, and sell it to the highest bidder.” “So, what was Ellis Page carrying that got him killed?” Mick asks. “I dunno, at least not yet. But I do have a copy of his route and manifest for that day. Savalas probably used her looks to distract him.” Mick pulls a mirror out of his desk, checking his expensive haircut. “You sound a bit jealous.” Sloan grits her teeth. “I hate women that do that. I want this one bad, Mick. I knew Ellis.” “I don’t want to stake out a dozen locations, hoping she’ll show up,” Mick replies. “Let’s cut out the middleman. Where does she live?” “According to the Bureau’s records, in the East River.” Mick rubs his eyes, staring at the video screen. “This is a one in a zillion chance, Sloan,” he says, sighing heavily. “Three people near Fourteenth Street that we questioned said they’d seen Savalas or a woman that fits her description. They saw her walking toward the apartments in the area, so there’s a chance she’s living near the subway station.” “All we’ve got so far is a glimpse of her at the UPS store before she shot the camera. Wait…” Mick points at the screen. The pair slap five as the surveillance camera at the 14 th Street Station shows Selene Savalas getting off the subway train. Sloan pretends to be a jogger stretching as she leans against a stop sign on 14 th Street. At the other end of the block, Mick kneels next to a feeble tree picking up after a police dog. “Yuk. Next time you get dog doody patrol,” Mick whispers into his communications device. “Amos likes you a lot more than me anyway. This mutt just soiled my Cole Haan’s.” Mick looks up in time to see a stunning brunette breeze by. “Subject sighted… Heading in your direction… We’ll nail her at the corner…” Selene approaches Sloan. Sloan pulls her service revolver out from her jacket and shows her badge, identifying herself. Selene considers turning around and running. “Don’t even think about it, you Kardashian clone, or you’ll get exactly what you gave your victims.” Mick runs up the block yelling at Amos. The dog has gotten free from his leash and is running toward Sloan. Amos jumps into Sloan’s arms, knocking her off her feet. Selene takes off, putting a block between herself and the agents in a matter of seconds. Helping Sloan to her feet, the agents and Amos sprint after Selene, rapidly losing ground. Selene turns a corner, disappearing. Puffing and wheezing, Mick and Sloan scan the empty street. “She moves pretty well for a chick in high heels,” Mick pants. “There,” Sloan says, pointing at The White Whale Bar. “Perfect place to hide among the locals. Check the back.” Sloan enters The White Whale. A short, grey-haired old man resembling Popeye buffs a few glasses. Three red-faced soused seniors rearrange their rumbled clothes and whistle at Sloan. “Any of you Neanderthals see a pretty brunette pass through here?” “You mean prettier than you?” one drunk slurs. “That’d be a miracle, sweet pea.” A tall, sloshed blonde woman who’s seen better days bellows, “This is my bar toots. Get your own boy toys.” “Cállate. Gretchen. Shaddup,” Popeye mutters. Mick enters the barroom. Brushing dust off his suit, he says, “Nope. I even checked the garbage cans.” Approaching Popeye, Sloan asks. “Did you see her?” “No entiendo,” Popeye responds. “What?” “That means I don’t understand you.” “Looks like she’s not only a top assassin, she’s also a magician,” Sloan huffs. Sandy Shopmaker downs his fourth glass of Guinness beer. Focusing on the football game, he absentmindedly glances at the woman sitting down next to him. He does a double take, staring wide-eyed at the exotic olive-skinned beauty with wavy black hair. “What’s?...” “Yes, I know. What’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this? My name’s Selene.” “I work with a friend who’s head over heels for a girl with that name. Would that happen to be you?” Selene gives Sandy a seductive smile. “I’ve been watching you. I was hoping Ryan would introduce us, but since he hasn’t, I thought I’d take the initiative.” “You mean, I’m the guy you really want?” Sandy calls over to the bartender. “I’m stunned, awestruck, dumbfounded! I need booze and plenty of it. Two shots of Jameson. Give Selene whatever she wants too.” Selene’s eyes sparkle. “So, do you assemble computer parts too?” “Yeah, I’m one of the best. I’ve got a lotta motherboards and parts at home, too. I know it's against the rules to take sensitive equipment out of the building, but I like tinkering with them at home.” “Well, maybe you can show me some of your work.” Ryan punches in his security code, opening the door. Padding along the carpet into the workroom, Ryan gasps when he sees a well-dressed man and a butchy-looking woman waiting for him. They introduce themselves, with Mick adding in an understanding tone, “Why don’t you sit down.” “Where’s Sandy?” “That’s what we’re here about,” Sloan says. “He’s dead.” Ryan guzzles at his mochaccino, unaware of the foam on his lips as Mick and Sloan give him the details of Sandy’s death. “We’re sure your office is being targeted,” Mick says. “The employees in your office in Ann Arbor have already been killed.” “Do you know a woman named Selene Savalas?” Mick and Sloan notice Ryan visibly twitch. “Why?” Mick runs his manicured nails across a three-thousand-dollar suit. “Savalas is an assassin for hire. She murdered a UPS delivery man to steal a shipment of computer chips bound for this office that are encrypted with sensitive information.” Ryan snickers. “I thought we were assembling motherboards for school and businesses. Why send sensitive information by UPS?” “Less conspicuous. And the information is useless unless you know the access code,” Sloan replies. “We think your girlfriend’s employers have it.” “The driver, Ellis Page, was an agent with the Secret Service and was armed. Savalas still managed to kill him. So where is she, Random?” Mick asks. “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about.” Sloan grabs Ryan, pulling her toward him. “Okay, play stupid, Random. Maybe you’re in love with her. She’s made you think she’s in love with you, but she’s playing you for a patsy. Savalas is a threat to national security. She’s killed a dozen people or more in the name of money. You want to see the hole she put in Sandy Shopmaker’s head, Random?” “…. I don’t know her…” “Fine,” Mick says, heading toward the door. “By the way, this office is closed. You’re on paid leave. That’ll give you more time to spend with your girlfriend.” Sloan picks up the bagel meant for Sandy. “You eating, this? No? Keep protecting her, you lovestruck fool. Just remember, Random, you’re next.” Sloan slams the steering wheel of their undercover car. “We’ve got the subway covered, the UPS store, and Random’s office. Where is she?” “Probably watching us,” Mick says playfully. Sloan gives Mick a searing look. Standing near the corner, Selene hands Ryan a pair of binoculars. “Yeah, those are the two agents who came to the office.” “They lied about me.” “Did they?” Ryan asks. “You killed my best friend.” “He was going to turn us in. He came at me. He tried to kill me. I had no choice.” “And this life you lead…” “It was over the moment I met you,” Selene replies. He looks into her eyes. “I believe you. We could go back to my place, wait a while, and then make a run for it.” Selene kisses Ryan on the cheek. The warmth of her lips conjures up visions of a villa in Greece. “I’m thinking about our villa too,” Selene says. “There’s a way we can get inside and get away. Are you ready?” A Cadillac SUV with tinted windows and an extended bumper pulls up in front of The White Whale. The diver honks the horn. A statuesque brunette steps out of the bar and is bathed in the bright luminescence of the nearby streetlight. “There she is, your Moby Dick,” Mick utters. “I bet that’s Random behind the wheel,” Sloan declares. “Love isn’t just blind, it’s ludicrous,” Mick replies. “We’ll stop them at the corner,” Sloan says. “We’d better. Once they get to the West Side Highway, they’ve got a clean route upstate,” Mick replies. “We may never catch them.” “Well, stop fixing your tie and follow them!” Picking up speed, the SUV breaks through the barricade, splintering it. Turning the corner, it sideswipes three parked cars. Sloan barks commands into the radio. “All units, black Cadillac SUV, License plate VOODOO, headed south on Fourteenth Street.” “Jeez. He’s driving like he doesn’t know how to drive,” Mick comments. Accelerating, the SUV runs a red light. Mick follows, slamming on the brakes when a lumbering UPS truck pulls out in front of them. Passing the truck, Mick steps on the accelerator, closing the distance between them as three police cars flashing their lights and blaring their sirens join the chase. “He’s headed the wrong way,” Sloan notes. “We’ll have him soon.” The SUV spins in a tight circle, the rear of the car turning around to the front. It speeds past its pursuers, turning onto the highway. Selene and Ryan wait until the F.B.I. and the police have cleared the area before making their way to The White Whale. The old men at the bar cordially wave at Selene and return to drinking their free liquor. Opening the door to the basement, the couple hustle down the stairs to the concrete wall across from the oil burner. Ryan pushes against it, revealing a set of stairs leading to Selene’s hideaway. “I bet you're going to miss these expensive-looking digs,” Ryan comments, looking at the opulent rugs, furniture, and art. “We’re trading a hideaway for a home,” Selene says. The couple pick up a pair of duffle bags sneaking out of the hidden exit. A large barricade has been set up across all three lanes of the highway. Behind it, half a dozen F.B.I. and police vehicles with their emergency lights blinking form a second barrier. Two dozen agents and officers with rifles and automatic guns draw a bead on the approaching SUV. Sloan’s voice crackles over the radio. “…Stop them any way you can…” The SUV slows. Mick slams on the brakes of their unmarked car. Jumping out and pulling their weapons, Sloan and Mick surround the SUV. “Get out with your hands on your head!” Sloan screams. A short man with bulging forearms resembling Popeye hops out of the driver’s side. An intoxicated woman stumbles out of the passenger’s side. Mick rips off her brunette wig, revealing she’s a blonde. “…Gretchen, the lush at the bar,” Sloan grumbles. “Some Italian babe paid me five grand to take a ride. I didn’t know it would get this crazy,” Gretchen says, staggering. Sloan inspects the inside of the SUV. Popeye used an accelerator extension to reach the pedals. “Why did you help them?” Popeye winks his one good eye. “True love can cleanse a person. Even someone like Selene.”

kjo8zy

The Dream Job

It had happened my dream interview with a firm in Northern Island. They want me and I want to work for them. Being a diligent person, plan your journey to get to the interview at two pm on Tuesday. The easiest way is to get the underground from Brixton to Tottenham Hale, catch the Stanstead express to Stanstead, then catch the Easy Jet flight to Belfast by Easy Jet. What could be easier? The week before had my suit cleaned at the local dry cleaners, then got out the cotton wool and a little bit of water. Spent an hour bulling my shoes until they were like mirrors. I could see myself in the reflection. Even bought a new tie. I had a timetable written out from the bus from Loughborough Road to Brixton Tube station, to arrival at Stanstead Airport for my flight. What could go wrong? Kissed my wife goodbye and left home at seven am on Tuesday morning. The council had found a leak in the heating system, and dug up all of the paths over night had a detour to get to the bus stop. Arrived at the bus stop. The monitor showed that the bus was due. The bus arrived and drove straight past. The next bus is due in two minutes, the bus arrives, and the bus driver does not open the doors to let me on, I bang on the doors and shout to no avail the bus driver just ignores me. A minute later the next bus arrives, it stops lets me on and I pay using my Oyster Card. Five minutes later arrive at Brixton tube station, would have been faster walking. Dodging a few buskers and beggars, run down the stairs to Brixton tube station, put my Oyster card on to the reader, does not open, not enough funds. Run to the ticket machines and buy a ticket to Tottenham Hale. Through the barriers down the escalator and onto the tube train sitting in the station. An announcement comes through the speaker the train has a problem. Jump off of this tube train and go to the other platform where there is no train. After a wait of five minutes, a train arrives. The tannoy announces the first train will be on the other platform. Run back to the other train, we leave the station at last. Thirty-five minutes later arrive at Tottenham Hale, run to the station to catch the Stanstead Express, buy a ticket, run to the platform to watch the guard blow his whistle and the train leaves the station. Next train due in an hour. My timetable allowed for a long wait at Stanstead Airport, but that time is now diminishing. Should just catch the flight. An hour later the Stanstead Express arrives, it goes well, no delays, maybe my luck is changing. We arrive at Stanstead Airport. Sprint through the airport get to the check in for Easy Jet. There is a problem with my ticket, the credit card has not fully cleared, need to buy another ticket. My flight is now full and you must catch the next flight at 3:20 pm. My head is in my hands. I call the company that am going to see and explain to HR better known as Human Remains what has happened today. The lady seems to be quite used to these problems. She says, ‘that is no problem, we will book you into the Premiere Inn at Belfast International Airport. ’Thank you,’ I reply thinking they may have cancelled the interview. Time passes quite quickly at Stanstead Airport the Easy Jet flight arrives and we all board the flight; it departs on time. My luck is changing. The flight lands at Belfast, amazed expected to ditch in the Irish Sea, but no everything went well. Walk to Premiere Inn at Belfast International Airport. My luck is changing. ‘What is your name sir?’ ‘John Stevens’ ‘Sorry you do not have a booking here, and we are full tonight. My head goes into my hands, can today get any worse? ‘Sir you said your name is John Stevens’ ‘Yes, that is me.’ ‘Let me check the other bookings in Northern Island and see if I can find you.’ Stand patiently while the woman checks the system. Praying that she can find me. ‘You are booked into Premiere Inn in the Titanic Quarter; you can catch a taxi there it will be about thirty pounds,’ the receptionist replies. ‘Thank you where is the nearest ATM please’ ‘Oh, there is one outside, just go out of the main exit and you will find it on the left. Walk out of the airport building and turn left. There in front of me is the ATM. I put my debit card into the ATM. It accepts the card, starts doing its standard checks of the card to verify it. Then switches off. The screen displays. Sorry not in service. There is no information on the ATM who to contact if you have a problem. Run inside the Premiere Inn and ask the receptionist, ‘the ATM has just eaten my debit card how do I get it back please?’ The receptionist smiles nicely, it is a bank that is just down the road. Its about half a mile away, turn left out of here and keep going straight. It is Danske Bank. But it is now past five o’clock and the bank will be shut, it would be best if you waited until the engineer comes out.’ This day could not get any worse. My head is in my hands with disbelief. I borrow a chair from Premiere Inn and sit outside by the ATM. Lots of people come up to the ATM and look at the out of service message and walk away shaking their head. At seven o’clock an engineer arrives at the ATM. After explaining my predicament, the engineer gives me my debit card back. Then waits by the machine while I take out one hundred pounds. A taxi drives past, I wave at it and it stops. Negotiate a fare to get to the Premiere Inn Titanic Quarter, agree a fare of twenty-five pounds. At last, arrive at my hotel, tomorrow, interview, good nights sleep tonight after this day of disasters. The next morning wake up at seven am, get up do my exercises, shower then go for breakfast. Go for the full breakfast the best start for the day. Sit relaxed eating my breakfast, put the fried egg on to my fork. A waitress walks past me and bumps my arm, knocking the fried egg off of my fork and onto my tie. Disaster, my only tie. The waitress panics and tries to get the egg off of my tie making it worse. New tie and shirt required, before my interview at ten o’clock. The hotel offers to pay for a new tie and shirt. Then supply me with a taxi to take me to the local shopping centre and then to my interview. At ten am on Wednesday, my interview starts. By eleven o’clock have been offered the position, and a chance to bring my wife to Northern Island to find a place to live 

p27o2o

The Adventure I didn't know I needed

Ryan slammed on the brakes, causing his car to scratch to a halt on the dirt road. He'd just tried to navigate his '99 Honda through a washed out part of the road, twisting the steering wheel left and right in an attempt to dodge the rocks. But he'd hit something and it made a heavy thud which shook everything. Please don't be leaking . He begged as he put the car in park. I'm in my nice slacks. He retrieved his cell phone off the floor of the passenger side and climbed out to assess the damage. “I'm late for my interview!” He complained out loud choking on the dust He looked at the ground for a moment and then pulled out his floor mat and knelt on it to look under his car. He couldn't see anything except dust caked over the rust. “Hey Ryan, we'd love to chat with, come out to our facility. It's a little bit of a drive .” He grumbled. He stood up, still muttering, and tried to switch back to his map on his phone. A blank screen greeted him and he tapped his screen, then swiped to close the program and reopen it. He looked around, to his right was the open valley with nothing, and to his left was a gathering of horses grazing. “Of course...no signal.” He dropped his hands to his side and lowered his head. He'd been driving for over an hour following what he believed were the instructions. The company was Pony Express Trail House. He found them on the map, out miles away from any civilization, and almost too long of a drive. Okay, gotta reset for a second. Ryan sat on a large rock and looked out over the prairie. They were covered with a purple velvet with a green undercoat. It covered the entire valley from the dark volcanic rock mountain to his right all the way to the distant, gray-violet mountains with snow dusted peaks. He had passed a single juniper tree near the road about seven miles back. The dirt road was rough with every dip and valley being nearly washed out. A clear cerulean sky with a burning golden sun shone down on him. Ryan wiped the sweat from his brow and took a long drink from his water bottle. A breeze danced across the purple, like an ocean wave, bringing a pungent earthy scent of the flowers and the sage brush. “Yep, I'm lost.” He shook his head. His eyes locked on the herd of mustangs that lingered in the prairie, their heads dipped to the ground. Their muscles rippled underneath their skin as they moved. Some of them kicked and pranced, playing a game as they ate. He watched them for a few minutes, admiring their freedom and the colorful variations on their coats. A brushing noise sounded behind him, he started and stood up. A herd of sheep, their gray cottony blobs nearly blending with the sagebrush, made their way towards him. Ryan felt unnerved at how close the sheep had gotten to him without him hearing them. They pressed towards him and one of them gave a nervous bleat. “Stupid sheep. Go away!” A great, white head rose up from the edge of the herd, standing out from the gray, and let out a bone chilling growl. “Wolf!” Ryan screamed in surprise and ran for his car. Another head rose, followed by ten others, and suddenly the air was rent with snarls and barks. He could see he wasn't going to make the door so he leaped with all his might and clambered onto the trunk of his car. He spun in time to kick at one of them that was trying to climb up. The cacophony of barks and growls forced him to cover his ears. “Get back! Down!” He yelled at them, his hands shaking with panic. The creatures surrounded him, some rising up to put their front paws on the windows, and reach for him. They bit at him, leaving streaks of slobber on the trunk and windows. Ryan tried to climb onto the roof to get as far away as possible, but his legs were unstable and shaking. He fought against it, kicking and crawling to the roof of his car, his water bottle clanking against the metal. His car pitched and shifted under him as the crowd of white beasts lunged and snarled. Then his car dipped at the front end. He turned and found one had climbed onto the hood, it's head low, ears back. It's lips curled back to reveal black lips and massive teeth. It took a step forward, it's eyes locked on him. Ryan felt a horrible feeling in his chest as he saw the intensity in the animals eyes. It intended to kill him. It was going to drag him off the roof and they'd feast on him. No one would find him, his bones would be scattered by the pack. Maybe some day they'd find his car, and his mother would be... It was the thought of his mother that changed something. A rage at the injustice of trying to make something of himself, and being met with this situation shook the fear that gripped him. He dug deep into his courage, and a new feeling rose into his chest. “GET BACK!” He roared, a primal rage burning outward, “I WILL KILL YOU!” He crouched and swung the water bottle back and forth at the great white monster. It stopped advancing. He took a step towards it, eyes locked, and swung again. This time the beast ducked. “GO!” He commanded. He turned and saw that the others were trying to climb the trunk. He stepped to swing at them when his feet slipped and he fell, striking the edge of his back window with his water bottle. The window popped and crumbled into a splash of broken bits. Something closed on his left shoe and Ryan gripped the edge the roof, into the now open hole, the glass chunks biting into his hand. The monster tried to pull him off as two others tried to climb onto the hood. The excited barks and growls grew in intensity as the pack sensed his demise. In desperation he threw his water bottle at the animal's head. It jerked away, taking his shoe. He grabbed with both hands and pulled himself across the roof and down into the hole that was left be the destroyed window. The glass tore and ripped at his clothes but he didn't stop his wild scramble. Diving into the drivers seat he thumbed the door lock switch as he turned on the car. He didn't wait, slammed it into gear and floored it. The Honda lurched ahead, bouncing the monsters off the hood and fenders as he raced off. The creatures gave chase for only a moment before they disappeared behind him in a cloud of dust. Ryan didn't stop as he flew across the old, dirt road, skipping over bumps and dips, and barely keeping the car on the road. A few minutes later he slowed and then brought the car to stop. It's engine hissed and groaned from the mistreatment. He sat watching the road behind him for a few moments, blood slowly dripping on his pants from the cuts in his arm. Some of them were covered in dust and looked like orange mud. Ryan felt his heart start to slow and he took his foot off the brake to start moving again. The door to the Pony Express Trail House gave off a ring as Ryan pushed it open. The secretary eyed him carefully. Standing next to the desk was a man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a collared shirt. “Sorry I'm late. I'm Ryan.” “Good heavens, son, you get in a fight or something.” The man asked. “It was a pack of, uh, wolves. I...uh, got ambushed.” “Wolves?” “Yeah, like ten of them. Big white ones.” The man looked Ryan up and down, pausing at his sock. “Sounds like you took the long way around.” “The long way?” “Yeah, on maps, the Pony Express Trail House is a popular historical monument out in the desert. If you put in Pony Express Manufacturing, that brings you here.” Ryan forced a smile. “But those dogs shouldn't be attacking you. They're mean little turds when it comes to the sheep.” “Dogs?” Ryan muttered. The man walked over and slapped his hand on Ryan's shoulder, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. “Son, I like you. You're hired.”

ddd6yf

A Traveler's Tracks

An airborne pickup truck reflects in small, wide eyes. One dark mass among the clouds. Raindrops burst in great spasms against a van's windshield, blurring its crooked path. The moment of impact happens in the span of a blink. Soft curls whirl until they’re crushed against metal. Tires screech on wet pavement. Blurred movements toss two passengers from their seats; clubbing the third. It's a lanky teenager that finds his bearings first, getting to his knees. Frigid winds tear away his voice. It carries his sister’s cries closer. “Papi?” The gaping hole that took her seat now steals her balance. Sweaty hands strain to grab stubby fingers. Mateo lunges, but a tangled seatbelt catches his leg. He's tethered in place, watching his little sister tumble backward. Calloused hands manage to snag the hem of her dress, fisting the soft material. “Mirabel?” Mirabel’s curls dance along the pavement. Shards of glass tangle in the longest strands. The overturned pickup truck skids to a halt behind them, holding the roof of their van and two crumpled doors as trophies. Breadcrumbs of their life tumble into the road. Clothes. Pictures. Her plush rabbit lay in the middle of the rubble, untouched. Another offering for Traveler’s Road. It already took their mother…their eldest brother…and now their home. “Papi, pull over.” Mateo’s pleas echo somewhere above her. She tilts her head, catching glimpses of an upside-down fever dream. Their father’s arms are rigid in front of him, as if the steering wheel wasn’t in the back seat. Glazed eyes are glued to the horizon. Mateo fists her dress with a white-knuckled grip, kicking a foot toward their father. “Por favor, Papi. Please!” Desperate words fall on deaf ears. No one stops on Traveler’s Road. Billboards advertise a bright future, but eight generations have yet to find it. Ancestors drove their ‘temporary’ home until the next set of hands took their place. Each loss only tightens their resolve. No stopping to rest, to admire the sunset or the stars. Their father drives for a chance at a future. A very bleak future. “Por favor- it’s Mirabel!” Fingernails dig into her calf, ripping her hemline as she slides from his grip. The bridge of her nose inches closer to a looping belt of concrete. Raindrops bust apart on the bumpy terrain and splatter her cheek. Some clear. Some pink. A metallic tang scents the air. “Papi?” Grooves are carved into the pavement; filled with mechanical jaws that bite into tires. Their bald set slides back into the trenches. Puncture wounds already mark their miles. A roller-coaster ride they can never get off. Mirabel desperately claws at the van’s underside. Her curls are drifting closer to the snapping jaws. Whispered promises float past her head. Their father mumbles under his breath. His promise to keep driving. He’ll be the one to reach the end of the road. If not him, Mateo or Mirabel. Each of his swirling fingerprints are embedded with glass. Blood drips onto his feet and rolls off, landing on pavement. Mirabel watches it mix with the rain. The snap of a broken seatbelt pulls her from the trance. Mateo huffs, swinging his leg over the seat. A string of curses is aimed at their father. Loud shouting. Snarls. The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t seem to hear them. He doesn’t seem to care. Resolve pinches her brother’s features. They’ll be no more begging. The shell of their father slumps forward, hitting a line of jagged glass that used to be their windshield. His arms stay rigid. Mirabel whimpers, watching the pavement become slick. Words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Hold on to me, tight.” Raging winds pluck them from their temporary home. Her stomach plunges. Rain blurs their view. Trembling hands fist soft cotton. Dewy grass slaps her cheek. Her palms are sticky. “Mirabel?” “Papi?”           A mangled van speeds down Traveler’s Road. A thousand others chase it away. Familiar scents waft around them. Spices. Stale sweets. Burnt rubber. It’s all their belongings, crushed on the roadway. Her plush bunny lay in pieces, dissected by a thousand unmoving wheels. Mirabel fists grass, lifting her chin to the billboard looming above. Traveler’s Road – The Path to a Bright Future She throws a clump of dirt at the picket-fenced advertisement. Another handful. Three more. She pretends she’s wreaking havoc, until a calloused hand clamps down on her shoulder. Mirabel turns, staring at a mirror image of her own face. Hard angles and hollowed cheeks. Mateo detangles the shards of glass from her curls. Wipes the blood off her cheek. Detaches the drooping hemline from her stained dress. When he’s done, he pulls her to his chest and hides silent tears over her shoulder. She tangles her fingers in the raven-colored curls at the nape of his neck and pretends not to notice. “Shoo,” she hisses at a blur of wings. Birds chirp over their heads, surveying the latest roadkill. “Go away,” she stomps. Most of the curious onlookers dart back into their sanctuary of petals. Some poke their heads out to watch. "Mirabel, I-" Mateo clears his throat. He swipes a hand over his eyes and lifts his head. Her brother takes one last look at their things scattered on the road. Words barely escape trembling lips. “Familia, right? That’s all we need.” She nods her agreement. Careful footsteps mark soft dirt. They venture into a field of yellow, rippling waves. Thick stems multiply until they touch the horizon. Mirabel runs her finger along a velvet petal. It comes away cut and bloody. Bulging eyes watch the lethal plants sway. The bloody finger is hidden in the folds of her dress as she chases after her brother. They’re careful not to touch any part of the flowers as they trek through the field. The farther they walk, the taller the flowers become. Stems grow to the size of tree trunks. Golden hues seep through a canopy of petals. Mirabel takes the lead, growing as fast as the flowers. Mateo sheds his teenage years, rolling the bulk of muscle in his shoulders. A spinning circle of night and day records their developments. Navigating the golden forest becomes second nature. Through the gaps in the stems, others make appearances. Voices surround them, and fade. Visitors expand their party by five, and then back to two. They walk. Run. Sit. Shiver. Sweat. Mirabel ties thick, raven waves into braids that hang down her back. She describes the things they’ll have when they reach paradise. Not that they need it. “Familia,” she reminds him. “All we need is here.” Summers last the longest in their golden forest. Autumn is mere minutes. Winters are brutal, and springtime gives them a reprieve from the bitter cold. They’re nothing more than ants huddled in the melting snow. Collecting water. Picking occasional berries. Chatting with the birds. Old wounds heal to fresh scars. Mateo’s hands are patterned in textured cords. Cuts to Mirabel’s jaw become pale threads under the moonlight. “Just a little further,” she promises. Torn fingers are hidden in a tattered dress. They walk until the stems become too thick to navigate. With nothing more than dim light streaming through overlapping petals, it’s hard to tell where to step. Enough cuts have ripped their skin open. Their muscles have weakened over the months. Exhaustion pokes at their mental barriers. Eventually, Mirabel sinks into the dirt at her brother’s feet. Silent sobs shake raven wisps from her braids. This isn’t the better life they hoped for. Petals block out the sun. They’ve lost sight of the birds. Two more steps into the amber forest shatters Mateo’s restraint. “This is more of the same.” Her muffled sniff is answer enough. “We’re walking an endless field. Driving an endless road. This life is endless torture.” He rubs dirty fingers over tired eyes. Mateo collapses into the dirt at his sister’s side. Something cold and hard pinches the skin on his back. He groans and flips over. Mechanical jaws are hidden in deep grooves, covered by weeds. “Oh, no, no.” Mateo stumbles on sore, bruised feet. Mirabel yelps as she’s dragged backward. Dirt clouds their sudden retreat. “Where are we going?” Petals draw blood. “Mateo?” His focus switches between wobbly feet and oversized stems. Darkness mocks their attempt at freedom, blurring the gaps between flowers. Sunlight illuminates their heaving chests, urging them to hurry. It fades into flecks on a dark canvas, mocking them again. Scenery changes. Mateo drags Mirabel through knee-deep mud. Filth stains their skin. The heaviest of it claims the worn leather they used to call shoes. Walking becomes difficult. Mateo leans down to pluck Mirabel from its depth. There’s not a little girl waiting for him, as there once was. Mateo peers into wide, almond eyes. The woman reaches an arm out to steady him, assuring him it’s “…just a little further.” Her hand is only inches below his, without straining on her tiptoes or climbing from rock to rock. His memories are overlapping slats, all bleeding together. He can’t remember when they aged, or if he stopped to wish her a happy birthday. A misstep brings him to his knees. Mud splatters his face. He doesn’t have enough energy to wipe it off. For the first time in a long time, everything goes still. The wind ceases to blow. His thoughts are blank. Mirabel is a shadow at his side. How did… Why didn’t I…                        … No more questions. We’re not going any further. Rays of sun kiss his cheeks and nose. Another few rotations of light gives him the strength to lift his head. Miles of land extend in every direction. Fields of towering sunflowers. The distant sound of moving vehicles. The constant clicks of mechanical tracks. Mateo staggers to his feet and follows their stale footsteps back through the mud. “Where are you going? We’ll lose our progress.” Raven braids are caked in mud, he realizes. Her face is a canvas of pale threads. All these years, his gaze barely faltered from the horizon, as he repeated quiet promises he made for his sister. To keep her safe and happy. He failed. “That wasn’t progress. That was walking.” A second pair of footsteps echoes his. They leave the boggy land and re-enter the golden forest. The sight of the first stem causes Mirabel to flinch. Mateo swallows his guilt. He blocks her view, covering her hands in mud. Questioning looks don’t find answers. They keep walking. Mateo shields Mirabel from every stem. Every hidden groove. He walks until a blanket of pure gold lays at their feet. A fallen petal. With great care, the deadly edge wedges itself into the tallest stem, severing root from dirt. The ancient flower tips, hurtling toward the ground. Mirabel fights to keep her balance as the earth trembles. Mateo repeats the process, again and again. Hardened mud protects their fingers. Sunlight points out every hidden groove in the dirt, watching them dig. It shines light on their square of overturned land. Buckets of heavy mud are carried to their worksite. Stems are dried under blazing heat. Mechanical jaws are detached. Framework begins to take shape. Over time, it grows. Staircases are added. Dirt is moved to fit a basement. A garden. A life. Mirabel crushes withered petals to make paint. Art is slathered on the walls. Some of it is thrown at her brother. Roaring laughter scares the birds from their sanctuary. They circle overhead, watching vegetables sprout from the ground. Their own addition. Curious beaks drop seeds around the property. Thick stems drop tomatoes, berries, and herbs into their yard. The property grows. Small, wide eyes reflect two adults running through an oversized garden. This little girl stands between thick stems, hidden among their shadow. Thin cuts paint angry lines across her hands. She hides the worst of them in the empty shell of her companion. A plush rabbit. Dirt cakes its remaining ear to its body. Time has worn its color to a dull gray. The plushie was left on Traveler’s Road , just like her. Mirabel spots the scrawny child first, holding a matted clump of fur. Wobbly steps carry her across the border between darkness and light. Closer to the laughter. Calloused hands catch her when she stumbles. “Just a little further,” Mateo coos. He carries her to a small bedroom made by his own hands. A creaky bed and a matted rug welcome her inside. Art covers the walls. Scenes of a sunset and stars. Rainbows. Rain. The girl’s eyes are as wide as saucers as Mirabel treats her cuts. She barely moves...barely breathes. The clump of fur in her hand marks its spot on the bed with a circle of dirt. Mirabel reaches to move it, and freezes. Faded eyes, ruined by a thousand determined travelers, watch the woman treat the girl. It’s there when stubby fingers stop fisting a worn hemline. When the bedroom fills with things Mateo promises are hers. When Mirabel plucks cotton and fills the rabbit’s stomach back to plump. They clean its cuts. It’s washed and dried. Others see the house growing over the umbrella of petals. They adjust their path. Travelers arrive on their doorstep, with hollow cheeks and glazed eyes. Birds chirp. Spiraling plants, weighed down by pumpkins and squash, lean over a sturdy fence. Sweet scents of honey flit past with a buzz. Two words pass the traveler’s lips when they hear laughter and catch glimpses of a grinning child through the window. They speak through trembling lips. Relieved tears. “…the billboard…” Houses are created from stems and mud. Homes are built when disbelieving eyes open the door. Breadcrumbs of their past are hammered into their future. Neighborhoods blossom. A constant stream of people arrive… …a teary-eyed couple searching for their child…           …families that bend low to pray over their floorboards…            …a copper-haired man that steals fleeting glances of Mirabel… The next house Mateo builds is for them, and their daughter. He strolls past their house on the way to his own. Dark clouds are rolling in, and rain has started to blur the stars. Tonight, most will hide indoors, thinking it a bleak night. But Mateo closes his eyes and raises his face to the heavens. There are no screeching tires or mechanical tracks. No looping pavement. No forgotten family. He appreciates the moment, listening to quick footsteps dart around the garden. A little silhouette lifts their chin and calls, “Papi?” “Yes, mi amor?” Stubby fingers wrap around his. “Can I light the sign tonight?” He nods, leading the raven-haired girl to the towering sign of their own creation. A billboard. Traveler’s Paradise: Here and Now

rj8cqf

Oh, My! Are We About to Get in a Fight?

No one would argue that watching is essential when on night watch. That's why it's called night watch instead of night play-around. However, a couple of magical tree stumps guarding the eastern edge of Trungen Forest weren't watching while on night watch. "Alright, do that again, but this time with your eyes closed," Splinter said. He was four feet, taller than most stumpers, with a carved beard and a small crack in the middle of his forehead. "Are you going to?" Tat asked. Carved from a tree used by lovers to display their undying love, he had a heart with "L" in one corner and "J" in the other. "Of course, we'll both do it – eyes closed," he laughed. "It'll be fun." The stumpers lined up, laughing. The forest was in complete darkness, and the moon and stars were powerless to break through the thick cloud coverage. However, this was no obstacle for the stumpers; they could see at night like it was day. "Ready. Set. Go!" They yelled like football players about to make a tackle, running as fast as they could, eyes closed. The game is like chicken: run until you hit a tree. If you get knocked off your roots, you're out. On your roots, you're still in. The anticipation was intense, like a kid hiding behind a bush, watching the seeker getting closer. The butterflies in their stomach (well, middle trunk) were off the charts. Tat ran over a surprisingly soft object, tripping headlong into the ground. Shouts of "Ouch!" and "Who goes there!" filled the air. The fallen stumper rolled over to see three men in armor wrestling with Splinter. The man he knocked over was out cold. He then glimpsed to his left, two additional soldiers cautiously approaching. "Careful! The wooden freaks are surprisingly strong!" One of the three soldiers wrestling Splinter shouted to the two soldiers cornering Tat. Tat noticed the soldier's red capes with the Selwyn crest and realized these men belonged to King Moreland! "Wait! We are friends of King Moreland," Tat said. "Friends? Aren't you the monsters we heard of from the Netterback?" "We are stumpers. Created by Lady Nimmo." The men immediately stopped wrestling with Splinter and backed away from Tat. "Sorry. Our bad. It's just that you attacked us and so we thought you were the evil magic trunks, I mean, stumps. You have to forgive us. You two look a lot alike." "Alike! We are as different as you are from a dragon. I mean, they're ten feet tall, and we barely hit three," Splinter said. "But you're both tree trunks." Splinter shook his stump body, "Well, anyway, I suppose you dwarfs are here to see Lady Nimmo?" "What did you call us?" A soldier asked. "Did I say something wrong?" "We're men, not dwarfs." "But you're both so much alike. Hard to tell the difference." The knocked-out man came to and sat up, still shaken from his collision. "Well said, Master Stumper." He got to his feet, wobbled, and began to fall again. Two soldiers hurried to his side and held him upright. "My! There are tons of fireflies in this forest!" He swatted the air. Everyone was perplexed. There were no fireflies, but he did pass out again. A corporal helping hold the unconscious gentleman piped up, "To answer your question: It is imperative we see Lady Nimmo as soon as possible. Selwyn's security depends on it." "Sounds serious," Splinter waved, "We better get going." The small troop followed: two carrying the knocked-out gentleman, the rest carrying torches. "How far?" The Corporal asked. "Five or six hours," Splinter answered. "I was hoping to be there before daylight." "Not going to happen. The sun will be up in three hours." "Yeah. That's why I said, 'I was hoping.'" Splinter was oblivious to the sarcasm but not to the movement on their left over a hundred feet away. He acted like he hadn't seen anything but spoke to Tat in wind-through-leaves-sounding language. Tat tried not to appear to be searching but failed miserably. "What are you looking at?" The Corporal asked. "Um, me? Oh, nothing," Tat looked into the trees while answering. "Then why are you looking into the trees?" "Well, it's not because we saw movement out there. That's for sure." The Corporal smiled, "My apologies for asking." He began walking towards the trees the stumpers were looking at. "What are you doing? Splinter asked. "I have to pee. I'll be right back." "No, don't go that way." "Hah! I knew it. Now tell me why?" Their wind-through-leaves words came quick and sharp. "Ok. We saw men dressed in black. They've been tracking us." "And why didn't you say something?" "We didn't want to upset you all. They could just be out for a stroll through a stumper-infested forest in complete and utter darkness." "Men, swords." The Corporal and all his men grabbed their swords. The sound of metal exiting sheaths filled the night. They faced the trees where the men in black were last seen. Splinter and Tat grabbed their swords as well. The knocked-out man began to stir, and seeing everyone holding swords, he exclaimed, "Oh, my! Are we about to get in a fight?" At that moment, the forest echoed with whips cracking from behind the troop. Two of the soldiers had their swords yanked out of their hands. The troop turned to face the attackers. As soon as they turned their backs, the men in black they were facing ran to overtake the troop, but Tat turned and alerted the soldiers. All Hades broke loose. The men in black ran through, around, and over the dizzy soldiers. The Selwyn men swung and slashed but made no contact with the enemy. Two more soldiers lost their swords to the whips. It appeared bleak. The black-cladded men surrounded the half-armed troop, looking to deal the final blow. They replaced their whips with swords and inched towards the troop. A bright green light shone above the battle. The light slowly descended from the treetops. Everyone forgot about the fight and looked up. The light grew more defined as it lowered. A figure appeared. It wore a cloak of deep green light, its face, hands, and feet a bright yellow. It landed between the men in black and the soldiers. "The Spirit of Trungen!" Tat and Splinter shouted in unison. She carried a green-fiery staff. "Have you made up your minds? Shall we fight? Or will you run?" She spun her staff so quick that it sounded like a giant hummingbird in flight. The men in black ran away. The soldiers began to chase after them when Trungen called for them to stop. "Let them go. They can't go anywhere in my forest without me knowing." The men of Selwyn were dumbstruck. They heard of The Spirit of Trungen but never dreamed they would meet her. Trungen's blinding light dimmed, and the troop could see clearly. The formerly knocked-out man shook his head, attempting to clear his foggy mind from the mesmerizing light of Trungen. He asked, "Who were those men?" "They are not men. They are shadow elves." "Shadow elves?" "Yes. They live in a dense forest covering a peninsula at the northernmost point of Wanowyn." "Why have we never heard of them?" "They only now leave their forest. And before you ask, I do not know why just yet." "Well, we all owe you dearly. Thank you. That battle wasn't going well for us." The entire troop bowed. "You're welcome. Now follow me. I will escort you to Lady Nimmo. There are many shadow elves around. Hopefully, we will soon find a way to get rid of them." They marched through the night and into the morning before they reached Jorton, Lady Nimmo's capital. Lady Nimmo found them lodging in the inn and showed them great hospitality. She asked them to wait a day before getting down to business, which they graciously agreed to. She knew deep inside that things were never going to be the same after this impending meeting. She didn't know the details, but a dread was brewing, like an evening storm in summer. She could see it coming—a deadly storm. But for now, she returned to her workshop and resumed carving her latest stumper. She was most relaxed while carving, the day's stresses melting off like snow in summer. She forgot about the storm and enjoyed bringing life to another tree stump. Today, life was good.

3iv34e

The Empty Box of Shame

Venus jolted awake. Disoriented, she blinked at the sunlight filtering through the blinds, revealing the empty box of chocolate sprawled beside her in bed, like a sinful lover. “Oh, God!” she groaned as she put her head in her hands. The cell phone’s ring made her jolt again. Glancing at the screen, she saw Aiden’s name on the caller ID. "Good morning, my love!" she answered, forcing a brightness into her voice. "Happy birthday, beautiful! Sorry, I’m not there to celebrate with you today,” Aiden's voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the receiver. “Celebratory dinner when I get back on Friday?" "Sounds perfect." “Hey, did you get the chocolate and flowers I sent you?”  “Yes! Oh my God, the bouquet is gorgeous....and all peonies...my favorite.” “How about the chocolate? Did you try any of them?” Venus looked at the sad empty box and started putting the stray chocolate wrappers into it. “I got the box. It looks so fancy, but I haven’t opened it yet.” “I ordered them from this artsy chocolatier that has unusual flavors like saffron and rose water. I think you’ll like them.” Venus got out of bed, carrying the box. “Yum, can’t wait to try them. You’re so thoughtful.” “It takes one to know one. Okay, gotta run. Have a meeting in a few. See you Friday. Love you.” “Love you too. Bye.” Hanging up, Venus surveyed the bed and floor to make sure there were no empty wrappers left behind. Then, quickly, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a large recycling bag. She dumped the chocolate box in it and walked towards the trash can which was overflowing with all kinds of candy, cookie, and cake wrappers. She dumped those in the recycling bag as well and secured it with two fierce knots.  She scanned the kitchen, making sure she had not left any evidence behind. Nothing. She let out a sigh and said, “Siri, play Vivaldi.” Classical music was her constant refuge. She would let it linger in the air and wash over her nerves. As she listened to 'La Primavera' and relaxed, her gaze drifted to her favorite painting on the dining room wall. Sandro Botticelli’s "Birth of Venus". The painting was supposed to be more meaningful that day. A congratulatory reminder of her existence from the goddess she was named after.  Instead, she felt the goddess was mocking her for the shameful night before. She escaped to the dressing room to change. Only to find her self-scrutiny intensified within its mirrored walls that reflected with brutal honesty.  Apparent were a subtle swell of her stomach, and a telltale puffiness around her eyes. She turned, observing her thighs. At least no changes there. She could still fit into her clothes. Of course, she could. But what would she wear? What does one wear on her special day, she wondered. She looked at her favorite dresses, and then, as if the day hadn’t started dramatically enough, she remembered. She couldn’t wear any of her dresses. Absolutely not. Today was the day of her interview at Bayside Hospital. The place where she'd envisioned herself working ever since she was a teenager; her dream job. She looked at her watch. Eight twenty-nine. Her heart sank. The interview was at nine. No time for self-pity. Every second counted. She looked at her formal wardrobe. Silk blouses peeked from their designated shelves. Their delicate fabrics and understated patterns hinted at a quiet femininity beneath the professional facade. Rows of gleaming pumps, in classic black and pops of unexpected color, stood poised on a lower shelf, ready to conquer any meeting or conference room. A single impeccably tailored blazer hung center stage, its sharp lines a testament to quiet authority. But Venus had no time to ponder. She picked out a navy skirt and dark blue blouse. She had never thrown an outfit together this fast. She ran to the bathroom. Her hair, usually styled in elegant waves, was yanked back into a messy bun secured with the first pin she could find. A glance in the mirror confirmed the precarious state of her hair bun, but there was no time for adjustments. She picked up her purse and shoved her feet into the closest pair of flats. As she raced to the door, she remembered makeup. Oh well, this was an interview for a nutritionist, not a runway model, she told herself. But there was one thing she could not forget. Getting rid of the recycling bag. That was a must. So that she could forget all about last night. With a final yank on the door, Venus headed out, carrying the large recycling bag like a chubby baby. At the apartment building's communal recycling area, she cast a furtive glance around, then dumped the bag in the bin and slammed the lid shut. A feeling of relief washed over her. Now she could concentrate on what mattered. She envisioned herself at the interview, as a picture of calm competence. She got this. After all, no one deserved the Senior Nutritionist position at Bayside more than her. A bachelor's degree in biochemistry and a master's degree in food nutrition, both from an Ivy League school and top of her class - this was just the foundation. She also had a decade of clinical research experience and stellar recommendations from respected colleagues. Maybe landing this job on her birthday was meant to be. The stars were aligned and ready to grant her heart's desire, she thought. Suddenly, a vision of Botticelli’s Venus flickered in her mind.  "Think you’ll be the Senior Nutritionist at Bayside? Think again. You're a fraud! A shimmering facade masking a mess. This dream will turn to dust in your hands, just like the cookies I watched you consume last night." Goddess Venus was right. Human Venus was an imposter. A nutritionist with a secret sugar addiction and major binge disorder. A secret that she had kept from everyone, including her beloved husband. No one knew that she craved and consumed the very foods she told others were detrimental to their health. Frosting-laden cakes, creamy dreamy shakes, and brightly colored candies that she had learned, through biochemistry courses, were almost toxic for human consumption. Her confidence faltered as the weight of her secret pressed down on her. The steps that moments ago seemed light and purposeful now felt heavy, each one a reminder of the lie she was living. But slowing down wasn't an option. She was already running late. What she needed now was a release from the suffocating guilt and shame. To numb herself, to become emotionally empty. Yes, EMPTY…. like the box of chocolate she woke up next to.

0f1qcl

Harley Davidson

"I got it under control , man ' he mumbled........................ At first , he sensed a warm pink/orange glow and his closed eyelids slowly peeled to reveal the yellow-white ceiling of his bedroom and a vague , but obnoxious, piercing beep-beep-beep to his left. As Colin 'Harley' Davidson casually rubber-stamped the edge of his left fist on the Snooze button , temples throbbing , dry mouthed and pulse trip-hammering from last nights pub exertions , a bolt of panic coursed down his neck. "oh.....wait.....' a worried glance at the clock ' NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he yelled , as he leaped from the tousled bed covers , ' 8.20 , 8 FRIGGIN' 20 !!!! I'll never make it in time!' he exclaimed as he rushed out of the room soon returning from the world fastest face wash , tooth brushing , hair combing and call of nature in human history , wrenched the suit , shirt and tie from his wardrobe rail and hurriedly thrust each shirt sleeve and trouser leg with limbs. 8.21. BOLLOCKS! As a fourth year student at Edinburgh University , Harley was well and truly disciplined in the student art of late awakening and rushing to morning lectures , the seductive lure of late nights and cheap beer at the student unions proving irresistible temptations for the promising architecture graduate. But not TODAY of all days , don't be late TODAY , his day of reckoning , his metamorphosis into fully fledged Batchelor of Design in Architecture with Honours all but complete. And the prize for this splendid feat - a chance to interview for a post grad scholarship in Architecture from the prestigious Bond University , Gold Coast , Australia! In exactly 38 minutes from now!!! He lunged for the front door of his flat grabbing his keys , wallet , phone and interview folder as his flatmate and last night's fellow drinking reprobate , Glen 'Slug' McMillan , a highly intelligent if a bit too subdued counterpart , leaned against his bedroom doorframe , proffering Harley the tail end of a joint. Harley recoiled horrified by Slug's surreal gesture and spat ," Seriously , mate , its not even 8.30!' And it wasn't , it was 8.25am and Harley bounded down the smooth concrete steps two and three at a time , down four levels to the entry door leading on to Bruntsfield Road. He could distantly hear Slug utter" hang on , mate , wait" as he rapidly descended but paradise beckoned and he ran to the bus stop as , over his shoulder , the number 3 bus service idly rumbled over the hill behind him about 400 yards away. The bus stop was 150 yards from his from door and he set off sprinting to the bus stop , cursing the damn alarm clock , cursing Slug and his 'one for the frog and toad' , and cursing his lack of athletics training which had garnered him the nickname. Bright shafts of sunlight glinted in his eyes as they reflected off the embankments of snow that had fallen through December so he shortened his stride to a brisk , heavy plod to avoid unnecessary slipping , falling and further concertina to todays events. Arms pumping , legs driving , the bus stop loomed 20 yards ahead as he thrust his right arm out with the folder , frantically waving it up and down as the bus's tyres dispersed melted snow and glided easily past Harley. His breath stopped and a faint despairing groan escaped him as the bus sailed past but then relief rinsed through him as the orange left indicator light slowly winked and the maroon double decker began to angle towards the stop. Harley bounded towards the step as the lever doors swivelled open and the driver bellowed ' Cutting it fine , pal!' as he subconsciously waved the student bus pass in his wallet window across the sensor on the drivers door , gasping for breath and whispered an earnest 'Thank You'. His chest heaved with the exertion and relief and trudged over to a vertical pole to hold on to as the bus heaved away from the stop. He didn't want to sit , too anxious , too adrenalised as he tried to collect his thoughts and compose himself for the interview. 'Its fine , Harley , old son ,' he thought ' we'll make it.' It was fifteen minutes to the University and as he slid his wallet back into his left pocket he pulled out his phone , 8.34am , 26 minutes to showtime. Inhale 1,2,3,4 exhale 1,2,3,4 , just like training. As his heart began to settle to the same rhythm as the bus engine , he glanced right to the digital display on the ceiling above the driver cab and blinked to clear his eyes. As he strained to focus a sudden dizzying sensation engulfed him and nausea gripped his stomach - Edinburgh University 29 MINUTES!!!'' "Wh....wh....whaa-aat" , he uttered as the speaker announced 'We are now stopping at Bruntsfield Links , this is part of our reduced service today' "Reduced?? What??' he moaned and looked up in horror - the normal route was now twice as long! Usually it would wind around the Georgian statuesque amphitheatre of Edinburgh's illustrious New Town , along a wide straight avenue to the East End of Princes Street and over North Bridge to head south all the way to Edinburgh University's Old College on South Bridge, but this revised revulsion included Haymarket , West End , Stockbridge , bloody Trinity!!!!! Harley snapped out of his inner vortex , there was only one thing for it. 'STOP!' he yelled as the driver had to stamp on the brakes as he approached the upcoming bus stop and the bus skidded slightly as it ground to an angled halt. As he leapt from the bus he threw an obligatory 'Thanks , mate!' over his shoulder and caught the distressed frown of the driver. No time for apologies , he sprinted across the road back uphill slightly and slipped through the alley next to the Golf Tavern , the scene of last night's drunken debauchery. The alley opened into the splendour of The Meadows , gentle , hilly City Centre parklands dissected in the middle by Melville Drive , which Harley determined as the optimal running route to the University building. Any ill effects from the night before vaporised as he channelled his focus and bounded along Melville Drive to South Clerk Street , where he would turn sharp left then sprint to South Bridge. He was going to make it , he could feel it now , billowing clouds of visible white breath plumed from his mouth with the effort as he locked in on the corner , his long black overcoat furling out behind him like a night vigilantes cape. And then it happened, Firstly , he saw large black dots on a large white potato shape , then a red band of fabric at the base of the potato with a thin red cord leading up from it. Instinctively , he swiftly sidestepped the large potato and his footing deserted him on the slushy pavement. As his right leg became airborne, and his arm shot like arrows to the sky , he identified the dalmatian and its attractive , blonde owner , hands raised to her cheeks in fright. For the second time today , the darkness must only have been momentary as a wet sensation on his mouth had Harley reminiscing of the pretty blonde dog owner until it dawned on him a woman wouldn't resuscitate him with a gentle large tongue. His eyes fluttered open and his mouth peeled back with a grimace as the dogs lead tightened , and a light voice instructed "Boston! Come here , Boston!" Obediently , the big dog relented and Harley saw 'Boston' engraved on the dog tag as he struggled to his feet. Clumps of snow fell from the back of his coat as he slowly pulled himself up to standing , as he noticed the interview folder on the ground and documents splayed out in the snow. He scooped them up as the young lady claimed 'Your gonna kill yourself , running around like that!' Her tone softened , "Are you OK?' He grinned and winced ,'Aye' and as he met her concerned gaze , ' Can I get your number?' She frowned , bemused and Harley took off past her and the equally confused dog , resuming the mission. Surely nothing else could go wrong today. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious for but there was no noticeable sign of injury and his large strides closed the distance to the University gates which were now in sight. He pulled his phone out as he approached the tall , black wrought iron entrance. There was a diagonal crack across the screen and he saw the fleeting anger on his own face reflected as his eyes fell on the time. 8.55 . The anger dissolved. I made it , he thought but was suddenly aware of an eerie quiet in the wintry morning.  Something was distinctly out of place , the grand entrance gates were padlocked , the courtyard within , deserted. And then it hit him like a javelin between the eyes - the quiet streets , the leisurely dog walker , the reduced bus service, Slug hollering behind him down the stairs................and he slowly looked down at his war weary phone screen at the detail under the time , when suddenly the screen lit up with the words, 'Incoming call' and in larger letters 'SLUG'. Harley slid the green phone icon to accept and held the phone tiredly to his ear. 'Harley?" 'Hey , Spud' Nervously,'Hey I tried to tell you......'' 'I know , mate , I know' Harley cut in.'Its Sunday....... Its Sunday fckn Sunday' Hey could hear a muffled laugh crackling on the other end. Wearily Harley asked ,' What so funny?' Spud paused then "Well ........... I bet you a night out at the pub that you'd be late for the interview , so..........technically............................'

jvcl8o

Off-Peak

Just how fucking early do you have to leave the house to not be late? The interview was in FiDi; only 45 minutes away, no big deal. I went over the entire route last night. The interview’s at 3 PM, which might look bad—maybe they want an early riser, a real go-getter, a proper robot boy—but I don’t know how the fuck to wake up in the morning, so I played it safe. But it’s fine. It’s not like I chose a quarter to closing or anything. 3 PM is the middle of the afternoon, the last real hour people give to their job before looking at the clock and waiting for 5 to arrive. So, 3 PM, but I’ll plan to arrive by a quarter to, both so I can look good, and also so I can use their bathroom and make sure I don’t look like shit. Google Maps says it’s 45 minutes in ideal conditions, but we all know there’s no such thing as ideal conditions in the city. So, let’s look at it. First, I walk to the L at Graham. Realistically, it’s a 10-minute walk, but I’ll give myself 20. Cool. From there, either I can stop at Union Square and take the 4 5 6 or the N Q R W the rest of the way down, or I can take the L a bit farther, stop at 14th and 8, then take either the C or the E. This will take 3 minutes longer but is the ideal route according to Google…why? More stops, less choices, more time. How the fuck is this the best option? Forget it! I’ll go to Union Square. Okay, so I walk to Graham and take the L to Union Square; 5 stops, 8 minutes. Easy. The next train should only take another 10 minutes, probably less, and then I’m only a few blocks away. Perfect. So, let’s pretend all that fails. Double everything. It takes me 20 minutes to get to the subway because my bum-ass ankle is giving me grief. Then the L is delayed and that takes 20 minutes to get to Union Square. Fine. Then every single fucking train at Union Square is also delayed and it takes another 20 minutes to get to FiDi. What should be a 5-minute walk to the office takes me 10, again, because the Insurance Industry decided I don’t need a fully functioning ankle. Add it all up and it’s still less than 90 minutes. No problem! If I leave at 12, how can I possibly be late? I’ll be so early that I’ll be able to stop at a coffee shop and get some extra preparation in and then I will get that God damn job. No problem. I got this. Here’s what really happened: by some sort of miracle I was able to actually wake up at around 10. I had plenty of time to shower, make breakfast, eat that breakfast, and leave at 12—as planned—without feeling like I was in any sort of rush. It was going well . I was fucking ready . Sure, my ankle wasn’t being the best and it did take 15 minutes to get to Graham compared to the usual 10, but what’s 5 minutes, right? The L comes every 5 minutes, so it’s not like it mattered when I got there, only that I got there. Wrong. After strolling down the stairs like Mary fucking Poppins with nothing but time, I was alerted that the L wouldn’t be here for another 30 minutes. Odd, but there were still 2 hours and 45 minutes before the interview was to start, so I guess it’s not a big deal? Let me check why there’s such a delay, though. I opened the MTA app to find out that, due to a “track issue,” the L would not be running between Bedford and Halsey, which includes the stop I was at, Graham, and every stop on it that would be of any relevancy. Why was the station even open then if the L is the only train that runs through it? Good question! So, the L wasn’t coming any time soon. The clock may have said 30 minutes, but what it really meant was Go Fuck Yourself. Now what? The next closest train was the G. The G, which doesn’t go into Manhattan. The G which, for all intents and purposes, could give a fuck about my frivolous desires to leave Brooklyn. The absolute best the G would do is drop me off at the very beginning of Queens, otherwise known as Long Island City (nothing makes sense, I know).  Which is what I ended up doing, considering there was only a slim chance my foot could handle such a long bike ride, and the bus was not to be trusted (based on the 1 poor experience I had with it, which is all the experience you need to never trust the bus ever again). This cost me another 15 minutes as the closest G was not close at all and my ankle quickly transitioned from grunting to screaming. I arrived in Queens around a quarter to 1. Still plenty of time considering I could now take the same E Google was insistent is the best route all the way to the World Trade Center, a short walk from the interview. There would simply be 7 extra stops now. My new projected ETA was 1:30 PM and I was back to feeling like a big shot. Ready. To. Go. But then the M showed up instead of the E and I was back to feeling like a total fool. The M? I don’t know where the fucking M goes! I’ve never taken anything on the orange line! So, I didn’t take it, and instead waited for the next E to arrive, which obviously didn’t. Instead, the M arrived again and, assuming at this point that the E would never show up, jumped on it before it escaped. The M took me far, but far from close enough for my feet. I was, though, finally in Manhattan, 2 miles away at Washington Square Park. Back in Garden City (which is neither a garden nor a city but the boring neighborhood I grew up in and managed to flee from many years ago), 2 miles would have taken 2 seconds, but in Manhattan—even an Uber would take at least another 20 minutes. That would have been the wise thing to do—wiser still if I did it back in Brooklyn—but the price was still far more than my precious principles could handle. The fact that my principles couldn’t see the bigger picture—that if I got this job I would eventually be able to afford oh-so-many Ubers—is another story. At this point, I had lost all faith in the subway to take me any farther than it already failed to do and didn’t even check what the options were. Nor did I even consider a Citibike. I was sure that, even if I managed to not get creamed by a bus on the way there, I would certainly fuck up my suit in some way. So, I ran, straight down, hair sticking up like Alfalfa as I slipped past the Comedy Cellar. Then I made a wrong turn into Soho, whose shops mocked my style with their dry luxury threads as sweat soaked into mine. Back in the right direction, almost in Tribeca, I stumbled upon 8 Hook & Ladder, the site of the “Ghostbusters Headquarters,” just as my breath started to freeze in my throat. I hunched over, the ice cracking out of me in stifled coughs. My ankle throbbed loudly like a broken heart. My other ankle was quiet, perfectly-fucking-fine, which somehow made it worse. The ghost on the sign looked at me in shock. Was I to become a mirror image of that fictional caricature? Who ya gonna call? “Ghostblusters,” I slurred out like a drunk. “Fucking tourists,” a passerby mumbled. Turning my wrist, I looked in shock as the long arm on my watch approached 3. That can’t be right, I figured and took out my phone. But it was right. It was somehow already a quarter to 3 and I was still a little less than an entire mile away. It was official: I was going to be fucking late. Still, I hobbled on, my bad foot sliding across the pavement like a wet banana while my other leg did all the work. I walked beside the river, where it was safe, while the horror of New Jersey haunted me from the other side. “Fuck you,” I spit out toward the water. There were runners, bikers, skateboarders, cats, and dogs, all weaving around me as I cemented myself as the slowest creature on the boardwalk. Then it came into light, that big silver penis of an office building, and I knew I made it. All the bones in my battered ankle seemed to still be intact and, by the grace of the skydaddy some call God, their elevator was working. The time, however, was well past 3 Pm. It was, to my horror, an entire 13 minutes past 3. Certainly, I was fucked. This was my dream job. My way out. An interview with the Editor in Chief at the largest travel magazine in the nation. I was finally going to do something that mattered, author something that mattered, in the only way creation can matter: by finally having an actual audience. But there I was, fucked. Despite all my efforts, and all the pain it took to get here, I was completely fucked. Out of the elevator, I grinned through the pain, walked straight, and did my best to pretend I didn’t, surely, look like a rag doll that had just been soaked in a pool of sweat. The receptionist welcomed me with bright teeth and clean clothes. I gave her my name. She told me to take a seat. I said, what? “He’ll be right with you,” she insisted. “He still wants to meet with me? But I’m so late,” I confessed, like the idiot I was. “He’s never on time,” she laughed. “You’re fine.” My breathing was still so heavy. I could hardly respond. “Can you direct me to the bathroom?” I asked. Somehow, she understood, despite it all coming out like one word. “Is there time?” I added. “Of course,” she told me, still amused. “Should he surprise me and come out any time soon, I’ll tell him you’ve been here for 30 minutes and couldn’t hold it in anymore.” “You’re an angel,” I let out, turning before she could direct me. “It’s the other way.” After pissing what felt like my entire body weight out, I headed to the mirror to do damage control on my appearance. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. My suit being black hid practically all of my sweat and, with a little water, I was able to return my hair to a presentable state. When I got out, I sat back down, took out my notes, and started to review what I had prepared. Despite the city’s best efforts, it turned out I was still early after all.

texl99

Lost and Found

Jamie is a girl who loves the thrill of the open road. Her bright red Corvette was more than a car; it was her escape, her thinking pod, her sanctuary on wheels. One crisp autumn evening, Jamie decided to take her beloved Corvette for a ride without a destination in mind. The sunset, a canvas of fiery orange and purple stretched above her, an echo of warmth and wildness stirring in her heart as she drove past familiar streets. With the windows down, the cool breeze played with her hair, carrying away the remnants to her everyday life. The road unfurled before her like a ribbon, she felt the hum of the engine reverberate through her, syncing with the rhythm of her pulse. The air was alive with the scent of autumn- the crisp tang of fallen leaves, the earthy musk of the distant woods, and the faintest hint of smoke from a far-off chimney. The smells mingled with the leather and polish of her car’s interior, creating a cocoon that was uniquely hers. As the houses and shops gave way to open fields, Jamie’s mind wandered. Music from the speakers filled her mind, a symphony that seemed to understand her restless spirit. Each line resonated with the part of her that yearned for adventure, for meaning, for a sign pointing her to the right path. The melodies wove through her thoughts, a soundtrack to the crossroads of her life. She thought about her dreams, her fears, and the many decisions that lay ahead. The road twisted and turned, mirroring the convolutions of her thoughts. Above, the sky deepened to a velvet indigo, stars beginning to prick the darkening canvas, each one a silent witness to her solitude and serenity. The world outside might be rushing by in a blur, but inside her Corvette, time seemed to slow, allowing Jamie to savor this fleeting freedom. It was here, on the road, that she found her clarity, her soul unfettered and as expansive as the open road that stretched endlessly before her. The further Jamie drove, the more her surroundings became alien. Street lights were few and far between, and the road signs, once helpful markers, now seemed to be written in riddles. With each passing mile, the landscape grew wilder, the trees taller and more foreboding, their branches reaching out like the fingers of giants. Jamie quickly realized she was lost, both in place and in purpose. The air turned cooler, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the promise of the unseen. It was as if she had crossed into another realm, one untouched by the hands of time and humanity. Her heart, a drumbeat in her chest, racing- not from fear of being lost, but from the realization that she didn’t know which path to take in life. She pulled over into the grass, her car idling softly as she looked up at the stars peeking through the silhouettes of towering trees. As she leaned back into her seat, Jamie’s gaze lifted to the sky. The stars, a tapestry of light against the night, blinded back at her, each one a story, a journey, a dream. They were so distant, yet they felt like they were there just for her, a celestial audience to her silent questioning. The music, now a gentle whisper, seemed to ask the questions she couldn’t voice. Why was she here? Where was she going? The questions hung in the air, mingling with the notes that floated from her speakers. The answers were out there, somewhere between the earth and the stars. Waiting for her to find them. In this quiet space between worlds, Jamie found a rare peace, the kind that comes from standing at the edge of the unknown and daring to question everything.  In the stillness of the night, Jamie found her breath slowing, her thoughts quieting. The stars offered no answers, but she was part of something immense- a universe of possibilities. And in that moment of solitude, the road was her only companion, which she found a strange comfort in knowing. Jamie understood that being lost wasn’t a curse but a chance to find a new way. Being lost on the road felt like a reflection of her current state of mind. She embraced the quiet, letting the silence speak to her. After some time she decided to trust her intuition to find her way back, just as she needs to trust herself to navigate through life’s uncertainties. As Jamie retraced her route, the familiarity of the town lights welcomed her like a warm embrace. The lit-up welcome sign softly glowed as she zoomed past it. The streets were quiet, as if the town itself was whispering for her to take in the serenity of the night. She arrived back home with a newfound sense of clarity. Her heart was lighter, and her mind was calmer. She might not have all the answers to her questions, but she understood that sometimes, it’s okay to be lost. Just as the roads meander and twist before reaching their destination, thoughts and dreams too can take a circuitous route, each bend and turn an opportunity for growth and self-discovery. As she turned off the ignition and sat for a moment in the silence of her car, Jamie felt a connection to the world around her, to the stars above that had witnessed her journey. She may not have found all the answers that night, but she had discovered something just as valuable- a trust in life’s process and in her ability to navigate through it. Being lost wasn’t just about not knowing where you are; it was about being open to the journey, to the unexpected detours that could lead to revelations and insights of life. Jamie found herself cherrising the feeling of uncertainty, because in those moments, she found pieces of herself that were otherwise overshadowed by the routines and expectations of daily life. With a gentle smile, Jamie stepped out of her Corvette, taking one last look up at the night sky. She walked towards her front door, each step filled with confidence. 

d61efu

The Interview that Reeks

Jacob has been waiting for this day. Today at 1:00 pm will be his interview with Armstrong Design Inc. It's a top-rated company that creates client's websites, logos, and apps. He didn't think he had a chance with only a little over a year of experience working in this field. But he took a leap of faith and sent his resume and a website design sample. The hiring manager called him and scheduled an interview. The first thing he did in the morning was go out for a run in the park. He thought it would help to clear his mind. He was very nervous about the interview. When he entered the park, he saw other runners and a few older people feeding the pigeons. Halfway into his thirty-minute run, he came upon a girl jogging. They were the only ones on this particular trail. He decided to stop and drink some water. When he opened his water bottle, he heard a scream. He looked up and saw the girl on the ground. Jacob ran to her and knelt beside her. She had a large gash on her head, and her right ankle was swelling. "Are you all right?" "Do you think you can put your weight on your other leg?" Jacob asked. The girl tried to stand up and started to cry. "It's ok. I'm going to run and get you help." "No! Please don't leave me." The girl pleaded. "Well, do you mind if I carry you? I can get you back to the busy part of the park, and we can get help." " Alright." The girl said. Jacob picked her up and brought her to the two cops patrolling the park. They called the ambulance and took it from there. His thirty-minute run took close to an hour. He returned home quickly, ate, and showered. He hurried and dressed to make up for the time he lost. After getting ready, Jacob said a silent prayer and hoped everything else would go smoothly. He had to take two buses to get to his destination. His arrival time will be about thirty minutes before his appointment. A lady and her baby were waiting when he got to the bus stop. The mother was standing with the baby. Jacob decided to sit on the bench beside them. The mother smiled at him, and Jacob nodded. He smiled at the baby, and the baby smiled back with his milk smile. He reached for his phone in his jacket to check the time and realized it was still on the kitchen table. Jacob noticed the clock at the bus stop was out of order. The traffic was heavy and noisy, so he politely tapped the lady's arm to get her attention. The lady turned around with the baby and looked down at him. Jacob said. "Maam, I'm sorry to bother you. Could you please tell me the time?" When the lady looked at her watch, her baby projectile regurgitated milk all over his jacket and shirt. The mother was mortified and tried to clean it up with baby wipes. But it didn't help much. The lady apologized and left. The smell was pungent. The bus arrived, and when Jacob got on and sat down, he could hear whispers and people holding their noses. He understood because it took all he had not to gag. He bought a bottle of water at the corner drug store by the next bus stop to try to help wipe the milk off without getting his shirt too wet, but the smell lingered. Jacob decided to get in line for the next bus. When he looked behind him, he saw an elderly lady in line with a strange look on her face. She looked around and said, "What is that smell?" Jacob confessed it was him and gave her a sympathetic smile. "A baby regurgitated his meal on me at my last bus stop."  The elderly lady shook her head. " Oh dear, I have something to help you. She reached into her purse and took out a large bottle of perfume. She started spraying him with it, and the smell reminded him of baby powder and flowers. Jacob was beginning to have trouble breathing, so he put his hand over the perfume bottle. "Maam, I'm good. I would not want you to waste all your perfume on me." "Don't worry about that. Would you like me to spray some more?" "No, No, thank you. I think that's more than enough." Jacob said between coughs, "No problem, dear. I'm glad I can help." The bus arrived, and the driver said he could only take one passenger. One of the other buses got into a wreck, and he had to take the passengers from that bus, so he was at capacity. The driver said the next bus would arrive in thirty to forty minutes. Jacob was relieved he was the first one. The old lady behind him was upset. Jacob turned around to see if she was ok. She said if she had to wait for the next bus, she would be late for a doctor's appointment. She had waited two months for this appointment. He stepped aside and told the lady to go ahead. He will wait for the next bus. The lady thanked him and got on the bus. The other bus arrived thirty minutes later, and Jacob got on. He sat by the exit to be the first to get off when it was time to depart. The clock on the bus showed it was 12:15 pm. He was fifteen minutes away from his destination. So, depending on how many stops, he figured he should get there about ten to fifteen minutes before the interview. He wanted to get there earlier and maybe find a way to decrease the strong aroma. But at least he wasn't going to be late. The bus arrived at the next stop for a few more people. He was lost in thought, wondering if the hiring manager would cancel the interview once she got a whiff of him. He hoped she would allow him to explain. He heard someone clear their throat. Jacob looked up and saw a beautiful woman looking down at him. "Excuse me, the seat next to you is the last one. I like to sit by the window. Would you mind?" asked the woman. Jacob got up and motioned his hand to the window seat. "I don't mind at all." The woman sat down, her eyes started to water, and she started sneezing. The woman looked at Jacob and said. "I'm sorry, I'm sensitive to strong smells. He looked around and saw people staring at him with mean looks. They knew where the smell was coming from. He stood up and apologized to everyone. Hoping they wouldn't kick him off the bus. He sat back down and looked at the woman sitting next to him. Her eyes were still watering, and her nose was bright red. "Hi, I am Jacob, and I would love to tell you why I smell like baby puke and twenty old ladies mixed together. The best part is that I'm heading to an interview with an amazing company I would love to work for, and I smell like this. Anna laughed. "Hi, I'm Anna. I would love to hear the story. It might help me forget about the burning sensation in my nose. Jacob told her about the girl in the park, the baby spitting up on him, and the old lady who tried to help him by dousing him with perfume. He explained what happened with the last bus and said only one seat was left. Jacob explained how he let the old lady go so she wouldn't miss her doctor's appointment. As he talked, she couldn't help but notice his blue eyes sparkling as he made her laugh. Jacob loved her laugh. He was about to show her his portfolio and tell her about his interview. But he felt his stomach start to cramp, and he felt like he was about to vomit. The smell affected him more than he thought. There was no way he would lose his stomach contents on the bus. He pressed the button for the bus to stop, and he ran out. Jacob ran behind a building and relieved his nausea. When he finished, the revelation hit that he had left his portfolio on the bus. He walked back to the front of the building and realized it was a fast-food place. He went inside, went into the restroom, and washed his face. When he went to the front, he bought a soft drink and sat down. The restaurant clock showed it was 1:10 pm. He was devastated. He didn't know what to do. He forgot his phone, so he couldn't call and explain what had happened. He didn't even have his portfolio. He decided to rent a bike and head towards the company. He wanted to apologize for being late and explain what happened. He doubted that they would give him a second chance. But an apology would be the right thing to do. Jacob was angry. He had missed out on the job of a lifetime and met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen on the bus, and all he got was her first name. Jacob felt defeated. Anna got to the office and went straight to her boss's office. She knocked and opened the door slowly. "Are you busy, Mr. Armstong?" "No, come on in." Anna walked in and opened Jacob's portfolio on his desk. "Take a look at this, Sir." Mr Armstrong took a minute to look at the portfolio. He closed it and said, "Wow! This person is talented. Who is this for?" "It belongs to the guy I was sitting next to on the bus today. His name is Jacob. I didn't get his last name. He looked like he had a rough day, and he smelled awful. He told me that he went jogging this morning and ended up helping a girl who had a serious fall and hurt herself. Then he told me a baby threw up on him. An old lady thought he smelled bad and decided to drown him in some of her perfume, making him smell worse. Then he gave up the last seat on the bus so the lady who sprayed the perfume on him wouldn't miss her doctor's appointment. His face took on a greenish hue as he showed me his portfolio. He became nauseated and ran off the bus. He left his portfolio behind. He said his interview was with an amazing company that he would love to work for. But he didn't say the name of the company." Mr. Armstrong was flipping through the portfolio again. "He has remarkable skills. Hold on a minute, did you say his name is Jacob? Linda came by and gave me the resumes for today's interviews. She told me her last interview for the day was a no-show, and his name was Jacob Collins. She was disappointed because he gave a sample of his work and she was very impressed." "Could it be the same person?" Anna asked. Anna fumbles through the resumes on the desk and finds Jacob Collon's resume. Mr. Armstrong called his number, but there was no answer, and Jacob's phone wasn't set up for voice mail. " I will try again later. Take the portfolio to your office for safekeeping." Jacob was in the Armstrong Designs lobby. The receptionist looked at him and said, "Hi, My name is Kelly. How can I help you?" 'Yes, my name is Jacob Collins. I had an interview with Linda at 1:00 p.m. I couldn't make it on time. So, I just wanted to apologize and explain to her what happened. Kelly was taken aback by his kindness. She wondered why he smelled like someone had mugged him with a perfume bottle, but she decided not to ask. Kelly wanted to help him redeem himself. Even though she knew Linda left for the day, she called her office. " I'm sorry, Jacob, Linda is not in her office right now. Oh well, I will just call Mr. Armstrong to see when she returns." This was a simple ploy to get Mr. Armstrong to talk with Jacob without looking like she went over Linda's head. Linda is a very nice person. However, she is very strict about being late and wouldn't give Jacob another chance to be interviewed. He could have been late because he cured cancer, and Linda wouldn't think that was a valid reason. Kelly knew her boss would be more understanding. "Sir, Sorry to bother you, but I have a man here named Jacob Collins. He missed his interview and wanted to apologize to Linda for not showing up. Do you know when she will be back?" Mr. Armstrong couldn't believe it. "Kelly, send him to my office, please. You don't have to call Linda back when she returns. I'll take it from here." Kelly hung up with the biggest smile on her face and told Jacob the boss would like to meet him. "Go down two doors to the left. The first double door is his office." Jacob couldn't believe the receptionist had done that for him. "Thank you for doing this," Kelly said. "It's no problem; I have a good feeling about you. Now hurry up, and don't make the boss wait. Jacob arrived at Mr. Armstrong's office and knocked. When Jacob heard him say come in, he opened the door. No introductions were necessary. Mr. Armstrong knew it was him just by the smell he brought with him. He motioned for Jason to sit down. A few moments later, Mr. Armstrong asked Jacob to excuse him for a minute and called Anna. "Hello, Could you bring the portfolio we were looking at to my office, please." "Yes, sir," Anna replied. Anna walked into the office with the portfolio. She froze when she looked into those blue eyes. Jacob was confused. "Anna?" Mr. Armstrong could not help but notice they were smitten with each other. He smiled and shook his head. Anna was still holding on to the portfolio. "Anna, the portfolio, please." Anna came back to reality and opened it on the desk. Mr. Armstrong looked at Jacob. "Your work is impressive. But what impressed me this morning was how you handled the obstacles you encountered coming here. Anna told me you helped the hurt jogger and gave up your seat for the lady who needed to get to her doctor's appointment. Your actions showed what a good person you are. To me, talent is one thing, but someone's character is everything. Jacob replied. "Thank you for the compliment, sir." Mr. Armstrong looked at him and said. " I think you will be a good fit in this company. Can you start on Monday?" Jacob smiled and said. "Sir, You better believe I can start on Monday." "Great, but one thing, don't ever come into my building smelling like that again." Mr. Armstrong shook Jacob's hand and said, "See you on Monday at 8:00 am." Mr. Armstrong looked at Anna. "Could you please see Jacob out?" I have to go. My wife warned me not to be late for dinner again, and everybody knows she's the boss at home. Mr. Armstrong left. Jacob sat there and couldn't believe how this day ended. He looked at Anna. "I can't thank you enough for what you did for me. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?" "You are welcome, and I would love to," Anna said. Jacob didn't realize the restaurant he took her to would be their special place. One year to the day they met on the bus, Jacob took her to their special place and proposed to her. Two years later, he took her back to celebrate his promotion as the company's leader in web design. Three months after that, Anna tried to give him a hint and said she wanted to go to their "place." She was craving some of the items on the menu. So he took her and ordered all the food she wanted. He realized she had developed a hearty appetite. He didn't catch on, so she gave him a present. One pink and one blue baby shirt. He understood.

c4k7ey

Running Late

Mindy is already awake when the shrill of the alarm sounds. She has been awake since 4am, anticipating the job interview she will have later this morning. She really, really wants this job. It is a dream job for her. Not only is the job a dream job, but the location is also ideal. If she gets this job, she will no longer have a two hour or longer commute to get to work. This factor is especially important in the winter when there is usually so much snow on the ground. Mindy had watched the weather forecast last night and it predicted that it would snow four inches overnight. As Mindy shuts off the alarm, she is already making her plans for making sure she will arrive on time for this very important interview. She decides to check the weather just to make sure there had not been a change and, sure enough, for once, the weather forecasters had been correct. It had indeed snowed four inches overnight. Mindy realizes she had better get a move on because she does not have a garage and she will have to shovel snow from her car and windows before she can even get going. “Damn! Instead of lying in bed thinking about interview questions, I should have just gotten up!” After quickly performing her normal grooming routines and putting on her perfect interview outfit – a tailored black blazer, black slacks, a crisp white collared shirt, and a pair of closed-toe, low-heeled black pumps. She chose not to carry a purse, but rather a thin brown leather portfolio case that contained several copies of her resume. She styled her dirty blonde hair up in a loose, textured bun – she wanted to appear professional, but not too uptight. Mindy takes one last look at herself in the mirror before she heads to her car. “How could they not hire me?” Mindy uses the app on her phone to start her car. Hopefully some of the snow will be melted by the time she actually makes it to her car. It takes her several tries to get the app to work. “What the heck is wrong with this thing? Today of all days, it chooses to be a butthead!”  After opting to wear her snow boots for cleaning off the car and the drive to the interview (she’ll change into her pumps once she arrives), Mindy puts on her red scarf and parka and heads out the door. As she makes her way to her red Ford Escort, she cannot believe how much snow is on the ground. Her car is parked some 20 feet away and the snowplows have not yet made it to her apartment complex to clear the driveways and the side roads. “Shit! It’s going to be a nightmare to make it out of here!” she says. She trudges through the snow slowly, the heavy wet snow feeling as though she has put weights around her ankles. She has just about made it to her vehicle when – whoosh- her feet slip from underneath her and she falls backwards in a heap of snow. “Are you all right, Mindy?” her neighbor yells from across the street. “I’m fine, Helen, thank you.” Mindy says as she rises. She moans as she realizes she must have twisted her right wrist as she tried to catch herself going down. Mindy finally makes it to her car. She is glad she used the remote start as some of the snow has already melted. She loads her items in the car, her portfolio, water bottle, and her purse. She then grabs her scraper and begins the task of clearing away the snow from the rest of the car. She glances at her watch and realizes she has 50 minutes until the start of her interview at eight o’clock. That should be enough time for her to finish cleaning off the car, drive to the interview, and walk through the door at least ten minutes early for her interview. As she finishes getting all the snow off the car, with some difficulty due to her wrist being a bit sore when she tried to catch herself as she was falling, she is ready to back out of the parking spot and head to her appointment. It’s now 7:17. She turns on the radio and listens to the weather report for the road conditions. She hears the announcer say. “The I-5 is currently blocked due to a multiple vehicle accident. If you were planning to go to downtown Anchorage, please use the side streets.” “You have got to be kidding me!” Mindy says. That is the exact route that she needed to take. Will she make it on time if she takes the side streets? She glances at her watch. 7:20. No choice but to take the side streets. She plans her route. She’ll head down Dimond, turn left on C street and keep going until she arrives at the office building where her interview will take place. Normally, it would have been faster to take the freeway, but because of the accidents on the freeway, this route will be better. She’ll make it with like five minutes to spare – fingers crossed. Mindy heads down Dimond. Things are going smoothly as it looks as though the snowplows have been down Dimond. It is still snowing, but Mindy drives slowly and steady and she is making her way. Traffic is amazingly light with few cars on the road. She arrives at her second stop light and slowly applies her brakes. Her Bronco slides a bit, but eventually comes to a stop. 7:30. When the light turns green, Mindy proceeds. When she arrives at C street, she turns left. Not long now and she will arrive at her destination. The snow has really started to fall down and it is difficult to see the other vehicles in front of her. Mindy drives for about a mile when suddenly she is forced to come to a stop in the middle of the two-lane road. There are two semi- trucks stuck in the road, unable to go up the slight incline of the road due to the amount of snow on the ground. They are blocking both lanes of the two-lane road. One of the truck drivers is out of his truck attempting to put chains on, but it is slow going. There is a line of vehicles behind both semi-trucks and no way to turn off the road, no way to turn around. Mindy looks at her watch: 7:45. “Shit!” She thought she would have been there by now. She would have been there had it not been for the semis stuck in the road. There is no way she will be early for her eight o’clock interview. She decides she will call to let the interviewer know that she will likely be late. Surely, they will understand. Mindy tries to find the phone number in her cell phone. She calls what she believes is the number, but she gets a recording. Mindy leaves a voice mail stating that she is stuck in traffic and does not believe she will make it there on time. “It would be better if I could have spoken to an actual person”, she thinks. But that’s the best she can do. 7:59. After thirty minutes, one of the trucks is finally able to move and all the vehicles slowly make their way down C street. Mindy cannot believe this has happened to her. She is tempted to not even go to the interview but decides that maybe someone got her message that she was running late. 8:29. Mindy arrives at the office building. She must drive around for ten minutes before she can even find a parking space. Another delay. This had absolutely been the worse morning of her life. By the time Mindy parks her car, walks to the front door of the building, takes the elevator to the third floor, and arrives at the office of her job interview, she is a full one hour late. “I’m Mindy Jones. I’m here for my interview,” she says to the receptionist. The receptionist looks at her incredulously. “You’re late”, she says. “I know. I couldn’t help it. Didn’t you get my message? I did call. Traffic was just awful. There were semis stuck on the road.” Mindy knows she is babbling and knows this is doing her no good. “Have a seat” the receptionist says. Ten minutes later, Mindy is called back to a conference room for her interview. It does not go well. After her harrowing morning, she found it hard to answer the questions and frankly was ready to just go back home. So much for her dream job.

7xluc2

Desperate Remedies - Garlic Girl

The changing seasons in Zambia always signaled the return of my three sisters from the Diaspora, each arrival was a delightful reunion filled with laughter and love. "Sera, we're coming back home for summer!" their voices echoed through the mobile phone, their excitement clear even through the crackling connection. And so, with flights booked for 11 th August, 13 th August and 15 th August, I prepared for their arrival as a seasoned hostess. Cleaning became my anthem as I danced through the house, rearranging furniture and stocking up on toiletries fit for royalty. My family had a 5-acre farm at our disposal, we had no shortage of accommodations for friends and family, and I meticulously assigned each sister their own cosy abode for the duration of their stay. And of course a holiday gathering would not be complete without a little extra help? I enlisted the aid of three trusted cleaning ladies; their diligent hands ensured that not a speck of dust dared tarnish my sister’s holidays. But just as excitement reached its peak, disaster struck in the form of a despicable sniffle which threatened to cast a shadow over our eagerly anticipated sister reunion. "Oh no, not now!" I lamented, visions of sneezing fits and quarantine nightmares danced around my head like mosquitoes. COVID had already cast a shadow over our country and the last thing I needed was a suspicious sniffle leading me into isolation. With Vicks vapour rub in hand, I waged war against the encroaching flu, slathering myself in a desperate bid for immunity. But as the afternoon wore on and my symptoms persisted, panic began to set in. That's when my daughter Kaluba came to the rescue, her youthful enthusiasm undaunted by the prospect of unconventional natural remedies. "Mummy, look what I found!" she exclaimed, brandishing her mobile phone like a beacon of hope. And there it was, amidst a sea of dubious advice: garlic, the unsung hero of kitchen pantries, purported to possess the miraculous ability to ward off even the fiercest flu. But the catch? It wasn't destined for a pot of soup or a savory dish—it was destined for the most unexpected of destinations – my virginal tract. I recoiled in disbelief, my hands instinctively crossing over my waist in a gesture of self-preservation. "Kaluba, you expect me to do that?" I protested, my skepticism warring with desperation. But Kaluba just laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Mummy, are you a doubting Thomas or do you want a cure?" she teased, a mischievous grin played on her lips. And so, armed with equal parts fear and determination, I embarked on a journey that would forever change the way I viewed home remedies—because when it comes to keeping my sisters and our holiday plans safe, no garlic bulb is too unconventional, no remedy too absurd. The recipe instructions read as follows: 1.     Select a single bulb of garlic. 2.    Peel away the outer layer of the garlic to reveal the clove within. Thoroughly wash the garlic, ensuring it is clean and free of any impurities. 3.    Sew a string to one end, allowing for easy removal after use. 4.   Wash your hands and carefully insert the garlic into your vaginal canal and patiently await its therapeutic effects. It's hard to believe, but after inserting the garlic, my flu symptoms started to fade away. I was overjoyed, yet I couldn't bring myself to admit to Kaluba that I had taken her advice. The thought felt too delicate and embarrassing to share. "Mom, did you try that YouTube hack?" Kaluba asked. I tried to brush it off but her persistence was like a pressing iron pushing every corner of me to answer her question. With a cunning glance, she caught onto my silence. "Mom, you're being mischievous," she teased. I couldn't help but smile shyly and respond, "for my sisters, I'd do anything," Then she knew I had done it. Meeting my sisters on their scheduled arrival date filled me with excitement. I enthusiastically waved as each of them approached, eager to greet them with a hug. I soon realized though that my affectionate gesture was a danger to all of them especially with my impending flu and so when my twin sister Agatha arrived we just held hands. Agatha mentioned her fondness for onion and garlic soup, which served as a stark reminder of the garlic that was stashed inside of me. I determined in my heart to remove it once I returned home. Once everyone had drifted off to sleep, I cautiously made my way to the bathroom to extract the garlic. My sisters had a tendency of being nosy and often they would barge into the toilet without warning to ask me something. It was therefore essential that I was alone in the bathroom especially that the door had no lock. I was in a swatting position and I tugged at the garlic, but all my efforts only seemed to shove the garlic deeper in. After several attempts, I threw in the towel. It felt like I was starring at my own episode of Mr. Bean's comedy show, his nose antics with hilarious expressions. I was on the verge of becoming the main actor in our family comedy show and my sisters would have a field day, and I'd be forever mocked. I drifted off to sleep, only to wake with excruciating pain twisting my stomach. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my sisters, in a panic, rushed me to the doctor's office. "Please, have a seat," the receptionist said gently, but I was too consumed by agony to even utter my name. "What's wrong? You're still alive, madam, speak," the doctor urged as tears continued to flow uncontrollably. Finally, I blurted out, "Doctor, I... I... I put a piece of garlic in my vaginal canal." The doctor's eyes widened in surprise! "You mischievous thing," he chuckled. Hastily, I explained that it wasn't what he assumed; it was just an innocent hack gone awry. "Where did you stumble upon this 'innocent hack'?" the doctor inquired with a mix of curiosity and concern. "From the internet," I admitted, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "And what is your educational background?" he continued, his tone gentle yet probing. "I hold a degree in Economics," I confessed, feeling a pang of shame at the admission. "You have a degree, and yet you have yet to grasp that not all internet hacks are safe to try," he remarked, his words punctuating the severity of the situation with a sobering reality check. "Can you show me the clip?" the doctor requested. "Doctor, please, I have already deleted it," I confessed, my voice trembling with shame and urgency.  "Doctor, please, just help me," I pleaded. The doctor beckoned the nurse and briefed her on my medical situation. Her expression turned visibly startled and her face turned red. As we exited the doctor's office, she wasted no time in bombarding me with questions about the garlic's whereabouts. Like an newspaper journalist she recorded what the doctors informed her. I confirmed my earlier confession, and surprisingly, shame began to dissipate. With a determined look, she slid on her gloves, pulling them up to her elbow. Instructed to remain still, I braced myself as she plunged in, her reassurances to relax ringing loudly in the room. I wanted to calm her down; her anxious energy was contagious. But before I could speak, the garlic was retrieved, and a wave of relief washed over me. "Congratulations, you're now the infamous Garlic Girl," the nurse announced with a hint of amusement. I eyed her warily, sensing her inclination towards teasing me. Tempted to flee before facing the doctor, I hesitated, but was promptly reminded of the pending consultation. Just as I reached for my phone, it buzzed with an incoming call. "Would you like your garlic as a memento of your little mishap?" the nurse quipped on the other end of the phone. “No”, I answered. As we left the hospital, I kept the entire incident tucked away as a clandestine memory until when I am recounting the events of that September day in this competition. I pray you the readers and my sisters won't judge my intellect, but that you will understand that my sole intention was to revel in my sisters’ company. Even as I enter this competition, I continue to relish my sisters’ company, dancing, swimming, and indulging in forbidden treats of food and chocolates. As the days unfold, it's clear: all is well that ends well. To all my readers, please heed this advice over my desperate remedy: just because "Garlic Girl" survived her ordeal, it doesn't mean you should try it. Experimenting with garlic in such a manner can have fatal consequences or like me the desperate remedy can turn into a shameful experience where you are mocked.

2mpyq3

Hopelessly Lost

The late afternoon sun was dipping lower in the sky as Sara pulled onto the lonely, two-lane highway. She was already running behind schedule, but she had an important business meeting in the city that she couldn't miss. Taking the back roads would shave 20 minutes off her travel time compared to sticking to the interstate. At least, that was the plan. Sara hummed along to the driving beats of the pop song playing on the radio as she watched the flat Nebraska landscape whiz by. After an hour of smooth driving across the desolate prairie, she noticed signs for an upcoming turnoff that would connect her to the highway leading into the city's suburbs. "Perfect, making good time," Sara murmured to herself as she signaled and took the exit ramp. But as she rounded the bend towards what she expected to be the highway entrance, she was met with a brutally jarring sight - a shattered road surface encompassed by garish orange construction barricades as far as she could see. A detour sign with a crudely spray-painted arrow offered her only way forward. "You've got to be kidding me," Sara groaned, downshifting to take the tight corner indicated by the graffiti-covered sign. At least she had filled up with gas before leaving town, but now her shortcut was quickly becoming anything but. Still, with no easy way to turn around or backtrack, Sara had no choice but to press onwards into the deepening twilight. What followed was a disorienting labyrinth of dusty back roads, each turn presenting her with a fork in the road accompanied by another makeshift detour marker. The flat, unchanging landscape offered no helpful landmarks to guide her way. Sara's grip tightened on the steering wheel as she squinted at each confusing intersection, silently pleading with herself not to make a wrong turn. After a white-knuckled 30 minutes of snaking aimlessly down these maze-like rural byways, Sara was startled by an insistent ringing from the cup holder where she had haphazardly tossed her phone. It was the office calling - undoubtedly wondering where she was for her 6:30 meeting in the city. With a lump in her throat, Sara pulled over on the side of the desolate gravel road and put the vehicle in park. "Hello?" she said weakly, rubbing her throbbing temples as she squinted at the cracked windshield trying to make out road signs offering any clue to her utterly hopeless location. "Sara? It's Susan from the office. Just calling to make sure you're still planning on making that client meeting tonight?" Her boss's voice crackled over the small speaker. "Uh...yes, about that," Sara said slowly, her throat tightening with panic and embarrassment. "I, um, I seemed to have taken a wrong turn somewhere after hitting that road construction. I'm not even sure where I am right now, to be honest." She paused, bracing herself for the tongue-lashing that was surely coming. But Susan simply sighed in exasperation. "Oh Sara, you always were a terribly lost girl when it came to directions. Just send me your location and I'll try to reroute you on a map." Sara's sweaty fingers shakily tapped out the text sharing her GPS coordinates before setting the phone down in the passenger seat with a weary exhale. After watching the spinning "locating" symbol twirl uselessly for several moments, she shook her head and started the engine again. With the light fading fast, she would have to trust her instincts and keep pressing on rather than waiting for help to arrive on these deserted country roads. Gripping the wheel with resolve, Sara squinted at the hazy evening horizon and allowed her gut feeling to guide her towards what looked to be a faint smear of amber light - perhaps the glow of a town or the reflections of streetlights from a bypassing highway. With no other options and her phone battery starting to drain, it was as good a lead as any in this directionless void. For the next half hour, Sara drove in silence while shadows lengthened across the tangled sea of grasslands surrounding her. Just as she was starting to second-guess her choice of heading towards those ambiguous lights, the gravel road beneath her tires finally began ascending to the crest of a gradual hill. When she crested the rise, her breath caught in her throat - there it was, just a few miles ahead! The unmistakable warm glow of city lights and the elevated concrete curves of highway entrance ramps. Sara whooped out loud in relief, the wild detour finally at an end. It was nearly 8 pm by the time she pulled off the highway into the bustling city streets and located the office building where she was meant to have her meeting hours ago. On shaky legs, she hurried into the gleaming lobby clutching her briefcase, fumbling to smooth the wrinkles from her blazer and wipe away the streaks of grime on her face. "Sara, there you are!" Susan called out as she strode forward to meet her flustered employee. The older woman's brow creased in concern at Sara's flustered appearance. "We were starting to get worried, you look like you've been through a war zone!" "You have no idea," Sara replied with a weary chuckle, collapsing into the plush lobby sofa. She took a deep breath, finally feeling the anxious tension releasing its vice-like grip on her shoulders. "The client's already gone for the night, haven't they?" Susan pursed her lips and nodded, sitting down beside her. "I'm afraid so...but listen, why don't you go home and freshen up? We can reschedule for tomorrow morning, and you can tell me all about your little off-road adventure over coffee." She winked and gave Sara's arm a reassuring squeeze. Sara smiled gratefully at her boss, realizing that in spite of the absolute hellish evening of detours and wrong turns, she still had her steadfast job and trusted colleagues waiting for her. As infuriating as getting hopelessly lost had been, there was something freeing about surrendering to life's unexpected twists and turns. With renewed perspective, Sara gathered her things and headed for the parking lot with a spring in her step. She'd worry about prepping for her meeting in the morning - for now, the journey of finding her way back was more than enough adventure for one day.

3r7hdk

Get To The Interview On Time

Charlie felt like his heart could explode at any moment. Four weeks of exercising every morning at six a.m. hadn’t prepared him for the late arrival of the early train. Last night’s rain as well as his dreams of getting a better job both slipped down the drain. As the city’s runoff emptied into the sewer, his legs pumped, shouting at him in agony as he ran on. His best-and only-dress shirt, tie, and khakis had stains from his sweat, and his undershirt had soaked through. His feet shouted at him from the unforgiving concrete pressing blisters into his feet, unprepared for running while clad in dress shoes that had no give. His freshly combed hair, sculpted into place according to every how-to-look-professional guide on the internet, flapped in the breeze. Bodies jerked out of the way as they saw the man running towards them. Hands went over mouths, eyes turned down in disparaging glares at the disheveled state of him. Ultimtech had called him in for an interview at nine. Eight years of schooling and multiple internships had led to the phone call of his dreams. All he’d had to do was ace the interview at nine. Instead, it was already six past nine, and he had more than four city blocks to go. All the other companies had offered positions moving not at a snail’s pace, but rather, almost glacial. I’ve probably already blown past their patience, he thought, and slammed head-on into Failure-ville. A bus was pulling to a stop so he pressed his taxed heart, already beating faster than he thought he could handle, into further service. With burning legs and screaming lungs, he managed to put a hand on the door frame just in time to catch the driver off-guard. “H…hey!” he cried, forcing his way onto the bus. “Just a…minute!” He flashed his debit card onto the fare reader, and the bus driver shot him an annoyed stare and thumbed him towards the back. “Be on time, buddy,” the driver warned. Finally sitting, he gasped huge gulps of air and shook his head, wiping his brow on a napkin he saw discarded on the seat next to him. “Didja hear about the time travel stuff?” someone had said. “Aw, that’s a rumor,” argued someone else. “Can’t believe that horse-puckey. Those articles will run away with ya if you let ‘em.” Charlie wished at that moment he had time travel, or at least the ability to go back to last night and make sure his phone alarm was set for seven a.m. instead of p.m. At least then, he’d have woken up on time and wouldn’t be drenched in his own sweat after having run five blocks. “You okay, mister?” Charlie looked over and saw a young boy standing by his seat. “No,” he admitted. “I’m running late.” “Well,” the boy declared, a cheery expression on his face, “I got faith in you!” He thanked the boy and the boy moved on. The bus pulled through an intersection that turned red just a hair too late, and he thanked whatever deities reigned above. Another two blocks passed. He pulled the cord and the bus rumbled to a stop at the futuristic office building. Stepping off, he lowered his head in frustration, still certain of his impending denial. Every video and training course he’d gone through in college told him the one thing that for certain killed a job interview was tardiness. “Hi there!” the woman at the reception desk introduced. “May I help you?” Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification. “I…I got an interview,” he said. She checked her computer. He felt like his soul would tear its way out of his body once the polite frown indicated his sunken chances. Already he pictured the bar he’d slink off to and drown his sorrows at. A smile sprinted onto her face. “Yes,” she said. “Third floor, room eight-sixty-two.” She handed him a visitor’s badge, which he took. He stared at it in disbelief, then thanked her and strolled over to the elevator. Inside, he pushed the button and the vessel crept up to the eighth floor. When the doors pulled open, a sea of businessmen in suits comingling with scientists in lab coats parted, and he strolled down the hall to the room his interview would take place in. “Welcome,” a friendly, familiar voice he couldn’t place called out. “I’m glad you’re here.” “I’m terribly…” “Sorry you’re late?” interrupted the interviewer. “Yeah, I’m so sorry,” Charlie said. He let the moment pass, and stared at the interviewer for a long moment. This drew the man’s attention, and he gave a confused expression back. “I’m sorry, is something wrong?” This immediately snapped Charlie out of his staring. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “No, not at all.” He chuckled as he sat down. “You just kinda remind me of someone.” “Mm-hmm,” the interviewer replied, pulling up the documents on the computer. “Anyway, Charlie Rassmussen, you’ve applied for the position of Applied Research & Development in our new quantum energies department.” He looked over the documents on-screen. “Your grades are exceptional, and your internships at Mothan Technological and Ruthark Industries gave you glowing reviews.” He folded his hands together on the desk and stared front-facing at the young man. “Why do you want to work at Ultimtech?” God, I just can’t help but think this guy looks familiar, Charlie thought, collecting his words together. “If I’m totally honest,” Charlie said, “it’s because I heard this company is going places no one else is going. That means growth like no one else. I want to go there.” The interviewer, whom Charlie noticed looked kind of like his late father at the age of about forty or so, gave a nod. “What do you think of time?” Charlie flinched at the question. “I think it’s very important to a company,” he spouted off, following his instructors’ advice never to let a question linger without an answer. The interviewer shifted into neutral at the answer. “Yes, yes,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his tone, “but what do you think of it?” “I’m fascinated by it,” Charlie admitted. “Ever since I watched all those time travel movies as a kid, I always pondered the paradoxes and how they would work in the real world.” He paused, trying to read the interviewer’s expression. When he couldn’t, he continued. “I never really thought of it as possible, but I always felt like if it was, quantum energies would be where they’d be.” Just then, the door burst open. “Doctor R?” a voice called out. Charlie looked over and saw a young woman, nervousness crawling across her face, holding a small tablet computer in her hand. The interviewer sighed. “I thought I told you I’d scheduled…!” “I know!” she retorted. “But it’s urgent!” The interviewer raised a hand at Charlie. “Forgive me,” he admitted, “I’m going to have to deal with this.” He left, and a good minute and a half passed before he returned. When he did, Charlie noticed the man patting his hair back into proper configuration. Heh, he thought, nice to see someone else worries about their hair looking right like I do . “Everything okay?” Charlie asked. The man nodded. “Yes, problem is dealt with,” he said. “Anyway, I really appreciate your candor about time.” “Sir?” The man paused and looked straight at him. “Yes?” Charlie clasped his hands together in front of his lips, breathing in as he steeled his wits about him. “This is going to sound like the mother of all stupid questions,” he admitted, “but do I know you?” All he got for his question was a tilted head gesture and a confused look. He sighed and laughed at the absurdity. “Oh, it’s just that my dad always used to call me ‘Mister R’ as a nickname and it reminded me of him.” The interviewer stared straight ahead as the pause became awkward. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Would you save him if you could?” This hit Charlie like a baseball to the back of the head. “Oh,” he asked, “you mean like time travel?” The interviewer nodded. “Just a hypothetical,” he said. Charlie pondered it. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “No, because the man knew his time was up. He’d smoked his whole life, and if he changed that, who knows what things would be different?” He sighed. “Honestly, I thought about this every time I saw a movie about time travel. But the more I think about it, the more I think, ‘I might change some little thing, but the big stuff?’” He lowered his head. “I don’t want to move a stone that big. It might roll down the hill and flatten the whole town.” The interviewer laughed. “I like you,” he admitted. “Also, I have a confession to make. I’m not your real interviewer.” This caught Charlie off-guard. “What do you mean?” The man stood up and headed for the door. “Come with me,” he implored. They walked down the hall and took a turn through a pair of large steel doors. Inside was a machine that resembled an MRI on steroids. Charlie marveled at the equipment. “My god,” he uttered, hand going to his mouth, “this is a quantum field stabilizer!” He stared at the man. “How do you have this? I heard this was twenty years off!” “Thirty,” the man simply stated. Charlie pulled back, ice freezing over his mood. “No,” he whispered, taking it in. Doctor R, he thought. The man resembled his dad. He walked with the same gait, and had the same tics about his hair being disheveled. The interviewer saw the bewildered expression. “You figured it out,” he said. “I’m you.” “But,” Charlie protested. The man flipped a switch and a violet light shot out of the machine and opened a hole in space. Past it, Charlie recognized his room from the night before. He watched as his one-day-younger self got home, threw his clothes on the floor, and set his phone alarm to seven p.m. before dropping it onto the charging pad and flopping face down on his thick bed. The interviewer pulled Charlie through. “We shouldn’t be here,” whispered Charlie. “You don’t know how long I’ve worked to fix our lives,” the older Charlie whispered. “It took me years of struggling through jobs at other companies to try and pull us out of the muck. It felt like dragging a truck by my neck.” Charlie looked closer and saw the stress wrinkles all over the man. He looked much older than he should. “So, what do we do?” The interviewer lifted the cell phone off the charging pad, unlocked it, and set the alarm to seven in the morning instead of at night. “Simple,” the older him said, pulling his younger self back through the portal before it shut. “You get to the interview on time.”

knqo3i

The Parade

March 21, 1974. The day in Port Townsend would be forever known to the locals as “The Shopping Cart Parade” day. The chain of events kicked off as Leo Rauscher emerged from the IGA with his bag of groceries. The cool breeze leisurely wafting through the parking lot brought thoughts of cruising on his boat that afternoon. “Happy Birthday to me...Happy Birthday to meeee,” he crooned to himself softly while twirling the keys to his sleek new Jaguar XKE around his right index finger. Stepping off the curb, he made his way across the parking lot towards his cherished dream car. A broad smile spread across his face as he drew closer to his prized possession. Perhaps a drive to Hurricane Ridge rather than a sail? Glancing upwards, he let the sun's warmth envelop him. It was decisively a top-down kind of day. Seagulls swooped overhead, and Leo watched as crows swooped in to hassle them, vying for control of this prime hunting territory. Leo's attention shifted to his left, where he noticed his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Crosby, cracking open the back window of her 1957 Ford Del Rio station wagon. “Good morning, Mrs. Crosby,” Leo hollered, elevating his voice to reach her weakening ears. Her pastel blue hair, fortified with a sturdy layer of hairspray, defiantly resisted the wind as she busied herself with loading groceries into the back, oblivious to Leo's greeting. “GOOD MORNING, MRS. CROSBY!” he bellowed this time. This time, his voice pierced through Mrs. Crosby's aging ears. “OH, oh good morning, young man.” Though she had been neighbors with the Rauscher family for over sixty years, his name eluded her memory, though she recognized his face from next door. “LET ME HELP YOU WITH THOSE,” Leo offered, approaching her. “Oh, thank you,” she responded gratefully, stepping back from the cart. Leo momentarily set his own bag inside the cart, the fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread shifting to the side. He grabbed her bag of groceries, hoisted the paper bag out, slid it into the back, and nestled it snugly next to the inner wall of the car to prevent tipping—a five-minute drive home was no reason to risk catastrophe. Given Mrs. Crosby's penchant for a leisurely pace behind the wheel and her ninety years, perhaps someone should have reviewed her driver's license long ago. Leo straightened up and pushed the cart away from her car. “THANK YOU, Leo. You're a good boy,” Mrs. Crosby praised, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a flowery coin purse. She opened it, fetched a dime, and placed it in his palm. Leo met her kindly, faded blue eyes and remarked, “WELL, THANK YOU, MRS. CROSBY,” tucking the dime safely into his pocket. She patted him on the arm and headed to the front to settle herself inside. Leo cautiously backed up the shopping cart across the parking lot, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Crosby at all times. Aside from the wobbly wheel, he could hear a distinct jangling sound. Someone had hooked a bike security chain around the front of the cart and locked it in place. Moving swiftly to the front of the cart, Leo grabbed the handle just as Mrs. Crosby maneuvered her car to line up for the drive home, three blocks straight ahead. As she reversed, Leo realized she wasn't stopping as expected. "Mrs. Crosby! Mrs. Crosby! Wait, stop!" Leo cried out, but she continued slowly backing up, the cart jolting with a clank and a thud. Without thinking, Leo seized the cart's handle as Mrs. Crosby shifted gears and drove forward. However, the bike chain lock had become wedged under the chrome bumper, causing the cart to move along with the car. "Stop, Mrs. Crosby! For goodness' sake, stop!" Leo yelled, but his voice went unheard. Desperate to prevent the cart and his groceries from spilling onto the street, Leo attempted to dislodge the stuck cart. His efforts were in vain. As Mrs. Crosby accelerated, Leo stumbled in large strides trying to keep pace. Realizing the imminent danger, he started to release his grip on the handle but the realization sat in that she was speeding up. Doing so would cause him to skid across the pavement. Instead Frantically, Leo grabbed the cart again, clutching the handle with all his might. Panicked, he hopped onto the back of the cart. Just like he did when he was a kid.. "Mrs. Crosby, please stoooopppp!!!" His grip on the cart handle tightening as the car accelerated down "Boson" street. He bent his knees, feeling like he was skiing behind her, heart pounding with each passing moment. Praying fervently, Leo hoped he could make it through the last two blocks in one piece. A sudden whoosh startled him as a black crow swooped by, landing in the cart with a thud. "Get out, you stupid bird!" Leo exclaimed, his voice tinged with panic. The crow hopped onto his bag of groceries, its sharp beak tearing through the paper bag to eye the loaf of special order pumpernickel. Leo's hands ached from the strain, sweat beading on his forehead as his legs turned to jelly. He knew he had to hold on, his gaze narrowing at the thieving crow. "Oh, no you don't, bird! Get away from my bread!" Leo's heart raced as he clung to the shopping cart tethered to the bumper of the car. His knuckles white, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins in a strange mix of terror and dark amusement. As they approached the final intersection, Leo gazed ahead at "Enterprise" Boulevard, a bustling street awaiting their chaotic intrusion. The car showed no signs of stopping at the stop sign, pushing Leo to the brink of sheer panic. With jaw clenched and eyes squinting, he fought to maintain his precarious hold, knowing one wrong move could spell his doom at any moment. But just as Leo braced for the worst, fate twisted its cruel hand. Mrs. Crosby, the driver, obliviously sailed past the stop sign, hurtling into the crowded thoroughfare. A glimmer of hope beckoned from the left, but Leo's gaze met the wide, frightened eyes of a woman in a Volkswagen Beetle to the right. Frozen mid-sip, a soda can trembled in her grasp as she lurched forward, the screech of the brakes echoing in the chaotic scene. Fizzy liquid sprayed in a frigid burst, adding to the pandemonium. The car stopping several yards from the cart. Despite the peril, a flicker of dark amusement danced within Leo—a sense of the outrageousness of it all. Clutching the cart tighter, he murmured desperate prayers under his breath, his fingers straining. Meanwhile, the indifferent crow continued its feast on pumpernickel, ignorant of the impending calamity. Home, a sanctuary amidst the madness, loomed ahead, urging Leo onward. "Hold on, hold on," he urged himself, his voice charged with urgency. "Move aside, you blasted bird!" he growled, determined to salvage his dwindling groceries. Suddenly, Mr. Cromwell, the postman, appeared in his peripheral vision, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief as Leo swiftly maneuvered past. Later, Mr. Cromwell attempted to recount the surreal scene to his bewildered colleagues. In his telling, a station wagon cruised by, towing a shopping cart with the Mr. Rauscher holding on for dear life, behind it. Inside the cart, a crow gleefully feasted on groceries, while in the wagon, a majestic black and white cat observed the chaos unfolding before him. Leo's heart raced as he locked eyes with Snuggles in the open back window, silently urging him to retreat. With a mischievous glint, Snuggles shifted into stealth mode, poised for action. Eyes narrowed, ears flat, butt wiggling. In a swift, calculated move, Snuggles launched himself towards the startled crow, aiming to seize his prey. However, fate had other plans as Mrs. Crosby accelerated slightly, propelling Snuggles over the crow. Startled, the crow fled, leaving Snuggles to careen into Leo's chest, and a pungent reminder on top of Leo's head to his passing. Claws bared, Snuggles involuntarily latched onto Leo's neck, sinking his talons into tender skin. “SON OF A BITCH!” Leo's cry pierced the chaos, met with a plaintive “Meeeooooowwww” from Snuggles as the precarious situation intensified. It took every ounce of Leo's self-preservation to keep his grip on the cart handle. The impending disaster loomed large, sending shivers down his spine and his heart racing. The sensation of dread was thick in the air, suffocating him with fear. That's when salvation came. Mrs. Crosby slowed to a crawl and started to make the left turn into her driveway. Snuggles leapt off to the left to get himself out of danger, his fur standing on end in terror. The left turn caused the chain to be released from the car, and the cart with Leo in tow headed towards the curb just in front of his house. When the side of the cart impacted the curb, his body tensed, anticipating the worst. Leo jumped from the cart, rolled, and landed softly in the grass right of way. Leo sat frozen in place against the cool blades of grass.. By now Mrs. Crosby had exited her car and walked to the back. She looked over at Leo sitting in the grass, a combination of amusement and concern in her gaze. “OH! You boys.” She waved her white-gloved hand in a dismissive manner. Then her eyes widened, a new realization dawning on her as she observed Leo. “I don't recall Leo having a twin brother,” she said, her voice tinged with confusion and curiosity. Leo sat and took a deep breath, his body trembling with the aftermath of the near-miss. As the adrenaline started to ebb away, he felt a mix of relief and disbelief. His limbs felt like lead, his whole body shaking with the intensity of the moment. “OH! HEY!” Mrs. Crosby exclaimed, breaking the tension. “YES?” Leo yelled back, his voice shaky. Mrs. Crosby pointed to her head. “YOU HAVE SOME BIRD DOODY, JUST HERE,” she said pointing to the top of her head. With a final smile, she headed towards her front door and disappeared inside, leaving Snuggles sitting at the door, a silent witness to the chaotic events that had unfolded. Leo fell back onto the cool grass. “Happy Birthday to me.” and he closed his eyes.

doxmx9

A City of Two Tales

I stood at the top of the tallest building in the loneliest place I had ever been, and pondered on my deepest question.   When am I going to get a raise?   No, I’m not shallow. Considering the work I do, I really should be getting paid more.   My current predicament was perfect evidence of this. Last month, another Anomaly escaped the local Dun. Before last night, it had been regarded as a simple Class-E Puppet Being named the Warmwood, incapable of harm or much rational thought. After the hunter sent after it was found splattered throughout an alley, the higher ups decided it might be a good idea to send in a more experienced hunter. Which in this case, meant me.   With a sigh, I turned away from the edge of the roof, having come to the conclusion that the answer to my question was probably never. I strolled to the other side of the roof, wandering past the leftovers from the Mayor’s party last night and pulling out my phone to call my guy-in-the-chair, Griff.   After only a few rings, he picked up. “Found anything, Hal?” No greeting, as usual.   I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “No luck up here. Have they finished the alley sweep yet?”   “Just a few minutes ago.” His tone was mildly annoyed, but that was typical of my sour and pessimistic partner. “The whole thing seems to have been covered in Residue, but there doesn’t seem to be any obvious origin or exit, somehow.”   “Great. So I should use my genius tracking skills to find it myself?” The view from this roof was pretty good on this edge. With my right boot on the raised rim, I leaned forward and looked down. Cocking my head, I tried to guess how far of a drop it was. Maybe seventyish feet? I’ve never been the best at gauging distances, but it was probably a fall I could survive. Ah well. No way to know without testing.   “‘Genius.’ You cheat, Hal. That’s not real tracking.” He always said that about my technique, but I’m pretty sure he was just jealous. “But you might be able to find something down there.”   I nodded, stepping my other foot onto the rim and standing tall. “Got it. I’ll head down and check it out, and if I find anything, I’ll let you know. Halcyon out.” Since he would rather mess around with his computers than talk to me, Griff hung up before I finished talking. With a grin, I tucked away my phone, and stepped off the roof.   As I plummeted for a few moments, I mused on how to mess with him when I got back. Maybe I could mix up skittles, Reese’s pieces, and M&Ms in a bowl, then set it on his desk. Again. Or change all the sound effects on his computers to fart noises. Again. Griff and I had been friends for years, and he always put up with my antics, which made them extra fun.   The pavement came quickly, but physical impacts like that wouldn’t hurt me. Sometimes after killing a particularly strong Anomaly, you might get a Boon from them that granted you some of their power. I had about a dozen Boons, increasing my hardiness, speed, strength, and generally making me far above average human skill. A couple of them could be nasty tricks up my sleeves when I needed them. When I hit the ground, I didn’t even flinch from the force of impact, and instead just started walking down the street towards the alley.   The hunter hadn’t been in the alley the whole time, I knew. He was supposed to have started on the roof of the office building creating the alley alongside a new hotel, just a few streets away from the Mayor’s penthouse party.   In the alley, I found a blessed lack of flesh and scattered human bits. Good to see the cleaners haven’t decreased in effectiveness. I went through it carefully, looking through my D-Frame, a hand lens with glass made of sand from the Dun, used to see Residue and Anomalous Marks, trying to tell which way the black, smokey gunk came from and left by, despite Griff having said it wasn’t visible. The whole alley was coated in Residue to varying degrees, which probably meant that the Anomaly had blown through here like a whirlwind of power, ripping the poor hunter to shreds as it went. Unfortunately, although unsurprisingly, I couldn’t see a spot where the Marks obviously began or ended. They were just everywhere. Much like the hunter had been.   After a thorough once-over, I determined that this Anomaly was stupid. And rude. Why did it have to make my job so difficult? Really, I’d take a big, strong, Class-A Minor Kaiju Being that I could smack around with my sword over a sneaky little being of any class any day of the week. I may be a decent hand at tracking them the regular way, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy the slower pace. Besides, there wasn’t anything here to tell me where to look. Cheating it is, then. So, I pulled my sword hilt out of my coat pocket, then flicked the switch above my thumb, extending the thin blade. Next, of course, I stabbed the wall.   Most hunters don’t get weapons as nice as mine. Sure, the common swords are pretty cool, capable of cutting through Anomalies with ease while also being incongruously light, but the standard blades only come in broadsword style, with non-retractable blades. That sounded really boring to me. I’d had this sword since the beginning, having won it on my very first hunt, after stealing it from a Class-B Fighter Being and using it to slay his Dragon familiar. As well as being sharp enough to cut just about anything on Earth, my rapier also could keep the blade inside a Dun Space in the hilt and cast minor illusions around me. If I stuck it into a fresh Residue, it could show me a flash vision of what had caused the Residue, which was very helpful in cases like this. Unfortunately, having visions stuck in my head tended to give me a headache, so I normally would have preferred to not use this method, although it was fun to bother Griff with. I did it anyway, since this Anomaly needed to be stopped posthaste, as the previous hunter’s experience made quite clear.   I felt the sword sinking into the wall, through brick, mortar, and plaster on the other side, as my vision flashed with the sight of the occurrences of the night before. In my mind’s eye, I watched the hunter settle on the roof, keeping a lookout for the Warmwood. He had recorded before his death that his plan was to wait near the Mayor’s summer party, believing the light and sound would draw the dull-minded Warmwood out of hiding. Puppet Beings weren’t usually very intelligent on their own, and tended to be attracted to bright spots of human life, seeking for someone to either become their master, or for someone the Anomaly could take control of.   Unfortunately for the hunter, his plan worked. In the vision, a spindly humanoid shadow approached from the other roof, remaining quiet and unnoticed until it moved onto the hunter’s roof, where it prepared to strike.   The report on its escape had a description, and it seemed to be fairly accurate. The Warmwood looked like it was made of giant toothpicks, with one for the body and one for each arm and leg, every limb split in the middle with a jointed crack, and no visible head. But in the vision, I watched the Warmwood’s arms split with a wet, mushy squelch, creating splintery hands from its smooth arms and spraying blood on the ground beneath it. The hunter heard the noise, but didn’t see the Warmwood hiding in the shadows before it lunged on him, snapping one of the new hands around his neck and impaling him with the other. The hunter barely had time to grunt with pain as the Warmwood’s momentum carried them over the edge of the roof and to the ground below, near where I stood now.   Most Anomalies aren’t innately murderous. They escape, maybe break some property, but don’t usually harm anyone on purpose, unless they’re a hungry beast. There isn’t much violent urge in their beings. But this one was different. It ripped and tore, killing the hunter as viciously as it could. I’ll spare details, as it was sickening to watch, and you probably don’t want to read that. When it finished its murder, the Warmwood slipped away, out towards the street, and went into the sewers.   I withdrew my sword from the wall, ending the vision and removing the mess from my sight. If the Anomaly was underground, then I knew where it must have gone. But why would it return to the Dun, especially now? Maybe Griff would have some ideas. I pulled my phone out and called Griff again.   I could hear him sigh as he picked up. “I assume you found something?”   “Yep. My technique worked, as usual.” The headache that usually followed was starting to show up, but I wasn’t going to mention that. “Warmwood’s headed in the sewer.”   “So it’s off to the Dun, then? Excellent.” Although I couldn’t see his face, I was quite sure he was smirking at my misfortune.   “Do you have any idea why it would go down there? Puppets tend to stick around until they find a master.”   Griff grunted, seeming distracted. “Probably means it’s found one. Keep your guard up. A mastered puppet is going to be more dangerous than a free one. The binding—”   “Yeah, yeah, the binding strengthens its connection to our world, I know. I’ve been doing this job for longer than you have.” The main portal to the Dun was just outside of town, so I started heading there. Anomalies could transport themselves straight to their Dun of origin by returning underground, and they wouldn’t normally go down there otherwise, but us people are restricted to other routes. “That would explain the violence a bit, I guess. It made quite the mess of poor Hunter Maddox. I’m heading to the Dun entrance now. I’ll call you again once I’ve found the thing. Halcyon—”   “Hal. Be careful.” He hung up. That was odd. Griff didn’t normally say anything before hanging up. I tucked away my phone again and continued on my way. /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ Duns have been appearing for the past couple decades, without much rhyme or reason to their timing or placement except only showing up in or near human settlements. They’re layers of another dimension, full of monsters and creatures and elements beyond our comprehension. Most have towns of beasts and men built within them, by this point. Cities where Duns appear are sometimes called Two-Taled Towns, since there’s two stories to them. Bit of a dumb name, but it’s caught on. The town of Sandy, Nevada, the one I’m in now, has only been Two-Taled for a few years, and since it was a smaller town to begin with, its Dun is small as well.   The main entrance was a short walk out of town, in the hills to the south. When it first opened, it had flashed a beacon in the sky, marking the spot for people to explore. Now, the hole in the fabric of reality was protected by a small, secure building, as was the procedure for Dun entrances, to keep random people from getting too close. Anyone can easily enter an unguarded Dun, but not everyone could make it back out. This one had claimed the farmer who first discovered it, when he was drawn in by the voice of his dead wife. His story was discovered after a hunter spoke with his corpse, which had been turned into a semi-intelligent, zombified thrall to a Class-D Demon Being.   My hunter’s badge let me enter the complex without any trouble. I went through the entrance hall after the check-in kiosk—there wasn’t a real person there, just a computer station, since nobody wants to work that close to a Dun long-term—then followed the path through the building to the center room with the tear. Some people imagine a portal to another dimension as something swirling with a bright array of color. Dun holes dispel that idea, being jet-black rips in the air, large enough to fit through comfortably, but nothing too fancy. I slipped through the cut and entered another dimension.   After having entered Duns several dozen times, I knew how it would go. The transfer would be perfectly seamless. My step would take me from a calm, bright room indoors, to a cobbled road lined by old west style buildings, with rain pouring from the dark, featureless sky above. No sun, no moon, no stars, no clouds, just dim eternal twilight. Every Dun was self-contained by a dome of darkness, and every attempt to puncture that covering had failed. It simply didn’t break. There probably just wasn’t anything out there.   I wasn’t sure how to find the Warmwood once I was down here, but I decided I’d figure it out somehow.   Fate figured it out for me.   Instead of the humble desert town soaked in perpetual rain, I appeared in wreckage. The homes and buildings constructed for and by the more intelligent Anomalies were in pieces, scattered across the small landscape. Corpses of beasts laid among the debris, some half-buried in the black sand, some cut open or dismembered. Somehow, even the juvenile shades of young Anomalies had been killed, with flakes and scraps of shadows lying with their fully formed seniors.   That was incredibly problematic. Although they were dangerous when they came to our world, inside the Dun, some Anomalies could be very beneficial. This Dun had a rare clairvoyant Anomaly who gave incredibly accurate prophecies when the mood struck her.   I was definitely not getting that raise now, if that Anomaly was dead. Was this the work of the Warmwood? How strong was it, to have destroyed an entire Dun? It had to be at least Class-A by now, maybe nearing Emergency Classification.   As I took a step forward along the street, I barely noticed a sudden motion to my left, like a string shooting through the rain. My sword whipped out and cut it out of the air before it could reach me, and blood spurted from the strand as it withdrew. Alert to more attacks, I scanned the street, just as a spindly form rose from the ground nearby, lifted by strings floating from nowhere. The Warmwood. Not all Puppet Beings have string control, but obviously, since the situation wasn’t irritating enough already, this Anomaly did.   It flung itself toward me, talons outstretched. I swung for its arm, but it just grabbed the blade and ripped it from me, tossing it aside and tackling me. As its claws came through my heavy coat and began to prick my skin, I managed to shed the coat and slip out downwards. Although the Warmwood wasn’t very heavy, it was strong and fast, and jumped for me again, slashing my face. I hopped backwards into a fighting stance, and froze. My limbs stopped responding to me, and I couldn’t feel anything. Paralysis. That blood it’s been shedding from its hands must have contained some kind of venom. Being restricted like this always annoyed me. For some reason, the Warmwood didn’t try to finish me off. It seemed to stare at me for a curious moment. Then it picked up my coat, and pulled my phone out of my pocket. My ringtone for Griff was playing. The Warmwood pressed the answer button.   “Hal. I told you to be careful. Yet you still didn’t manage to avoid this.”   Huh? How did he know what was happening?   “It was difficult to find the right Puppet Being to master, but it worked out well anyway, I suppose. Maddox’s death was unfortunate, but if you had just taken the job in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to kill him so violently.   “I hate you. So cocky, so rude, yet still so beloved. This was MY dream, Halcyon. You made it as a hunter so easily, so quickly, and when I finally got in, I’m forced to be treated like nothing more than your assistant.   “Now I just have to kill you, and it’ll all be mine.”   Feeling returned to my body just as the Warmwood stabbed at me again. Time turned to molasses around me as I activated my Slowness Boon. It wouldn’t last more than a few seconds, but that was all I needed. Although breaking from the venom had only taken moments, it had been annoying, and combined with the voice on the phone, I was now ticked off.   My sword shot to my hand as I held out my arm for it, then I cut the Warmwood in half and swiped my phone back. As time returned to normal, more blood sprayed from the Warmwood’s torso and it collapsed in two pieces, turning from healthy looking tan wood to a dull, deathly gray. Switching off speakerphone, I held the phone up to my ear and spoke to ‘Griff’.   “Nice try, whoever you are. There’s no way you’re really Griff.” I wouldn’t admit it could be him. “He would’ve known that wouldn’t work. Maybe he would have betrayed me, since I do bother him quite a bit, but he would never be able to beat me, especially not with a weakling like this chump.   “Warmwood’s dead now, if you didn’t feel the connection break. I’m not sure who you are or what you want, but I’ll figure it out. Then kill you.”  Man, this is going to be so much paperwork, I thought, shaking my head.   I crushed my phone, then began to head for the exit.

ami755

Late But Still Great

Hank is Worried About Being Late for an Important Date Why is it that I can never find something I am looking for when I really need it? In this case it is my formal shoes.  I’m not old and forgetful as my father is fast becoming.  I seem to be way ahead of my aging with this aspect of life. The only shoes I can find are my old running shoes that I wear every day. That is not something that I should wear when going for a job interview in a hospital.  I need to find my formal shoes that I only wear going to a play or visiting my parents-in-law.  I wish Dorothy was here – not just because she could have driven me to the interview if she hadn’t needed to attend a very important meeting (not her words but my understanding), but because she is so much better than I am at finding my things. Unfortunately, I cannot return the favour with things that she cannot find. Twenty Minutes Later At last I found them. I guess its location shows that I rarely ever wear them. They were behind everything else on the floor of the clothes closet, underneath an equally formal white shirt that had fallen down and had been neglected probably at least for weeks. I have to hurry now if I intend to get to the interview on time. Formal shoes, you might become running shoes before this day is done. I walk as quickly as my body and my shoes can muster. I genuinely believe that it is still possible that I can get to the hospital in time for the interview. Otherwise I would have called a taxi. This gig is very important both to me and to my wife. Dorothy has been our sole earner since I went back to school for my training. I am now fully qualified to be what used to be called an ‘Orderly’. I wondered whether if you were bad at the job you would be called a Disorderly. The new names are more appropriate and respectful: Patient Care Assistant (a bad one would be an Impatient Care Assistant), Nurses Aide (not a soft drink) or Patient Services Associate (not disassociated). I can have a job that both Dorothy and I respect. That means a lot to me. Just as Hank Believes That He Can Make It on Time Just as Hank believes that he is going to make it to the interview on time, someone grabs his right leg as he begins to pass a small sidewalk space between two large buildings. Caught unawares, he comes crashing down onto the sidewalk with her. Then the person who grabbed him by the leg calls out to him. “Please help me kind sir. I have fallen and I can’t get up (Hank has the exact same words from an old commercial repeating in his head which momentarily distracts him). I have broken my cell phone so I cannot call for an ambulance. Could you call one for me please.” Hank answers in the positive, stands up and calls 911. At first he is told the typical lame excuse that ‘we are receiving more calls than usual’ (Why not hire more operators then?), so he has to wait for a couple of minutes before he can talk to someone employed by the hospital (which he hopes he can still become). “Could you lift me up so that I can stand?” Hank does so slowly and very carefully. He remembers that he saw a bench on the sidewalk just before he encountered her. He points to it with his head, and asks her whether she wants to sit there. She agrees immediately. Hank then half drags, half carries her to the bench and sits her down. Then the waiting begins. Hank is getting a little anxious about the time that is being spent not walking to the hospital, but he does not want to abandon the woman until the ambulance arrives. Actually, he hopes (without mentioning it) that he can hitch a ride with the ambulance to make it to the interview on time. Time passes and passes, and still no ambulance. What he does not know is that there was an accident (no one was hurt seriously but two cars had to be towed), that blocked the road for about 20 minutes, with the ambulance held up until the two cars were removed. While they were seated side by side Hank tells her about his upcoming job interview, but reassures her that he will not leave until she is safely in the ambulance. She tells him that he should get the job, as he is clearly a caring person. Finally the ambulance arrives, and the ambulance staff load Marilyn carefully into their vehicle. Unfortunately for Hank, there was no legally binding room in the ambulance for him unless he was her husband, son or brother. The town had strict rules on that matter. This meant that he would have have to run to his destination, even though he was wearing his good shoes. As soon as the ambulance disappeared he started his run. He almost falls a number of times, but still remains on his feet. When he arrives at the hospital, he consults his cell phone concerning the time, and sees that he is about half an hour late for his interview. Still, he hurries to the elevator and heads to the fourth floor, where the interview was supposed to take place. Hank wanted to tell the interviewer why he was late, helping a wounded woman, (not looking for his good shoes), but he wondered whether it would sound like some kind of made-up, suck-up story to cover up his lack of responsibility. He knew that timing is very important for people who work in a hospital. Meeting the Interviewer He takes a deep breath as soon as he exits the elevator, and exhales with a ‘Here goes!’ He knocks on the door of the interviewer, and hopefully later on his boss, and the first few seconds before he receives a “come in” seem much longer than their actual time. Once he hears it, he opens the door and walks in somewhat tentatively. He is greeted by a man with a surprisingly big smile on his face, “You must be Hank. The ambulance workers told me that a woman recently driven to the hospital sang your praises. Apparently you rescued her while worrying about being late for the interview. You chose her need over yours. That is the right kind of priority setting we are looking for in the job for which you applied. I don’t think that I need to interview you to say that the job is yours.”

4wii14

Not All Who Wander...

It was the radio that voiced the recriminations that he’d anticipated with such dread. Uncertain as to how best broach the subject, the radio stuttered and then fell silent. If the silence had been truly bad, his recollection of it was not notable. The jarring crunch of static that followed, an injured insect, gone wild thrashing about in the stifling cabin of the car, mirroring the noise in his brain. Radio and the chaos of his mind jamming but never getting into their groove, and in the midst of this punk track was a simple, repetitive lyric. YOU’RE LOST! Denial came easily to him. He brought to bear a practical rationale; just because he did not recognise his surroundings, did not mean that he was lost. He nodded smugly to himself as he turned the radio down. The dialling down of the radio was an optimistic act. He fully expected the radio to get over itself and talk to him soon enough. Anything else would be petty and churlish and he had no time for that. Leaning forward to peer curiously at his surroundings, he reminded himself that this was not his destination. That in the final analysis, his arrival at his journey’s end was all that counted and anything before that was inconsequential. A means to the intended conclusion. He wished there were a car up ahead. Not any old vehicle. It had to be another car. And a car that he could relate to. A pang of barbed memory threatened to bring him to tears as he thought of his father. It was that man who had taught him that following the car ahead removed a large dollop of uncertainty and brought the person in the driving seat back to where they needed to be. Never had the pursuit of a car that knew where it was going failed his old man. There was a magic in what occurred during these exploits of his. A quasi-logic that could not possibly work, but somehow always did. His regret over the absence of a car in the distance was countered by his certainty that he didn’t have the magic his old man had possessed. Maybe once, long ago, he had. But not now. He was not deserving of such things. His right foot had an answer, but before he gave it the floor, he waved his left foot through. The clutch pedal went down and he rolled the billiard ball atop the gearstick up into the third pocket, brought everything together and then allowed his right foot to create a reassuring cacophony of sound. He felt that sound as much as heard it. This was an elemental moment. The V8 engine roared and the that roar rose up through him. He’d always felt cars, and in that feeling understood things about them that he’d never brought himself to put to words. Voicing his feelings seemed wrong somehow. Akin to bragging about his exploits with a lover. And there was  something sexual about his connection with cars. After all, the sounds and the movements he experienced all came up through his arse and thrilled him in a way nothing else could. The solution his foot was bringing into play was simple. The accelerating car was absenting the location that had made the radio scream at him. The quicker he moved on, the less likely he was to be lost. At the very least, he would spend less time lost, and there was no arguing with that. No counter to the battle cry of the charging engine. A warning finger of ice toyed provocatively with his spine. It did not have to speak. It had already made it’s point. His logic was flawed to the point of brokenness if it were to transpire that he was going around in circles. Finding himself right back where he had started would flay the skin of his remaining confidence from him and the salt of his angry tears would undo him with a pain beyond imagining. Gritting his teeth he pressed on all the more quickly. Dreading the moment he recognised yet another circular pattern in his life. He had been cursed with an excess of circles. He was a Russian doll encased in ever decreasing circles and no idea of how to break out from the suffocation of all those sarcophagi . Not once had he asked himself how he’d gotten here. Not once had he considered the existence of the circles. Instead he had made of them a myth. He believed in them so vehemently that they were his gods. They were eternal and more powerful than he ever could be. For the entirety of his life he had dwelt within the safe haven of the circular patterns of his behaviour. Rituals and acts to the imprisoning god of the great circle. A submission that was a betrayal of his life. A failure to pay the original debt. The debt he was born into. He owed the world a life well lived, but he’d squandered the opportunity to do so again and again. And now he was paying in the currency of pain and despair. As he stepped on the brake, slowing the car for a hard, unforgiving corner, throwing the weight of his steed forwards, he imagined the view from above. Stepping on the gas, the car threatening to kick out and throw itself backwards suicidally into the trees, and yet he soared higher and from the perspective of the gods, he saw the road ahead of him snaking around and back into itself. The mouth consuming the tail. A hungry mouth that fed upon him a little at a time as he crossed the finish line that was also the starting line. Stop. Start. A never ending percussive rhythm that hammered nails into the coffin of his own skull. At the next corner his right foot went down harder and he clung on for dear life as he experienced the ragged edge. The focus in his eyes was now Herculean. This was his task. The test reserved only for him. There was nothing else. Only his vision. The car went where he dictated. His will led it there. This was how it was to live. There was only the edge and everything else was a distraction. Everything else was meaningless. The unceasing ribbon of tarmac urged him on, and he lost himself in the eternal moment. Conscious thought stepped away and something within him rose up to meet the challenge before him. He gave himself in his entirety, and his reward was a peace and fulfilment he had not known possible. He was bathed in true meaning and it washed away the pointless worries that had haunted him all his life. There was a bleep from behind the dashboard. He already knew. Even in the dream state that was more real than any breath of life, he had continued to attend to all of his surroundings. The car had tired before he had. It was thirsty. Time returned to the fold and now was the time to drop out of that piece of heaven, ease off the throttle, and become again the thing he had so resented. Only now, he was changed. Forever changed. He had been touched by the Hand of God and was imbued with a spark of renewed purpose. As he pulled the car into the next service station, he paused for a moment and smiled at what he had just experienced and the destiny he had been gifted a glimpse of. Now he would admit that he was lost. Now he felt that he could admit that loss. For he was no longer lost and he was no longer blind to the truth. His truth. The car tutted from under its bonnet as it guzzled the petrol from the pump. He gazed along its scarlet flank adoringly. He was as keen to get back on the open road as the car was. More so. The pump clicked and he shook it before replacing it in its cradle. Time to go. Time to revisit those same roads and relish every inch of tarmac, every demanding corner. To find the edge and live on it. To put himself to the test and not to be found lacking. He’d had enough of that lack. The weight of it had ground him down and had threatened to take everything from him. He smiled again as he pulled the door closed and slipped the seatbelt over his shoulder. Yes he had been lost, but he’d missed the point. He had missed the point for far too long. He would return and he would face the music. And he would dance. He turned up the radio and it sang out, loud and clear. A melody that gripped him and shook him awake. Reminded him of what it was to live. A soundtrack pointing the way to the open road, crashing like waves above the rocks of the sonorous V8 engine. He had been lost long before he climbed into the car and drove away from his life. Today, it had all gotten too much and he’d left what he thought was the source of his burden. He’d thought that he was escaping, but he’d carried that burden along for the ride. He’d driven away with no thought as to where he was headed. He had no destination in mind, but somehow the destination was always up ahead. It had waited patiently for him. Waited an age for him to look up and focus those cold blue eyes on what really mattered, and fight with every ounce of his strength and every fibre of his being to get to where he was always meant to be. With a defiant spin of wheels that painted the road with their signature. A signature that committed them both totally to the road ahead, man and machine slipped effortlessly into a state of union yet again. A symbiosis that allowed them to work together seamlessly. He had been seeking connection, and he had found it where it had always been. Found it in a place of supposed solitude. He’d needed space. He’d wanted to think. But he hadn’t known what it was he was supposed to be thinking about. The unceasing demands of the car and the challenge of the seductive, weaving road had soothed him, calmed him and opened him up to the world around him. Opened him up to the truth inside. His truth. A truth that we all fiercely guard when we are supposed to give it to the world in order for it to flourish and grow. His journey had begun with a crushing grey familiarity, but as he entered a stretch of the world that was filled with the rich colours of life and a vibrancy that could not be denied, he had shrunk away from it. Shamed by his fear, he had tried to block out a landscape that he had made alien with his pettiness and self-centred ponderings. He was lost and it hurt him to admit that he had stepped off the path he was always meant to travel. This road spoke to him of that, and even as it spoke he had dialled up the noise in his head in an attempt to drown out the truth of it. Only when he’d thought of his father and the help the old man had humbly sought, the faith his father had displayed in a magic that he had not brought himself to understand, did he cease his lifelong tantrum and calm himself sufficiently to listen. Still himself enough to consider another way of being. Of being himself in the only way he possibly could. He did not have to break out of the circles after all. That was not how it was done. The circles were there for good reason. He saw that now, and he saw the line that he should take. Climbing onto the circle, he now occupied the edge. Now he could begin. It was all about this mastery. To travel on the border of the light and the darkness. To be the balance between the two sides he felt so strongly within. He was neither of those things and yet by being in the midst of them he was all of it. Both those sides and something more. Something beyond all of what he knew of himself. Something that rose up and was there to be counted. This counted. He counted. This meant something at last. He meant something and he always had. The journey was all, when you understood that it was as much a part of the destination as the destination itself. It was not a means to an end. It was meaning. It was life. The man travelling that road now shone in the way he was always supposed to, lighting the road ahead and the line he now travelled. When he returned, he did not have to say a word. He was no longer lost and at last he was home. Where he belonged.

q1uc5h

Mischief

I've always considered myself to be a person of habit. My days are as meticulously organized as the Dewey Decimal System, and I take great pride in the predictability of my routine. So, when I found myself sprawled across the library floor, a casualty of my own book-laden blunder, I knew the universe was setting me up for something extraordinary—or at least, extraordinarily embarrassing. The stranger I collided with had the reflexes of a startled cat, leaping back with a grace that only highlighted my own lack of it. He was dressed in what I could only describe as 'wizard chic,' a fashion choice so deliberate that it could either be a stroke of genius or a cry for help. "Are you alright?" he asked, extending a hand that materialized from the folds of his cloak. I accepted the help, brushing off the non-existent dust from my cardigan. "I'm fine, just a slight deviation from my daily script," I replied, trying to sound more Jane Austen than Jane Doe. As I gathered my books, I couldn't help but notice one that didn't belong to the library. It was ornate and seemed to whisper promises of adventure and mishaps. Naturally, I shoved it into my bag. If my life were a novel, this would be the moment the readers would scream at me for being obtuse. But since I'm not a character in a book, I saw no harm in it. It wasn't until later, when a knight in shining armor asked me for directions to the nearest dragon, that I realized my day was about to become a series of footnotes in someone else's fairy tale. And as for the mysterious stranger? Well, he was about to become the co-author of my once orderly life. The knight was an imposing figure, clad in armor that gleamed like a new penny. He stood in the middle of the fiction aisle, looking out of place. "Fair maiden," he began, his voice booming, "where might I find the vile dragon that plagues this land?" I blinked at him, my mind racing. Was I dreaming? Had I unwittingly ingested some hallucinogenic mold from the ancient library books? Or had I finally snapped under the pressure of overdue book fines? "Um, there are no dragons here," I said, adjusting my glasses. "This is a library in Texas, not a... Wait, did you just call me a maiden?" Before he could answer, a pixie zipped past my head, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake. "He's not going to find a dragon here, silly!" she giggled, perching on a stack of encyclopedias. "But there's a printer that's been acting like a beast all morning." The knight looked confused, and frankly, so was I. But as the library's unofficial troubleshooter, I led him to the printer, which was indeed spewing paper like a fire-breathing monster. With a flourish, the knight drew his sword and approached the machine. "Stand back," he warned, "I shall vanquish this mechanical beast!" "No, no, no!" I cried, lunging to save the printer from certain doom. "It just needs a paper refill and maybe a gentle pat on the back." As I showed the knight the less violent way to handle modern technology, my mind traveled back to the stranger I'd bumped into. Was he responsible for this madness? And more importantly, did he have a manual for dealing with fairy tale creatures? **** The library had become a veritable zoo of literary figures. There was the Mad Hatter arguing with Hemingway over a cup of tea, Sherlock Holmes deducing the plot twists in the romance section, and a group of hobbits who'd set up camp in the self-help aisle. It was chaos, but it was my chaos, and I was starting to enjoy it. I found myself in the middle of it all, a conductor of a symphony of absurdity. The knight had taken to the printer like a fish to water, or perhaps more accurately, like a knight to a dragon. He named it "Puff" and was now on a first-name basis with the tech support hotline. Then there was the stranger, the one who started this whole mess. He'd been popping in and out, always with a cryptic smile and a tip to manage the madness. "Try asking the White Rabbit for the time," he suggested. "It'll keep him busy for hours." As the day wore on, I realized that this wasn't just chaos; it was a story unfolding. And in every good story, there's a lesson to be learned. Mine was about letting go—of control, of predictability, of the fear of the unknown. So when a pirate captain commandeered the reference desk, demanding to see a map to 'X marks the spot,' I didn't panic. I simply handed him an atlas and watched as he and his parrot set off on a quest through the geography section. **** The library had always been a sanctuary for me, a place where the noise of turning pages was the most raucous sound one could expect. That was, until my life became an open book for characters who refused to stay within their covers. The stranger, whose name I learned was Drew, had become a regular fixture in my once predictable day. He was a walking spoiler, always hinting at what might happen next but never quite revealing the full plot. "Expect the unexpected," Drew would say, a twinkle in his eye that suggested he knew exactly which character would pop out next. And true to his word, I found myself hosting a tea party for a queen who was less 'royal highness' and more 'off with their heads.' As I navigated this new chapter, I couldn't help but reflect on the absurdity of it all. Here I was, a librarian, whose biggest concern used to be whether the books were shelved correctly. Now, I was debating the finer points of pirate etiquette with Long John Silver. However, amidst the chaos, there was a sense of wonder. The library had become a place of magic, a portal to worlds I had only ever visited in my imagination. Children came in wide-eyed, eager to meet their favorite characters, and adults found themselves recapturing a sense of childhood wonder. As the day drew to a close, I found myself sitting with Drew, watching the characters return to their books. "They'll be back tomorrow," he assured me. "Stories never really end, do they?" I shook my head, a smile playing on my lips. "No, I suppose they don't. And maybe that's the real magic." **** The clock in the library struck its solemn note, marking the end of the day. I stood there, surrounded by the quiet, feeling the echo of a thousand stories that had just been alive with noise and color. Drew, the mysterious stranger who had turned my world upside down, was preparing to leave, his cape catching the last light of the day. "You've navigated this well," he said, his voice a low hum that filled the spaces between the books. "But remember, every story has its shadows, and some pages are meant to stay unturned." I watched him, a flurry of questions dancing in my mind. Who was he, really? A guardian of tales? A wanderer between worlds? Or just a man with a flair for dramatic exits? As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at me, his eyes holding a secret. "Keep an eye on the lost and found box," he said cryptically. "You never know what might turn up." And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the silence and the stories. I approached the lost and found with a sense of trepidation. Inside, I found a single, leather-bound book, its pages blank except for a note on the front cover. "For the keeper of stories," it read. "Your next chapter is yet to be written." I closed the book, feeling a shiver of anticipation—or was it apprehension? The library was silent, but I could sense the pulse of untold stories waiting in the shadows. And as I turned off the lights, I knew one thing for certain: my own story was just beginning.

1tygai

A long weekend to forget and a day to remember

My phone rang once more, and for a moment, I thought he would have changed his opinion, but when I looked at the screen, it was not him, it was Elena, the department's assistant. I picked up, and before I had time to say anything, she started to yell at me: "Where are you? They are waiting, you are late! I sent you like ten messages!" I looked at my phone. There were no messages. Then I remembered: my work phone. Elena kept yelling things I couldn't understand, maybe because she was speaking too fast or perhaps because I had not slept for thirty hours. My work phone was in my backpack, with no battery after a long weekend. "Elena, calm down. My phone is dead. Let me charge it," I told her. "You have no time to charge anything! You have to come here!" I connected the charger to the little black brick and pressed all the buttons of the phone frenetically, but before I could see any messages, she said: "They moved the interview. It was supposed to start ten minutes ago!" I froze. "Please hurry up," she said, "I will entertain them as much as possible." "On my way!" I said, and I hung up. I picked up my backpack and keys, and just before leaving my apartment, I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was bloated from all the crying; my eyes were red as two massive potatoes, and my hair... "Fuck it," I told myself. I opened the door and closed it carefully after me. That's how this story was about to go, no matter if I wanted it or not, so when I entered my car, I took a big breath and convinced myself about something: the universe could not be so cruel; something good would happen that day. I started the car on my way to work, and while driving, I thought about how I had reached this point in my life. Once upon a time, I was an International Product Manager. I did not sell, care for the marketing, or innovate any of the Company's products. I "just" managed. According to my development colleagues, my department was full of glorified secretaries whose only job was sending emails with the information provided by others, meeting clients at fancy restaurants, and calling everyone and anyone continuously. Looking from the outside, that was a fair description, but to be fair, the job was even better than that. I became an IPM after working for a few years in the same Company's development department. I used to be one of those invisible people who tested and made devices engineered by others a reality. I grew into an experienced team member and reached the point where it annoyed me to see the commercial teams lacking the knowledge and experience to sell what we were creating. "We deserve better," said the product manager who worked on the same project as I did once in the laboratory. "We would benefit from someone with technical experience, someone like you." I felt over the moon. Someone had looked at me and my job and thought I could do the job that would put me in front of customers, developers, and marketing people worldwide. "There is an opening, you know?" He continued, "I think you should apply." I think that was the first time anyone told me I could do something else at work, and I grabbed the chance as if my life depended on it. When he told me there was a vacancy, I focused all my attention on getting that job. I tailored my CV, sent my application to the responsible manager, prepared myself for all the imaginable questions, and waited... and waited... and then I waited a bit more until I got tired of waiting and called the recruiter in charge of the position. I was expecting he would tell me there had been delays or that he was about to schedule my interview, but instead, he told me that "I was too technical" for such a position. He also thanked me because since I had called, he didn't have to write an email telling me exactly that... "too technical." That day, instead of feeling defeated and keeping with my life, I decided to enroll in university to get a management degree. Elena, one of my friends at work, thought I was brave; my boyfriend at home did not understand why I wanted to return to university since I had gone through it already, got my engineering degree, and scored a full-time work for a high tech company, working in the development department. I was 23 then. "Why would you want to do something else if your job is already good? He said, "You will have less time for other things.. for us," he continued. But I did not care. I was determined to get what I wanted, and no one would stop me... despite "the Universe" not being kind to me. The classes happened between nine in the morning and four in the afternoon when I was supposed to be at work. My plan for success was to attend as many classes as possible and recover the work hours before and after my regular schedule. My manager was cool with it as long as I delivered my test results and reports on time. I had no car that year, so I moved around on foot or with public transportation. I did go to work by bus, but whenever I had to go earlier than seven in the morning or leave after eight in the evening, I had to ask a colleague to give me a lift. So, a "normal" day for me would be starting to work at six, leaving the office at eight, having a couple of hours of class, returning to work, and leaving the department around eight or nine in the evening. After that, I worked on the school assignments at home, met friends, and tried to sleep. Life was not easy, but I had a very clear goal in mind, so I did not mind. After one year, I could have been the face of any energy drink, not because I used them but because I was all over the place all the time. Multitasking should have been my middle name. I was crushing it at school and work, and then, something happened: a change of management in the Product Management department. It took less than two weeks for the new boss to decide he needed more "technical experience" in his department, and out of the blue, I got a call the day before a long weekend when I was supposed to visit my mother, on my birthday, with my boyfriend. They were inviting me for an interview the following week, in case I was interested. I tried to keep it cool and accepted the proposal. The man on the other end of the line told me he would check the potential dates and times and would call me back. I left the office, happy as ever and ready for a long car trip, where I should be able to recover hours of conversation with my boyfriend and a weekend of quality time with friends and family. Unfortunately, my plans were better than the real deal: the weather throughout the whole trip was awful, my boyfriend was in a mood because I had not dedicated him time enough in the previous weeks, my mother was not happy with my decision to bring him along, and my friends were attacked by a severe flue case that killed our dinner and drinks plan. I spent the weekend with angry people, and the return was not better. After six hours of driving without stops, when we arrived around midnight at my boyfriend's place- two hours away from mine- he told me that the weekend had opened his eyes and he did not want to be with me anymore. I "slept" in his place with my eyes wide open until 4 a.m., when I recovered enough energy to get the hell out of there. I went to my place on time to have a shower and go to work, but as soon as the first person who entered the office told me "Good morning," I broke into tears, and my boss sent me home, afraid of the chaos my state of mind could cause across the team. So I returned to my apartment, crying non-stop and feeling my broken heart was about to jump out of my chest, and tried to sleep (again, with no success) on my sofa. A couple of hours later, I received Elena's call. That's why I returned to the factory instead of eating ice cream and cookies in my living room. I parked and ran to Elena's desk because, on my way out of the house, I had forgotten my phone and had no idea where I was supposed to go. As soon as she saw me, she gasped: "Gosh'" she said, "what happened to you?" "Long story," I replied, "where do I have to go?" "Human resources, main meeting room." I crossed the facilities running as if a lion was chasing me, and when I arrived at the meeting room, I found two men in their fifties, wearing suits and drinking coffee, who seemed to be having a pleasant conversation. When they saw me popping up on the door, I'm sure I was not what they were waiting for, but that was the best I could offer, so I immediately composed myself the best I could and said: "Gentlemen, my apologies. There was a misunderstanding, and I lost track of my agenda, but I am ready for the interview if that's ok with you." They looked at each other, their watches, and again at me. It was not clear to me if they had any other appointments, but I believe I made them curious with such an entrance, and I had my interview. They had read my curriculum, and I had good references from my colleagues. Despite having yet to finish my management degree, I had good notions of the business and a good eye for detail, something the new manager was looking for. It was evident that I was a good fit, so I asked the terrible question: "Which is the salary you offer?" The men looked at me as if I had insulted them, their wives, and all their relatives. "Salary?" replied the Human Resources manager. "That's not under discussion. You need to show first that you can do the job." "But, you said I would have more visibility and responsibility, so I guess I should have at least a raise to buy a couple of suits, right?" I asked, always with a nice smile. "You know," said the same man, "There are banks that can loan you money if you need to buy clothes." My smile vanished. I looked at him, his suit and his expensive leather shoes. I looked at my potential future manager, who wasn't smiling and seemed uncomfortable with that conversation. We had discussed everything by then. "Any other question?" asked the man. "No," I said, "I am not sure I am interested in the position if the conditions are the ones you mentioned. Thanks for the opportunity, though." I stood up, shook their hands, left the room, and walked calmly to Elena's desk in the other building. "So?" she yelled as soon as I crossed the door. "I don't think I will get it," I told her. "I'll go home now unless you need me for anything else around here." She nodded. She knew staying would be no good for me or anyone in a 5km radius. I needed sleep and sugar in significant quantities, independently of the order. I returned to my apartment, to my sofa and my fridge. I managed to sleep, and the next day, with a better appearance and energy, I started my shift at eight in the morning as if nothing had happened. Shortly after, Elena called me to her desk, and when I entered her area, she pointed at our manager's office with the biggest smile. Our boss was speaking with the head of Product Management. I sat by her side and stuck my nose between the pages of the tools catalog she handed me until the office door opened. Our boss left immediately for another meeting, and the other manager stopped by my side. I stood up and, and he told me: "Would a fifteen percent raise convince you to join my team?"

h7xsl2

Bump and Jump

"Get ready to jump," Smyth purred. The young demon next to him shivered with excitement. "Do I just jump on their back, or grab an arm?" he asked nervously. "Whatever, just make sure your grasp is firm," Smyth said. "Get your hooks in them when you land." After seventeen centuries of training new entities, he was getting tired of the same old questions. Didn't anyone listen to his introductory talks about possession of the living? Halfway down the sidewalk an elderly woman and her young companion strolled slowly towards them. The elderly tended to be easier targets because they moved so slowly, but the younger companion, slowed by her friend was an easy target too. No matter how many times Smyth explained the possession process, the new demons usually failed to grasp the basic concept and ended up spilling onto the sidewalk or the ground beside their victims, not gaining entrance to the person's body in the smooth, seamless manner Smyth valued. "Once you grab them you need to find a slit, a hole, some tear in their energy field where you can slide right in," he cautioned the young demon. "But we're just riding these two to someone better, so don't enter, just hang on." The young demon nodded, anxious to find a home - he didn't care where or with whom. Demons needed bodies. That was well-known. They couldn't indulge their desire to lust, steal, kill, or do all the things they did in human bodies. Without a body, they possessed all the desires without the ability to exercise them. The problem was there were more demons than bodies available, meaning bodies went to those who were best able to navigate their way in. This supply and demand opportunity wasn't lost on Smyth, who charged a pretty penny to attend his "university" and learn how to spot, possess, and even transfer bodies at will. His credentials were impeccable. He'd been present at Noah's flood - and after. He'd possessed several Roman soldiers at the crucifixion of Christ. Although the carpenter's death had, admittedly, caused over a dozen soldiers to accept Christ as the Son of God, forcing him to vacate their bodies when they pledged their allegiance to the dead carpenter, he'd done well for the next century - albeit barely keeping ahead of the followers and their wanderings. Things had really slowed down in the three years Christ had roamed the countryside. Everywhere he went the carpenter Rabbi turned evangelist cast out Smyth's kind, sending many to the abyss - a trip no one came back from. There was that incident with the thousands of pigs on the hill. Two demon-possessed men met the carpenter, coming out of the tombs. Smyth was proud of those two legions of demons - all some thousands of them graduates of his school. He was sad to see them fall screaming into the fiery abyss where they began to burn with a fierceness that made him shudder. They had been some of the most fierce demons he'd tutored noting that no one could pass that way until the carpenter and his rag-tag group of disciples came along. They'd done exactly as he'd taught them, crying out, “What have you to do with us, O Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?” The carpenter was not deterred. So the demons begged him, saying, “If you cast us out, send us away into the herd of pigs.” He said, “Go.” So they came out and went into the pigs, and behold, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters. What were they thinking? He shook his head. Then there was the man in the tombs at Gerasenes. He had a particular fondness for him. The man ran naked and slobbering among the tombstones. It made it hard for demons to make the jump to another, but in the meantime, the body was theirs to abuse and use - which they gleefully did, chasing anyone and everyone out of the graveyard with their screams and wild gyrations. The carpenter cast them out as well and it took Symth almost another century to find another body as comfortable as that and able to host so many demons. It annoyed him as he had a guarantee with his school - to provide new bodies if the old ones became uninhabitable. "Now?" Damon, his new charge asked. The two women were almost abreast of them. Smyth looked them over carefully. The younger woman had a cross around her neck. That didn't mean anything. It was a popular piece of jewelry for the young these days. They had no clue what it truly meant. "Yes," he said. Damon lept at the two women, landing on the back of the younger. As Smyth watched the young demon encircled the young woman, putting hooks into her energy as he rode high on her shoulders. Smyth easily jumped aboard the old woman. As the four of them strode along the sidewalk Smyth eyed the crowd ahead of them. There was some sort of gathering at the crosswalk. Perfect, he told Damon. "What did I tell you about transferring?" he asked. "Lean on one side and make them bump into your true target," Damon said. Well, well. He had listened. Smyth smiled coyly. He left the old woman and floated ahead, scoping out the crowd. "There is no God!" a young man screamed from the sidewalk. At the center of the circle, a young pastor lifted a Bible high into the air. "There is a God and He loves you!" he said to the young man who angrily screamed back at him. Smyth wasn't deterred. In fact, he loved street preachers. Lots of jostling and anger, non-believers, and opportunities for demon possession. Sure, there were one or two who came to a belief in the Almighty and the carpenter. Their demons were forced out of them, if they had them, but the pickings among the rest of the crowd was so plentiful, it was rarely a problem. "Just pick a loudmouth and transfer," Smyth always advised. Not only were they perfect targets, but their anger and other issues made them a great home for demons of any size, power, and affiliation. All it took was a bump, a contact, a slight jostling, and a connection between bodies. No one ever noticed. At best there were apologies, both parties confused by the sudden loss of balance, the bumping into a stranger. At worst, it resulted in accusations, fists thrown, and the opportunity to transfer easily as veils were ripped and souls exposed. The two women slowed to listen to the preacher. Symth noticed the young woman bow her head and reach for the old woman's hand. Panicked he screamed at Damon, "Get out, get out!" But Damon, enthralled by the harvest of bodies to choose from, didn't hear him. The preacher, seeing the shadows on the two women was already laying hands on the two women, casting out the shadows, calling on the carpenter, commanding them into the abyss. Smyth cursed and swore and fought the man, hissing loudly, sounding for all the world like a vampire caught in the daylight. "In the name of Jesus Christ, and by the blood of the cross I command you to leave these women and go to the abyss reserved for Satan and his demons," the pastor said loudly. Damon flew off of the woman immediately, unskilled in spiritual warfare, quickly spiraling into the darkness below them, unable to fight back. Smyth struggled a bit longer, cursing, spitting, and swearing. He knew his actions only convinced more people in the crowd to accept the carpenter's grace, but he didn't care. He only wanted to stay out of the abyss. Unfortunately, he soon joined his young charge, screaming all the way into the eternal fire pit below. "That's what you don't want to do," Ammon said, turning to his young student. The two had watched Smyth and Damon cast down from the shadows. As the preacher continued to preach and lay hands on people the two demons circled the crowd like a dim fog, looking for the groups of students who laughed and cursed, and joked, teasing and harassing the young evangelist. "Isn't he a threat?" The young demon asked, nodding towards the preacher. "Not really," the older instructor sighed. "For every two he saves there are two dozen open to us. Easy pickings." The young demon smiled. "Don't forget, bump and jump," the demon said. "Bump and jump."

zdxi9d

Consequences

Angelina was smug. She was certain she was the right fit for the job. The job description touched on every skill she knew she possessed and excelled in. The job description read, “We are seeking an innovative marketing manager to promote our company’s brand and services. You will need experience in marketing strategies and the ability to identify new business leads. Along with a degree in marketing, you will have superb leadership, communication, and collaboration abilities.” “Wow, Angelina, you’ve got this one in the bag.” The similarity to Angelina’s skills and the job description impressed her best friend, Julia. Angelina’s eyes sparkled with confidence. She felt her accomplishments spoke for themselves. “Yep. I have the degree, I’m experienced, and I’m good with communication skills.” Julia’s eyebrows furrowed, and Angelina’s gaze landed on her face, noticing the change in expression. “What’s the frown for? Don’t you think I’m right for the role?” Julia squirmed in her seat. They sat in the middle of a busy pub, the Botanist in Sloane Square in Chelsea. The location, posh as it was, resembled a cocktail bar and restaurant. Every table displayed a small plant on a white tablecloth. Images of plants decorated the place, while the flashy and extensive cocktail menu had a plant-related theme. The ‘Vesuvius’ was the fiery chilli plant-based cocktail which was the highlight of any visit. Julia and Angelina, inseparable since their private school days, continued their journey together at University College, London. They were always together, sharing countless memories, as close as any sisters would be. Julia studied economics, and Angelina studied marketing. They lived together in student accommodation, and everyone noticed how they supported each other. As best friends, they went through family feuds, boyfriend break-ups, celebrations, and commiserations. They were a team. “Hum, Angelina, it’s just the last bit of the job description. It states collaboration abilities.” “So?” “Yes, but don’t you remember? There was a falling out between you and a major client. It was impossible for you to collaborate with them.” Angelina shook her head in frustration and irritation. “Julia.” She said with force, to show Julia, she had no clue what she was talking about. “That ‘client’ used to chase me round the boardroom table, asking me if I would go out to dinner with him. One time, he even told me he would love to get me into bed with him. I refused to collaborate with that dirty old man.” “Oh my God, Angelina. I remember you told me about him. What a dirty dog.” “He was disgusting, Julia. He threatened to tell my company I was useless if I didn’t sleep with him, but I recorded him making advances on my iPhone, so in the end he couldn’t do a damn thing.” “Wow. Clever of you. Sherlock Holmes lol.” “Something like that.” She grinned and sipped on her gin and tonic. “God, I love a Hendricks, don’t you, Julia?” She swirled her drink around, and the ice cubes clinked together. “Yeah, especially when it’s summer, but only if it’s with fever tree tonic.” Julia brandished her glass as though it were a weapon. Angelina nodded. “True, true, not the same otherwise. The mint and cucumber combo are perfect with the right amount. But what summer, lol? The weather here is always so shitty, I’m tired of it.” “Anyway, when is your interview?” Julia slurped her drink with relish. “It’s only up the road. It’s at 3.00pm in their new offices in Fulham. I looked online. They look sleek and modern, quite fancy, in fact.” Julia peered at her Rolex watch. Julia and Angelina’s parents, who came from upper-class backgrounds, spoiled them. Even though they left university a few years before, they still shared accommodation together. Although now it was a swanky apartment in Chelsea, not a grotty student accommodation. “It’s 1.30pm now, Angelina.” Angelina peered out of the dusty pub window. The rain was coming down in sheets and making a pattern on the reflective glass panelling behind the bar opposite. You could hear the water trickling and running into rivulets on the road. “I’ve got my car here, haven’t I, so no worries. It’s only ten minutes away.” Julia nodded. “I know we came by car. I wondered why you looked so smart today.” “Thanks, chica. I try. Another G&T?” “Do you think you should, Angelina?” Julia avoided conflict and chose her words carefully around Angelina, who suffered from a short fuse and easily got angry. “They won’t smell it, Julia.” Gesturing towards her bag. Julie could see small, round mints tucked in the side of Angelina’s bag. “No, not that. You are driving.” “Yeah, well, it’s only a couple of gins. Who do you think you are? My Mum?” Angelina responded. Julia coughed. “Don’t forget, we also had wine at the apartment before coming out.” “It’s fine.” Julia said no more. Julia, knowing how stubborn Angelina could be and hearing the resolute tone in her voice, she chose not to say anything else. Sometimes, Julia worried about her friend, despite loving her. She was headstrong and didn’t always make the best decisions. The pub door opened, and Jonty walked through. He was familiar to both girls, but Angelina worked with him daily. She looked up in surprise when she saw him. Then she whispered to Julia as he passed them both, looking straight ahead, not seeming to notice they were there. “Oh shit.” “What’s wrong, Angelina?” “I was unaware that Jonty had an interview with this company.” The news caught her off guard. “Who cares if he does, Angelina? He’s a nice guy, but you know you are perfect for the job.” Angelina sipped her G&T, got up, and went to the bar. She could not stay still, restless, her legs moving in a perpetual dance. “Two more G&T’s, please.” The clear glasses clinked as the barman poured their drinks. Smiling at him, she used her contactless debit card, paid, and sat down again on the padded seat opposite Julia. Julia was confused. Angelina was unaffected by anything, as she was a confident person, but Jonty’s presence was unsettling her. Angelina saw Julia’s inquiring looks. “Look. I’ve been worried about business slipping through my fingers as Jonty’s influence has grown within the company. We’ve had a bit of a run in. It’s just…” Angelina shifted in her seat, as though it was on fire. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Julia said, “What? What has happened? You are not making any sense.” Julia leaned forward and put her hand on her arm to comfort her. She could see Angelina was at a near breaking point. “A minor mix-up, nothing more.” “But you work with him, Angelina. I thought you got on with everyone at B&C Products. You introduced him to me at one of your work ‘do’s’ and I thought he was lovely.” Angelina couldn’t sit still. She stood up; she sat down. She paced up and down the room, like a soldier engaged in square bashing. As she sat back down again, her fingers drummed on the tabletop. “For god’s sake, tell me what the problem is, Angelina.” She sat down again, with a bump. “I set up a company to work with B&C Products.” She swallowed hard. Her heart was beating in her chest. “What do you mean? You work for B&C, how could you set up a company?” “I was just using this, I suppose, fake company, and pretended to trial some products overseas. I wanted to get ahead of Jonty. He’s always right about everything. He was getting too much interest from the leadership team. There is a promotion coming up, and I didn’t want him to get it.” “I’ve been at that company for five years, Julia. A man got the promotion instead of me last year. I should have got the job. It’s a man’s world. I’m not having it.” “I created a fake company to endorse me. They trial the products overseas, commend me, tell B&C how amazing I am, but then at the last-minute drop out of buying the products." “But it was you, all along, pretending to be the fake company?” Angelina hung her head in shame. “Yeah.” “So, no-one trialled anything overseas?” “No.” Julia felt overwhelmed. The words echoed in her ears, leaving her stunned. She couldn’t believe Angelina’s fraudulent actions. “Does Jonty know?” “He suspects something. He’s been asking lots of questions. I think he’s getting close. But I can’t believe he’s going for the same job interview. This was my chance to escape before anyone finds out.” Julia took her friend’s hand in both of hers. “Look, Angelina. I’m not happy you’ve done this. But once he’s gone, you can eliminate the fake company.” Angelina’s head came up. “I suppose so, but I wanted this job.” “You’ve been playing with fire. What’s the best option here? Should you prioritise him, and keep your secret hidden, or risk him discovering it before you leave?” Angelina was silent for a few moments, then sighed. “As usual, you are right, my friend.” She acknowledged her friend’s wisdom with a slight smile. Julia could see the conflict in Angelina’s eyes, despite her outward smile. She looked at her watch. “It’s too late to call off the interview now, Angelina, but turn up late. If you don’t go, Jonty will suspect why you pulled out.” “But we don’t know if he knows I’m attending.” “Yeah, but you can’t take the risk. He might spot us at the pub any second. Plus, he may see that we’ve been drinking.” She gestured with her hand. “It’s obvious from all the glasses on the table.” “Okay, I will call them and make an excuse, but I will turn up late on purpose. Then I have no chance of getting the job. He can have it. He deserves it, anyway.” “And you will get rid of the fake company?” “Yes, I will, Julia. Thanks for clearing my mind on this.” “That’s what friends are for.” Julia smiled. She’d talked Angelina round. She would go to the interview, running late. They were unlikely to give her the job because of the lateness. Jonty would get it. Problem solved. The girls sat for a bit. Angelina contemplated what she’d done. Julia thought about her friend, and how ambition and jealousy made her do something as stupid as trying to hoodwink her employer. Just then, Jonty ran past at a pace towards the pub’s door. He spotted Angelina, and said, “Hi Angelina. I guess you are going to the job interview. I’m not surprised you are going for this job. It’s exceptional, but oh my God, I’m running so late. I was supposed to be there half an hour ago.” He burst out of the pub doors, then fled up the road. Julia looked at Angelina. She looked at Julia. Then they laughed until their bellies ached and they could laugh no more. “Can you believe it? He’s running late.” She chortled. Returning to being serious, Julia asked, “What’s your plan now, Angelina? He’s blown his interview. You go to the interview. I think you will smash it and get the job. It’s 2.45pm, you still have time.” “Yeah, true, but it leaves me with the same problem.” She drained the last of her drink and put the glass on the table. “No, not really. You know for certain that you must remove the fake company. You’ve got this far. Just get rid of it and make sure you cover your tracks.” Julia couldn’t believe she was pushing Angelina to be deceitful, but there was no alternative. She didn’t want her friend to end up in trouble. Angelina stood up with purpose. “You know what? You are right! I’m going to go. I deserve that job, too.” With that, she flounced out of the pub, waving goodbye to Julia. She was determined to see it through. Julia sat nursing the dregs of her drink. She felt awkward but wasn’t certain why. As she got into her white BMW Series 1 car, Angelina was only thinking about the interview. A confident smirk played on her lips, as she knew she was the perfect match for the job. Goddamn it, she deserved the job, not Jonty. She worked hard, harder than anyone else. She put her own unacceptable behaviour to the back of her mind. The traffic was busy, and Angelina was getting frustrated. With a determined expression, she put her foot down, and the car growled and shot forward in response. Despite everything, she couldn’t bear the thought of arriving late. The traffic lights were turning red, already on amber. Ignoring the red light, her last thought was, “I can make it.” A large, white Range Rover Evoque turned across her path and crashed into the side of her car. Her BMW crumpled, killing Angelina outright. No-one could have survived such a crash. The driver, whose right of way it was, sat in disbelief in their car. Their airbag deployed, and they were okay, and in one piece. Julia heard the crash even whilst sitting in the pub. There was a sound of screeching metal as the two cars collided. Her heart stopped. It was Angelina. She knew, she just knew. Putting her head in her hands, she sobbed her heart out. Although Angelina came from a large family, Julia didn’t, and Angelina became as close to her as any sibling would have. When the police arrived, they interviewed the driver of the vehicle, which hit the side of Angelina’s car. The driver muttered, overwhelmed by shock. She wasn’t seriously injured. Her Range Rover Evoque was solid, and although it hit Angelina’s car front on, withstood the collision well. There was blood on her knee where she’d hit her steering wheel, and a black eye from the airbag. She was incredibly lucky. “Did the other driver survive?” She asked. Just looking at Angelina’s car gave an immediate answer. Debris from her car was scattered across the road. Two police cars and an ambulance were also present. Vehicles were diverted as traffic mounted on both sides of the road. The police officer shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” He was a young police officer. He had seen many road traffic accidents whilst on duty, but not many, which ended in a fatality. The hardest part was telling friends and family. The woman in her fifties, wearing a smart blue suit, said, “Officer, I can’t believe it. I was running late for an interview with a candidate this morning, which tempted me to speed, but realised it’s never worth breaking the rules, so I didn’t speed.” “I saw the other car, but my green filter said I could go. I never expected that she would keep coming. It’s horrifying.” With a wry expression, the police officer said, “She went through a red light. There was no way you could avoid hitting her. People never learn.” Just then, running down the street from the pub, Julia appeared on the scene. Her tear-stained face showed she already knew the news wasn’t good. She fell to her knees in despair in front of the police officer and the woman driver. Before her, the road lay covered in remnants of the two vehicles and scattered debris. “What happened?” “Due to your friend running a red light, this lady had no opportunity to stop.” Julia said, “Is she okay? Is Angelina all right?” The police officer looked down and shook his head. “I’m sorry Miss, she had no chance.” Julia wailed. “She lived her life at one hundred miles an hour. She just wanted to be the best.” She didn’t know how she was going to deal with the loss of her close friend. The other driver, her name was Cynthia, touched Julia on the arm to comfort her. “I’m so sorry.” She spoke. “I couldn’t stop in time. Your friend kept coming. I was in a hurry to meet a candidate for an interview, but I was running late. However, I never bend the rules. It just isn’t worth it.” Julia put her hand to her mouth. The irony of it all. The interviewer for the job she so desperately wanted killed her. He shook his head again. “I wish young people would realise. More haste, less speed.” After Angelina’s demise, the company discovered her deception but chose not to broadcast it, as they didn’t want to tarnish her memory. They were, of course, shocked at what she did. Jonty spoke up for Angelina, stating that she was a committed employee who acted to have her achievements acknowledged. It was decent of him to support her in that way. “What a shame,” he thought. He wasn't ready to leave B&C Products. When Angelina and Julia saw him in the pub, he was going to a meeting at the company, which was interviewing Angelina. But his role was to provide a reference. They already knew her, and they were going to offer her the position. He was a family man, with a young wife and two children. Angelina’s behaviour shocked him, but he understood what an ambitious person she was. He became a Senior Director of B&C Products, and made sure from then on, that any female in the company got a fair shot at promotion. Julia, meanwhile, surprised everyone. She gave up her banking career and retrained as a nurse. She found banking inconsequential. Since Angelina’s death, and wanted to make a positive difference in the world. She realised happiness, and even life, could be taken away in an instant. She became tea total, and when she encountered those who needed a little help in giving up alcohol, she told them the story of Angelina, and how she lived her life at a fast pace but tragically ended up dead. “Remember, life is a series of choices. Make them wisely, for the consequences are yours to bear.”

d8j8ai

Sometimes Being Late Works Out

"This is exactly what I needed today" I mutter. Hot liquid soaking the front of my brand-new blouse. "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you," he says, while holding out a hand to help me up. "I really didn't see you there. You came out of nowhere" "Unless you have a woman's blouse hidden somewhere, I really don't see how you can help," I mutter, motioning to my top. "I'm already late to my interview. My shirt is ruined. And this has already been the worst day ever." I look up, realizing that I hadn't even seen the person who had just knocked me down, and dumped a whole cup of coffee on me in the process.  Okay, I am a little less upset. This man is a perfection. Tall. Built. Dark. Sharp jawline. Wearing a very well-fitting suit. He looks like he could be on the cover of some kind of hottest bachelors' magazine. I blush. "I don't. But I can give you, my jacket? You seem to be really focusing on it." He smirked. "What no. I uh, I wasn't. Never mind. It's just been a bad day and that just topped it off," I admit. "I shouldn't go around telling my whole life story. I think I'll just go home. I probably wouldn't have gotten the job anyways." I motion to the building doors just ahead of us. "That's where your interview was?" He asked. "Yeah. I was really hoping to get this intern position. But if you can't tell," I motion to myself. "I am a mess, and this isn't even the half of it. So, it's probably better that I don't try to manage other people's lives." He lets out a small chuckle. "If you want, we can go get coffee and you can tell me about it? I need a new one anyways." He smirks, glancing down to check his watch, he adds, "I have about a half hour to spare before heading to work. We could get coffee at the place around the corner." *** "Okay, I have to admit that this coffee is pretty good. When it's not being poured all over me." "It's pretty good? Don't you mean it's the best coffee around," He states. "And by the way, I didn't pour it on you, you ran right into it." "If you say so." "I do." He looks over at me. "So, tell me about how you ended up running into me this morning. Why were you running late?" "Ugh, you walked right into me." He gave me a look. "Okay, so maybe I was running and maybe I did bump into you, but you didn't have to knock me down." I huff. "That still doesn't tell me why you were late enough to your interview to be running through the streets bumping into people." "You honestly wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Try me." He shrugged. "I bet it can't be that crazy." "You'd be surprised." "Try me." I blushed. "Well, I sort of woke up on a canoe in the middle of the park." "Uh huh. And how did you end up on the boat?" "I just finished getting my business degree and am looking for a new job before I move out of my parents' house, and I have a younger brother." I shrugged. "He really likes to play pranks on me. I'm also a really heavy sleeper, so that just makes it easier for him." "I know the feeling. But how did that make you late and ruin your day?" He laughs. "Okay. Promise you aren't going to laugh?" "I really can't." "Okay, well... he didn't leave me with a paddle, so I tried to use my hands. That didn't work, so I tried to yell out for help. No one tried to help me, but people did start recording. I got frustrated and decided to roll out of the boat and swim. The boat tipped all the way over and caught my tank top. And my tank top ended up ripping. So, I was in the middle of the park, soaking wet, and holding my top up with my hand." I paused to take a drink of coffee. "And to make things even worse, a bird literally shit on my head." He was full on laughing now. "So, I walk back home. And when I get there, I realized that the door was locked. I'm half dressed, have bird shit in my hair, and I can't get inside. So, I decide to climb in through my bedroom window. And one of the neighbors called the cops." "Okay, yeah. This is a little hard to believe." "Trust me, I know." "Yeah, so then I was getting ready to get in the shower, when someone knocks on the door. I'm not thinking anything of it. I grab my robe and go to see who it is. And it's a cop. He made me step outside. Shit still in my hair. And I'd also like to add that I had makeup on before the pond. So, it's all over my face. And I'm in nothing but my bath robe. It took a bit of convincing for the cops to believe me enough to let me go back inside to get my license to prove that I did indeed live there. And by then, I only had fifteen minutes to get ready." "I think you should have still gone in and given it a try." "Hey, then you wouldn't be sitting here with me." "No, but I would hopefully still have heard all about your morning." "What do you mean?" "Well, Anna, I think you would be perfect for the job." "Wait, I didn't tell you, my name. Did I?" I stare at him. "No, but it was in the interview file on my desk." My eyes widened in horror. "Oh my gosh. Wait, you're the guy I was supposed to meet with? Mr. Thorne. Like owner of Thorne Productions?" "The one and only. And if you'd like the job, it's yours." "Yes! I would love the job."

0l9hnu

A Tale of Two Cities

A Tale of Two Cities Dusk had settled in Berlin as Fraulein Meuller walked outside in the fields, watching the sun set over the western hills, trying to keep her mind from going back to the terror that she felt and the nightmare that she had previously endured. Herr Goebel, a man of about 50, sighed as he walked towards her, knowing full well that he could not talk her out of anything. She had come to them some few months ago after miraculously making it over the wall and while this was good, she was not happy. "I knew I would find you out here, Elsa” "Ja" she replied to him quietly. "Elsa, what you are thinking of doing, it's impossible! You just got to safety 3 months ago!" "I know, but how can I leave him there, all alone? He's my brother!". She lowered her head looking towards the ground, knowing full well, how much of an impossibility it was for her to go back, past the wall to East Berlin, but she had promised her parents that she would take care of her little brother. “Elsa, you don't actually know if he is alone. You told me that, he was with your parents when you saw them.” Of course, Herr Goebel knew of the dangers and how unlikely that sounded. The Stasi were not known for mercy, but without actually knowing anything at all, both he and Elsa were left to the mercies of their own imaginations as they clashed with the cold hard reality that lay behind that wall to the east. 3 months prior, the Mueller family had left their residence at night, being cautious to not alert any patrols. Elsa knew what was happening but her little brother Ernst didn't. "We're going on an adventure!", their mother had said, trying to sound cheerful through a grimace. "We're like , spies! So we have to be really quiet!" Elsa looked at her little brother, knowing that the situation was far more serious than a children's game, but went along with her parents explanation. Ernst put a single index finger to his lips and was as quiet as church mice across a wooden floor while the family crept through small pathways to an old parsonage. As they arrived, a man of the cloth met them and opened the large wooden door for them, blessing them as they passed him. Elsa looked at him, noting how his eyes seemed to dart towards the road, the houses and other buildings like a deer that knew it was being hunted. Elsa shivered but tried to keep that to herself so that her brother would not be too alarmed. The Mueller family settled into the church pews with other people for an evening service, or at least, that was the official story, so it wouldn't alert the Stasi. Elsa remembered hearing about the Stasi, who would bang on the doors and arrest whole families in the middle of the night and taken away. The morning after, the records of the families were erased altogether as if they had never existed. When she was 9 years old, she woke up to the sound of that same banging and yelling coming from nextdoor. The yelling got louder and louder that time, then the unmistakable rattling of gunfire from machine gun, then a scream which was cut short. Elsa didn't know the neighbors well, but by morning, the house nextdoor was barren and lifeless. She was she remembered talking with her neighbors once...but she had to totally forget them. "Elsa?" A touch from her father brought her back to the present. The doors of the church had closed and a cross bar was put in place and the pastor came to the front of the altar. At first, it looked as if he would begin the service,.or give a homily, but instead, her family, along with other families were led from the sanctuary to a small staircase leading downwards and they eventually came to an underground water way where a man with a small boat was waiting. The boatman indicated that he could only take 2 passengers at once across the border, so most of the families elected to have the children go first. "Elsa, Ernst", Herr Meuller started. "Here's what will happen. When it is your turn, you get on the little boat and you will go across first. We will follow a little bit later." Ernst bit his lip and his eyes began to well up. "But Papa...." "Ernst", his Papa said trying to keep his own lips from trembling. "It will be fine. Your sister will be with you and, when we arrive on the other side, we will meet with our friends. All we.ask is that you be strong for us and your sister, okay?" Ernst looked downwards as a single tear left his face and landed on.the ground. Elsa and Ernst waited for their turn for about an hour when the pastor came back down the staircase and alerted the families that the Stasi were approaching the church and they might have only a little time for one more boat trip. Elsa and Ernst boarded the little boat just as Herr Meuller had told them while the remaining families went back up the stairs so as not to arouse any suspicions. The boat was already heading down the water way but the siblings could still see their parents as they ascended the staircase. All of a sudden, Ernst jumped from the the boat and swam back to the shoreline and he ran up the stairs to met his parents as they looked on in horror watching the boat take their daughter across the border while their son remained. Elsa stood on the boat, helplessly as the boat continued it's journey . She knew that if the Stasi saw a boy that was all wet in a little church, it might be suspicious. Unfortunately, all she could do is stay on the boat until it crossed the border. Now, several months later, she continued to wonder about her little brother and her mother and father. Herr Goebel and his wife were family friends of the Mueller’s and gladly took Elsa into their home but the struggled to any tidbit of news at all across that awful wall. He stood beside Elsa for a time before trying to say anything more and after a bit of thought, he spoke to her. “My Cousin Helmut often travels through a checkpoint. I could ask him if he can glean any information. He knows them also.  He can't get them out because the truck would be searched thoroughly.” Elsa turned to Herr Goebel, trying hard to hide her tears, and trying desperately to banish the thought of her family spending time in the dreaded Hohenschönhausen, the prison and torture chamber for “the enemies of the state”. Elsa collapsed into Herr Goebel’s arms thanking him profusely. The next week after Herr Goebel had spoken with Cousin Helmut, Elsa secretly got on Helmut's truck,.which was leaving the bright colors of West Berlin and headed east towards the checkpoint. Herr Goebel knew what she had done when he could not find her and said a prayer for them all while also looking to the horrid wall.

deg3d5

I Draw Down the Moon

You would think with all the prep I did yesterday this would have prevented me being late to a once in a lifetime interview at The Messengers. The Messengers is a well-known and respected business with excellent benefits. A 10% match on the 401(k) plan, opportunities for professional development, flexible-time off, and a huge increase from my current salary: unemployed. Plus, this company will not work you to the bone from what I heard. By the gods I could use that right now... Last night I read up on material that I could be questioned on for the technical portion, ate a balanced meal for dinner, ironed out every wrinkle from my selected interview outfit, and went to bed at a perfectly reasonable time. Not before of course setting ten different alarms, the first ringing two hours before the interview, the next nine ringing at five minute intervals, each with increasing volume to wake me up with enough time to dress, eat, walk over there in ten minutes, and half an hour to sit around and internally scream in the lobby before the interview. But none of the alarms went off! I instead woke up to the shade of Paris green filtering through my blinds. The shade of green that only appears at around nine o’clock in the morning, right when my interview is scheduled. Shit. I bolt out of bed. The first thing I do is smack the coffee maker in the kitchen before I sprint back into my bedroom and into the bathroom, flinging off my pajamas in the process. I shove myself into my pristine clothing; a satiny white blouse, a dark red business jacket and skirt. The wrinkles come back with a vengeance as I do so. All that ironing for nothing! I brush through my long ebony hair but it's full of balls and nests of tangled hair impeding the smoothness I’m hoping to achieve. Using brute force on the brush handle, I remove those tangled bits alongside a good chunk of my hair in the process. “Fuck!” I splash on some water to clean my face, scraping off what feels like a layer of skin with my towel before I hastily put on some makeup. I prefer to take my time with my makeup, making sure my eyeliner is nice and sharp and picking the perfect shade of lipstick to go with my outfit but I must throw away that ritual for the sake of not missing this interview! I flick on some mascara and pick a pomegranate shade for my lipstick. No time to put on foundation and concealer, leaving my acne scars out in the open. A thing that I’m totally not self-conscious about. By the gods please have mercy on this poor soul! I stick in some garnet earrings and nearly choke myself with a matching necklace to complete the look. Eyeing myself in the mirror I can’t help but think I look like I’m flying right out of secondary school with my present appearance. Ugh... but there’s no time to fix any of this! Exiting my bathroom, there is the smell of dirt-cheap coffee wafting from the kitchen. At least I can run with a coffee in my hand! I nearly slip and trip over my discarded pajamas, cursing at myself once more. I pick up the black pumps that I’ve selected last night at the bedroom door, hopping my way in as I place them on one by one. If this morning couldn’t get any worse, my roommate Charles floats down. Charles... Fucking hate Charles.  If I had to describe him he is a man with a giant potbelly, his stained shirt barely covering it. Charles looks like he is trying to grow a beard but it's patchy and it only adds to his uncleanly look. “Morning Clairisse,” he sleepily greets me. He yawns, his mouth looks like a blackhole as he does. “Shouldn’t you be at your interview?” “Yes Charles!” I exasperate. “But I’m running late!” I check the time on the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, I’m already fifteen minutes late for the interview. Fuck! Should I get coffee? My focus shifts to the bolted-down front door to the enchanting pot of coffee, not before landing on the timekeeper again that keeps on marching. You think if you killed him eons ago that time would stop! Or is that the right one? By the gods! I’m not eloquent enough without caffeine! Coffee it is then! Charles shrugs nonchalantly at this. He settles himself right on top of one of the dining room chairs. I pour some coffee into a thermos, not before I double check it for cleanliness. Charles’s influence sometimes puts things out of whack, something I’m always second guessing on. Pulling the refrigerator door open I spot the milk in one of the door shelves, grabbing it I pour some into my coffee. I’m nearly throwing the milk back into the refrigerator, violently jostling the entire thing, as I take a sip. I spit it out. All. Over. The. Floor. Dammit! I just cleaned the kitchen last night! My mouth is salivating from the sour flavor that hits my taste buds. Peering into the galaxy forming in my thermos, large white gobs float on top. I nearly gag at this. “Hey!” Charles shouts out. “You fucking spat all over the floor!” I give Charles, yeah-I-know-dude look. “I know man but I’ll clean it up after my interview!” Charles scoffs, with an eye roll that goes with it. “Yeah if you first make it there...” he sarcastically comments. Dumping my curdled coffee in the sink, I lean in to guzzle some water from the faucet to remove that terrible taste. I spit out the water. Now my breath must smell terrible... Using a nearby paper towel I blot the remaining water off my lips and chin to not mess up my lipstick. “By the gods, I just bought milk a few days ago. How could it already have gone bad,” I mutter under my breath. “Yeah that was before I drank it,” Charles loudly announces. Charles! Of course it is! “Charles what the hell! That’s my milk that I bought with my hard earned cash!” I yell. Or what little I have remaining. I hate being angry but this morning is going terribly! “You don’t even like milk!” “Yeah well this is my fucking apartment!” he yells back, gesturing with wide arms at the space. “And I can do whatever I want like turning off all of your alarms!” I point an accusing finger at him, crumpling the paper towel into a ball in my fist. “I fucking knew it!” I growl at him. “You ruin everything Charles!” I throw the wadded ball at him aggressively. Another reason why I need to get to this interview: to move out of this miserable apartment. I only moved here for the cheap rent but I knew what I was getting into when I signed the lease. The landlord sighed a breath of relief and placed a hand on their chest when I signed the leasing contract. I should have taken that as a red flag. I thought I could handle having a roommate such as Charles but I’m no saint. I think any sane person would go mad when living with a Shade like him. The ball passes through him, Charles turns a shade pink at my comment. “Well fuck you too Clairisse! Living with you is the worst thing that ever happened in my life!” “What life?! You’re fucking dead!” “You take that back you witch!” He says it with such force his ectoplasm spittle is getting on the dining table. Another thing to clean up besides the dining room chair. "I hope to the gods you ace this interview so I will never have to see you again!” he barks out. “So we are in agreement!” I scream back. Why the hell am I fighting with Charles?! My eyes zero in on the time again. Crap, now I’m twenty minutes late! I race off to the front door, unlocking the multiple bolts. I check for my keys, my phone, and my wallet. I have everything. I quickly exit the apartment. Oh wait, I forgot one thing. Opening the door again I flip off Charles. Something he also returns. *** The apartment building is right on Lethe Lane, a few blocks away from The Messengers building on Acheron Avenue. I spy the company’s logo, an envelope with wings, glowing purely white against the sickly green hue of the morning. If I speed-walk over there maybe I can shave my time by like two minutes. Curse me! Why did I have to wear heels! My pumps click rhythmically against the smooth concrete sidewalk. It’s the only thing I hear on this quiet morning. Quiet? I pause. Examining the surroundings I realize why it’s so quiet. Styx Street is a busy street, normally there would be people walking already or cars racing down for the morning commute but there is nothing. Nothing. ... Shit! Today is- I’m blasted away, a bright light emerging right in front of my eyes. My body is flung back. I land on my back, there is a ringing in my ears. Ow... My sight is slightly blurry as I lift myself off the ground, this subsides along with the ringing in my ears as well as I start to examine myself. My outfit is fortunately still in tack, no dirt or holes. One of my pumps fell off, a foot is bare. I wiggle my toes to make sure I’m not too injured. I can still make it to this interview... I think... I scramble to get up, scraping my knee in the process. I groan at this. I spot my missing pump right in front of the feet of the dead dragging across nearby. One Shade nearly snatches it up with a four-fingered hand before I did. They snarl at me as they march away. I hiss back at them. By the gods... I place my missing pump back on my foot, tapping the tip on the concrete to ensure it’s on securely. I flatten my frizzled hair down as Shades pass by me at a sedated pace, their feet, hands, and neck cuffed and chained together. The scraping of metal against the asphalt and the moans of the soon-to-be-judged dead fill the once silent air. Up on the buildings there are heavily-armed soldiers dressed in white and black, aiming guns at the Shades, as they monitor the situation from above. The White and Black Guards. Yes, today is the second Tuesday of the month. Every second Tuesday is the day where the dead that need to be judged march down on Styx Street to the Eighteenth Circuit. The whole area is closed down as the White and Black Guards oversee the Shades so they do not escape. I should have seen the signs: the alarms turned off, the tangled hair, the milk curdling. Of course Charles is to blame for some but still, all signs to stay inside on an auspicious day. An auspicious day to have an interview. I check my phone. Great, now I’m half an hour late. The Fates could be saying: turn back now, forget about this job and go back to being a slob at home and cry about my lonely ass. Or this could be a test, a challenge for what is to come if I make it. If it is, it is something I’ll gladly take upon. Days like these everyone avoids the dead, changing their course to accommodate them. I can’t ask them to stop, the White and Black Guards hate those that disturb them and their work. Plus, the Shades might drag me with them if I try to go through, wasting more of my time. I, for one, can't afford to shift routes. I raise my hand in the sky. “Heed my call from the dark cocoon. Fall and shine your light, moon!” There is rumbling from the ground and the sky. My outfit may be tight fitting, but they cannot resist the pull of gravity alongside my hair, both flying, wiggling up in the air. Pieces of trash, pebbles, and other small ungrounded bits and pieces start to float as I draw the moon down. The pressure in the air changes as I draw it down from its cycle, bringing an immeasurable force. Buildings shudder and crack at the weight of this. I, too, almost crumble from the shear force. The verdant sky shifts through a variety of azures before it settles into black. The moon’s luminescence bathes the entire area in pale blue light. Some Shades stop in their shuffle to look at the moon, their eyes wide and the moon encompassing their irises, causing some to stumble into each other and fall face first into the ground causing a domino effect. In my peripherals a White Guard is radioing on his walkie-talkie for the disturbance while a Black Guard nearby points at me. “It’s her!” they shout. Now’s my chance! “Pave the way for me, it is what I decree!” I chant. The moon fires a beam of light. It becomes quiet for that split second. It all goes to white. KABOOM! Moonlight implodes right in the middle of the Shade parade right where I need it to be. Everything feels like it’s in slow motion. Bodies of chained Shades fly through the air, many landing harshly onto the ground. Their bodies contort in impossible ways. Some lay motionless on the ground, waiting for Death to come to them in a second wave if it were possible. White and Black Guards fling themselves from the building rooftops, making craters as they impact the ground. Instantly, they start charging at the Shades that were smart enough to start running or at least the nearby unimpacted ones. There is fire in the streets but not strong enough to deter me. I run. My dark hair whips back and forth, sometimes hitting my eyes at the right angle prickling them. My breaths come out hard and heavy, so do my footsteps. I clear Styx Street in record time. Time itself resumes its normal course soon after. I rush past a White Guard. “Hey!” they shout at me, but I don’t stop. No time to talk! My pumps click in quick succession as I head down to Acheron Avenue, my goal nearly achieved as The Messengers building becomes closer. Behind me there is the sound of pandemonium as White and Black Guards struggle to contain the escaped Shades from the situation that I just caused. “You could have asked one of us to bring you across you damned witch!” they shout once more. *** Once my pumps meet the checkered tile floor, I pause in my step. I let out a breath. Okay, take control of the situation. You still got this! I pat down my hair once more. I fixed my skirt and jacket that had been starting to ride up when I was running. I dust myself just in case the moon rustled such debris from the streets. I stroll down elegantly to the front reception. One foot right in front of each other. I can’t tell how my makeup is but I hope I don’t look like a clown! At the front desk there is a shriveled up old woman with bouncy white curls, she reminds me of a raisin with the amount of wrinkles that she has. As I approach her she eyes me up and down from her computer screen, still typing away at a vicious speed. Her mouth seems to be in a perpetual state of a frown. “May I help you?” she speaks, her voice sounds like two rocks rubbing against each other. There is a faint stank of tobacco on her breath. I clear my throat, fabricating a warm smile. “My name is Clairisse Callisto. I’m here for my interview for the Curse Counselor I position.” “Oh yes...” the receptionist drawls out. “The one at nine a.m. this morning?” I swallow thickly, still smiling. “Yes that one...” “You do realize you’re almost an hour late...” I nod, still smiling but there is a small twitch in one of my facial muscles. I hope she did not see that. “Yes I do... but I was hoping I could still do it...” I gently ask. “Hmm...” she hums, staring me down. I return it back. I’m not backing down now, not when I’m this close! She stops her incessant typing on her keyboard, grabbing a nearby pen she uses to type a number into a corded phone before hitting the call button and placing it on speaker. The dial tone rings for a few seconds. Please... please! “Hello?” a smooth voice languidly answers. “Hello Mr. Nemesis, the interviewee for Curse Counselor I has just arrived,” the receptionist informs him. There is laughter over the line. “Oh really? The one that never showed up for her timeslot this morning?” I cringe at that internally.  “Now tell me, is this the one that drew down the moon?” he continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Causing the hubbub with the Shades and the White and Black Guards?” he mirthfully asks. The receptionist cues me by giving me a look. “Yes this is her,” I answer confidently. There is more laughter on the line. “Alright missy, I like your stuff. Let’s give you another chance.” The call is hung up on the other end. There is a ding on the elevator on my left, the doors ceremoniously open up, waiting for me. “You’re lucky,” the receptionist says. “Mr. Nemesis rarely gives a second chance.” “I know,” I say. I really am. I stroll up to the elevator, entering its golden glow. I turn around, facing the doors as they close. I let out another breath. I got this.

i39xdy

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Mark glanced at the GPS screen, then at Emily. They had been driving less than twenty minutes and were already lost. "You know, Emily, if getting lost was an Olympic sport, you'd be a gold medalist." Emily shot him a playful glare. "Hey now, at least I'm consistent. "Consistently lost," Mark jibed. She pulled over then swung the car around to head back the way they had just travelled. "It's a good thing we're not on a tight schedule," Mark said. "Otherwise, we'd never make it anywhere." Emily shrugged. "Where's the fun in arriving on time anyway? It's all about the scenic route." Mark shook his head in mock disbelief. "Scenic route? More like scenic detour. Remember that time we ended up in the middle of nowhere trying to find that fancy restaurant?" Emily grinned sheepishly. "Oh, you mean the one that turned out to be a food truck in an alley?" They both broke out into laughter. "Good times," Mark said. "Let's hope today's adventure doesn't involve any back alleys or dead ends." Emily ignored his comment as her eyes flicked from the road to the GPS on the dashboard, tracking the cars movements. "Your Female Map Disorder is in full swing, I see. You just missed our turn off." Female Map Disorder was a term they had come up with whenever Emily was behind the wheel, a condition where she believed the maps had a mind of their own. "I know where we're heading, Stanley Park. I've been there before," she giggled to Mark's mild concern. "You know, by pressing start on the GPS, it will tell you where to go," Mark reminded her, his finger poised to press the bright red icon. Emily's confidence in her sense of direction remained resolute. "Don't you dare, Mark! Or I'll tell you where to go!" It had been two years since Emily passed her driver's exam. She had been struggling to get to work. Her bicycle, so old, needed repairs constantly. It wasn't until Mark suggested she should sit the driving exam once again that she felt ready. Since then, her enthusiasm to get behind the wheel and get lost was bordering on an addiction. Nearly every day, Emily jumped into her Nissan Juke with the intent to make wrong turns. "Are you sure we're heading in the right direction?" Mark asked, eyeing the fuel gauge with growing concern. "Of course, I'm sure!" Emily replied, her tone oozing with false confidence. "Trust me." The background noise of Fleetwood Mac drumming began. Emily reached over and spun the volume knob. The pulsating rhythm of Tusk engulfed the car. Mark's fingers tapped on the pocket of his cargo pants in time with the music. The small velvet box concealed inside the pocket, he hoped, would bring much joy to Emily and himself. Mark stole a glance at Emily. He wondered how she would react, whether she would say yes to his proposal. Of course she will. But uncertainty veiled his thoughts with the possibility of rejection. What if she says no. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and he suddenly felt like he was suffocating. He let the window down and sucked in deep breaths. The next song began to play, Gypsy, and it brought back lots of memories. But one stood out more than the others. The memory of meeting Emily for the first time. Dappled shadows had littered the forest floor and the crunch of Mark's footsteps on fallen leaves, soil and twigs left him feeling eager to soak up the beauty that awaited him at the top of the mountain. As he trekked through the forest, Fleetwood Mac played softly through his headphones. He had done this hike many times before. It was his favourite. The towering trees always humbled him. "Wow, this is just glorious!" A voice travelled toward him interrupting the music. "Just beautiful!" Mark walked off the track and down the sloping side of the mountain and passed a thicket of bushes. A woman kneeling low with her camera held at her eye was snapping photos of a bright purple cluster of flowers. "You do know they are weeds, don't you? " Mark asked slightly amused, pulling his ear plugs out. Taken aback the woman, slowly stood. Her long hair cascading around her shoulders as she swung the camera strap from around her neck. Mark had been smitten right at that moment. "The trees on the hiking path are much more photogenic," He added. "We're supposed to stick to the path, did you not read the guidelines?" She had looked at him then. Quizically, a playful scepticism in her gaze. Her lips quirked into a half smile and the tilt of her head spellbound Mark's world and since then he hadn't left her side. And now if they ever arrived at Stanley Park he would never have too. That is, if she said yes. Up ahead Mark was surprised to see the landscape had transformed into rolling green hillsides. Black and white cows dotted paddocks and the road ahead curved sharply. Emily broke the silence. "I didn't realise Stanley Park was so far away. I'm sure when I went there the other week it only took half the time." Mark cast a sideways glance out his window. "We should turn back, maybe we took a wrong turn somewhere." “We just need to go straight for a little while longer.” Emily’s voice was stubborn, matching Mark’s growing desperation. His palms grew clammy. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say to Emily over and over and now the words were fading. His mind fogging with anxiety. As they rounded the curve, the asphalt changed to dirt. The car bumped along, kicking up clouds of dust and tiny stones in its wake. Just ahead, a herd of cows leisurely strolled along the road. Emily slowed the car to a stop and threw her hands in the air. "I hope it's not much further, we're nearly out of fuel." Emily looked concerned at Mark. Mark surveyed the landscape for any sign of habitation. But the cows were the only living creatures in sight. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Should I just get it over with now. But then what if she says no. The drive home would be so damn awkward. Mark turned to Emily. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he began, his heart flipping. Slowly, the car took off again, but they hadn't gone far when the engine started to chug. The whole car jerked and spluttered then came to a complete halt. "Oh no," Emily grimaced. "I'm so sorry, Mark. I should really start listening to you when you tell me to turn the GPS on." Mark's fingers let go of the box in his pocket. "Well, let's start walking. Looks like we'll have to find a nearby farm house and ask for help,” Mark said, his dejection evident on his downcast face. “Don’t forget to lock the car," he said forcing a smile. “What did you want to ask me?” “It doesn’t matter, we better keep moving,” he said. They trudged along the dusty road in search of help. After what felt like hours, they spotted a cluster of farm buildings in the distance. "What brings you two out here in the middle of nowhere?" A man said as he wiped his hands on a rag. Mark stepped forward to shake hands with the farmer. "We, uh, have run out of fuel," he said, gesturing in the general direction of their stranded car. The farmer chuckled sympathetically. "It happens to the best of us. You're not the first ones to get stuck on these roads, believe me." Mark nodded, grateful for the farmer's understanding. "Is there any chance you might have some extra fuel, or could you take us to the nearest station?" Mark asked. The farmer nodded. "I've got a tank of diesel out by the hay shed. Follow me, I'll grab a fuel can on the way." Emily and Mark followed the farmer who filled a container of fuel from the old diesel tank. "Next time you're out this way, make sure to fill up before you hit these back roads. They can be a bit tricky, especially if you're not familiar with the area." Mark glanced at Emily. "Thank you," Emily said her voice weak. "I will definitely make sure of it next time." The farmer handed Mark the fuel and bid them both a safe journey. Mark and Emily made their way back to the car as the sun burnt the horizon in bright orange and red hues. "Alright, let's not tempt fate twice," Mark said as the engine purred contentedly. "Did you turn the GPS on this time?" Emily's cheeks flushed. She reached for the GPS and punched in the address for Stanley Park. Mark chuckled, "It's never boring with you by my side." The engagement ring felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. In his daydreams, he would have already popped the question and they would have been enjoying a glass of wine overlooking the Peninsula. Soon they left behind the winding country roads and the sparkling lights of the city drew closer. Finally, they arrived at Stanley Park. "Ready for a stroll in the park?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. Thousands of glowing fairy lights greeted them as they wandered hand in hand along the tree-lined paths of the park. Was this the perfect moment? They walked on. Passed the gardens to the Peninsula. The sound of waves lapped against the headland and the soft glow of the moon over the water was breathtaking. Mark stopped and turned to face Emily. He took her hands in his. "Emily," he began, his voice filled with love. "From the moment I met you, you've brought so much joy and adventure into my life. I can't imagine spending another day without you by my side." Emily's eyes widened in surprise, her hand flying to her mouth in disbelief. Mark's hands trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box. “Emily, will you be my wife?" "Mark," Emily whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Wow, I …um…didn’t expect this.” She hesitated, her words hung in the air like a lead weight. Mark’s heart felt like it was tearing in two with uncertainty. “It’s a beautiful ring, but…” Emily said slowly. “But what?” he asked wondering to himself if she was about to reject him. I thought our relationship was strong. “Marriage is a huge step, Mark. And I need to be sure that we are ready for this, that our relationship can stand strong through the ugly times, not just the good ones.” Mark’s chest tightened. She is going to reject me. “I’m sorry if I caught you off guard…” she continued as a tear slipped down her cheek. Mark tenderly reached out to wipe away her tears, his heart aching with doubt. He braced himself for the searing pain of her next words. “I do love you, Mark and I know you want the same certainty as me — that we’re making the right decision and not rushing into anything.” “I understand,” Mark said feeling defeated having understood the unspoken words. “Let’s take all the time we need.” Emily smiled. “Thank you, but there’s just one more thing.” Mark’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What is it?” “My answer is yes, but on one condition,” her smile widening. “What condition.” Mark’s heart skipped a beat. “That we continue to get lost together, at least once a month.” She giggled and leaned into Mark. “Deal.” Relief flooded through him as he held her tight swearing that he’d never let her go. “Let’s also make a pact never to run out of fuel on these adventures.” “From now on, I’ll keep an eagle eye on the fuel gauge.”

5g59xn

The Interview

That blessed moment when the morning rush is concluded by the slamming of the front door as the boys head off to school. A quick glance out the bedroom window to see them meeting the friends they walk to the bus stop with, laughing, joking and seeming to be full of the joys of Spring. I was never that happy heading to school of a morning as far as I can remember. Different generation. I breathe in the silence and the stillness of the house. Maggie left earlier than usual to get to her conference so it is just me today. All that movement and vitality. The clatter of the breakfast stuff going out on the table. The swoosh as the boys descend on their toast and cereal. The incessant pop music from the radio. The calling out of after-school activities and the times to be home by. From the first knocking on bedroom doors to waken them through to that satisfying slam of the front door, it is always a hectic half hour or so but this stillness and silence thereafter make it worth it. Especially today. I have the case studies down pat. I know the projections for this financial year and the next three. I know the five year and ten year development plans inside out. A lot of people said this was a shoo-in but you never know. Say the tiniest of wrong things at the wrong time and the previous ten years of loyalty and diligence could be out the window. Get it right and I am set for life. A partner in the company. Tie pushed up, hair tidied. Glance at the watch. Two hours until my slot. I probably don’t need to leave so early but better safe than sorry. I can take this moment to finish the coffee and gather my thoughts. I look out at the garden. There are the goldfinches chattering in the tree. The lawn could do with a cutting but not today. The weather is pleasant. Those clouds will drift by dropping no rain. They are neither the shape nor colour of rainclouds. A good omen. Right. Let’s do this. I get into the car and something doesn’t feel quite right. I get out of the car and see the deflated tyre of the back left wheel. Seriously? Today? Even before I see it I remember that the spare is flat too. I kept meaning to get it fixed. Don’t panic. One hour fifty before I am needed. Uber. “Insufficient funds.” I don’t have insufficient funds. Let me try again. No, seriously, I have quite a healthy bank balance thank you very much. A quick call should sort this out. “Phone Banking PIN: - - - -“ What is my Phone Banking PIN? I never use this app. What number did I use when I set it up? Try birthdate. No. The boys’ birthdates? No. Neither of them. “Access Locked: Three failed attempts.” Bloody technology. Helpline. I know you’re sorry that all your operatives are busy… “Hello?” Silence. I glance at my phone. The bloody battery is dead. I put it on to charge last night. I swear I did. Back into the house. Slam the lead into the phone. I might as well get a little charge in there while I grab some cash from the tin in case the card continues to fail me. One hour forty to get there. Best head down to the High Street and grab a cab from there. I give the driver the address and open the window of the cab, hoping the breeze will dry the slight sheen of sweat my hurried walk down the road has given me. One hour twenty. Plenty of time. Why is he stopping? Roadworks. We sit for ages at the temporary stop light while the drivers coming in the opposite direction swan by without a care in the world. Come on. It must be our green light by now. There we go. Let’s hope this is the only roadworks on the… “You alright, mate?” I assure the driver I am as he gets out to see how much damage has been done to the front of his cab by the idiot who sped through the single lane towards us. The steam hissing from his radiator doesn’t look hopeful. I don’t have time to wait to find out. The driver is grateful for the money I give him. I know he didn’t take me where I needed to go but that damage is not going to be cheap to get fixed and it is his livelihood. I still have time. I can pick up another cab over the bridge. The river is lovely in the sunshine. I don’t have time to be marvelling at nature. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I glance at it and the grey-white stream of bird shit that has just been deposited there. Even though I know there is no point I hurl some swear words at the gulls circling above. The very kind lady in the coffee shop just after the bridge showers me with sympathy as I use her napkins to wipe the crap off my suit. Well, most of the crap anyway. It will have to do. If I keep going I can clean it more thoroughly once I get there. One hour to go. There’s a bus I can catch at the end of this street that will take me to just around the corner from the offices. “But Officer, I just need to get to that corner there. It can’t be more than one hundred yards.” I really don’t care what they are demonstrating about and I am sure it is something very dear to their hearts but why did they have to pick this street on this morning to do their demonstrating? Telling the police officer that I was willing to take the risk does nothing to persuade her to let me through to the bus stop. I can see it at the end. I could throw a stone and hit it from here. Fifty minutes to go. I backtrack, including a wave at the lovely lady from the coffee shop who has stepped out onto the pavement to watch the demonstration. It’s a thirty minute walk if I cut through the park. I shake my head with a laugh at the accumulation of little things that have gone wrong so far. A nice walk through the park will clear my head again. I don’t believe this. What sort of “refurbishment” can you possibly do to a park? A restaurant, a bookshop, a supermarket, yes. Refurbish the hell out of those but a park? Seriously? But that’s what the sign on the locked gate says. To my left the street runs down towards the path of the demonstration. To my right it runs down to the warehouses on the river. I should call and let them know I am running late through no fault of my own. Better than nothing. I pat all of my pockets twice before I picture my phone where I left it charging on the worktop by the microwave. I have no choice. It has to be the park. The gate is not that high. I can vault that. A quick glance around so nobody sees me doing this and…Wallop! I am staring at the blue sky above me and the left arm of my jacket as it flaps from the spike in the fence. It takes me a moment to understand that I am on my back. The vault didn’t go as planned it seems. I sit up and shake the dazed feeling from my head. I stand and grab the detached arm of my jacket from the railing. Nothing broken save for my pride. I take my jacket off and stuff it into my briefcase along with the separated sleeve and begin a brisk stride through the park. I duck behind a tree and peer round the trunk at the workers gathered around the ornamental bridge. They closed the whole park to fix the small bridge? A bit unnecessary I would have thought. I shouldn’t let the workers see me or they’ll most likely send me back the way I came. I crouch and begin to push through the trees and undergrowth so I can skirt round them and re-join the path after the river. The river? That’s why there’s a bridge. I sigh. Well I have come this far. I push on until I feel the scrape of thorns across my right shin. I know I am bleeding because I can see the red through the tear in my trousers the thorns have also produced. I yank myself backwards to get my leg out of the bush and fall. My hand shoots out to arrest my tumble and slams right into the middle of a large clump of stinging nettles. An instinctive reaction pulls my hand away from the burning sensation the nettles cause and my face takes its place in the vicious greenery. I leap to my feet and scan the ground for some dock leaves. Grabbing a fistful I feel the relief they give to my burning, stinging face. When that pain is a little more bearable I rub the dock leaves over the sting in my hand. Only then, as I see the green stain left by the healing leaves do I remember that dock leaves are great but stain things green. Like, presumably, my face right now. No matter. Twenty minutes to go. I estimate ten to the other side of the park and five from there to the office. I glare at the small river in front of me. Can I make that leap? How far does it look? Better not risk it given my luck so far this morning. I pull my shoes off and hold them in my hand. I roll up my trouser legs. Wet socks I can deal with. Wet trousers would not, I guess, give a good impression. Why get the socks wet though? I pull them off and stuff them into the shoes. I submerge my right foot. The water is icy cold and the stones on the riverbed sharp and slick. I amaze myself when I step out on the other side having not toppled into the flowing water. Got to be thankful for small mercies. I get my feet as dry as I can on the grass and put my socks and shoes back on. Fifteen minutes to go. I check if the workers at the bridge can see me and I don’t think they can. The gate I am heading for is just around that bend. I put my head down and walk as quickly as I can towards it. There it is and of course it too is locked. My heart sinks as I see another chap in a fluorescent jacket and hard hat standing beside it. What’s he going to do? What can he do but let me out of the park I should not be in? I smile as I approach him. ‘You shouldn’t be in here, mate.’ I let him know as politely as my frazzled mind will let me that I know I shouldn’t be in here and might he see his way to letting me out? He takes off his hard hat and scratches his head while scanning me. I must look quite a sight. Is there any point carrying on in this state? Won’t the Board take one look at me and throw me out? Damn it, I’ve come this far, through this much, I am not stopping now. The workman breathes out with more vigour than the moment calls for and tells me he will go and see if he can get the key for the gate. I stop myself from bursting into tears and watch him go until he has gone round the bend. Twelve minutes. I have no choice. At the risk of another disaster I grab the top of the gate and hoist myself over. It is a much more successful vault this time as I remain upright throughout. I have no time to be pleased with myself. At a brisk pace I can be at the office in five minutes which leaves me a small window of opportunity to clean myself up. I glance down at myself. Perhaps “clean myself up” is optimistic. I will do what I can. With my stinging face and hand, my bleeding shin and my damp feet I dash down the street, dodging prams and small dogs on leads and strolling shoppers and a crowded bus stop. The offices are just around this corner. I turn into the road and stop dead in my tracks. Up ahead stands the modernist, glass and chrome front of the company’s headquarters. A crowd is gathered outside the doors. What can they be here for? I am going to have to be a bit rude and barge my way through. As I stride towards the crowd hoping I can slip in unnoticed and head straight to the ground floor bathrooms, I hear my name being amplified through some speakers. I must be hearing things. I glance up and see the crowd turning to face me. Please don’t look at me! I hear my name again as some triumphant sounding music blares out. People in the crowd are laughing, applauding and pointing at me. As I struggle my way through them some pat me on the back while others shout out words of congratulations. I do not have time to process this insanity that has come over me and, with a massive sense of relief, push open the door into the lobby. As I step through it confetti cannons bang and crack all around me. Bewildered, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look around and see a big, grinning face in front of mine. “Congratulations! You’ve just survived Crank’s Pranks!” A cheer goes up from the people crowded into the lobby. I see Maggie and the boys standing beside the reception desk, grinning and applauding. Why is she not at her conference? Why are they not at school? The hand on my shoulder turns me to my right and I am confronted with a television camera. The grinning man with his hand on my shoulder quietens the lobby with a wave of his hand. “So did you suspect anything at all along the way?” Stuttering a bit as I try to make sense of the pandemonium in which I stand, I ask him what he means. “Your journey from Hell to get here. You never stopped to wonder if it was all a set-up?” Crank’s Pranks? That awful television show with that awful, grinning man who takes pleasure putting people through absolute Hell? That awful, grinning man who is thrusting a microphone towards me right now? I am beginning to understand but am still quite flummoxed. “But the bird crap? The nettles? You set those up?” “No mate – those were all your own additions. The roadworks, the crash, the demonstration, the locked park – those were all us. All caught on our network of hidden cameras – we were with you every step of the way!” As I consider the pleasure I would take from punching this grinning fool right in his grinning face, I see Jeremy, our CEO, emerge from the crowd. He too is grinning from ear to ear. “M-my interview?” In response he roars with laughter and claps me on the back. “Job’s yours, partner! You obviously want it bad enough,” he chortles, stepping aside and displaying my dishevelled, sweating, dirty self to the camera. His announcement prompts a swelling of laughter and applause. I want the ground to open up and swallow me. This was a prank? “We’ll come back to his reaction in a moment after we relish the best bits of his journey.” I look at the giant screen above reception and see myself looking like I have been dragged through a hedge backwards for a moment before the image cuts to me leaving the house earlier. I swallow hard but the tears burst out of my eyes anyway. I hear a chorus of sympathetic “Aaahs” and then Maggie and the boys are beside me telling me how great I was. I look at Maggie through my tears. She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. I grasp onto the only thing in my swirling thoughts that I can understand and whisper into her ear. “I think I got the job.”

w8yjs3

Chances

I can’t believe it. The first job interview I’ve had in literal months and I’m running late. All because of stupid technology. “I would turn right,” I said aloud to the repetitive monotone female voice emanating from the speakers, “if there was actually a road to turn right on to!” The glassy blue water gave me an apologetic awkward wink in response. This was the fifth time. I’d rerouted the GPS, both on my phone and the car five times already and each new route had been a bust. A lake, a dirt road dead end, an empty alley full’a nothin’ but trash and frustration – everywhere but the company I was trying to get to. I’d even called the company, spoken to the receptionist and followed her verbal directions. Either I was an idiot, or she was, or the tech was, or this company didn’t exist. “Maybe I’m in hell?” I pondered banging my head against the steering wheel in despair as the female voice repeated infuriatingly, “Turn right.” Turn right, turn right, turn right, turn RIGHT, TURN RIGHT! “Alright, you want me to turn right?” I snapped flipping the car back into drive and jerking the wheel. “I’ll turn right.” I slammed on the gas. The tires screeched. Dirt, dust, and rocks pinged against the sides. And I turned right. Right into the glittering blue lake. It only took three seconds for me to realize what a complete lunatic asshole I was being. Unfortunately for me though the wheels were already submerged by that point, stuck in the mud and completely irreversible. “Son of a -,” I cussed having the miraculous singular brain molecule to pull the emergency brake and clamber up out of the skylight as opposed to out through the half submerged door. I added a bunch of other loud unattractive other words to the previous ones as I scrambled out and slid down into the water. And, yes, of course I was clumsy and ended up fully entirely submerging myself. Because, of course! Several cusswords and one fully soaked and broken cellphone later, I was stood on the side of the road I’d just ditched watching my car slowly, despite the emergency brake, slide into a watery grave. “Awesome,” I shook my head, “just absolutely awesome.” I looked reflexively down at the lifeless brick in my hand. Waterproof my ass. In one final wave of idiocy I tossed it into the lake. After all, it was no use to me anymore. “Whelp,” I sighed forcing my wet hands into my sopping suit pants pockets. Another angering move. Why couldn’t cloth just do what it was supposed to do? Why did it have to – “aaagh!” I gave up, flinging my hands into the air and jumping on the spot. The bratty kid in me was fully in control of my body now. I jumped and stomped and kicked rocks, chucking the smaller ones into the lake, denting my doomed vehicle in the process. After a couple of good guttural screams I was done. Done and jobless. Still. Whelp, I guess I’m not much worse off than I was before , the unable-to-face-reality side of me tried to be positive. But, the pragmatic thirty-two year old adult side of my brain, that had just witnessed everything, reminded me that I legitimately was worse off now. I’d literally just tossed both my phone and my car into a lake. I buried my shaking head in my hands, dug my fingers into my scalp and let out a body shuddering sigh. Eyes still closed, head still down, I turned round and smacked bam into something solid. Something real and soft-ish that uttered a feminine, “ouch!” when I did so.   “What the f - ?,” I exclaimed as I stumbled back a few paces and raised my fists for a fight. The something I’d bumped into was small-ish and slender, with flowing blonde hair and porcelain skin, which was scrunched up on the face in confusion, shock, and assumed mild injury. She blinked at me and I recognized those shimmering grey eyes. “Wanda?” I marveled. My ex-bestfriend, high school tennis rival, secret first love, Wanda Fleming? I must’ve died. Really, at some point on my way to that stupid job interview at the company I must’ve died. But, maybe I’d gone to heaven and not hell? Or perhaps this was purgatory? Not all good – like definitely not all good – but not all bad either. How else could Wanda-freaking Fleming be standing here in front of me right now? “It is you,” she said with a laugh, lowering her head-holding hands and pressing them to her heart, “I thought it was you. What on earth are you doing out here, Grant Branson?” “Trying to pass the afterlife test, I guess.” “What?” “I’m dead, right?” “Um,” she glanced back over her shoulder at nothing, looking back with an expression of confused fear. “No, I don’t think so.” “Then, how are you out here?” “Um, I drove,” she said, pointing back to the nice yellow mini cooper that she’d left parked on the road. “What for?” “Fun?” “Oh come on,” I laughed, “come up with some creative at least.” “What would you like me to say?” “I don’t know,” I shrugged feeling a long forgotten playful monster inside of me rear its sleepy head at Wanda Fleming’s sudden reappearance. “Say that you were – working for the FBI investigating, like, vampires in the woods or something.” “Like Twilight?” she asked with a teasing twinkle in her eye “No,” I shook my head with a full on real laugh, “not Twilight. More like, Supernatural or Fringe or something. Or tell me that you – got lost on your way to a job interview because the stupid GPS wasn’t working and so in frustration you drove your car into a lake and now you’re just standing here jobless, car-less and phoneless because you also chucked that into the lake.” She pursed her lips, smothering a smile. “Is that what happened to you?” “No,” I exclaimed, and then, “maybe.” Her laughter cascaded out like a glittering waterfall that covered me head to toe in mirth. I was smiling so much that my cheeks hurt. Oh, I’d missed that laugh. I hadn’t realized how much I’d memorized and fantasized about that laugh until this moment. Man – I’d never stopped loving her. “So,” she composed herself and dipped her chin in that way that she did. That way that made her look sneaky and irresistible. She had to know that it made her absolutely irresistible. “Do you need a ride back to reality then?” “Well, that depends,” I played a bit, “will you be there?” “Maybe,” she tilted her head with a little smile, “if you take your chances this time.” My heart was thudding in my throat. Don’t worry mate, it promised me, I’ll kill you before she has a chance to . She smiled wider and then, turning slowly, walked back to her car. Entirely entranced I followed her. It was as if she’d attached a set of tow truck cables to my heart and stomped on the gas. The entirety of my essence was entirely focused on hers. Every swish of her hair, every sway of her hips, every single delicate footstep. Everything. She glanced back at me once and that was it. My knees went weak and my heart just about exploded, anxious to make good on its promise before it was too late. It’s too late , I informed him. She stopped at her car, turned, leaned back against it, and looked at me. Her lusciously long lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she blinked up at me. I was right there. Right in front of her. I was holding her hand, touching her cheek. I was leaning in close… I was waking up in bed. The alarm was screaming at me, Get up get up! You’ve got a very important job interview to get to! Get up get up! I slapped and squeezed the sides of my not-broken cellphone and the alarm stopped. Silence filled the room again. Empty lonely silence… A dream…it had all been a dream… I got to the job interview with fifteen minutes to spare, hit a homerun out of the park, and left with a phone, a car, and a job. But, I left alone. Maybe, if you take your chances this time , Wanda’s melodic voice looped in my head again. She was right. I’d never taken my chances. Not with her. Not with the career I’d always wanted. Not with anything. Maybe, if you take your chances this time. Starting up the car I drove over to the place that I’d been avoiding ever since my injury. The Glass Lake Tennis Club. “Branson, my man!” Justin, my old doubles partner, greeted me with a raucous shout and a handshake hug. “How ya been, Grant? How’s the shoulder?” “Better,” I said. “All better?” “A lot better.” “Enough to - ?” he left the question unsaid and just raised his eyebrow instead. “I think it’s well about time I give it a try.” “Yes! Alright, let’s go. I was just about to play a round of doubles with Harrison, lemme see…hey, Harrison!” Justin shouted to a guy in an orange, “Branson’s back. Mind sitting out this match?” “Grant Branson?” the Harrison guy sauntered over, “I figured you were all done with tennis. What was it you had again? Shoulder replacement surgery?” “Yeah.” “And you’re gonna play again?” “I’m gonna try.” “Good luck, man,” Harrison scoffed with an eye roll that couldn’t really be taken positively. At all. “Thanks, man,” I lowered my voice down into one of those mock serious tones that had the desired effect of making Harrison’s nose scrunch in disgust as he left. Justin, who’d been looking at his phone, missed all of the pettiness. He just knew that when Harrison’s hulking form was no longer there that it was time to stop being distracted. “Alright, get changed, and we’ll be on court seven.” “My lucky number,” I smiled, slapped Justin on the shoulder and disappeared into the locker room to change from my suit into a more appropriate fit. My shoulder, which had been fine for months, ached slightly. I could practically hear it whining, “ But I can’t play tennis. I’m all metal and plastic .” “Come on,” I whispered, rolling my shoulders up and down, forward and back, whilst heading out to the bright and sunny court seven. It really was too bright. I’d forgotten my sunglasses and had to squint massively just to see small-ly. There were three figures on the court. The lone one was tall and male. That had to be Justin. The other two were oddly shaped. A husband and wife or father daughter duo, I surmised as one was male and large in that way that elderly men get as they age. Still fit, but big in an old man kinda way. Meanwhile, the figure next to him was small-ish and slender, with flowing blonde hair and porcelain skin that sparkled in the sun. “A Twilight vampire,” I muttered as a cloud overhead provided just enough shade to sharpen my vision. The beautiful girl with familiar grey eyes turned and saw me. Recognition dawned in the glittering depths of her eyes and my dream became miraculous reality as her face transformed with a blinding smile. “Grant Branson, is that you?” she exclaimed, shielding her eyes for confirmation. “Wanda Fleming?” “AAaagh!” She shrieked and ran over to me, arms outstretched. Maybe, if you take your chances this time. I opened my arms wide and ran the last few steps toward her so that when we collided in a bone breaking hug I had to pick her up and twirl her around to keep the both of us from toppling over. She giggled and shrieked in my ear as her arms circled round my neck and held me tight. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed when I finally set her down and we broke apart. “I can’t believe it’s you! How are you? I heard that you had to have your shoulder replaced? Oh my god , is your shoulder ok? Did I hurt it just now?” her eyes were lakes of glittering emotion as she clutched at my shoulders, unsure of which one was the ‘replaced’ one. “It’s fine,” I assured her, still holding tight to her sides, reluctant to let her go. “But, should you be playing? I mean,” she turned, “is it ok to play after shoulder replacement, Dad?” She looked back over her shoulder at the older man that I now recognized as her father, and suddenly I was sixteen again. I dropped my hands, feeling my face heat up to a hundred degrees, and backed away a step. “Maybe not professionally,” her dad said, “but a friendly game of doubles should be fine. But really, Grant’s the only that would know if he can play or not, right Grant.” “Yes sir,” had I lost my drivers license? Was I wearing braces again? I hadn’t been expecting this. “Like you said, a friendly game of doubles should be fine. Shall we find out?” “I think so,” he nodded, approvingly I hoped. He flipped his racket, moving back into position and Wanda, after a final concerned look at me, joined him. I joined Justin. “Y’alright, man?” he asked, a line between his brows, “you’re not having heatstroke are you?” “I’m all good,” I assured him, bouncing on the balls of my jittery feet, “let’s play.” Justin nodded, said something to Wanda’s dad, and the game started … and then it was over. High fives were exchanged, water was drunk, words were said, but all that I could think about was Wanda, all that I could see was Wanda and all that I could hear was Wanda’s voice from my dream – looping over and over again. Maybe, if you take your chances this time… “Maybe we can play again sometime,” she was saying to me in reality out in the parking lot, stopping just shy of her dad’s car to say goodbye to me. “Yeah,” I nodded, “that’d be nice.” “Yeah,” she nodded, looked at me, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine. That moment stretched on for eternity. A good moment. My moment… “Well,” she said after that whole-lotta-nothing moment, “I gotta go. It was nice seeing you.” “Yeah,” I said again, and there she was – walking away from me. I’d missed it. Missed her. Again. Maybe, if you take your chances this time. “Wanda!” I shouted. She stopped, and looked back, her hand on the top of the open car door. She raised a single perfect eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be,” I said. “Hm?” “It wouldn’t be nice,” I said louder. “What?” she frowned. “I mean,” I jogged over to her, hands trembling, words tumbling. “I don’t want to play tennis with you.” “Oh,” her face blanched. “I want to take you on a date.” “Oh,” the whites of her eyes grew as her eyes flew open wide. “I’ve loved you ever since high school,” the words were flowing now and I couldn’t make them stop. Not anymore. I’d spent my whole life making them stop. I couldn’t anymore. “I was always too afraid to ruin our friendship to risk asking you out then, but now – I can’t – I don’t think I would – ever forgive myself if I let you get away from me again.” A moment of silence passed. A moment that was just long enough for me to hear the monster of embarrassment shouting at me that her father was in the car and he could hear every single humiliating word that I was saying. “Would you,” I spoke quieter now, my voice lower so that only us two could hear it, “would you go on a date with me? Please?” “Ok.” “OK?” “Yes,” she laughed a little breathlessly, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “Give me your phone.” I handed the brick over, grateful that it wasn’t broken at the bottom of a lake somewhere. She took it in her dainty hand and imputed a number. Her phone started to ring. She held it up to show me my own number ringing on her screen. “Call me,” she said as with a smile as she returned my phone, slipped into her father’s car and drove away with a wave. “I will!” I shouted waving after her like a love-struck teenager. Her hand disappeared into the car and my phone buzzed. It was a text from her number. “I’m so glad you took your chance. If you hadn’t …… I was about to turn around and take mine.” I was gonna need plastic surgery to remove the smile from my face. The End.

kag5te

The Warthog, the rosty Subaru and Anna

Her old Subaru made a puffing noise every time she pressed the gas pedal, and it got much louder when she stepped on the brakes to stop in front of the gate. The guards raised their heads as they heard the screech of the brakes. There were three guards: one in the cabin at the Klaserie Private Nature Reserve entrance gate, and two outside approaching Anna, one of whom appeared to be the dog's handler. The guard holding the device walked towards her on the driver's side. He grimaced but said nothing further. He pointed to the reader, simultaneously the handler let go of his dog off the leash and went to the passenger side. The handler placed his palm on the roof of her car and studied her face intently. Blood raced into her cheeks, turning them crimson. "The passcode, Mom." The handler looks into the Subaru's back seat. Her hands trembled as she showed the screenshot to the guard on the driver's side, which included the code number and her name. This guard did not appear to bother saying anything to her, instead staring at the passcode with the same gloomy face and then back at her. The handler continued in a deep, demanding voice, "The phone number," while she gave him a perplexed look. His detecting dog, whom he called Vertigo, a German Shepard, gave her car a thorough sniff. After a few minutes, Vertigo returned, wagging. The guard on her driver’s side nodded to the handler and they both took a step back. The handler turned around and signaled to the other man at the cabin with a hand gesture. The gates opened. She breathed a sigh of relief and nearly floored the gas pedal, forcing the Subaru to shriek. The drive was along the first asphalted road, which turned after four kilometers into a natural path. She stopped her car, took her previously tattered map, searched for the entrance, and ran her fingers down it. "All right. That's the change to the sandy road, and I still have about two kilometers left on this route," she said aloud while folding the map and putting it back in the side compartment of the driver's door. Gazing at her father's classic mechanical pocket watch, which she had inherited as a gift, she felt a sense of adventure as he told her about his stories. She keeps things straightforward and practical, even with her modest yet fashionable wardrobe. The Subaru engine shook as though it was running on too little gas, as she inserted the key into the ignition. "Come on, please," she murmured, turning around the key a second time; then a third time. It made a mechanical clicking noise shortly after starting and stumbled for moments. She depressed the gas pedal, and it began to move with some effort. She gazed down the road; it had a shimmering appearance. The beads of sweat trickled from her brow over her eyes. She wiped them away with her palm while looking at the passenger side. Her upper body leaned toward the seat, but her head faced the street. She searched for the bottle with her hands and gazed at it briefly. She swiftly took the bottle, straightened her upper body, and peered down the street. Suddenly a duiker - an antelope the size of a golden retriever - appeared on the path. She braked instantly and had to steady herself with her hands on the steering wheel. The small antelope tensed up, pointing her ears back, her eyes wide alert. "Hell no," she shouted.  "Go away," and honked repeatedly. The small antelope leaped six feet into the dry, thorny, broad-leafed woods. Anna shook her head; took a rag and wiped down her blazing red face, neck, and chest. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply in and out. The Subaru shuddered again and growled. The radiator emitted a powerful steam. "Not now," she exclaimed forcefully, her face seeming more redder. She struck the driving wheel with her palms numerous times. She looked at her smartphone on the passenger side, picked it up, and phoned. It rang several times on the other end, and just when she was about to hang up, someone did answer. "Hello, this is Marian," Anna overheard a clear voice with a soothing tone on the other end. "Hello." She paused to breathe. "Hello. My name is Anna. My interview with you is set for today. My car has broken down..." She took a deep breath. "I will walk the rest of the way." "I didn't understand your name; it seemed a little broken. What do you want, walk up to us?” "My name is Anna. Yes, it's just a little distance.” “No, you won't. I'll send you a ranger, but you must wait between 1 and 1.5 hours. Stay where you are. Do not get out of your car. Drink water! Do you understand what I am saying? Where exactly are you?" Anna pulled out the map and explained the route. After hanging up, she took a few long breaths. She grabbed the water bottle, took several sips, opened the door, and stepped out. She heard branches crack near her, and birds flew away, so she dashed back into her car and waited. Minutes passed...nothing happened. With her application folder in hand, a glance at the map, and her car's rearview mirror, she took a big breath and stepped out. Her eyes darted around, startled by the noises of rustling leaves, cracking trees, animals she didn't recognize, and a few bird calls in between. She moved calmly and methodically, taking each step with a glance to the front, behind, and right. The noises grew louder and louder. An unexpected low-frequency call from the side brought her to an abrupt halt. Her chest appeared to stop moving. She moved her head slightly towards the call. Their gazes met - she looked at light grey to brown, huge, flat skulls covered with "warts," and four pointed tusks. This warthog was enormous; smaller warthogs with babies followed behind; even she recognized its size. This time, the call is more lethal. She swallowed. She widened her eyes, her chest rose and fell, and sweat dripped down her cheeks. She gestured to the animal with her quivering palm outward and murmured calmly. She breathed many times before taking a cautious step backward, keeping her gaze fixed on the animal. With a stomp, it warned her again about each movement she made. The animal followed her, so she took a step, then another, and kept speaking calmly; her chest rose and fell harder and faster. Her steps backward became increasingly shaky, and her red-painted lips stood out dramatically against her pale skin. The warthog had halted after a few more feet, yet it kept her in sight. With an audible sigh of relief, she turned around, rushed the last meters back to her car, flung open the door, and hopped inside. She closed her eyes and laid her palm on her chest; her breathing gradually returned to normal, and her pallor faded. Seeing a safari vehicle approach in her rearview mirror, she let out an exuberant cry. She nearly jumped out of her car, waving both arms ecstatically. Behind her, the car stopped and a ranger got out. "Marian instructed me to take you up. I drove away earlier..." "Thank you, thank you, and thank you a thousand times." Anna jumped onto his neck. With a shake of his head, the ranger nearly yanked her away from him. The other ranger in the vehicle chuckled. "Get on. My colleague will care for your automobile." Anna nodded in relief and fought with her balance to climb inside the safari car; behind her, the dog "Vertigo" sniffed her intently. "I hope you don't intend to introduce yourself for the ranger training here, do you?" remarked the Handler, whom she had once met at the entrance gate. She smiled gently and looked at her job application materials - National Park Ranger Training - before checking her pocket watch. She was one hour late.

kdzzfc

"Persuasion"

Persuasion            I have always worked hard to be considered a good person. I am a good, loving, faithful mother and wife. I’m a social worker who helps children that have no one else to stand up for them. I coach our community’s youth soccer league. I volunteer at the homeless shelter and the nursing home. Every Sunday I’m there in the front pew worshipping our Lord and Savior. I have always worked hard to be considered a good person. I do for others but today is about doing something for myself.            You see, it’s been a long, hard, stressful week and I just need a break. I need some fun and excitement in my life. So, I’m going to look for some relief from the grindstone known as life. It’s the perfect day to do it, too. The sun is shining, without a cloud in the sky. There is a gentle breeze blowing and the temperature is a comfortable seventy degrees. On this perfect day, when I am just looking for a temporary escape, I meet him.            He is just standing there, staring at me with those dark, dangerous eyes of his. He is tall and handsome. He looks like my kind of man. Heat is radiating off him with such force that I fear to get too close. But as bankers are drawn to gold, I’ve always been drawn to the tortured souls of man.            He just keeps staring, and as he does, wild, wicked images fly through my mind. I can’t shut them out, even though I know the thoughts are not mine. I try to fight the pull he has on me. I struggle. I try to flee. I cannot. I’m rooted in this spot, for my heart is racing as I start to yearn for all the images show me.            In my mind, I see no limits. The world is mine. The universe is ripe for the taking and take it I will. I can do anything, for anything is possible. The power, the glory, the riches, the evil, desperate deeds beckon to me. I will take charge of it all. I will rule the universe with an iron fist. No one has the strength to challenge me. I can’t be stopped. They have limits. I do not.            As my mind races with these images of all I can have, all I can become, he continues staring at me. Excitement and unsatiable hunger course through my veins. A slow, nasty grin spreads across his handsomely angelic face and he turns and walks away.            I know I should stay where I am. I can even turn and walk the other way. I beg and plead with myself, but I make the choice to follow him anyway.            With each step that I take my mind becomes more attuned to the images being shown to me. The images are of what I once thought to be the harshest part of humanity. No longer I guess, since today they seem to fill me with prideful delight. As I view Hitler rising to power, I cheer him on. I laugh with joy when I am shown the nuclear bombs destroying Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I see the homeless sleeping in dirty alleyways off busy city streets. I see countless orphans waiting for a loving home to make them a part of their family. I see the abused, the neglected. I see how money rules the world. I see how much humanity worships the dollar. I see my devotion to it, too.            All that I see only encourages the joy overflowing from me. To me none of it matters. All that matters is me. I know what I will do to the helpless souls of man will be far worse than anything I have been shown thus far. I do not understand how this has come to be. This is not me. This is not who I am.            But the images show me that who I was does not matter. All that matters is who I am becoming. All that matters is the power, the glory, the riches. In my current state of mind, the evil, desperate deeds hold greater sway over me than thoughts of my loving family.            My mind, body, heart, and soul commit fully to following that handsome man. The man that stirs such feelings in me. Feelings that are causing me to abandon all that I am, all that I love, all that I believe. I follow him through towns and cities. Together we cross oceans, deserts, and barren wastelands.            When I had first started following him, the world held many vibrant colors. The world held many hopes and dreams. Now the land on which we stroll is black and white, and colorless to the bone. Right here, right now, hopes and dreams are just a memory that I wish to escape. If the memory goes away, the desire for what I hope, for what I dream will fade to darkness.            Yet, what do I desire? Do I desire to break free of this demon who saw me in a moment of weakness, in a moment of greed, a moment of envy, a moment of lust? Do I desire to continue this path, so that I will receive the power, the glory, the riches that were promised to me? I have been shown that they are my destiny. Do I wish to learn more about this handsome man walking before me?            The further we walk the less there is to see. No plants grow here. No wildlife roams this land. Lightning flashes in a sky that holds dark storm clouds. Violent thunder rattles the ground causing me to stumble, to fall. He offers his hand to help me back to my feet.            I am now walking at his side. He’s yet to say a word to me. Although, he does his pleasure of having me there.            I’m confused about how this came to be. How did I let myself get here? Was it the images and the unspoken promises that drew me in? Was it nothing more than his handsome looks, looking at me? It doesn’t matter. The blame for whatever this is does not belong to me.            He had to have corrupted me. This journey wasn’t my choice. What about this man persuaded me to take this path? This can’t be the exciting, the fun, the carefree day that I was searching for. Though I do know, I chose this path freely. It drew me like a moth to flame and I fear that just as the moth becomes to disoriented to escape its orbit, I have will never find the way back to my life, to my family.            The air is so thick. I can barely breathe. Sweat pours off me. I’m so exhausted. I need to rest. I’m begging my feet to stop, but I’m walking with him still. And it’s getting mighty hot down here.

y3zq2q

One Good Turn

One Good Turn. A torrent of rain continued to descend upon the streets and highways of old forgotten towns as a small, red, two door Pinto coughed and sputtered it's way up an exit ramp. William, it's driver, nervously peered through the windshield, hoping for some signs, landmarks or anything that would tell him exactly where he was. William groaned. “Just my luck! Forced to go to some seminar, stay in some dive motel and now, driving home in a thunderstorm at night and to top it all off, I’m lost!” Last week, he had been called into the manager's office for a one on one. Those don't usually go well and he knew it wouldn't go well for him because his numbers had tanked for the whole month. When the manager asked what it was that was keeping him from performing, he told him that was just luck that had run really really dry.  Management was having none of this explanation and told him that he would get one more chance to turn things around and if he didn't, well it was a pink slip.  “Will”, the manager said to him. “We are sending you to a sales seminar for a week, all expenses paid and we are doing this because we are committed to your success. The question is, are you committed?” He didn't have an answer to that one.  The cell phone he had brought with him on the trip had long since run out of power and the charger had fallen somewhere in the back seat, but he knew from his instrument panel that the first priority was to find a gas station if possible. The little car could only go so far on mere fumes. The lightening flashed a bit illuminating a sign to the right that suggested that a 24 hour Shell station was just one mile down the road and he signed in relief. "Whew! Saved, as long as I can get there at least. Come on, little red car!", he said patting the top of the panel, taking the right hand turn and heading down the road.   The gas gauge indicated that it was close to empty but, he thought that he could make it if the station was only a mile away on the road. He kept his eyes on the two lane road which was lined with empty fields, distant hills and barren trees. Every time the lightening flashed, he could also make out spots of red mud on the side of the road and some construction equipment.  Shaking his head, he fended off the thoughts of terror that had plagued him during this part of his trip The most fun he had occurred when he had fallen asleep in his chair once during a lecture at one point until someone had politely woken him up. Apparently, he had been snoring and was a bit of a distraction.  The return trip found him lost in road, looking for a gas station at night in the middle of a thunderstorm. "Yeah, that's me, alright," he mused. "Lost on the road and lost in life,. listening to a sea of unsolicited advice from sales people and middle managers.". He frowned inwardly at all of this and was about to turn on the radio when he found the open gas station at last, shining like a lighthouse in a fog. “Well,. maybe my luck is changing…” The little Pinto pulled to an open gas pump and sighed as he got out and made his way to the convenience store, trying to shield himself from the downpour with his coat. He went inside and breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the warmth of the heat inside. "Hey hon!". He turned around to his left and found a blonde haired woman smiling at him.  "You look like someone who needs a nice, hot cup of coffee and and a home cooked meal! Come on and sit down here and I'll get you set up with something." The blonde woman guided him to a booth and he sat down for moment while she went behind of the counter and poured some hot coffee in a cup and brought it to him. He felt the warmth of the cup and pulled it close to him, absorbing the heat from the steam. "Steak and eggs, right?" He opened his mouth to protest as a plate of steak and scrambled eggs was placed before him, a long with a fork, knife and spoon.  “Hey don't worry! It's already paid for anyway.” “What?”, he protested but the blonde woman had already disappeared. He looked around the store and saw the usual things you would expect, such as coffee dispensers, freezer section, aisles filled with snacks, bathrooms and showers, cafe, where he was and check out counters. Everything was in place except…people. He looked back at the table. The hot coffee was still there, as was the meal. He smelled the char on the steak and scent of salt and pepper on the eggs.   He took the knife and started cutting the steak and the knife sliced through the steak smoothly. He checked the cook and found a little pink on the inside. The steak almost seemed to melt in his mouth as he savored the first bite. He closed his eyes as his mouth absorbed the flavor while hearing the rain patter against the window. He opened his eyes and saw….. a sunrise? “What the…..”. He got up from the booth and walked around the store and continuing to look at the sunrise outside as the light touched the fields on the other side of the road. He glanced at his watch and it read 7 am.  “You okay, hun?” He turned with a start looking at the blonde woman again, eyes wide. “Ummmmm.. yeah. I remember coming here…..last night during a storm and I was…lost and I needed gas. The I met you…” “Yeah, that's right, hun” she replied with a bright smile. He continued.. “you gave me hot coffee and steak and eggs and told me that it was paid for.” “That's right, too.!” “I walk around the store and no one is there but me. I take a bite of the steak, which is delicious by the way, and suddenly, it's morning!” “Yep!” “I'm lost…” “That's right too, hun! Don't worry though. You’ll find your way back!” “Uhhhhh…..”. Will shook his head trying to control his temper and was about to ask more questions when she disappeared again… He scratched his head in confusion and glanced around and looked down on the floor and say a name tag. William bent down and picked up the name tag and read it. “Fortuna” William held the little name tag in his hand and smiled spread on his face. He put the tag in his pocket and headed to the car. William made it home safely that day and the following month, he had the highest numbers in the company.  Management figured it had to do with the seminar. Perhaps it did. Perhaps, he finally made the commitment to his own success…or was it one good turn on a rainy night from Lady Luck?

x5iezq

The Encounter

Margaret finally worked up the courage to travel alone. She planned an adventure for fourteen days. She never fathomed she would do a solo trip to Costa Rica. The itinerary was set, plane tickets brought, and days off approved from her job. Could she do this? Take this voyage alone. It has been a long time Margaret has done anything just for her. This was her stepping out of her comfort zone. A week before the trip and reality settled in. Are you crazy Margaret said to herself. A fourteen-day expedition through the Rainforest. She quickly ran through her mind all the possible things that could go awry. Stop siking yourself out Margaret responded to herself, you got this. The day arrived for her departure. Margaret had to be at the airport by 4am. As she gathered her things to exit the apartment, she suddenly took a slight pause. She could not put her figure on it, but she felt something strange. Margaret quickly dismissed her inkling and slowly closed the door to her apartment and made her way down the stairs to the cab. Margaret arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport. She made it through the arduous process of checking in, checking bags, joined the undesirable TSA line and slowly moved to the check point. As she became the third person on the line, she stepped forward and took an unexpected pause. Margaret had that same feeling again, of something surreal, but she just kept going. Finally cleared, she looked at her boarding ticket and it was Delta Airlines gate 54 seat 20A. Margaret sat in the waiting area at her gate and strolled through her phone until it was time to board. Margaret clasped the handle on her carryon and boarded. She moved through the plane, got to her seat, placed her carryon luggage in the above heard compartment and sat down. She positioned herself and put her travel pillow around her neck while she prepped herself to fall asleep before the plane took off. As she repositioned herself the vacant seat beside her was suddenly occupied. Margaret turned her head, and it was Samuel. Margaret had not seen nor spoken to Samuel in seven years. Margaret regrouped from her sudden shock and finally found the words that swiftly escaped the doors of her lips and said, “of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, He walks into mine”. Mags, Samuel responded “you haven’t changed a bit, always with a flair for the dramatics”. Margaret began to spiral internally, why after all this time? Why now? Why here? Of all the … before she can finish her thoughts Samuel slowly turned Margaret's face toward his and said “Mags, I know your thoughts are spiraling right now”. Ugh, Margaret hated how much he knew her. She took a deep breath as she mustered the strength to speak and blurted with frustration. Why? A little louder than expected which stole the attention of the other passengers as they passed. Samuel responded, “I don’t know why”? That response was so emotive, Margaret internalized. He not only did not know why they ended up on the same flight, on the same day, at the same time, in the same row, but he also did not know why things ended the way it did. Margaret did what she always does, withdrew, and became aloof. Samuel shoulder bumped Margaret and said you are doing it again, shutting down. I don’t know how or why but I am glad. Samuel, with annoyance, Margaret said it has been seven years and all you can say is “I don’t know why but I am glad”. Samuel responded “ok, let’s say it is fate”. Margaret riposted; fate took seven years. “Here goes that sarcasm” Samuel responded. “Yes, maybe we needed seven years”. Samuel paused and with a twinkle in his eye uttered “Pura Vida”. Margaret knew exactly what he meant, and it infuriated her. She was frustrated that she had to spend the next five hours on a flight with Samuel. Margaret was eager for the flight to land in San Jose so she can get as far away from Samuel as she can and put this nightmare behind her. For the next five hours Margaret found solace in the silence. The flight landed in San Jose, and with a sigh of relief Margaret exited her seat and said to Samuel “I cannot lie and say I am glad, but I do wish you the best”. As she disembarked from the plane she looked back and saw Samuel gazing at her with a smile. Margaret turned around and resolved to put this unexpected encounter behind her. Her transport was ready to take her to the Xandari Resort & Spa. Margaret was psyched for what waited for her, she was keen but frightfully so to embark on her ultimate wildlife adventure. Margaret checked into her accommodation and met the travel manager for the fourteen-day tour. He told the traveling group to settle in and the orientation dinner would be at the hotel dining room at 6:30pm. Margaret reached her room and took a minute to take in the view. This trip was on her living list, and she could not believe it was happening. She surveyed the room and the breath-taking scenery of the mountains out her window were indescribable. While she took a moment to mentally absorb her experience to commit to memory, she could not help think about what Samuel mentioned on the flight, maybe it was fate. She quickly brushed it off and got ready to explore the resort and relax by the infinity pool before the orientation dinner. Margaret was getting ready for the orientation dinner. She slipped on a floral blue and white flowy dress; she styled her hair with an updo with her signature butterfly hair pin to tie in her whole attire. As she walked into the dining room, she greeted the fellow travelers she met as she checked in this afternoon. As she walked to the reserved table, she met…. Samuel. Margaret was taken aback. Samuel approached her, he gently drew her in towards him and whispered in her ear “do believe in fate now”. Margaret was flabbergasted. She had to admit this was more than a coincidence, it might actually be fate. Throughout the orientation Margaret could not help but think about what this all meant, why did her path cross with Samuel again after seven years. She could not bring herself to even think about what ended it all, but she could not stop the feeling of fate. Samuel shoulder bumped Margaret and told her to get out of her head and just enjoy the moment. Margaret resolved to do just that. For the next fourteen days Margaret and Samuel were inseparable. Their escapades led them to explore wildlife viewings at eight national parks, engaged in a cloud forest canopy tour, went to the sloth wildlife sanctuary, did day hikes taking in the views of the beautiful mountains, decompressed in the hot springs, relaxed on the pristine beaches, dared to explore several volcanos, participated in sea kayaking with dolphins, and experienced snorkeling at night in the bioluminescence. It was a venture to remember. Throughout the expedition Margaret felt safe with Sammi but dangerously so. She felt her feelings emerging, but she quickly realized they never left. It was Sammi but something about him changed. It was Sammi but it was not Sammi. After the last excursion Samuel leaned in towards Margaret and told her to meet him in the lobby tomorrow at 7pm. Margaret went to bed with the anticipation of tomorrow. The next day Margaret received a knock at her door. It was room service, breakfast was served with a bouquet of Osa Pulchra and a note which read “My Dear Mags, this is the beautiful and rare flower in Costa Rica which reminds me how beautiful and rare you are”. See you tonight at 7pm. Margaret’s heart fluttered as she flopped down on the couch. As the sun set, Margaret’s heart started to beat louder and louder as she got ready to meet Sammi at 7pm. Mags, what are you doing as she referenced herself with Sammi’s nick name for her. Are you ready for this? Do you trust him? Do you want to give him another chance? Are you willing to give him your heart once more? Is it worth it? With one last glance in the mirror and a smile Margaret made her way down the stairs to the lobby to meet Samuel standing and waiting in anticipation of her arrival. 

5sw4bk

Heels & Sniffles

"Damn it," I hissed, slamming the phone onto the desk. The echo of Sarah's laughter as she said “Classic, Beth, you still haven’t started finding an outfit for this interview have you?” lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the two hours I'd just wasted talking to her about nothing. My stomach clenched – missing this interview wasn't an option. Not with my dream job at Magnum Bend hanging in the balance. The clock on the wall ticked menacingly, each tick a hammer blow against the dwindling minutes till interview time. I forced myself to turn back to the task at hand, find an outfit, get dressed and head downtown before the hour was up. No use getting angry with myself for getting caught up talking about nothing when I knew just how important this interview was to my career. All I could do was just shake my head. “When would I ever learn,” I thought to myself. “When?” When would I ever learn to make time for the important things and stop waiting for the absolute final moment to begin?” Living in a bustling city like New York, I was no stranger to chaos. From crowded subways to fast-paced workplaces, I had learned to navigate the whirlwind of city life with a blend of determination and humor. Since moving here, my dream had always been to carve out a successful career in finance and landing an interview with Magnum Bend, I felt a step closer to that dream. However, my penchant for waiting till the last-minute often led to unavoidable disasters. I had a knack for running late that bordered on an art form. Despite my best intentions, I always found myself rushing against the clock, whether it was finishing a project or getting ready for an important event. It was a guarantee that I would either run late or wait till D day to start. This interview at Magnum Bend was no exception. As I raced around my apartment, I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "When will I ever learn?" I chuckled to myself, a mixture of frustration and amusement. But beneath the chaos and self-deprecating humor, there was a deep-seated motivation driving me forward. I wanted this job not just for the prestige or the paycheck, but because it represented a culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and my passion for finance. It was my chance to prove to myself and to the world that I was capable, despite the occasional mishaps. My chaotic lifestyle got me to thinking about my first big interview after college. I had prepared meticulously, researching the company, practicing my responses, and even choosing the perfect outfit. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until I arrived at the interview location and realized I had forgotten my resume. Panic set in as I frantically searched my bag, hoping against hope that I had slipped a copy of my resume somewhere, but my bag yielded only a crumpled receipt and a half-eaten granola bar which is typical of how Murphy's law always appeared in my life. In a moment of desperation, I approached the receptionist and explained my predicament. She gave me a sympathetic smile and said, "Don't worry, happens all the time. Just send us your resume via email after the interview." Relieved but slightly embarrassed, I made a mental note never to forget my resume – again. That interview went surprisingly well, and I landed the job despite the initial hiccup. As I chuckled at the memory, I reminded myself that even the most chaotic moments could lead to unexpected successes. It was a lesson I carried with me into every interview since—be prepared, but also be ready to roll with the punches and find humor in the chaos. “Enough of the past I said to myself,” I need to get ready. With my heart hammering against my ribs, I raced around my tiny NYC apartment like a tornado on Red Bull. Everything seemed to conspire against me. Knocking over a potted plant and watching the dirt fly across the room I thought, this is it, my third interview with Magnum Bend, the holy grail of finance companies and I just knew that I was on my way to making that ‘bag.’ “Go girl, go girl, you got it, you got it,” I sang as I tripped over my own shoes, performing an impromptu dance routine that would've impressed even the clumsiest of performers. "Who put these here? Oh, right, me," I muttered, untangling myself from the shoe tangle. As if on cue, my coffee mug decided it wanted to join the chaos party. With a dramatic flourish, it slipped from my hand, sending a brown tsunami cascading down my blouse. "Seriously? Today of all days?" I groaned, frantically dabbing at the coffee stains with a tissue. Meanwhile, my phone alarm continued to buzz insistently, reminding me that it was time to go. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" I shouted at the phone, as if it could hear my frantic pleas. Finally, after a series of missteps, spills, and near-misses, I managed to wrangle myself into the rest of my interview outfit. The skirt threatened to revolt against its length, and the blouse clung to me as if it had a personal vendetta. "At least I'm dressed, sort of," I sighed, resigning myself to the less-than-perfect ensemble. “I’ll just keep the jacket buttoned so the stain doesn’t show, “as I buttoned the jacket over the wet material. With a last-minute swipe of lipstick and a quick dusting of baby powder in my sneakers to combat the dreaded foot sweat, I grabbed my briefcase and bolted out the door, leaving behind a trail of overturned items and chaos in my wake. Luckily the subway rumbled to a stop just as I reached the platform, the doors hissing open like a hungry crocodile’s mouth. I shoved myself through, heart pounding frantically like a tattoo being drawn against my ribs. Every creak of the wheels, every groan of the brakes, felt like an eternity . The train finally screeched to a halt, jolting me back to reality. I straightened my skirt and sniffed, the stale air of the subway doing little to calm my nerves. " Fuck,” I kept saying under my breath,” why do I continue to do this all the time, wait till the last minute to get ready?” Finally, I burst out of the station and sprinted up the street, dodging pedestrians and muttering apologies under my breath. I skidded through the glass doors of the imposing Magnum Bend skyscraper, chest heaving. Making it through security I hurriedly placed the visitor pass onto my jacket, changed from my sneakers into heels, brushed a few stray hairs away and switched to a diaphragmatic breathing method to lower my heart rate as I waited for the elevator doors to open. Exiting the elevator, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the reception area. The space was a harmonious blend of modern elegance and timeless sophistication. Marble floors gleamed under the soft, warm lighting and plush leather armchairs beckoned from beneath tasteful paintings adorning the cherry paneled walls. Soft jazz music played in the background, creating a soothing backdrop to the outside world. It was refined luxury at its best and I knew at that moment that I would do anything to be hired. "Hello," I rasped, a touch of condescension lacing my voice, as I directed my attention at the impeccably groomed receptionist. "I have a two o'clock appointment with the board." The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly sculpted bob and a stare that could curdle milk, took one look at me, then flicked her gaze pointedly to my nose. Mortified, I reached up and swiped my fingers under my nose because who doesn’t sweat there? Had I gotten that much sweat on my face during the subway ride I thought? Straightening my shoulders and placing on a confident smile I looked down at her and asked, “Can you please let them know that I have arrived?” Forcing myself to remain calm I found a seat and surreptitiously placed my sneakers behind a plant. Wouldn’t do to have them falling out of my briefcase. Sitting in the waiting room at Magnum Bend, nervously tapping my foot and rehearsing potential interview answers in my head I allowed myself a moment to envision what floor they would have me working on and would I have a window office or a would I have one of those partitioned offices where every conversation was carefully monitored? All I knew at that moment was that I was going to get this job. "The board is expecting you, Ms. Davis," the receptionist drawled, skepticism lingering in her voice. Jolted back to reality I stood, grabbing my briefcase and using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe off the sweat on my face, I followed her. As she escorted me to the conference room, I managed to smooth back my hair and place that upside down frown onto my face. “You got this Girl,” I muttered to myself, “you got this. “ The conference room was a mix of modern elegance and intimidating grandeur. Unlike the reception area a great deal more expense had gone into the conference room. Looking around I noticed the two Klimt paintings facing either end of the imposing 25 seat conference table and couldn’t help being impressed with how far I had come in my career. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that threatened to consume me. Mr. Magnum, a tall man with a commanding presence, greeted me with a firm handshake and a warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes when he glanced at me. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Davis," he said as he gestured for me to take a seat at the polished mahogany table. The other board members, all impeccably dressed and exuding professionalism, nodded in acknowledgment. Mr. Magnum asked probing questions about my experience, skills, and vision for the company. I answered as best as I could, trying to convey enthusiasm and competence despite the lingering self-doubt as the board members glanced at each other when they thought I wasn’t looking. As the interview droned on, I tried to focus on my prepared answers and maintain a confident demeanor. However, my mind kept drifting to the chaos of the morning—the spilled coffee, the frantic rush, my coffee-stained blouse, the list expanding as I reviewed my morning. I cursed myself for my last-minute habits, knowing they were now haunting me in the most crucial moment of my career. Catching myself twisting a strand of hair around my finger I forced myself to stop fidgeting and concentrate. When a dry cough snagged in my throat, I fumbled with the water pitcher, almost spilling it on the stack of notes in front of me. The clock on the wall seemed to tick in time with the growing damp patch beneath my bra and blouse. At one point, Miss Choprand, a sharp-eyed board member, raised an eyebrow skeptically at my response. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead, wishing I had remembered to bring a handkerchief or something to wipe the sweat from my face. Trying to appear nonchalant I wiped my hands across the bridge of my nose hoping to capture whatever it was that was drawing attention away from my answers. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the interview concluded. I thanked Mr. Magnum and the board members, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach as the interview ended. They either didn’t like me or weren’t expecting a female was all I could think as I left the conference room, I couldn't shake off the nagging thought that I had somehow messed up, that my chaotic morning had cost me the opportunity of a lifetime. Asking the receptionist where the ladies’ room was, I went off in that direction. With a sinking heart, I held my tears in until I entered the bathroom. Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That's when I glanced at my face in the mirror, and everything clicked. The baby powder that I had applied so liberally in my shoes to prevent foot sweat, was now a stark white line across my nostrils, thanks to my nervous sniffing. It looked exactly like, well... Oh my gosh they probably think I am on drugs. And with that thought I started sobbing. Realizing that no amount of preparation could erase the consequences of my own habits. If I had left at a decent time I wouldn’t have been rushing. If I had left on time I would have had time to at least take a few moments in the bathroom checking that all was okay. As I collected myself and prepared to leave, a voice echoed in my mind—my mother's voice, with its mix of admonishment and wisdom. "Learn from your mistakes, dear. Every experience, even the chaotic ones, teaches us something valuable." With those words in mind, I straightened my shoulders and resolved to take whatever lessons I could from this day, chaotic as it may have been. Dread pooled in my stomach as I went back over the interview. Every time I had sniffed during the interview, trying to compose myself, it must have looked like I was snorting cocaine. The receptionist’s stare, Miss Choprand’s smirk, it all made terrible sense now. As I was waiting for the elevator Mr. Magnum also exited the conference room, seeing me he turned back toward the conference room. “Oh no,” I thought, he thinks I am a druggie. What could I say to him to let him know that the white powder under my nose was just that baby powder and not what they thought? Arriving back home I wrote a thank you letter to the board, and as a postscript, I described what I hoped would come across as funny – the story of how I applied talcum powder in my shoes and how it accidentally got on my hands and nostrils. I even explained that if they wanted me to take a drug test I would be more than happy. In the days following the interview at Magnum Bend, I found myself oscillating between hope and anxiety. Every email notification made my heart skip a beat, wondering if it was the anticipated response from the company. Days turned into weeks, and the silence grew deafening. Doubt crept in, whispering cruel reminders of the chaotic morning and the potential mistakes I had made during the interview. I berated myself for not being more prepared, for allowing my last-minute habits to sabotage my chances. Two months from the date of the interview as I sat staring at my phone, willing it to ring with good news, I received an unexpected email. It was from Magnum Bend. With trembling hands, I opened it, steeling myself for the inevitable rejection. To my surprise, the email began with words that lifted a weight off my shoulders. "We appreciate your time and effort during the interview process," it read. My heart raced as I continued reading, expecting the familiar "however" that often-preceded rejection letters. But the next sentence brought tears of relief and joy to my eyes. "We are pleased to offer you the position of Senior Financial Analyst at Magnum Bend provided you pass the background and mandatory drug testing." I couldn't believe it. Despite the chaotic morning, the doubts, and the setbacks, I had landed the job. A mix of emotions flooded through me—elation, gratitude, and a newfound sense of confidence. Sometimes, being late can get you that job. As I prepared to step into my new role at Magnum Bend, I carried these lessons with me. I was determined to excel, not just in my job but also in life, armed with the wisdom gained from chaotic moments and the resilience to overcome any challenges that came my way.

it8799

What are the chances?

Pop! Pfffft! Duh dud duh dud duh dud… My bike begins to wobble and lean to the left, prompting me to quickly put my foot down to keep it from falling over. With sweating hands, I grip the handlebars and steer the bike over to the sidewalk. Upon inspection, I noticed a sizeable nail shining from the middle of the front tire. I pound the bike with my fist, cursing as I look up at the sky, “I don’t have time for this!!” I read the receipt on the bag for the 3 rd time: Order Method: Online Time placed: 11:03 a.m. Name on Order: Alejandro McCann Delivery address: 75 N. 35 th street Delivery guarantee: 11:35 a.m. 1 Chicken and broccoli meal Side salad-Ginger dressing NO tomatoes Medium sweet tea 1 order Crab Rangoon Taking a quick glance at the watch on my left arm confirms my fear: it is already 11:20 a.m. One more bad review and I am going to get fired. Discarding the bike close to the wood line, I grab the medium-sized black duffel bag containing my deliveries and sprint off toward Main Street. The food doesn’t weigh much, of course, but my roughly 15-pound backpack does; it is a necessity since I don’t have anywhere else to safely store my things. It contains my personal effects: a change of clothes, sneakers, my wallet, a bottle of water, receipts, gum, mints and whatever else it is that collects at the bottom. The backpack causes me to move awkwardly. I clasp the food bag in my right hand and shift the backpack straps up for the 2 nd time in the last 2 minutes as it bumps my left side, shifting its weight across my back with each step. Closing in on downtown, the honking horns create a cacophony of noise, as I rhythmically sidle to the left and right, like I’m in a real-life dance battle, to squeeze between the throng of people. “Hey, watch out!” the man says. But it’s too late; the heat from the brown liquid radiates across my chest before I even register what has happened and I don’t have time to dwell on it. “Sorry!” I call out as I change my course toward my new destination: the coffee shop bathroom across the street. Inside the bathroom, I fling my clothes about, removing my stained shirt, shoving it in the bag and putting my clean shirt on with one hand. Thank God I remembered to pack a change of clothes this morning . “Ouch! That’s going to leave a bruise,” I exclaim after plopping down too hard on the first available subway seat. Slouching down in the seat, I put an earbud in my ear and take a deep breath, attempting to calm my nerves. Suddenly movement flickers in my peripheral vision, bringing my attention upwards. “Hello?? Hello??” A young woman is standing a foot in front of me, her hand moving in rapid succession inches from my face. “Yeah, what’s up?” I say, pulling the earbud from my ear. “Can I sit here?” She says, her face contorted in an effort to convey the message please I am desperate . After scanning the area, I point toward the back, “There is an open seat right there,” I say. “I get carsick, the closer I am to the front, the better it is for me,” she pleads. “They make medicine for that,” I say too low to be heard with my back toward her as I collect my things and start walking toward the seat 5 rows back. I don’t need any more issues today. RAAAAAAAAAAAAREEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR My head snaps toward the growling noise coming from the seat next to me. A black duffel bag sits on the bench. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I bend down to inspect the mewling monstrosity. The first thing I see are its eyes, they are large round dark saucers staring intently at me. Then I notice its black, brown, and white fur standing erect on its arched back, with stiff straight legs splayed out front. Ears pushed flat against its head. RAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRR     HIIISSSSSSS I jerk back just as I see claws lunge toward my face. “Friendly feline you got there”, I said to who I suspect was its owner. “She just doesn’t like being shoved in that contraption or the whole movement thing, otherwise she is pretty cute and cuddly,” the lady said. “Reeeall cute.” “If you’re getting off on 33 rd Street, exit now after we come to a complete stop,” the driver said through the overhead speaker. “Gotta run,” I called out to the cat lady as I grabbed my belongings and hustled to the front. “Finally,” I say, releasing a long breath as I stare at the brick three-floor walkup. “Only 10 minutes late, not too bad.” I wait at the top of the stairs after ringing the buzzer for…Alejandro, I confirm after glancing back at the ticket. The door swings open and a large man looms in the doorway. His face is set in a scowl, “It took you long enough.” Ignoring his comment I say, “Hey, I have your delivery here.” “Well, come on with it,” he snaps. “I’m trying to open the zipper,” I say, tugging at it. RAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRR What in the world! The zipper is open just enough to see one side of the tri-colored cat’s head. I attempt to push it back unseen as I hear, “I didn’t order no cat.” “Well, you did order Chinese, isn’t that kind of the same thing?” “But that cat would at least be well done.” “I’m sorry sir, I’ll place a new order for you, on the house.” “Don’t worry about it, I’m no longer hungry.” Well..ummm…your next order is free,” I say in an attempt to satisfy the man. “It better be,” he says as the door slams shut. “Great, now I have to find the lady from the subway and give her this cat back.” I take the steps two at a time and stop at the bottom contemplating the way. “Right,” I say, turning in that direction, picking up speed as I travel along the sidewalk. My right leg buckles as my foot sticks in an uneven crack in the sidewalk. I outstretch a hand to break my inevitable fall when my shoulder connects with something before meeting the ground. “Get your hands off me!” Now on the ground, I unclasp my hand from around the stranger’s ankle. “Sorry. Sorry,” I say as I attempt to stand up and brush myself off. Whaaaappp! Her hand lands hard across my cheek. I grab the side of my face, attempting to lessen its sting as I say, “What was that for?” “You stole my boss’ cat, I was taking her to the vet, and you almost got me fired,” she barked. “It was an accident; it was in the same type of bag as my deliveries,” I reply. “You should not grab things without double checking they’re yours. You need to be more careful!” With that, she snatches the bag containing the cat and struts off. I look around and see my black duffle bag a few feet away. I jump up and grab the bag. Buzzz Buzzz My phone vibrates against my leg in my shorts pocket, and I hesitate before taking it out. I don’t even need to see it to know who’s calling me. DRH delivery flashes across the screen. DAMIIOOONNN!! My boss’ voice booms in my ear the moment I connect the call. “Yes sir?” “Do you think you’re funny?” “Um…sometimes.” “Giving the man an actual cat. You’re lucky you didn’t give him a heart attack. Turns out it looks just like his cat, Poppy, who just died; he is very distraught. This was your last strike, you’re fired, son!” Click. The phone disconnects. I stare down at the phone I’m still holding. What a CATastrophe!

zs263a

Seven Stops

I adjust my skirt for the third time, pulling it a little higher towards my waist. I'm not happy at all, plus if the wind blows, I'll struggle to keep it against my thighs. I undo the side latch and let the skirt fall to the floor, pick it up with one leg, and throw it over the pile of clothes on the bed. Clothes that I've tried on that I didn't think were an inspired choice for a job interview I want. I'm not so indifferent that I'll wear anything. Come on. The songs that play on my phone are constantly changing. I put on a pair of jeans, glancing in the mirror. I need new clothes. I'm going to get the shopping bug again. It's okay, Emma. You deserve to treat yourself , I tell myself. I walk out the door, lock up, and check my phone, hoping the time will change, but the clock shows me I'm still late. My heart is pounding, and my keys seem to slip through my damp palms. In two minutes, I should be out front and walking through the door like a punctual person who shows up on time, not the kind of individual who shows up twenty minutes early to make sure he’s on time, but I will be just very late. I've always felt lucky that my block is right in front of the bus stop, but bad luck was also not absent when I came out of the staircase, and the bus was already leaving the stop, which happens very often, including now. I sigh and sit down next to the pole on which the nameplate with the name of the station and the numbers of the buses that stop here is hung. Well, I have seven stops to go, and I informed the lovely lady at HR when I woke up that I would be late. Now that I think about it, it would have been wise to pick out my clothes the night before and not put myself to bed past midnight. After a few minutes, the bus came, and I found it unbearable. It was as if I had spent too much time at the stop, which was the reason for the delay, not because it had taken me forever to get up and get ready. I clench my jaw as the bus doors open, but only two people get out. Because I have many stops, I get on and try to make my way through the many people stuck together—during rush hour . First station. It moves so slowly that I feel like getting off and running to the building of - I hope - my future job. My new job... my new salary... my new colleagues. So many changes create an excellent feeling akin to setting off on a new adventure and a fear like I'm plunging into the great unknown. My skin crawls, and I get a few shivers, but then I think of the more satisfying paycheck. I could afford more things, like an apartment on which I could pay installments for the next 30 years and more vacations. Second station. Ah, I wish I could go to the sea. To plunge recklessly into the cold, salty, itchy water, to be violently buffeted by foaming, aggressive but not so dangerous waves, just enough to sink me underwater and feel my head all over the place, and the hot sand stinging my soles. How I'd love to get in my boyfriend's car and drive there, to hear him complain about the infernal heat in the vehicle because the air conditioning uses more gas and we can't throw money out the window, although we could use a new car, possibly with rear-wheel drive to fool around in once in a while . Let's not forget that we don't have the money for too much gasoline either, and there is no way we can afford a second-hand "new" car. I remember how many sandcastles I used to make at the seaside when I was little and how I wished I was an adult because I wasn't allowed to sit in the water all day, hoping that adulthood would bring me the right to spend a whole day in the sea. Yes, I can do that now ; I thought dissatisfied. But now I'm on the bus where I face the heat from the hot, sweaty bodies of the grumpy adults who are still going to work today and will be going all their lives because we're not lucky enough to win the lottery. I'm already at the third station, and my phone is vibrating in my hand. I pick it up and see the name above the Answer or Reject options. Great... "Yes", I say as soon as I answer. "Yeah", hello to you too. I'm not saying anything. "You couldn't do the dishes last night? You are always like this." I look to my left and notice a lady giving me a judgmental look that raises a particular curiosity, making her not take her eyes off me. I press the button that turns down the volume on my phone, and my heart begins to pound. I can't articulate any response to my brother, who is fidgeting and reminding me of various responsibilities I didn't complete yesterday, so I keep quiet. I look to my right and see several middle-aged people scrutinizing me from head to toe as if waiting for a response. "I'm on the bus; I can't talk", I say flatly. "Sure, arrogant. See you at home. When you come, pick up the laundry. I want to do the washing." In a voice as slow and controlled as possible, I say: "You gather, I'll wrap them." He snapped on the receiver and I hung up the call without letting him throw the next insults. My stomach clenches tighter, my blood boils, and my muscles tremble slightly enough that I notice their spasmodic movements but controlled sufficiently that no one else notices. I put the phone in my pocket, and the bus leaves at the fourth stop. People turn their eyes on me and how I hate talking on the phone in public, especially in a space where dozens of people are crowded together. It annoys me, especially when I'm talking to him. It annoys me when I see everyone staring. However, these people have nothing else to do, which is understandable in such a boring routine. Going to work, work, going home, arrive and sleep, and a new day reveals precisely the same schedule. We reach the fifth station. This is one of those times when I get angry enough to wish I was dead. Of course, I'd never kill myself, but it's times like this that I want my life to stop. To have nothing to deal with, no problems, and no one to blame me or someone close to me begging me to stop being angry as if suddenly all my negative feelings would miraculously disappear at their words. Ah, Mom and Dad do that every time I talk to them, when it gets to the point where I get angry. Even my boyfriend does that. And every time it happens, I wish I was dead. Who else are you going to tell not to get mad? The bus is still too full and struggling to close its doors due to people trying to crowd in, trying to get in the vehicle, and disrespectfully pushing other passengers. If I had left earlier, I would have avoided this congestion. Even in traffic, there are more cars than usual. With all these accumulated nerves now, I'd have enough strength to push the bus from the back so I could get to the damn interview faster. Actually, no. I'd rather be at home hanging out on my laptop, pretending to work from bed because my little room has two desks occupied. One was assigned to my boyfriend when we decided that he will move here. I bought a new one for myself, but it has also changed its use, becoming a perfect holder for the steering wheel and shifter that my boyfriend and I occasionally play with after we finish our schedules at our mediocre jobs. I could take the laptop into the kitchen and do my chores on the new white table, which replaced the old brown one that supported numerous weekend family breakfasts and daily dinners, which Mom and Dad ate. The entire apartment was changed when they left the country, and the place looked like they never lived at home. The bus stopped between the fifth and sixth stops in a massive queue of cars. The boulevard is overcrowded, and we last moved several minutes ago. To hell with the congestion ! I imagine my mother holding me, and my eyes start to water. I haven't seen them in almost a year, and when we see each other, the visit only lasts a week. At the thought, I begin to feel the morbid loneliness that fills me up and pops up from time to time. It's like I don't need anything anymore because I have this whole aura of loneliness that comes over me and takes the place of food and water. I sweat, and wet patches form on my shirt at my armpits. My nerves are frayed, and my stomach is increasingly churning, and I immediately feel a giant emptiness. It makes me angry how my privacy and personal space at home have been so brutally violated for several years. Even though I used to live with four people in the apartment as I do now, I didn't share a room with anyone back then, and the kitchen was always tidy. That's how I would like to make all those who hurt me daily pay back the way I do, with tears and snot. Sometimes, it only takes one stimulus for my nerves to explode in my body. I feel like screaming. Loudly. Right now. The scream always sits at the top of my lungs, waiting to come out, but it doesn't leave my lips now or ever. And as usual, along with all these nerves and anxiety comes the classic guilt. I don't want to see my family suffer. Not even my brother. My boyfriend has no idea about my crying sessions because if I told him, I'd see his sad, helpless face. I'd like to have an exorcism, get rid of Bad Emma, and only have the Good Emma, who is always much happier than Bad Emma, even though she is sadder. Of course, there's no such thing. There are no two parts I can separate according to my wishes. My body is numb with nerves, and I feel so guilty. I wish I could scream at Mom and Dad so loudly and accuse them of terrible things, questioning their love for their youngest child. What I wouldn't give to be Good Emma, who isn't angry and doesn't look for trouble with anyone. And if I feel guilty anyway, why can't I shut my mouth? Because if I did that, I'd be betraying myself. I'd let others behave as they please, even if it hurt like hell in my chest. I finally reach the seventh station. I didn't even realize when I passed that whole red zone. I get off and let the air cool me down from all the trouble. If only it were that simple. That way, I'd even let the sea breeze rustle my wet skin, making me feel cold, and then the scorching late July sun would come in and dry me out immediately and warm me up so much I'd get back in the water. I want to go to the sea. I took the phone out of my pocket, and the clock showed a late hour for the interview I had scheduled about fifty minutes before. A 20-minute commute by public transport ended up being that long because of the rush hour in the capital. I see more benches on the boulevard. I want to sit on one because there's no way I will make it to the interview anyway. I missed my chance again because of the evil thoughts I usually have. So what if I stayed dressed like that the first time and didn't try on all the clothes? I would still be late, but not an hour late. And still, something imaginary in my body boils with nerves. I live in a confusion that I don't know how to get out of because, accompanied by these emotions that don't give me peace, I feel unfortunate and guilty for what I think and want instead of appreciating my life, which is not so bad. I've heard some people refer to these states as an illness like depression or bipolar disorder, but I've also heard the complete opposite from people who thought I was exaggerating. Whatever it is, it's very unpleasant. I look up in bewilderment, seeing the building and thinking how foolish I was to think I could arrive an hour late and have the lovely lady in HR greet me like I wasn't even brazenly late. What an illusion. I needed this job so badly. You jerk . I don't even understand why I go there. I could stop at coffee shops on the boulevard, grab an Irish and walk through the park in peace, calm down and visualize my next move, and then get home and ask my boyfriend for a few beers to celebrate the interview. I wish I could lie to him, but I can't. I wish I could drink to numb all my feelings, at least for one night, which I might, but without the lying part. Before I know it, I'm at the door. I decide not to go in. I feel exhausted. I want to shout at everyone, and at the same time, I want to keep my mouth shut so I don't make anyone sad, which I never manage to do because I get too angry. I'm such a loser. All the while, I'm constantly whining; I realize how many people would consider me lucky and wish for a house with loving parents who pay for everything and a caring boyfriend, while the money I earn helps me buy almost everything I want. Some people would now like to walk in the clothes I wear to an interview, even if it were a job that pays an embarrassing salary. But if I accept all of that, it's a denial of the feelings I have and disregard them. I don't want to treat myself superficially. I want to go home with all the hustle and bustle, sit in my lover's arms, and rest like a baby sleeps after crying for a few hours because his gums hurt. "Excuse me," says a voice that wakes me from my reverie. I step aside, and another girl opens the door and holds it open for me to come in. Without thinking, I step over the threshold. She looks close to my age while looking rushed and stressed. Another person is late for the interview? Is it possible? Without another word, we enter the building together. Several chairs are set up in the lobby, and I wait to decide to sit on them. I wonder if this girl was late, but even if she was, I'm convinced she only made it in an hour. A door opens behind me, and I turn around. The girl in the chair, who had just sat down, rises lightning fast. Out of the mysterious room comes a boy in a plain, white T-shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and an equally casually dressed woman who guides him out with a broad smile. In fact, I'm the only one wearing a shirt. Then the woman turns to us and asks: "Hi, girls! Are you here for the interview? Can I have your names?" Initially, I hesitated and let the other girl introduce herself first. "Clara Taylor." Then the woman looks at me, waiting for a name. "Emma Wilson." "You made it," she says with a hint of compassion. "Are you all right? Come inside, and then Clara, you’ll be next, okay?" I am shocked. Somehow, I managed to get the interview. I also have a chance to get the job; I have a chance to get away from the current stress of the measly salary that won't allow me to move out of the house, sparing my parents from having to pay my ass a lot more and what I consume in the apartment we all once lived in. After all, they moved out due to the country's economy conditions, and now I'm old enough to support myself. I can do it; I have to assume adulthood. “Thanks,” I say to the woman, following her into the room and closing the door behind me.

jkgru8

Of all the days . . .

“Are you kidding me?!” George asked himself. Was the sidewalk really closed for repairs? He had just walked home on it last night and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that had led him to believe it would be closed off this morning. That was all he needed right now. He shook his head and wanted to cry.    Today was supposed to be a big day for him. After countless applications to the job of his dreams with the most prestigious company in the city, he’d finally gotten the call. The interview would be Friday morning at 9 AM in the main conference room on the 21st floor.    He’d gotten his suit dry-cleaned for the occasion, a matching tie and pocket square all picked out, his shirt starched and white as fresh powder snow. He’d even taken the time to buff a new coat of polish on his shoes. He was set. Or so he thought.    It wasn’t his alarm clock that woke him up that morning, it was his stomach rumbling. Jumping out of bed he barely made it to the toilet when his bowels let loose with the fury of a Category Five hurricane. It was after the second time he flushed when he came to the stark realization that the sushi he’d grabbed for dinner last night from the convenient store around the corner was probably not the best idea. Coming home late from work, wanting to get a good night’s sleep, he just wanted something quick and easy. It looked good and smelled just fine when he gobbled it down. Epic fail, he thought.    Finally composing himself after the depleting wakeup call in the bathroom, he meandered out to the kitchen to see if he had any Gatorade or electrolyte water in the fridge. He espied the microwave clock in his peripheral vision and rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing.    “That can’t be right,” he said aloud. “It can’t be 7:30, my alarm hasn’t gone off yet.”    The young man walked with a purpose to his bedroom to look at his cell phone. He tapped the screen to get it to wake up. Nothing. Blank screen. Tapping with increased vigor he desperately wanted it to tell him he was not already running late. Running to his living room he turned on the TV to see what the local news had. Sure enough, there in the banner on the bottom of the screen he confirmed his fears; it was 7:32 AM.    Doing some mental gymnastics in his head he calculated he had just enough time to get there right on time instead of the planned fifteen minutes early arrival.    In two bounds he re-entered the bathroom, turning the shower on to get it warm while he ripped open his medicine cabinet to get out his shaving supplies, toothbrush, and all the other necessary toiletries.    “OW!” George yelled as he gouged a large chunk of skin off his chin with his dullish razor. That’s what I get for rushing . Finishing up at a slightly slower pace he turned to brushing his teeth. At least I can’t hurt myself here . He hoped the bleeding would stop before he left the house as he stuffed a small wad of toilet paper on the wound.    Stripping down to nothing, ready to hop in the shower, the frantic young man heard that same familiar gurgle rumble up from his stomach.    “You cannot be serious? How is there anything left in me?” Pondering this aloud he sat there, naked, fretting that this was really going to cut into his travel time. After his second flush, for the second time this morning, he got up and launched himself into the shower.    “Oh . . . my . . . God!” he screamed. For whatever unknown reason, the shower had not warmed up. It was as frigid as an early winter morning. Gritting his teeth he managed to scrub the important parts, rinsing them off in the chilly downpour of the showerhead. The one advantage of the icy deluge was that it helped the bleeding in his chin to stop. He had barely registered that small victory when he was bombarded with another setback.    The suit he had so proudly prepped for his big day was covered in cat hair. During the night, his pet feline had managed to pull the suit down off the hanger, rip off the dry-cleaning plastic and then, from the looks of it, had rolled lovingly all over the garment for the better part of the night. Sensing his owner’s displeasure, the cat had smartly removed itself from plain sight, waiting to re-appear at a later time.    Cursing his furry roommate, George put his suit on, doing the best he could to de-hair it as he went. He went through three rolls of his lint brush on the first attempt and decided he needed to carry it with him, doing the best he could to finish the job while riding the subway.    Lint brush in one hand, briefcase in the other, the frantic jobseeker burst out the front door of his apartment building running fifteen minutes behind his intended timeline. He would still be there right on time. Or so he thought.    His train showed up at the station early. A first time for everything, he thought, delighted he might get back some of those missing minutes. Unfortunately, this would not be the case.    A vagrant had decided to have an argument with the door to one of the cars on the train. Stumbling aboard, the door had closed on him, the disturbed man pushing back hard on the already retreating door. He then proceeded to argue with the inanimate object as it kept trying to close, supposedly assaulting the man as he stood in the doorway of the subway car. Seeing the ruckus, the transit officer monitoring the station went over to confront the deranged man, eventually coaxing him back onto the platform, but not before ten precious minutes were lost to George, who was in true peril of developing whiplash from checking his watch and looking up at the scene.    The short fifteen-minute train ride was uneventful which allowed the flustered young man to get the last of the cat fur off his garment. A check of the gouge on his chin also revealed the lack of active bleeding. All right, things are finally swinging my way .    Doing his best to not be pushy, but determined to try and make up more time, George weaved his way through the crowd as they exited the train, slipping between passengers like an eel slithering through the waves. He emerged from the underground tunnel and had come to the point where he was now. The sidewalk leading to his destination was closed off. Barricaded as workers with jackhammers were busy tearing up sections for replacement.    Frustration mounted as he waited for the traffic signals to let him cross to the other side of the street, where he walked briskly down the length of the block. Once again, the annoyance of waiting for the traffic signal, which seemed to take an eternity to finally change, raised his blood pressure more than a few points. Feeling the sweat roll off his brow, he was hoping that would stop before he hit the 21st floor.    Cresting the doors to the lobby of his objective building, he saw the last of a small crowd of people pouring into an elevator.    “Hold that, please!” he shouted as he sprinted the last few feet into the car before the doors closed. Yes! I made it .    He had bent over as best he could in the crowded car to catch his breath, and the elation he had felt by making it into the car left him like a deflating balloon as he stood straight up and seeing the buttons on the wall. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, almost every floor had been pushed. All the way up to and even past the 21st floor. A glance at his watch sunk his heart even further. He felt hope slip away as he realized he was going to be at least a half hour late for his appointment.    By the time the dispirited young man exited the elevator car he had all but resigned to the fact he was going to be shot down before he even had a chance. In his head he was already devising a strategy to find another position, hopefully with a not as prestigious, but still well-known company, where, at a minimum, he could still have his dream job.    George took thirty seconds to compose and gather himself, primping one last time before entering the glass doors to the office. At this point he thought another thirty seconds wasn’t going to matter.    Walking tall, the young prospect strutted the best he could up to the receptionist, who smiled pleasantly at him as he stopped, centered on her desk.    “Good morning, how can I help you?” she asked cheerily.    “Good morning, ma’am. My name is George Fallon, and I had a 9 AM interview for the position of lead graphic designer. I realize I am a half hour late, but if the interviewers are still amenable, I’d like to salvage what little time I may have left.”    Gazing intently at her monitor the young lady clicked and moved her mouse, her silence wringing the last vestiges of hope from the young man’s body.    “You said your name, was George? George Fallon?”    “Yes, ma’am.”    “Did you not get the message?” she asked, looking slightly perplexed.    “What message?” he asked, thinking, how could this day possibly get any worse.    “There was a last-minute scheduling conflict and they had to cancel today. It says here a voicemail was left on the cell number you had listed on your resumé at 7 AM this morning. If you’d still like to interview, they have you on the schedule for the same time, next Friday,” she finished.    His phone. His phone was dead this morning. Along with ransacking his suit, his feline companion had also managed to unplug the USB charging cord from the power block in the wall. That’s why his phone hadn’t charged last night.    Covering up his astonishment as best he could, he managed to sputter out a response.    “Yes, ma’am. Yes. I’d still love the opportunity to interview. I will be back here next week for a 9 AM appointment. Thank you. Thank you so much.” he said while he started backing up and exiting the foyer.    Once around the corner and out of sight of the receptionist, George leaned up against the wall, utterly exhausted from the stress of the past two hours. Reflecting back upon the morning’s events, he started laughing. All that for nothing. At least the dream was still alive.    He was making his way to the elevator, a renewed outlook on the day lifting his spirits up, when he felt that familiar spasming, coupled with the telltale rumbling in his stomach again. Looking frantically around the hallway for a sign to a bathroom he couldn’t help but think, at least that had held off until now !

9drrw0

2:15 PM

It wasn’t a fantasy. He had nine minutes to be there. 2:06 PM, EST; it wasn’t real either, no way. He screwed up his eyes, converting his awakening heaviness to a sudden dread. Anxiety through his veins like refrigerant passing through darkening coils. It couldn’t be, he refused it. This was immediately followed by another array of instinctual thoughts; he couldn’t be that hungover, he couldn’t be. He sat up in bed. He was. The weighted nervousness oozed down from his head like wet sand through an hourglass. He was immediately sweating and sick. He looked at his phone once again as if to deny his circumstances a third instance, the Simon Peter of linear time. Thoughts, thoughts: “Baby, I think you’re too drunk for this.” He remembered cheap Bed Bath light illuminating a scene in his basically empty studio apartment: a shape, vaguely registered as female, getting off the bed, off of him (both still clothed), a sudden feeling of being freed up from comfortable weight and left with the profoundly empty feeling of non-suffocating aloneness. He pleaded inarticulately for her to return as, powerless, he saw her opening his wallet that he’d thrown on the floor with the piles of clothes and video game cases, in an attempt to remove cash and burn it with the lighter his mother had given him one birthday, the gold one with his initials engraved—for what? What a stupid gesture, burning money in front of a prostitute, Diane, Dina, Demi, Divine, whatever her name was. She’d stopped him and pushed him onto his bed which was merely a stripped, stained mattress—he still hadn’t gotten his laundry from the dryer downstairs! while climbing onto him, attempting to make a hopeless drunk respond to ostensibly steamy behavior. No luck. He felt bad for her, even, as he dragged himself to the bathroom to void the cheapness of last night, in a vain and delusional hope that it would clear his headache and stomach problems and conflagrating heartburn. Somebody’s daughter, sister, some impossibly unfortunate kid’s mother, maybe. She was just doing her job! though that was all the money he had to last him to Friday when his mother got paid and immediately diverted some of her paycheck…which was why he needed this job, which was why he could not be late. Quick backstory. His name was, perhaps unfortunately, Elmo Wayne Capricorn. He of course went by Wayne. He was twenty-four years old—born (fittingly) on December 26, and yes his mother got him one gift for both Christmas and his birthday—and there was almost nothing notable about him. He had an ugly, workingman’s face filtered through relative lower-middle-class softness, had earned horrible grades in school, did nothing worthwhile in his spare time—no sports, no clubs, no activities, not even smoking weed and stuffing his face while laughing emptily with the school burnouts—and hadn’t been gainfully employed since his brief stint as a grocery-store bagger which he lost because he “forgot” he was supposed to go in. He had never had a girlfriend, though perhaps as a testament to the infinite… somethingness of women, he’d had several girls interested in him throughout his life, which he had been of course totally oblivious to. In our day and age we’re all possessed by a kind of utopian utilitarian nihilism about people like this, presuming them to have hidden depths, undiscovered talent, something substantial lurking beneath the surface, like a brightly-colored fish swimming under a three-foot layer of ice, and that with metaphorically effective boring equipment we can bring this substance out of them. In this, we both set ourselves up for disappointment and deny these poor and un-few their humanity. In a society where we are only what we do, and how much the body politic likes such actions (hence the utilitarianism I mentioned above) Wayne Capricorn was just one of these people: unremarkable, un -unremarkable (as calling him “unremarkable” would imply there was something present to be judged as worthy or unworthy of remark), unhappy, un-depressed, unemployed (but not even looking for a job so he would never even fall into the corresponding Bureau of Labor category), unmarried, uneducated, unskilled, unlikable and incredibly, incredibly empty-headed. There are such people, and we can usually realize who they are while scarcely looking at them (for we look away quickly, instinctively when this hidden creature appears), and we do our best to avoid thinking about them, ever, and especially not talking about them with anyone else. These are the true untouchables, in a society that’s not supposed to have them. Almost nothing notable about him. Except one thing. And that was why he had to get to this meeting, today, which speaking of—he had seven minutes until it was officially supposed to start. He began dressing madly, though his head was so heavy it felt like he’d fall over at an unwise move—business casual, was his usual move when accepting a job. “Yes,” he muttered to himself. Words hurt. A simple enunciation sent a lobotomy-blade up his frontal lobe. “I’m accepting a job today.” In fact no such thing was happening, exactly: this was more of a meet-and-greet, a feeling-out, a consult if you will. But he’d read somewhere while scrolling endlessly on his phone (his only other pastime besides getting drunk and hiring prostitutes that he didn’t touch) that you should say what you want to happen out loud. That would cause something to happen with the universal energy or whatever and you would get the outcome you wanted. It actually worked , he knew it did, he had an example: last week in line at the gritty, Formica-table donut shop staffed solely by an old man with no arms, who did everything sitting in a folding chair while using his feet and grunting expressively while doing so—including grabbing customers’ donuts with plastic disposable gloves that he’d somehow managed to fit on them—which understandably coincided with this donut shop’s lack of popularity, he’d seen that there was only one strawberry jelly left. Strawberry jelly had always been his favorite. He wanted it, wanted it way more than he wanted any other donut; he’d been up all night trying to complete a task for a client, waiting up all night in his car outside the target’s apartment building and only being able to do it while blinking sleep he didn’t get out of his eyes when they came out just past six to head to work. He deserved it. But an old lady, who seemed to be buying enough donuts for her entire nursing home, was in front of him in line, ordering with excruciating slowness and indecision. Wayne gritted his teeth and prayed she wouldn’t choose the strawberry jelly. He watched the old man intently, as with a blank expression, he reached for donuts with one foot, achieving an impossible balancing act with the large box balanced on top of the other foot, reaching beneath the fingerprint-stained glass—plains, chocolates, glazeds, chocolate glazeds, twists, maples, coconuts, but not the strawberry jelly , not yet. Wayne never let his eyes waver from the reaching foot, which, beneath the green glove haphazardly thrown on, seemed to show the beginnings of a toenail infection. The old lady ran on, and Wayne thought of his .22 with the silencer that he’d used last night which like an idiot he’d left in his car. He could still run out—he was parked illegally not far from here—he could still unlock his car, reach in the glovebox, grab his pistol and run back in, whack this unbelievable woman and the shop owner, though he’d regret that because he liked the armless old man, admired his defiant and workmanlike attitude, and there would be no more donuts after this, then grab the strawberry jelly donut and only the strawberry jelly donut and indulge as he ran out, defeat the ever-present misery that he was aware of but not that aware of for a few moments. Instead, Wayne said out loud, “I’m going to get that strawberry jelly donut.” A little too loud. The old lady, with complete obliviousness, continued talking about her church or bingo group or whatever, but the armless man endured both this witless senior citizen and mentally declining young man without acknowledgement or comment. Wayne had forced a smile, believing this would help his chances. And his heart had nearly leapt for joy when the donut man had said, “Will that be all, ma’am?” and she’d answered in the affirmative. Wayne hadn’t been that happy in weeks, maybe years actually. Of course, once the donut was finished, devoured, he’d been stewing again. But it had worked, the method. Six minutes, he was half-dressed, and his phone was ringing. His mother. Could he get out of it? It was Wednesday…Wednesday, Friday was in two days, payday was on Friday. He answered the phone while pulling a relatively unstained and unwrinkled polo shirt on. “Hello?” “Wayne, where the hell are you?” She coughed, and he could hear the dryness in this cough. It made him angry. “Mom, are you smoking again? I told you I don’t like when you do that, you’ll get the cancer, can’t you switch over to a vape?” He was tying his shoes—size fourteen though he was a nine; he’d grabbed them from the bargain bin at Ross Dress for Less—and crooked the phone between his aching head and his shoulder. “I’m not sucking on one of those cherry-flavored flash drives!” she snapped. “When are you getting over here?” “Where, mom?” “The house, idiot. It’s already past two.” “What, mom? I told you, I have a meeting today. I can’t today. Why don’t we do tomorrow?” “Tomorrow? Wayne, are you high? Did your neighbor finally sell you some freebase? Because we’ve talked about this for weeks and now you’re hitting me with”---employing here an exaggerated, throat-deep dumb voice— “‘I have a meeting today.’ ‘I can’t, mom’. What the hell is wrong with you?” “Mom, I really can’t.” Now he was running down the stairs of his tenement, nearly tripping over his own gangly and uncoordinated legs. The meeting was only a few blocks away, at a cafe that he personally considered too expensive—$3 for a cup of coffee?—but whatever to that, because he always, through the limited unspoken social tools he had, made the person considering hiring him (no! Hiring him!) pay for the coffee or tacos or donuts they sometimes discussed business over. Two minutes. Damn! His mother was wasting his time again; did it ever end? It was early January, going on two-thirty out in this city—a small New England one I won’t name—the sun was almost down already. There were few cars in this neighborhood, fewer people. Wayne ran. He had forgotten his coat and clutched himself as he held the phone. His mother reminded him of the immense disappointment he was causing everyone (i.e., her), while audibly lighting yet another cigarette. “This type of thing killed your father, you know.” “Mom, dad got hit by a drunk driver. Are you lighting another cigarette?” he said, slowing down as he approached the block where this coffee shop sat on the corner. He saw only one person on the thin, rickety outdoor tables which looked more appropriate for a July garden party and which they had for some reason left out even as temperatures barely cracked the twenties the last couple of weeks. An older man sat in front of a to-go coffee cup and a pastry. He remembered the PM, from the Reddit: “I’ll be sitting outside, wearing a blue scarf.” Bingo—an ugly, mental-ward blue scarf, over a long brown trench coat. He clutched himself with black gloved hands. “Oh come off it, it’s time you knew the truth, he veered straight into oncoming traffic because his mistress was sucking his—” Oh no, oh no. ONE MINUTE PAST . “Mom, I’ve got to go.” He shut the phone over her yelling and coughing. He crossed the empty street, nodded to the man with the blue scarf and sat down, saying nothing. They locked eyes; this man’s were blue, a darker shade than his scarf though. He looked well-bred, vaguely financial in occupation. Wayne was, for the 9,000,000th time, self-conscious of his double-chin, sunken eyes and unkempt bangs. “Uhhh, are you the guy?” the man with the blue scarf said. “From Reddit?” Wayne nodded. In the moment, he’d almost forgotten about the night before, now his headache loomed back into prominence like a gas cloud from an advanced nation’s bioweapons program approaching the helpless capital city of a rising dictatorship. He looked down. Why this life, of pulling hits for love rivals and scumbags he met on internet forums, of drinking and wasting hookers’ time, of being beholden to his mother? For the first time in his life, Elmo Wayne Capricorn had achieved something completely new and (by his admittedly subpar standards) quite extraordinary: he had questioned himself. He grinned, not even realizing why he felt happy, just that he did and the man in the scarf grimaced at this for some reason. The old man gestured to the pastry sitting on a napkin, cold and alone. “I got this for you…if you want it,” he offered in a friendly voice. Wayne looked down. It was a jelly donut. Strawberry.

ho2czi

The Pink Zone

He must have had a gas leak because of the amount of fumes coming to the back seat. Unfortunately I could not tell my bubbly companion or it would be an excuse for him to talk more. The driver never looked back at us through the rear view mirror that I could see, which made me think we should begin to worry. There were no lights outside and the road was bumpy and dusty. A slight glint of moonlight lightly brushed the tops of plants identifying only the palms in the bouncing of our progress. Nevil was in front with the driver, half turned to us but jerking his head to see the head lights sudden and fleeting discovery of something. The driver did not speak English and he had learned no more than, Cuanto cuesta, senor?, so could not ask where we were or how much further, and he would not look at us. Nevil did not seem worried though. He was English and he had been here before, so I was hoping that his quick turns did not mean he was getting confused about direction. We turned off the road onto a track and slowed dramatically. Now we were climbing elfin mountains and descending into elfin valleys at a rate that I could walk backwards. I looked up ahead and saw a barren plane with a distant orange glow off to the left. Mick, who sat next to me, pointed and yelled out to the driver, ‘Zona Roja? Zona Roja?’ To which the driver replied, ‘Zona Rosa, si.’ Mick turned to me and began, ‘I learnt my spanich in the Philipines when I was in the Navy. Did you know they can speak spanich there? They was run by the Spaniards for a long time… civilised them, but some of them still lives in the jungle like apes and monkeys and such. I remember one time in Subic Bay when my buddy Angel was chopped ta pieces by some of them jungle bunnies, that’s what we called them: jungle bunnies. That was at a Zona Roja, too, but in town. They cut that poor boy up, man, and then started choppin’ him, his arms, legs, dick everythin’.’ I was curious to ask why but knew it would lead into a very long-winded, monotonous tale that would bore me to nodding like all the other stories bored me, though told by somebody else most of them would have held your attention. Anyway, the orange glow became more white and turned into dust-faded neon lighting that spelled somebody’s bar but most of the letters were out. It went - - -SE-  - - BARET. I could make out the other letters painted under the unlit bulbs as we rocked to a halt a few yards from the sign and it read, MOISE CABARET. The driver had gotten out of the cab and was waiting for us to get out. I opened my door and heard Nevil do the same, both with tearing squeaks and grinds. Mick was still talking as he got out on my side, but I hadn’t noticed the words until he said, ‘…and we just couldn’t do a fuckin’ thin’.’    He looked up and down at the place and smiled, beating his head to the muffled salsa music coming from inside. ‘Here we is… let’s roll.’ and he shouted in a bad imitation of Mexican cowboy movies, ‘Heeeaa…yayayayayai’. The driver smiled for the first time, ‘He is Mexican? Don’t look Mexican.’ I responded, ‘I think he is just drunk. You speak English!’ ‘Yup. I spent some time across La Liñea.’ ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ ‘Why?’ I ordered Ron Negrita from a blasé bartender who had seen it all. He smiled at me, nodding toward Bill’s offering. He brought the bottle of rum with an empty water glass, a glass full of water and a shaker of picked ice. I smiled back at him and put a chunk of ice in the glass, then filled it with rum. Though there were many ordering drinks, he stayed with me until I had my first pull, questioning with his eyebrows if I liked it or not. I nodded approval and he attended others. Turning around I spotted three members of my crew sitting at the side of the stage at a table calling up to the dancer-stripper. The stage was a short walkway with some upturned multi-coloured lighting and some ceiling-mounted white spot lights. The dancer was older and well worn but muscular, especially her thighs and shoulders. If she hadn’t been naked I would have worried that she was a man. Pete had his chin on the stage looking up and she stood above him with her legs parted for him to see something. The crew and some of the audience cat called and whistled for Pete to do more. Her legs bent at the knees and his head went in between them. A hand rested upon my shoulder. I turned to see Simon’s bearded face smiling crookedly into mine, a little too close. He was a stocky guy with muscles that would someday grow into fat but his grip was strong and he was becoming a sailor. ‘Hey, Captain’ the voice was slurred a little. ‘Didn’t think you did this kind of shit?’ ‘Hey, Simon.’ I gave him one of my sober expressioned responses. ‘What kind of shit?’ ‘You know, bad women and boozin’ up… that kind of shit.’ He was smiling warmly as drunken people do when they are trying their best to be friendly. It was sincere and I knew he wanted to be mates. ‘I thought maybe you was a Christian kind of guy, sailor, I mean.’ ‘Lookin’ at the choices here I might not be up to the bad women part, but I don’t remember bein’ too Christian-kind.’ I looked around for the bartender and caught his eye, he came over. I turned to Simon, ‘Let me buy you a drink. What do you want?’ ‘Naw, we gots bottles on the table. I was acomin’ over to invite you to sit with us. But thanks, man.’ ‘Tienes alla, lo siento,’ I said to the bartender, who did not change his expression as he moved away. ‘You knows that Spanish, don’t you?’ ‘No. Just a few words.’ ‘Where’d you get it? In school, somewhere?’ ‘In the streets of San Francisco, which is a Spanish name. In the streets and down in Tijuana. I used to hitch-hike through much of Mexico too.’ ‘Wow. Hitch-hiking through Mexico? Ain’t that dangerous?’ ‘It probably was, like hitch-hiking anywhere, but I never had anything but good times, and I started doing it when I was a kid.’ I started to wonder why I was letting him in on me. ‘What about you? You travel much?’ ‘I used to go up in the mountains… my excuse was always huntin’ but I just liked the feeling of being out in open air with those peaks all around and a breeze makin’ you feel alive. When I got married I sort of stopped and just went to work.’ He looked around with a fixed smile that said that was enough. His smile said, like my thoughts about myself, this was not the time nor place to talk about things that meant something. The music stopped and the woman left the stage with my crew cat-calling and grabbing the air behind her with their fingers. Simon was laughing at them and shaking his head. Coming from the end of the stage through shadow and harsh spotlight a pale blond well-formed girl marched toward the centre. She turned stiffly and wiggled, then turned again and wiggled. Her costume was a red bikini and black spiked heels. There was something oddly attractive about her, aside from her obvious youth and unwrinkled face. She seemed actually innocent. Her turns were like something somebody was told to do: go out there and turn, then wiggle. She went to the edges of the stage and the men were staring in place of reaching out or yelling. The Cabaret was quiet. I looked around to confirm that every man in the place was staring at her with her static movements and clumsy turns. She started to get tired in the smoky humidity of the place. The expression on her face was perfect for a portrait of determined exactness in shadow light. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on her shoulders. I, like the other men, could not take my eyes off of her. She started to take off her top and I saw her in her bathroom undressing for the first time without a mother’s presence. It fell to the dirty stage floor. Her eyes darted around and a slight frown showed she was human. Her breasts were perfect for her body, with large light-coloured areola and strong brown nipples. The blond had beautiful lips and a nose that tilted up slightly. The hair fell to her shoulders and had been worked on recently. The blond hair gave a formal appearance to not only her but the Cabaret itself. She pulled down her bottoms and they dropped to the floor, tangling with her right shoe. Her bending to untangle the bottom made most of the mouths open around the stage. Her pubic hair was almost invisible in its blondness, acting as a covering, like a fall leaf over a crab hole.    I looked at the rum and drank it down. I poured myself another glass full and drank it down. There was a small crowd gathered around me that I hadn’t noticed before. They were all captivated by the girl. I turned and shouldered my way through them to the doorway. I stopped and looked back at her to see her arms raised and her breasts bouncing. That was enough. I went outside. Two guys were giggling down in the shadows at the end of the courtyard near the wall with the covered bullet holes. They had a cloud over them and the perfume of pot found its way to me. One of them saw me approach and nodded for the other to look up. They were both still smiling. ‘Hey, you all right?’ the one smiler asked in Spanish. ‘Hey. Just smelled your mota and thought I would check if I could get a puff?’ ‘Americano?’ the other smiler asked, smiling broader. ‘You American, right?’ ‘Yeah. Do you speak English?’ ‘Si, cabron. We both speak English. I am tour guide in Parque Nacional del Huatulco and he my brother, Ernesto, a Policia Federal.’ ‘Hey, that is a secret’ Ernesto, the stockier one whispered in English to his brother. He looked up at me, smiling, ‘You don’t hear that, right? Come on, get high, no problema, this my weekend off work. I no arrest you this night. No problema.’ I wasn’t sure what to do or if he really was a Federal cop, or if they might want to just cut me up. The rum took effect and I walked over with my slight street stride. We all shook hands in the elbow out power grip. Ernesto looked at my hair while we shook and smiled broader again, lifting his hand into a power fist. ‘Right on, brother. You have no problem here’, he nodded seriously.    His brother spoke rapid Spanish and something was returned but in an accent that I could not understand. The brother looked up at my hair too. ‘Chu a brudderman.’ He laughed a high pitch thing. ‘You… you a brudderman from the States, no? Black is beautiful.’ He passed me the joint. I looked at it’s perfect roll, put it in my lips and inhaled. The effect was instantaneous and smoke-brained. I held it in and passed it back, but he nodded in the direction of Ernesto, who took it and inhaled. ‘What you think?’ the brother asked. I exhaled while answering in that open throated way, ‘Good, man.’ My head started to buzz and the stars above us came into focus, the desert air sweet and these two looked more sinister. ‘I am sorry, man, I am sorry’ the brother said to me putting his arm around my neck affectionately. ‘I no don’t like niggers, and I so sorry.’ ‘Silencio, Chucho. Basta,’ demanded Ernesto of his brother. ‘Niggers no bad men, though. I loves the tones, la musica, ya know. Every time I heard something I thinks of them.’ I moved his arm off my neck and he grabbed my arm with his other hand. ‘It was a mistake, ya see.’ ‘Silencio, cabron. Hijo… ‘Dey was there and like you they was white niggers, like white. I thought they was Mexicans, Chicanos. We was the Rancheros and they was the Cribs, and I was ta shoot them down… down.’ Chucho started crying. ‘I don’t care about shooting the … uh, how do you say it, the … right ones but them niggers had families and such, ya knows. It was wrong.’ ‘He get crazy sometime and think he es in pelicula, movie. He neber been over la linea. Don’t pay no attention. No problema. He smoke too too mucho, my friend, mi amigo.’    I started to think I was in the wrong place listening to the wrong things when Ernesto started looking around behind me. Chucho went to him and put his arms around him crying in real grief. I started backing up. ‘Damn, it’s a nice night. See you boys inside, si?’ Ernesto started to say something but apparently forgot his English and was thinking aloud in that Spanish accent I could not understand. I walked back to the cabaret and went in, adjusted my eyes to the spot lights and darkness, saw the boys still laughing and yelling somethings and made my way over to them. Big Pete was the first to see me, a sneer forming from his smile, then back to the smile.    Simon smiled broadly at me, ‘Thought you was going to be too good to sit with us. Welcome Rod. Pull up a chair.’He saw there were none and looked around quickly to find an empty chair at the next table. With his head turned he waved to the two men sitting there and signaled by nodding to take the chair. They nodded a yes and went back to staring at the girl on stage. I started over for the chair but Simon beat me to it and placed it next to his with his smile. The others pried themselves from the girl’s movements to nod and then resumed their staring. ‘What’s with her?’ I leaned over and yelled softly to Simon. He looked at me, then at her as if for the first time and shook his head. A glass filled with tequila was pushed against my hand that was laid on the table. It was Bill with his straw hair all twisted and ruffled. He wore a black sombrero hanging down his back. Counting them I saw that, aside from the Captain, Li’l Pete was missing. I was not interested in asking why though. Tony had moved up to rest his chin on the stage. I saw dust and dirt surrounding him but did not want to say anything. I could not see his face and was glad of that, thinking he was probably drooling. I looked up at the girl as Bill asked me why I wasn’t drinking. I nodded a placating smile and raised the glass in toast to him. We both tilted our drinks and I sipped a bit. I dislike tequila. It makes me want to fight. I looked back at the girl. I could hear her speaking to herself. ‘Uno dos tres mueve izquierda, mueve derecho, mueve derecha, uno dos tres.’ Or maybe it was the tequila in my system atop the pot and rum…? I looked more closely at her and she was just above our heads. There it was sometimes a little loudly and sometimes a whisper. ‘Uno dos tres atras atras izquierda adelante…’ she was timing her footsteps. She was timing her footsteps out loud with a very concerned expression that was not going to allow mistakes. Except when she made mistakes she would purse her lips and stop for a brief moment and start again. I looked around the stage at the men staring at her with their own expressions of hope, like a hope that she would be able to perform well. They were not letching at her they were silently rooting for her. She was marching to and fro, side to side, and all of these men were individually in her parade with the slightest of nods to the cadence. My question had long been forgotten by Simon as his rapt attention was given only to the naked girl with the bouncing breasts and the blond pubic hairs stiffly wiggling when she remembered that that was what she was supposed to do after a backward step and bend. I studied the men around the stage and in the shadows against the walls, then my study took me to those others who occupied this room- the other women, and that was scary. Against the far wall there were maybe fifteen or sixteen women sitting in or standing at booths near a dull lit exit. Their expressions were a study on their own of contempt, visibly embroiled hatred, squinting loathing all directed at the cute blond on the stage. I looked at the men and I looked at the women and started laughing until Simon turned and looked at me like I was disturbing the show. I ducked my eyes down and he returned to her. Bill got up and fell on my shoulder before straightening himself up. He lurched toward the entrance looking at the girl all the way out.

g89lej

Paradise Lost

Day 1, on my own The others have gone. After marching for days, we’d stopped for a few minutes to rest. I closed my eyes for what felt like seconds. When I woke up, I’m not even sure if on the same day, they were gone. I looked around and saw no one in sight. We’d been marching in lockstep and following our commander without question, as we’ve always done. So, I hadn’t bothered to pay attention, nor was given any information, about where we were or where we were headed at the time. I noticed that, it had clearly rained as I had rested, which threw off my senses to find my way back on my own. I think the sky might’ve even fallen enough to carry me away from where our unit had stopped. I’m honestly surprised I’m still alive. But how did they leave me behind? I know there’s a lot of us, but didn’t they notice they were one short? More importantly, where in the world do I go now? As I looked around me, everything looked the same. Grass and trees for miles behind and ahead. What even is “behind” and “ahead”, when everything looks the same? If I pick one direction to follow, how can I be so sure it’s the correct one? The “correct one” would be whatever takes me back to base camp. It’ll be embarrassing, sure, to admit that I fell asleep, was left behind by our unit, possibly carried and nearly drowned by the rain, and almost couldn’t find my way back. But at least then, I’ll be back. I just have to get back. Day 2 So, I chose a direction. I still am no clearer on if it was the right direction, but it was a direction. It was a choice. And I guess we’ll find out soon enough whether it was the right choice. Still too wet around to sense anything, so, just kind of winging it. The miles of nothing but grass and trees have gone on. And I’ve just walked and walked, and walked and walked. I didn’t see much out of the ordinary. A chirping ball of fluff and wings in the tree, here. What looked like a few of those winged bloodsuckers circling around, there. A few flying flaps of color fluttering about. Thankfully, the ample vegetation is allowing me to survive on the land. I would wish for more water again, to help ensure I remain hydrated, but then I may never get back. For now, the leftover droplets will have to do. Day 3 Today was slightly terrifying. There was this huge being that crossed my path. It was several times my size, with long, hairy legs and big, black, beady eyes. I thought I’d almost die just by looking at it. Luckily, I saw it before it saw me, so I was able to hide. I remember our commander used to tell us about those things, saying they’re more afraid of us than we are of them, but I don’t buy it. Yes, maybe they’re more afraid when there’s a lot more of us and just one of them. But it’s just one of me now. I made sure I kept my distance. Day 4 I think I covered around two or three miles today. Not too bad. Especially, considering. But pretty whooped and looking forward to tonight’s rest. Day 5 It’s weird. I would think I would’ve either ran into my fellow troops or base camp by now, but I’ve still come across neither. Just me. Still. I’m still okay on food. In fact, I came across a particular treat today. It was a massive berry. I’m unsure what kind, but it seemed safe to eat — nonpoisonous. It was extremely sweet and juicy. Probably the best thing I’ve tasted in a while. It sustained me for the day — I really didn’t need much else after that. Day 6 It’s been eerily quiet for a while now. No one around. Nothing. Not a soul. Except for me. I can’t quite figure it out. I am convinced now that I chose the wrong direction that while back, but it seems too late to correct it. And even then, I can’t say with complete certainty that it was the wrong direction. Maybe it was neither of those directions. Was there a third or fourth option I hadn’t noticed? Nonetheless, here we are now. It’s quiet, desolate. It feels like no one has been here in years, if ever. Where have I ended up? How did I end up here? Sigh. I’m just ready to be back home. Back at camp, with everyone else. Day 7 It rained again today, which was nice for the coolness but not so great for helping me find my way back. Even still, despite the rain, I somehow began smelling this warm, sweet, intoxicating aroma. It wasn’t the kind of scent I needed. But man, it was everything I wanted. The sweetest, most beautiful fragrance that ever found me. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like, if temptation had a scent, that would be it. The closest thing I can liken it to is a combination of strawberries, cherries, honey, lemon, a hint of cinnamon, and pure joy. I mean that. Pure joy. And that description still doesn’t do it justice. It’s truly indescribable. I couldn’t tell where the scent was coming from, but it seems like the kind of thing you need to find. I felt drawn to it — almost like, as I smelled it, not much else mattered. Like I couldn’t resist or even care about anything else. As I continued walking, the smell intensified, so I sense that I’m getting closer, whatever it is. I wonder if it’s a sign of life? A sign of others around, who might be able to help me? I guess I’ll soon see. Day 8 That scent is the most intense yet. I’m definitely close, and the closer I get, the more badly I want — the more badly I need — it. It’s sucking me in…little by little. I think it actually made me move faster, covering an extra mile or two for the day than I had before. It’s like it awakens something in my body, in my spirit and mind. It motivates me. It excites me. I can’t wait to get to the source. It smells like it’ll taste like the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten. Day 9 I found it. I think. I encountered what appears to be a large, cubed structure of some sort. It appears mostly red and hard, with intersecting horizontal lines of white throughout. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before, but I did notice, whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that’s where the aroma is coming from. Although I still didn’t see anyone else around and am looking out for help to get back to camp, I was cautious, as this seemed like a very unfamiliar area. But that aroma. I’ve got to get to that aroma. I just have to do so…carefully. Day 10 With the few days since the last rain, things have been finally warming and drying up enough for me to regain my key sense to lead me home. But it was difficult to sense much, with that one scent so powerful — the most powerful it’s been yet. As I got closer to that structure and to the aroma, I noticed other weird things I’ve never seen before. This was more than an unfamiliar area. It was like an unfamiliar world. Another planet, almost. No longer was I covered overwhelmingly by trees as before and as I’ve only ever known. Instead, more scattered, bare branches sprinkled the sky above me, with the sun taking over and bearing down on me as if it were unapologetically disregarding their meager attempt at shade. I came upon ground that was no longer grass or dirt but this odd, firm, black material that seemed to bake even worse in the growing heat and therefore was challenging to walk on. On that ground, I saw this large, orange, seemingly textured circle with black lines. The crisp breeze, which I generally welcomed from the increasingly merciless sun, actually pushed it slightly in my direction, nearly crushing me. I had to jump out of the way, just in time. A very close call. I also saw beautiful flowers of color blooming at the bottom of the big, red structure. Petals in hues of pink and blue, yellow and red. Many plants of different kinds. Another great spread of culinary options, but my sights were on bigger prey. That aroma. I’m now right outside the large red structure. Tomorrow, I go in. Day 11 I found my way in the structure. Through a hole I was surprised actually made it quite easy. Once inside, I instantly noticed the aroma had somehow intensified around one-hundred times more than before. It was almost overpowering. I could barely think straight — so much so that I barely noticed the additional unfamiliar phenomena that surrounded me. For one, what I walked on now was this light, fluffy matter. Definitely softer than the last, rigid, and hot ground outside, but also strange — definitely not grass. Because it’s so soft and unlike anything I’ve ever walked on, it took some getting used to, but once I did, I actually kind of liked it. Definitely beats walking on that hard, hot ground. Or in the grass after rain. I also saw lots of massive structures throughout. Nothing I could identify, but certainly all far outweighing my small frame in comparison. Unsure of how they work or what they do — if they’re living or if they can move — I stayed away and tried to keep my eye on the prize. Day 12 I saw it. Where the aroma is coming from. It’s yet another strange structure. Actually, there are a bunch of them! In different directions. Luckily, these look more my size. They aren’t huge, like everything else. They actually almost feel like they were built specifically for me. For me and others like me. They’re these black sort of buildings, with an attached walkway each leading up to a single opening to go inside. I went inside one. In it was this gigantic pool, much bigger than me, of…something. The irresistible “something” that I’ve been sensing nonstop for the past several days. And here it was, right in front of me. It contained this clear, thick substance. Kind of gooey. Like a gooey swimming pool. But it smelled so magnificent. So…powerful. I immediately wanted to dive in. I checked a few of the other buildings, and they were the same. Pools and pools of this gooey goodness. I couldn’t believe my eyes and nose! I thought of how whatever this stuff is would help feed so many of our friends, troops, and, most importantly, our up-and-comers and our Queen back at camp. I felt a mix of glee that I had found it, knowing how much it would help, but also shame, disappointment, and frustration, that I didn’t have nearly enough strength or equipment with me to bring back all of it. So, I decided I’ll just try to bring back as much as I can, make a note to tell the others, and leave as much of my scent behind as possible, so they can come for the rest. I haven’t tasted it yet because I don’t think I deserve to. I can enjoy it when the others can also. And I need to remain focused. If this stuff tastes anywhere near as wonderfully as it smells, I’ll never want to leave. I’ll never want to do any thing. Tomorrow, I will plan to gather up what I can and head on my way. Day 13 Today, I made a sack out of this large leaf, filled it with as much as I could of this stuff, and headed back on the road. The sun has still been around, and it last rained almost a week ago, so things are definitely looking up for picking up my camp’s scent. I just have to first get far away from the great aroma, to give it any kind of chance of actually breaking through. Day 14 The sun has been unrelenting. Walking a few miles, especially with this sack, feels like hundreds with that bright yellowness beaming down harshly on me. And, although I’m back where there are trees aplenty, I find them little help. Sometimes, it’s as if they’re bare, with no shade at all. But there’s actually technically plenty of shade. It’s odd. But on, I go. Day 15 Another scary day. This time, I saw before me an even larger creature than the leggy, hairy one before — around ten times the size, green, and slimy. I knew I was in special trouble if this one caught me in its crosshairs, especially being slowed down with the sack. I hid behind a grass blade as I watched its tongue extend several inches to scoop up dinner of different kind. I made sure I wasn’t part of the meal. Day 16 I found it. The scent to get me back to camp. It first began pretty faint. I could barely sense it at all. But I as I kept marching forward, it thickened little by little. Enough to let me know I was headed in the right direction. The sun has still been unforgiving, but I continued to push on. Day 17 The combination of my hunger and that overwhelming aroma got the best of me today. I finally succumbed and dug into the stash for a taste — just to tie me over until I reach base camp. And I know I’m close. I could see the top of it from afar. The taste was remarkable. It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. It was sweet — so sweet, it felt like my tastebuds were beaming. I could feel each of the flavors. Not just taste them but literally feel them. My favorite was honey, which coated me like a cozy blanket on a cold day. I will say that it had a bit of aftertaste, but I barely noticed, as what came before it was so delightful, that didn’t even matter. I could eat that stuff again and again, but of course, I had to stop myself. I planned to save most for the others. Day 18 I definitely see camp in sight. It’s crazy to think I actually hadn’t been that far from it all along. I feel so close, although… for some reason, it seems like the closer I get to it, the harder it’s getting to go on. I feel like I’m getting weaker by the second. My muscles are declining. Feels like I might even be losing weight rather rapidly. I feel lighter, but not in a good way. Everything I’m carrying feels heavier. Even my vision has seemed blurrier — things starting to appear in double. Day 19 My body must really be exhausted from this journey because I’ve been feeling more sluggish, out of it, and unmotivated the last couple of days. My appetite is leaving me — in fact, I don’t think I ate all day today or yesterday and have barely thought of food. Not even that is enticing me any longer to partake. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel the weakest I’ve ever felt. I can barely move my arms or legs. I can’t speak. It feels like a large chore to take each breath. I think back to the last couple of days, to try and understand what might’ve caused this. Did I step on something that caused an infection and I hadn’t noticed? Did I breathe some kind of toxic gas somewhere along the way? I know there was that gooey goodness a few days ago, but…no, no. That couldn’t possibly be it. No way. It was the best thing I’ve ever smelled or tasted. I smile at the memory. Even thinking about it has me momentarily feeling slightly okay. Day 20 I’m close. As I’m writing this, I am near enough to camp that I believe I see a few from camp in the distance who might actually see me. Or maybe I’m hallucinating, I don’t know. Yes, they do see me. A sea of black, more and more are accumulating to come my way. Thousands of young solders-to-be. Tens of thousands of my troop sisters and brothers, on ground and in the air. Even the Queen. I see her. I see them all. They run towards me so excitedly. I can’t tell if it’s more so because of me or because of what I have with me, but I wouldn’t doubt if the latter. Clearly, this aroma has awakened and greatly excited them, long before I approached this far, and they’d been anxiously awaiting to see what exactly it was—what it’s been coming from. Through my foggy eyes, I just barely see their big eyes and wide mouths behind bodies of eager anticipation. To my fellow troops and broader family, when you see this and if I don’t make it by the time you arrive… I brought back this glorious…stuff. Just smell it, and you’ll see what I mean. Tasting it is even better. And just follow the scent of it for more. There are pools and pools of it. Even though I feel my last breaths escaping me and the worst I’ve ever felt in one way, I also feel the best. As I know I will leave behind this legacy — this glorious sustenance that you can retrace, go get more of, and feed many generations to come. And with the first drop, you’ll feel and be overcome by the epitome of life and joy as I have.

1lru7u

In The Hotseat

“Car. Drive to the Webster Offices on Hillmore Street,” Graham Findel barked from the optional driving position in his shiny new Autodrive Hotseat. “Yes, Mr Findel. Webster Offices on Hillmore Street,” came the electronic voice. “You will reach your destination at 8.45am, assuming no unexpected events.” “8.45? 8.45? That’s fifteen minutes late! Car! Switch to manual.” “Yes, Mr Findel. Switching to manual.” The LED displays brightened, and the rectangular steering bar unlocked from its hub with a click, neatly unfolding from the bottom of the dashboard and rising into place at the perfect hand position for its primary driver. The satellite navigation system opened a 3D holographic image of the region in the bottom right-hand corner of the windscreen at the optimum height for Graham’s view. It rapidly zoomed in to show the exact position of the car on Graham's huge, circular driveway and a series of blue directional arrows. Within seconds, the vehicle bolted forwards as Graham shifted through first gear to second, then third. Gravel crunched and sprayed up behind him as he spun his Hotseat round towards the road. He pulled off the driveway onto the tarmac without slowing down and was soon hurtling along the country lanes towards the city in fifth gear. “Mr Findel, please be advised that you are currently travelling at twice the recommended speed for safety on these roads.” “Car. Shut up.” The roads near Findel’s fusion-powered mansion were smooth and well maintained so he could zip about with no fear of losing control. His army of private contractors made sure of it. Graham knew every bend, every tree, and every verge as they blurred past his light-filtering windows. He switched seamlessly between gears as he raced towards the edge of Senston. His brand new, flame red, top-of-the-range, supercar cornered with ease. The ride was so smooth that he could have drunk his coffee on the way to the interview - with no concerns about keeping his crisp white shirt crisp and white - if only he’d remembered to bring it. The AI personality in the Hotseat occasionally made requests. Most annoyingly it wanted Graham to name it, as if it was a real person. He'd toyed with the idea of calling it something derogatory for his own amusement, but couldn't think of anything more insulting than leaving it on its factory setting of "Car". It was, after all, part of his staff, and he never called them by name. At the edge of the city, as the buildings grew taller and the blocks grew denser, his portable device beeped on his wrist and another voice came over the speakers of the Autodrive Hotseat. “Graham, it’s me. You left without saying goodbye. Remember to straighten your tie when you arrive, and take a deep breath before you answer any questions. I hope your presentation goes well! Good luck Honey!” “Thanks!” He flicked his wrist to the side and cut his wife off before she could give him any more interview advice. “Car. What’s my ETA?” “Mr Findel, you will reach your destination at 8.40am, assuming no unexpected events.” “Perfect – five minutes saved already by driving manual. I can cut through Dale Road and make more time up.” Graham swung the car left before the AI could respond. He turned onto Dale Road just as it said, “Mr Findel, Dale Road has numerous electrobus stops, and we are only 14 seconds behind the number 82. The lack of bus lanes or pull ins on this road will mean a delay of approximately three minutes before the electrobus turns off onto Mount Street.” “Damn it! That’s my time nearly gone!” Graham slammed on his brakes, jerking the Hotseat to a stop just a few inches from the bumper of the stationary number 82. Thirteen people at the bus stop dawdled, single file, on to the offending vehicle. Each one pausing to swipe their portable and tap on to the electrobus. There was too much traffic coming the other way for him to pull out and overtake, but he indicated and rolled towards the centre line anyway, sounding his horn and cursing. Graham jumped in his seat as a dull thud hit the side window right by his face, followed by a raucous laugh. He jerked his head towards the noise, cricking his neck. A tall man on a pushbike had pulled up alongside him and smeared a whole skinned banana down the glass, leaving a gungy streak. As Graham watched, the man drew the remains of the fruit back up the window, extending the mess as far as he could. When he had finished, he wiped his hand on the car door and pulled off around the electrobus. He showed the reverse V sign to Graham as he went and shouted something about cycle lanes. “Damnit, damnit, damnit! What a mess to show up with. I hope they don’t have valet parking.” Findel massaged his neck and tried to shift his head back into a comfortable driving position, but it would be a few minutes before he regained full movement. The electrobus pulled away and, now with a queue of traffic behind him, Graham reluctantly instructed the AI to take over the driving for a while. The Hotseat stop-started behind the electrobus all the way down Dale Road until the latter finally turned off onto Mount Street and the AI picked up a bit of speed. “Car! Faster!” “Mr Findel, we are travelling at the new maximum speed limit permitted within two miles of a college, school, or other educational establishment. The new rule came in six months ago.” “Eugh!” The new rule had come in because of a grudge against the Head of City College. She had campaigned against the reduced city centre parking policy that tried to force people to use public transport into the middle of town. Despite overcrowding, there weren’t enough electrobuses or maglev trams in Senston to get everyone to work. It was a backhanded deal. The private taxi firm with the local monopoly had successfully bribed the right man. As that man also owned the GFT Foundation, which controlled all the vehicle charging points in Senston, (a revenue stream that other cities pumped back into urban infrastructure) someone was making money out of TaxiCo at every turn. Still rubbing his neck, Graham demanded to take back manual control of the car and topped the speed limit within seconds. The LED display flashed a pointless warning. Spying a short cut down Maple Drive on the satnav holomap, he spun the steering bar to the right, and the car tires squealed on the tarmac. “Mr Findel, I suggest we avoid Maple Drive due to the numerous potholes. I am not well equipped to drive over them without sustaining significant damage.” “Car! Shut up!” Graham sped past a few houses before the first pothole presented itself. The front left wheel dipped violently with the damaged road surface and Graham struggled with the steering. He took his foot off the accelerator and slowed the car to a crawl as he negotiated his way down the rest of the street. “Car! What’s our ETA?” “Mr Findel, you will reach your destination at 8.49am, assuming no further unexpected events.” “Argh! I can’t be nineteen minutes late! That’s worse than it was when we left.” Graham turned the car onto Montague Avenue and was immediately faced with a man in hi-vis standing in the middle of the asphalt holding up a large red STOP sign on a stick. “Mr Findel, I would recommend that you take another route. There are road works on Montague Avenue and they are lacking temporary traffic lights to control the single lane flow.” “I can see that!” Graham checked his mirrors. A blue miniauto had sneaked up behind him and there was no way to turn round or back up with the constant stream of traffic flowing towards him on the opposite side of the road. The man holding the STOP sign had seen the Hotseat approach but appeared to be laughing into his portable rather than paying attention. Graham scratched his cheek, rapped his fingers on the dashboard and fiddled with his tie. He didn’t have time for this. “Car! Open my side window.” The driver’s side window rolled down silently. Larger chunks of the crushed banana fell away onto the road. Smaller pieces smeared further across the glass. “Oi mate! Any chance you can do your job? Let me through!” “Hello mate! How about you do yours first?” He spoke into his portable again and then slowly started to turn his STOP sign round as if he was going to let Graham go. But then turned it back again and laughed. Graham twisted his painful neck to have a better look behind him but the little blue car now had a removals van behind it and a queue was building up behind that. “Come on mate, be reasonable, I’m running late.” “Not my fault you’re at my mercy – if there was a sensible budget for AI lights I wouldn’t even be here. If I wasn’t here there’d be no argument. If I wasn’t here, doing forced overtime, I might be at home on my daughter’s birthday.” “But you are here. And you can help me.” “Why should I?” “Car! Shut the window.” The driver's side window rolled back up, still covered in mashed banana. Graham banged his fist on it several times and leaned on his horn for a few seconds. Cars behind him also started beeping. After a few more minutes another workman in hi-vis, carrying a data tablet, approached the first man and words were exchanged. He pointed at the tablet screen and shook his fist. The first man slowly turned his STOP sign round to GO and sneered at Graham as he pulled across the road and blew past. “What the Hell next? Car! What’s my ETA?” “Mr Findel, you will reach your destination at 8.55am, assuming no further unexpected events.” “I can’t be that late! What can I do? “Mr Findel, you can take the ring road and come off at junction four. The roads are faster that way than going through the city and –“ “Yes, yes, OK, I’ll take the damn ring road.” Graham sped up the on-ramp onto the ring road joining the faster traffic at the top. He had to try to filter in at the scissor junction. It was the only ring road in the country that still had single junctions where traffic weaved on and off in both directions at the same point. Every other example of this system had been declared not fit for purpose and redesigned many years ago. But in Senston, the budget for such a huge project had never been approved, despite several deaths being blamed on the system. Rumours were spreading that the project money had been embezzled by senior members of the Senston City Management Company, including the head of the GFT Foundation, but nothing could be proved. Graham usually avoided the ring road for his own safety, but then he hardly had any need to come into the city at all now. Working from home in a twelve bed mansion with its own cinema, swimming pool, and sauna for when he got bored, was far better than commuting to the office every day like a common pleb. As his speed picked up, so did his fear of crashing. After twice having to abandon his attempts to join the flow of traffic and go back on at the next junction, he eventually put the AI back in control. “Mr Findel, you will reach your destination at 9.02am, assuming no further unexpected events.” Graham's head dropped into his hands. On exiting the ring road, the Hotseat scooted along Pine Way, past a little row of shops. An officious looking woman wearing a bright yellow teacher's sash stepped out into the road in front of the vehicle, holding up her hands. A crocodile line of children linking arms was bobbing its way along the pavement behind her. "Car! Swerve around them!" Graham yelled. "Mr Findel, I am not permitted to take right of way over pedestrians in any city. This regulation is not negotiable, not even with you." "Eugh! How long is the line?" "The line is made up of approximately sixty pairs of children from Pine Way Junior School. It will take approximately five minutes for the children to cross the road." Graham seethed as he stared directly into the eyes of the teacher who was now standing between him and his interview. She didn't notice. The trail of children bumbled along in front of him and were led into the opposite building - The Senston Transport Museum - proudly run by the GFT Foundation - as it said on the garish sign. “Mr Findel, you will reach your destination at 9.09am, assuming no further unexpected events.” Graham considered calling ahead and telling them he was running late, but it was all too embarrassing. He had no idea what excuse to give, he could hardly tell the truth. That would get him nowhere. As the last child duo entered the museum he took over the driving again and put his foot down. “Mr Findel, we are travelling at twelve miles per hour over the speed limit.” “Car! Shut the Hell up!” A police siren wailed in Graham’s ears and flashing lights reflected harshly in his mirrors. “Mr Findel, the officer is requesting that I resume control and pull over. I must comply.” The Hotseat stopped opposite the Webster Offices on Hillmore Street. “Mr Findel, you have reached your destination. It is 9.08am.” “Shut the Hell up!” shouted Graham as the driver’s window rolled down and a police officer’s face poked through it. “Good morning Sir. Your vehicle telemetry shows that you have been in manual control of the car whilst travelling over the speed limit. Not only that but it seems your driver's side window is obscured by some kind of . . . smeary mess. Might I remind you that in the event of reduced visibility in any direction from the driver's seat, you are required to hand over full control to your AI. I’d like to examine your licence data please. Would you be so good as to swipe your portable against mine?” He held out his wrist. Findel followed the officer's instructions and his name and date of birth flashed up on the screen of the policeman’s portable. “Oh, I thought it was you, Sir. I’ve seen you on the billboards.” He nodded up at the third floor of the Webster Offices where a huge electronic display was just changing from an advert for Coca Cola to a giant picture of Graham’s smiling face and the slogan: Graham Findel Transport Foundation - Moving Senston Into The Future. “Head of shitty transport, I mean, City Transport.” “Please Officer, I’m running late, and I really need to get to my appointment.” “Appointment Sir? What kind of appointment might that be?” The policeman tapped his portable against Graham’s again and opened his diary screen. “A job interview! To head up the transport division of the new Barkersville city they're planning? Looks like you’re very late, Sir. Almost not worth going now, is it? I think you’d better come with me.”

jlo21h

The Rival

[Tw: alcohol, harassment, mentions of drugging.] [sorry :( ] The bar was dim but filled to the brim with noise. People chattered over drinks and food and laughter echoed off the red brick walls. Detective Palmer surveyed the room, bored out of her mind. Her gaze dropped quickly to the drink in her hand when a man came sauntering by, “Hey there, sweetheart,” he leaned against the bar, his hip sticking out awkwardly around a bar stool, “You lookin’ for someone?” She turned the other way, drink still in hand, “Not really,” she hoped her gruff tone would scare him off. Unfortunately, it only made him bolder. She could feel him slide between the barstools, much too close for her liking, “How ‘bout coming home with me, then? I don’t bite,” he leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Unless you want me to.” She turned enough to glare, “I’m not interested. Go back to your table.” He scoffed, “What are you, a prude? I bet you’re only like that because you're shy, aren’t you? There’s no need to be ashamed of your lack of experience, I prefer it that way, actually,” her snaked an arm around her waist, tugging her closer, “Why don’t you let me teach you a few things?” Immediately, she whipped around and punched him square in the nose, sending him back a few steps. She almost laughed at the feeling, it was exhilarating being back in control of the situation. He stood there for a minute, clutching his nose and glancing wildly around the bar, no one was going to help him, “You- you bitch!” he sputtered. She shrugged, lifting her drink and setting it aside once she downed the rest of it. The man came up behind her and slammed her face into the bar counter, she could feel the blood pouring down her chin when her head snapped back up. A couple people stood to help her but she only grinned. She spat out the blood, much to the distaste of the bartender. She made a mental note to tip extra. The man reached out to her head again and she ducked, faking a punch to his face and quickly changing gears when he flinched, hands raised instinctively to his chin. She kneed him in the crotch and took advantage of his hunched shoulders to pull him down and knee him in the nose. It broke on impact and he came back up, sputtering through blood. Obviously spent and not in the mood to fight anymore, the man plopped onto one of the stools, catching his breath and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Palmer picked up her purse triumphantly, paying for her drink and leaving a generous tip. “You running away already?” the man asked, almost hopeful. She laughed, turning to face him, “If I was, there wouldn’t be anything you could do to stop me.” He sighed, “This week just couldn’t get any worse” She leaned on the bar counter, arms crossed, “It might’ve been better if you knew to respect other people’s limits. Looks like I ended up teaching you something instead of the other way around.” He groaned, gently trying to plug his nose, “I didn’t make you bleed nearly as much. I think you owe me a drink.” She laughed, nodding at the bartender and sitting on the stool. He eyed her warily from the corner of his eye as the bartender handed him a drink. “You know, fights don’t normally end with drinks and pleasant conversation.” “It’s been an odd week.” she sighed as she ordered a water. She much preferred to have a clear head around men with bad intentions. Though, she missed the burn of alcohol already. The water tasted too much like iron. She blamed the blood in her mouth. He seemed to deflate. The creepy flirt and loud voice melted away into a tired, husk of a man. One obviously just doing whatever it took to get by. She kept her eye on him though, “Your girlfriend leave you?” The husk began to move, rolling his shoulders and sitting up like it just realized it was still alive, “No, my job did. Got let go for budget reasons.” he spoke as if he’d said it a million times. Maybe even rehearsed it. Det. Palmer narrowed her eyes. As he continued his story of pay cuts and hours increasing, his thumb rubbed the glass. “Your manager, what was his name again?” she asked. He had mentioned a manager a few times, mentioned he suspected he was giving himself a pay raise and blaming corporate. “Oh, um, Johnson. His name was Johnson.” A very generic name. But that’s not what caught her attention. He glanced to the right while he said it. When remembering, right-handed people tended to look left. And after the fight they just had, he was definitely right-handed. This man was lying. She glanced at the knife strapped to his hip. Why hadn’t he used it? Had he meant to lose? Or was he just that confident he’d win? Questions ran through her mind as he continued his story. “And you don’t have any friends to help you out? Surely there’s other jobs in Cordova. And since you were fired, you can file for unemployment.” she watched him tense up a bit. “I am getting help from friends. They’re going to recommend me to their boss, see if I can get a job with them.” “What kind of job?” He squirmed a bit. He wasn’t expecting so many questions, she realized. “It’s a security job. Making sure people don’t break into jewelry stores at night. You know how it is in Cordova, security’s the best business to be in!” “And the worst,” she mumbled into her drink. Why did it still taste metallic? “You’d be in a lot of danger there, crime in Cordova is the highest in the state. I heard a shopkeeper got murdered a while back. All for some convenience store items.” He leaned in, that playboy grin slipping back onto his face, “Are you worried about me?” She grimaced and pushed him back onto his stool, swaying from the force of it “Just making sure you’ve thought this through. You seem to harass random women in bars when you’re miserable.” His smile slipped into something deadlier, “Oh, you weren’t random.” The bartender avoided her rapidly blurring gaze as the man slid an envelope of cash across the bar. “Thanks for the help, John.”  

zjik0l

War with Mighty Waters

The phone jolted me from my lazy Sunday afternoon slumber, beep beep and I groggily answered, expecting the usual mundane inquiries about church events or maybe even a wrong number. It was Reverend Jane on the line, her voice vibrated with energy and excitement. "Kaoli, my dear, we're going with you on an adventure to the Victoria Falls with Julius!" she exclaimed as if I had already agreed to go. The legendary Victoria Falls I heard was a marvel of nature so grand, it seemed like Mother Nature herself decided to show off her waters. I googled it and saw it, wow, it was a colossal curtain of water tumbling down like a waterfall on drugs, enticing travelers from every corner of the globe to come and bask in its sheer awesomeness. And here I was, living in Livingstone, the very backyard of this epic wonder, yet somehow I had managed to dodge it. I confess, I hadn't even taken a virtual stroll to see it online until now. Glancing at my watch, I realized it was thirteen hours, the customary time for my Sunday relaxation after church. Every fiber of my being, yearned to decline, to luxuriate in the tranquillity of my day off. Yet, against my better judgment, the word "okay" slipped from my lips. I chastised myself for my impulsiveness as I hastily grabbed a small purse and hurried to rendezvous with "Rev," my affectionate nickname for Reverend Jane. As we saw the waters we had a thirst for adventure and we embarked on a journey to explore the majestic Victoria Falls. This was what had drawn many tourists to stand in awe as 500 million liters of water cascaded every minute. I had heard of tales of its awe-inspiring beauty. Excited yet nervous, we stepped onto the unfamiliar terrain, feeling the mist from the falls kiss our skins. It was September – the time when the mighty Victoria Falls dials down its thunderous roar to a gentle trickle, sending delicate droplets cascading into the canyon below. With a sense of excitement coursing through our veins, we embarked on our journey, venturing into the upper reaches of the falls and daring to tread where few had gone before – the Zimbabwean side. It was a joyous occasion as we joined the ranks of explorers before us, both locals and tourists alike, we navigated the slippery stones with the grace of acrobats, giggling like mischievous children as we staggered and wobbled on stones. It was a scene straight out of a humorous comedy, with our antics drawing laughter and incredulous stares from young people. I could practically hear their silent protests: "Why aren't we the ones having all the fun?" But all play and no rest makes for weary adventurers, and soon enough, age, hunger and thirst began to gnaw at our spirits. With a prayer, we surrendered to the call of nature, splashing our faces with the cool, refreshing waters of the falls. We found solace in prayer because these waters had ancient myths surrounding them. It was believed that a snake called Munyami lived in these water and we sought protection from one greater than Munyami - Jehovah God. Exhausted from our adventure, a small group of us made the unanimous decision to retreat back to solid ground and abandon our journey to reach the Zimbabwean side. Far on the horizon, I could make out some people, still endeavoring to reach God knows where. To this day, I still remain uncertain where the others were headed and where our own journey might have led. As we followed Julius along the unfamiliar path, our group exchanged uneasy glances, questioning our decision to deviate from the familiar route we used earlier. Julius, however, showed unwavering confidence in the safety of our chosen path, reassured us with his bold declarations. "Don't worry, this route is safe." As we arrived at the rocky outcrop where land met water, we hesitated, feeling the weight of uncertainty. Reluctantly, we relinquished our personal belongings, entrusting them to Julius who like a star had already crossed to shore. Leading the group, I stepped forward, my confidence bolstered by my ability to swim. Reverend Jane’s brother, Julius, offered his steady hand as a guide, his encouraging words instilling a sense of determination within me. Just as I was about to embark on the crossing, my attention was drawn to a figure across the river—an Indian man with a turban, seated with his family. Initially, his presence had gone unnoticed, but now his unexpected interjection unsettled me. "You can cross, concentrate" his voice echoed. Dismissing his words with a shake of my head, I focused on the task at hand. With a graceful leap, I propelled myself towards the rocky shoreline, my movements’ fluid like a ballet dancer  on tiptoe. But as my foot made contact with the rock, a sudden slip sent me careening into the depths of the Zambezi River. In that heart-stopping moment, Julius's gasp faltered under the weight of my falling body, and I plunged into the cool embrace of the water below, engulfed by the swirling currents of the Zambezi. Splash, I landed in the water and descended into the unknown depth of the Zambezi River. The water enveloped me with a circling embrace. I felt a fleeting sense of weightlessness accompanied by a brief moment of disorientation and shock. I was enveloped by a liquid embrace of water that was moving in a strong circular movement and it was dragging me deep deep in the abyss. Frantically, I fought the relentless pull of the water, and I kicked my right leg causing gravity to pull me up. The circular movement of the current though, had a mind of its own, and it spanned me up like a leaf caught in a whirlwind. I was pushed up and I opened my mouth to breathe but I felt something jump from my mouth. I had no idea what it was but before I could think the waves hit me and pushed me toward the Victoria Falls drop. I remembered my training in swimming and I drew upon my reserves of knowledge and I tried to fight the waves but I failed. As I struggled on the water's surface, I grappled to understand what manner of waters these were. Initially they appeared serene but they now bore down on me with unrelenting force, pushing me like a twig ensnared in a raging current. Despite my attempts to resist, the water pushed me and I shouted "bama" (mother) in a feeble attempt to summon my mother's help but it was just me and the water fighting each other. For a while a violent fight ensued between me and the waters. I used crawl and breast stroke but they could not work against these water. Desperate I grasped at a slippery rock, only to be forcibly displaced once more by the relentless current. Descending deeper into despair, I felt hope slipping away until a sudden force propelled me from the water's grasp. With closed eyes, I cried out, "eh Munyami has caught me." When I dared to open my eyes, there was an Indian man in a turban, looking like he was an angel that had just stepped out of heaven and he instructed me with authority, “don’t look left or right, close your eyes and follow me." Though paralyzed by fear, I obeyed, allowing this mysterious saviour to guide me. How he liberated me from the clutches of those wicked waters remains a mystery but I found myself on familiar terrain, land.  Tears of gratitude cascaded down my cheeks, a testament to the overwhelming relief that flooded my soul. In a heart-warming display of affection, Rev Jane came running towards me, arms outstretched as if I were long dead but returned to the land of the living. I smiled weakly, and she chuckled sarcastically, "Hey, looks like you lost a tooth." It dawned on me then, that what had flown out of my mouth during the struggle was actually my tooth. I now sported a toothless grin. I must have struck my head on a rock during the fall into the waters and the water swallowed my tooth. Yet, as Rev Jane embraced me once more, her warmth and comfort served as a soothing balm which helped me to forget my toothless grin. It was a poignant reminder of the invaluable solace found in human connection amid life's trials. "Let's go and see where he rescued you," she said urgently. I huddled low, squatting as I walked, feeling the tight throbbing pain radiating from the area around my waist where I had been squeezed during the rescue. Together we approached the scene, our eyes widening in amazement. Before us lay a rocky outcrop, jutting from the water's surface, offering a sanctuary for anything that found itself submerged in those treacherous depths. We hurried toward the unnamed hero, now at ease with his family. "Thank you," I uttered gratefully. "It was nothing," he replied humbly, explaining his profession as a paramedic and how it had equipped him to intervene in such perilous situations. As he spoke, the realization dawned upon me—this was no mere coincidence but a divine plan unfolding before our eyes. The Reverend Jane and I exchanged a look of profound wonder, acknowledging the hand of God in orchestrating this awe-inspiring rescue. That day, I returned home nursing, a sore waist and still grappling with memories of battling the raging water. For weeks thereafter, I found myself locked in a relentless struggle with the turbulent currents in my sleep. Day after day, I would recline to sleep; only to find myself dreaming of my raging fight with the waters of the Zambezi River in slow motion. Everything lay clear before me, as crisp as paper, until the moment he rescued me, then the scene abruptly ceased. Frustrated, exhausted by the turmoil, on one occasion, I finally sought refuge in the prayers of our church Bishop – Bishop Mweemba. Though I harboured doubts in his brief yet profound prayers, when I slept that night, the conflict with the mighty waters of Victoria Falls ceased, leaving me stunned upon waking the next morning. After that day, the Lord had triumphed over the waters and the dreams ceased forever.

l3js66

What's Beyond the Fig Trees?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve not been allowed beyond the fig trees. Heck, I’ve not been allowed around them. Every harvesting season, I watch our people pluck the big, purple beads all the way from my window. Dad says I’ve called them that ever since my first vision. I was six when it happened, and it was fig-induced. Mary says my eyes turn purple when I eat them. Like twinkling gemstones, she says. I wouldn’t know. Dad doesn’t allow mirrors in the prophecy room. Something about light refraction. Not that I’d be able to see myself, anyway. During a vision, I’m elsewhere. It’s late spring, and I know my freedom is short-lived. No more playing Knights, no more Latin declensions, no more fishing in the stream with Mary. She taught me how to build a stone dam, but when that monster of a fish (only a trout, she said) thrashed about in my arms, I lost grip and it slipped free. Mary says we can fashion spears out of tree branches—she stole a knife from the kitchen—but I don’t want to stab the poor things. I still remember that big, cloudy eye gawping at me. Anyway, Dad doesn’t like when I return home all wet and muddy, so we lay out in the sun instead. It took an hour for my dress to dry, and this time I’d had the sense to wear a brown-red floral design. He wouldn’t notice the mud upon first glance: enough time for me to race upstairs and change. “Your dad will kill me,” said Mary. “He doesn’t need to know.” The stream is right by the fig trees. The big, purple beads. I could see them ripening on the branches, swelling like teardrops. They’ll plop off any day now, surely, like tears running down one’s cheeks. Mary says I’m pretty when I cry. She’s the only other girl, besides the oracle, allowed in the prophecy room. I asked her what I say, what I do. I asked her why I’m different. “My parents,” she said once, “say you’re not from here.” It was a secret. She didn’t have to say so. I could feel it. The stream quietened, the birds swallowed back their songs, and anyone, any man, would have suspected the presence of a predator – but there wasn’t one, it was the silence of a dangerous truth lurking in the air, and it rustled the leaves above us, it stirred our still hearts, and then moved on. The birdsongs resumed, the stream gurgled, and an invisible mist, heavy like a blanket, was lifted from the forest. I am not from here. “They say,” whispered Mary, “that you’re from beyond the fig trees.” Beyond the fig trees… where a purple aura sometimes glows. Only I can see it. That means danger, says Dad. That means something, says Mary. Anyway, it’s late spring, and my freedom is short-lived. The harvesting of figs means confinement in that dark, dark room. The fruit is always brought to me, and I bite into their supple skin. I eat and eat and eat until my tummy could burst; I eat and eat and eat until I see. And I see more than anyone should ever see. I see treason, I see blood, I see everything. I think, once, I saw my mother. Sometimes, I dream of gouging out my eyes with Mary’s knife, but it wouldn’t stop the visions. Do it for the greater good, Dad always says. He mustn’t know the extent of my pain; if he did, he wouldn’t subject me to it. It’s the old woman who makes him do it, the oracle and her bag of divination bones. She smiled at me once. All four of her teeth were brown. Mary says that from the outside looking in, I appear at peace, that the tears I shed are mesmerising. She doesn’t know where I go when I close my eyes. If she did, she wouldn’t say that. * I spent three consecutive days in the prophecy room for the greater good. Dad says we resume at sunrise, but I have other plans. Mary lent me the kitchen knife, just in case. I untuck it from beneath my pillow, and the shy blade glints under the moonlight. Mary said I wouldn’t see a thing, but beyond my billowing curtains, beyond the fig trees, that familiar aura throbs, beckoning. The floorboards creak as I step into the corridor, and candlelight trickles out from beneath Dad’s door. I descend the stairs and freeze as he clears his throat. My hair stands on end, my heart thuds, but in vain. I continue down the stairs—they croak like toads—and out the backdoor which shuts with a click. Relief. Darkness reigns here and the wind snatches at my dress, tangles my hair, caresses my cheeks with cold fingertips. Mary said she’d come with me if I wished it, but the vision didn’t include her. Just me, here, and the palpitation of the purple aura beating like a heart. I follow it into the dark, the dew of grass kicked onto my calves. The stars above wink as if to say it’s alright. What do you think you’ll find? asked Mary. During my last vision, I saw that same woman with purple eyes, who I can only presume is my mother. It is the vision that carries me across this moonlit clearing, it is the vision that calms the nerves. The fig trees grow with every eager step, and soon I’m standing at the edge of the orchard, on the border where moonlight meets darkness. My grip tightens around the kitchen knife, knuckles white, I’m sure. It’s quiet in here. The silence swells with the dull thump of my footsteps as I chase the dimming aura; it flickers and fades like a lamp out of kerosene. I pause, alone with the sonorous thud of my racing pulse. Surely, the aura will return. I prowl the orchard like a cat, hair on end, jerking at every rustling leaf, every chirr, every hoot, and every wallop of bats’ wings unfurled and filled with wind like sails. I make it through the nocturnal orchestra and its many glowing eyes to the next moonlit demarcation line. I step into the clearing. For as long as I can remember, I’ve not been allowed beyond the fig trees. But here I am at last. And I wait.

sld3eq

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

In the bustling streets of Celluria, life pulsed with urgency. Red blood cells streamed like scarlet rivers along capillary avenues, their swift passage a testament to the ceaseless rhythm of existence. Each cell, a tiny traveler in a vast network of pathways, carried the precious cargo of oxygen—a duty woven into the very fabric of their being. The city of Celluria sprawled before us, a sprawling metropolis teeming with life and activity. Every corner was alive with motion and purpose, from the bustling arterioles to the winding capillaries. As we ventured deeper into the city's heart, the kaleidoscope of vibrant hues and frenetic energy enveloped us, painting a picture of vitality that pulsed with every beat of the body's inner world. Neonatal cells, with their fresh-faced innocence and boundless energy, darted through the crowded thoroughfares like eager newcomers to the city. Their movements were guided by an instinctual urgency, their wide-eyed curiosity driving them forward as they explored the labyrinthine pathways of Celluria. With each step, they carried the promise of potential and renewal, their presence a testament to the ever-evolving nature of life within. Amidst the bustling crowds, mature cells moved with a practiced ease born of experience and wisdom. Weathered by time and countless journeys through the body's inner landscape, they navigated the maze of streets with a quiet confidence that spoke of years spent serving the greater good. Their journey was marked by the steady rhythm of duty, each step a testament to their unwavering commitment to the vital tasks that sustained the body's existence. But beyond the familiar faces of red blood cells, other inhabitants of Celluria thrived in the vibrant tapestry of life. White blood cells, the valiant defenders of the body's inner sanctum, patrolled the streets with a purpose bordering on vigilance. Their presence was reassuring in times of crisis, and their unwavering dedication to the safety and well-being of the city inspired all who called Celluria home. And amidst the bustling activity of everyday life, other, more elusive cells lurked in the shadows, their mysterious ways shrouded in secrecy. From the enigmatic neurons that whispered messages of guidance and direction to the stoic platelets that stood ready to staunch the flow of life's precious fluid, each played a vital role in the intricate dance of existence that unfolded within the city's boundaries. As we ventured deeper into the heart of Celluria, I marveled at the diversity and complexity of life that thrived within its streets. In this bustling metropolis of cells, every inhabitant played a part in the grand symphony of existence—a symphony that pulsed with the rhythm of life itself, echoing through the corridors of time and space with a uniquely, undeniably human melody. On the day the crisis unfolded, whispers of alarm swept through Celluria like a gathering storm. The once-familiar routine fractured as chaos gripped the city. Immune cells, the silent guardians of our inner world, mobilized with a newfound urgency, their movements a flurry of purpose amidst the tumult. As panic echoed through the streets, cells of all kinds scrambled to respond, their collective efforts a symphony of urgency and determination. White blood cells, brave defenders of the body's defenses, surged forward with a sense of duty that bordered on ferocity, their movements guided by an innate instinct to protect and preserve. But amidst the turmoil, a motley band of cells emerged—a ragtag assembly drawn together by a shared purpose transcending their roles' boundaries. Led by an enigmatic force that pulsed with an aura of quiet strength, they stood as a beacon of hope in the face of adversity, their resolve unshakeable in the face of uncertainty. Together, they embarked on a perilous journey that would test their courage, resilience, and bonds of unity. Through the winding streets of Celluria, they ventured, their path illuminated by the flickering light of hope that burned bright within their hearts. With each step, they faced new challenges and obstacles, their determination unyielding in the face of adversity. From the darkened alleys where pathogens lurked like shadowy specters to the bustling thoroughfares where the battle raged with unrelenting fury, they pressed forward with a purpose bordering on defiance. And as they journeyed more deeply into the heart of the crisis, they discovered within themselves a strength they never knew they possessed—a strength forged in the crucible of adversity, tempered by the fires of adversity, and fueled by the unwavering bonds of camaraderie that bound them together. For in the darkest of times, their unity proved their greatest weapon—a force more potent than any pathogen, more enduring than any obstacle. And as they stood together, united in purpose and resolve, they knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them as one—a testament to the indomitable spirit of Celluria and the unwavering resilience of the human body. Their path led them through the body's heart, where the once-proud Organopolis lay besieged by an unseen foe. As they approached, the city's towering structures loomed overhead, once symbols of strength and vitality, now standing as silent witnesses to the onslaught of infection. The heart, that mighty sentinel of life, beat with a fierce determination, its rhythm a steady cadence that echoed through the city streets like the pounding of war drums. As they entered Organopolis, the devastation wrought by the invading pathogen became painfully clear. The grand arteries, once bustling thoroughfares of lifeblood, now lay choked and constricted, their flow hindered by the insidious presence of the enemy. Once vibrant hubs of activity and vitality, the organs now struggled to function in the face of relentless assault. In the lungs, the battle raged with ferocious intensity. Gales of breath swept through the bronchial passages, clearing the way for a renewed onslaught against the invaders. Each exhale carried the promise of renewal, which hung heavy like a whispered prayer, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos and destruction. But amidst the devastation, signs of resistance emerged. White blood cells, the valiant defenders of the body's inner sanctum, rallied to the call of duty, their movements swift and decisive as they engaged the enemy in fierce combat. From the alveoli to the bronchioles, the airways became a battleground, the clash of immune cells and pathogens echoing through the labyrinthine passages. As the battle raged on, a sense of determination filled the air—a collective resolve to stand firm against the forces of darkness and reclaim the city from the grip of infection. In the heart of Organopolis, amidst the chaos and despair, the flame of hope burned bright—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the unbreakable bonds of unity that bound us together in the face of adversity. Amidst the chaos, connections began to form between Celluria and Organopolis—fragile threads woven from the fabric of necessity. Red blood cells, once solitary travelers drifting through the bustling avenues of Celluria, now became makeshift bridges spanning the divide between the two cities. With a newfound sense of purpose, they became conduits of life, ferrying vital nutrients and reinforcements from the bustling streets of Celluria to the besieged walls of Organopolis. White blood cells, the vigilant sentinels of our inner world, emerged from the shadows to join forces with the organs in a display of solidarity and strength. With a steely resolve, they patrolled the borders of Organopolis, their movements coordinated with strategic precision as they repelled the relentless onslaught of invaders. From the battle's front lines to the city's deepest recesses, they stood as guardians of hope, their unwavering commitment to the cause a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human body. The bonds between Celluria and Organopolis grew stronger as the battle raged on, forged in the crucible of adversity. Through courage and sacrifice, they stood united against the tide of darkness, their collective spirit a beacon of hope in the darkest times. With each passing moment, the divide between the two cities began to blur, replaced by a sense of shared purpose and destiny that transcended the boundaries of their existence. And as the echoes of battle faded into the distance, a new dawn broke over the horizon—a dawn of unity and renewal that heralded the triumph of the human spirit over adversity. In the tale of two cities inside the human body, Celluria and Organopolis stood as symbols of resilience and strength, their bonds forged in the fires of adversity and tempered by the unyielding spirit of those who called them home. In the aftermath of the crisis, as the city streets once again thrummed with the pulse of life, I, Ruby, found myself standing amidst the bustling thoroughfares of Celluria, the echoes of the recent battle still reverberating in my mind. The once-quiet pathways now teemed with renewed energy, a testament to the human body's resilience and its inhabitants' unwavering determination. As I gazed out over the familiar landscape of Celluria, my thoughts turned to the journey that had brought us to this moment—the trials and tribulations, the moments of triumph and despair. In the tale of two cities inside the human body, I discovered the true meaning of resilience, unity, and sacrifice. This truth transcended the confines of our physical existence and resonated with the deepest recesses of my being. Throughout the ordeal, I witnessed the power of unity—a power that enabled us to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds and emerge victorious in the face of adversity. From the bustling streets of Celluria to the besieged walls of Organopolis, we stood shoulder to shoulder, united in purpose and resolve, our collective spirit serving as a beacon of hope in the darkest of times. And so, as the heartbeat of life continued to pulse through our veins, I, Ruby, stood as a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human body. This spirit would endure, unbroken and unbowed, in the face of whatever challenges lay ahead. In the journey of life within, I had discovered a truth that would guide me through the trials and tribulations yet to come—a truth forged in the crucible of adversity and tempered by the fires of resilience and unity.

oivsld

Dreaming through Despair: A Tale of Hope and Resilience in Depression-Era New York and Los Angeles

In the bustling streets of New York City, the echoes of dreams fainted away like an old photograph. The year was 1929, and the Great Depression loomed ominously on the horizon, casting a shadow over the dreams and aspiration of many. Families were struggling, wealth and jobs begin to wither away, and hope was a rare commodity. The moonlight splashed down, its white-silver glow sparkling across the deep, calming waters of Manhattan's harbor. In the distance, the cool breeze swept through the bustling streets of the city. The city streets become arteries of light around the heart of New York. Amongst the chatter of city life, a teenage girl Catherine Montgomery stood out, the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Her family seemed untouched by the financial devastation gripping the nation. Despite the silver spoons that lined the walls of her elegant home, Catherine found herself drawn to a different kind of treasure - words. A beacon of light pierced through the window, bathing the empty bedroom's floor brightening the bedroom suite. There was a simple feminine beauty to the young woman's room that was reflective of her spirit. Across the threshold, Catherine steps into her empty bedroom. She felt like a stranger in the room that was once occupied before her family moved in. The bookshelf carried volumes of literature penned by the world's greatest writers stood firmly by the desk. Curtains fringed with white lace, billowed in the breeze of spring air. Catherine jolts her thoughts down in a leather-bound diary as her fingers become stained with ink. Her life was filled with debutante balls, private tutoring, and shopping sprees on Fifth Avenue. Despite the glamour that surrounded her, Catherine longed for something more. She yearned for freedom from the suffocating social expectations and strict rules that governed her every move. Her heart craved adventure, a life beyond the gilded cage of her family's wealth. Catherine had big dreams of becoming a writer and seeing the world beyond the narrow confines of her bedroom. She would sneak off during the day spending hours in her family's attic, devouring books on far-off lands and exotic adventures, her imagination soaring to new heights with each turn of the page. Catherine harbored a burning passion for storytelling that even her family's riches could not overshadow. While her mother adorned herself in silk and her father attended meetings at the stock exchange, Catherine would steal away to the attic, where she kept a tattered notebook hidden beneath a stack of old newspapers. With each stroke of her pen, Catherine transported herself to worlds beyond her own, where poverty and despair did not cast a shadow. She penned tales of courage, of love, and of adventure, pouring her heart onto yellowed pages as hope flickered like a candle in the howling winds of uncertainty. As the stock market crash sent shockwaves through the city, Catherine's family too felt the tremors of loss. The grand parties ceased, the servants were let go, and Catherine found herself confined to the walls of her opulent prison, yearning for a taste of freedom that lay beyond the splendor of her family's townhouse. On the other side of the world, in the gritty and heart of Los Angeles during the Great Depression of 1929, the city's vibrant spirit was dampened by economic despair. Amidst the struggles and hardships, there was a glimmer of hope that burned brightly in an unexpected place. While poverty loomed over the city like a dark cloud, a young teenage boy, Jake Thompson stood out, the son of immigrant parents. Jake found solace and escape in the vibrant world of colors and creativity. His one true passion was painting, he came from a broken home where poverty and hardships were a daily reality. He lived in a cramped tenement with his immigrant parents and younger siblings. His days were spent tending to his siblings and working odd jobs to make ends meet for his struggling immigrant family. Despite the hardships his family faced, Jake's spirit remained unbroken. With a sparkle in his eyes and a paintbrush in his hand, he would spend hours in his small room, transforming blank canvases into beautiful works of art that depicted his dreams and aspirations. One day, while wandering the streets of downtown LA, Jake stumbled upon an art exhibition showcasing the works of renowned painters from around the world. Mesmerized by the beauty and emotion captured in each painting, he knew in his heart that he wanted to be a painter too. His mind raced with ideas and visions of a future where he could share his art with the world. Determined to pursue his passion, Jake began seeking out any opportunity to improve his skills. He would spend hours at the local library, poring over art books and studying the techniques of the great masters. He even managed to find a part-time job as a janitor at a nearby art school, where he would sneak into classes during his breaks to watch the students paint. As the Great Depression tightened its grip on the city, Jake's family faced even greater challenges. With each passing day, the threat of homelessness lurked closer, and the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his young shoulders. Despite the odds stacked against him, Jake remained resolute in his belief that art could be his ticket to a better future. As the days passed, Catherine and Jake would often sneak away to the rooftops of their buildings, looking out at the sprawling city below as they whispered about their aspirations. Catherine dreamed of becoming a writer, penning stories that would transport people to faraway lands, while Jake harbored a burning desire to become a famous painter in New York City's affluent galleries. Their conversations were filled with hope and determination, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to engulf their world. As the Great Depression loomed over, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their futures, Catherine and Jake clung to each of their dreams finding solace in their shared aspirations of escape. One dreary afternoon, as rain tapped a melancholic rhythm against her windowpanes, Catherine made a decision that would alter the course of her life. She took her notebook, slipped on a coat, and ventured out into the streets of New York City, where the echoes of hardship reverberated through every alley and boulevard. Among the shuffling crowds and dilapidated buildings, she discovered a truth that her privileged upbringing had shielded her from - the power of empathy. She witnessed families huddled together for warmth, children with hunger gnawing at their bellies, and artists with dreams as fragile as spun glass. Determined to make a difference, Catherine channeled her passion for writing into a force for good. She penned articles for newspapers, shedding light on the plight of the downtrodden. She volunteered at soup kitchens, offering solace in the form of warm meals and kind words. Through her words, she inspired others to see beyond the gilded facades of society and embrace the humanity that bound them all. Back in Los Angeles, Jake faced the harsh realities of a world around him. One fateful day, a chance encounter with a famous painter who had come to Los Angeles to escape the economic turmoil changed Jake's life forever. Impressed by the young boy's talent and determination, the painter took him under his wing as an apprentice, offering him the opportunity of a lifetime to study art under his guidance. Under the mentorship of the seasoned painter, Jake blossomed into a true artist. His work began to garner attention and praise from critics and collectors alike. Through his paintings, he told stories of hope, resilience, and the unbreakable spirit of the people of Los Angeles during the Great Depression. As fate would have it, Catherine and Jake's paths collided one fateful day on a crowded train bound for Chicago. Catherine, with her leather-bound notebook and ink-stained fingers, caught Jake's eye as she scribbled furiously on the yellowed pages, her expression one of deep concentration and inner turmoil. Intrigued by her intensity, Jake struck up a conversation with Catherine, and before long, they found themselves deep in conversation about their hopes, dreams, and fears. Catherine shared her desire to see the world and write her own story, while Jake spoke animatedly about his aspirations to make it big in New York as a painter and escape the confines of his small existence. The train ride to Chicago passed in a blur of laughter, shared secrets, and whispered confessions, as Catherine and Jake formed a bond that transcended time and space. By the time the train pulled into the bustling metropolis of Chicago, they had forged a connection that would forever alter the course of their lives. As they bid farewell at the train station, Catherine and Jake vowed to stay in touch and support each other in their respective journeys towards realizing their dreams. Little did they know that the Great Depression casted a long shadow over their hopes and aspirations, throwing obstacles in their path and testing the strength of their bond like never before. Despite the odds stacked against her, Catherine remained steadfast in her determination to become a published author only grew stronger with each passing day. As the years rolled by and the Great Depression gradually loosened its grip on the city, Catherine emerged not only as a writer but as a beacon of hope in a world darkened by despair. Her stories, once confined to the pages of her notebook, now found their way into the hearts of countless readers, kindling a flame of resilience that refused to be extinguished. Though the scars of the past lingered like shadows in the alleys of her memory, Catherine knew that she had found her true wealth - not in silver spoons or grand estates, but in the words that had the power to transcend time and touch the souls of all who dared to dream among the dust. Years passed, and Jake's dream of becoming a painter had finally come true. His art adorned the walls of galleries and museums around the world, inspiring generations to come. Looking back on his journey, he realized that it was not just his talent that had carried him through, but the unwavering belief in himself and the power of art to transform lives. In the bustling streets of 1939 Los Angeles, where dreams were both made and broken, Jake stood as a testament to the enduring power of creativity in the face of adversity. During the Great Depression, teenagers Catherine and Jake from opposite worlds forged a bond that transcended class and convention. Through the trials and triumphs of their journey, Catherine and Jake discovered that true wealth lay not in material possessions, but in the richness of the human spirit. Their dreams were a story of courage, resilience, and the enduring power of dreams to light the way forward. Amid economic turmoil and uncertainty, Catherine and Jake had found a sanctuary in each other, their shared dreams becoming a reality in the face of adversity. As the world around them grappled with the harsh realities of the Great Depression, they stood tall, a testament to the power of hope and resilience in the darkest of times. The sun set over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the city of dreams, Catherine and Jake knew that they had found a home away from home, a place where their spirits soared free, and their dreams knew no bounds. In each other's arms, they found solace and strength, their hearts beating as one, a testament to the enduring power of love and dreams in a world filled with uncertainty and fear.

h4cvak

A Place For Me?

March 15, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, Red enveloped me today as I set foot in a land I have never known before. Though its contents are a mystery, I feel an excitement and eagerness to explore what gives this place life and interest! Perhaps, after all these years of searching, it will be the place I can call home. The ground beneath my feet is red. A fine-grained texture runs through it. Many thin streams rush by and the liquid that they hold is thick and red as well. Some streams run up a slope while others run down. As I take in my surroundings, I know there is much to learn here, but I cannot dig deeper alone. This journey requires that I have a companion, and the only person who has explored this land is Bridgett Gwynet. Today, I followed Bridgett for just half a mile before we sat down and rested. I was hoping to go further but she claims this place is best explored one small piece at a time. She told me about her family and friends, and I felt quite shy as I tried to politely keep eye contact during our conversation. She has striking blue eyes that are outlined by thick black lashes and whenever her irises catch the sunlight my cheeks flush with color. I enjoyed the stories she told me about her family. I can tell that she misses them. She’s been far away from them for so long, but she has been on a journey to discover new things, and I am honored that she has opened an invitation for me to explore the things she has discovered. March 19, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, This morning, as we were walking along, we came across what appeared to be a smooth red canal. The thick, red liquid that runs through most of this land was rushing through it. As I took notes in my mind of the things I believed made this place so special, I listened to Bridgett share more of her experiences. In an instant, I found a moment to drop a humorous comment in our conversation. Bridgett laughed and looked at me. Her bright blue eyes sparkled. All at once, the liquid that was running through the canal immensely quickened in pace and the ground below my feet started to pulse fiercely. I nearly lost my balance! It was then that I realized there had always been subtle pulses in the ground, I just had not yet noticed them. March 21, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, Each day as I’ve studied these new surroundings I have found myself falling in love – with Bridgett Gwynet that is. She has such a calm aura about her, and she is so sure of her decisions! She is always determined to learn more and excel in what she is learning. I’ve adored her company and hope that our traveling will continue for a longer time. There is a lot more territory to cover! April 16, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I can no longer hold my tongue. I must tell Bridgett how I feel! Our time together has been short, but she has been so open and willing to guide me along as she explains the intricate details of the atmosphere that surrounds us. She is so skilled in the knowledge of this land. I can tell she has studied it thoroughly and has given her studies much thought. I want to build a home here, and I hope that Bridgett will have an interest in pursuing the dream I’ve contrived. I will tell her all tomorrow. Truthfully, I am frightened to know her answer. I want her to feel the same feelings I have, but I don't know her mind completely. I do have reason to believe that she has at least some interest in me. After all, yesterday she smiled widely at me as I trekked down a slope, stepping over small streams as I went. Once I reached her, she stretched out a hand and grabbed my own, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go. “You made it, Steven! I thought you were going to stumble head first for a second,” she said with a chuckle. I smiled, but said nothing, still dumbfounded by the imprinted sensation her touch had left on my hand. April 17, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I am numb. Bridgett does not feel the same way I do. I asked her why, but she stumbled in her words and would not give me a clear answer. She told me she thought I was wonderful, though, but I suppose that isn’t enough. A strange awkwardness arose rapidly between us and Bridgett politely concluded that she would not be my guide any longer. She kindly advised me to go no further into this unknown land because I had never explored it on my own before, and without her, it would be nearly impossible to discover the secrets that lay within. I walked away feeling sheepish and stupid. I wish I would’ve never said anything about my affections. But most of all, I wish Bridgett would give me a clearer understanding of her response to them. My curiosity has stirred in me for hours, and I have concluded that I will spend one more day exploring this land before I quit. Though I will not be able to know what direction to go, and I won’t be able to find the hidden places, I will perhaps at least settle my mind by feeling like I have fully finished my exploration. April 18, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I have had a grim conclusion to my expedition. While walking along a section of land, I came across a large formation made up of a soft but firm substance. Three, what appeared to be tunnels, set atop it. I found an opening near the bottom of the odd configuration. My inquisitive nature took over, and I entered. The walls that surrounded me were pulsing in time with the ground. Streaming up them was the peculiar red fluid that I had become so familiar with. I looked at it in awe, wondering how the rushing liquid could defy gravity and run upwards. The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat made me jump. I turned around and saw a man. He was tall, had dark hair, brown eyes, and a chiseled jaw. “Who are you?” I questioned in a surprised tone. “Joey Allbrook. Who are you?” Who am I? The realization sunk into me, making me stumble back. I fell against the rushing liquid. Its current was fierce, and in a moment, I was lifted up from the ground and pulled towards the opening of the tube above me. I looked below and watched Joey Allbrook grow smaller and smaller. Who am I? Well, I can tell you who I’m not. I’m not the keeper of Bridgett Gwynet’s heart. I looked up as I was pushed through the end of the tube. The red liquid engulfed me. My mind whirled. I had to get out or I would drown in the overwhelming torturous turmoil. I collected my thoughts and realized the only way to survive was to accept the truth and make peace with it. “I am not the keeper of Bridgett’s heart. I am not the keeper of Bridgett’s heart.” I repeated this to myself over and over until I believed it and realized I had to live with that factuality. In the moment of what felt like my last breath, I closed my eyes and when I opened them the liquid was gone. I gasped in the air and frantically looked at my surroundings. I was sitting on the bench at the park where I had last seen Bridgett walking with a man named Joey Allbrook. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest. It was true, even after all my exploration and deep desire to learn all I could about that beautiful blue eyed woman, I could not succeed in making her heart my home. In fact, it was impossible to succeed. Joey already resided in the place I had hoped for. And so, dear depths of my heart, I am back to searching for a place to rest you.

gahzgx

Persuasion

If I could think of words to say it would be: one to ten. The numbers of the stairs staring at me and the darkness. I had to walk down them unless there was another way. I looked to my left. The peeling paint on the wall hung like dead skin, thin and translucent, reaching it's tentacles out to grab me. It was horrifying, yet I ignored the anxiety rising in my stomach and tried to focus. Today I had to face my fears, the fear of dark unknowns, weird smells, and stairs to a door I can't see. Slowly I stepped, it creaked. My heart started going. Each step was a knife to my throat, an imagination of my death, a murder, or an accidental trip over a loose nail. My bladder felt like it would suffer incontinence tonight, it seemed that a trickle would soon reach my pants. I quickly scampered down all the steps till I was at the bottom. I saw a thin sliver of light, my fingers shook as I reached for the doorknob. "Thud," something rolled down the steps and landed at my feet. I screamed with all the fibers of my lungs till it reached every decibel. It reverberated off the furniture, my scream. The hair on my face prickled and I felt hot. There was no flashlight. The only thing to do was to open the door. I had thoughts. Calmly, I told myself I needed to open the door. It was the only answer even if it was scary to face the unknown. My hand gripped the doorknob and slipped. I panicked but willed my appendages to yank it. The wood banged against the wall and slumped, rickety. Blue light. A lamp in the window. The hall was lit up with a dim streetlight glow. My being slowed down gradually to relax but I was still apprehensive. I saw that the object at my feet was a cat. He smiled at me. It was morning and I pulled back the curtains to see the sunrise peeking. I was awake. What an awful dream and cute. The cat was kawaii. The tulips in the garden looked happy by the iron gate and pebble stones. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Oliver asked. We were at breakfast. "Yes. I think we should drive to the hall to find the missing cat." "Why would it be in a hall?" "Because Mrs. Tallaway said it was last seen there." Then Oliver whispered, "Are you sure the cat is real." I thought for a bit. I had seen a cat last night. So that was real and not a dream, but I don't remember how I got there. "Oliver, we should at least try. I'll ask a few folks from school to go with us, maybe some seniors. " "Alright", Oliver sighed. "Bye mom", I hollered as we shut the door and ran down the steps to his car. Oliver was my good friend and cousin. We had grown up in the same house since we were little. My Aunt was away at college finishing her nursing school. I slammed the blue door and sat in the cold seat. My breath was frosty. I zipped up my hoodie. Oliver combed back his hair whilst looking in the rearview mirror. He was two years older than I, eighteen. The lane was empty with only garbage bins near the curb. School went by fast. I ran to my locker. Paper fell like ornaments from the sky, scattering to the shiny mopped hall. I smiled at the janitor and thanked him for doing an amazing job. A pink neon paper was separate from the rest as I picked them all up and shoved them in the pocket of my binder. It said 'Meet me in the library'. 'Meet me in the library? Who was this? Caution says that you should proceed carefully. I was persuaded by curiosity to move forward. I closed my locker and sent a quick text to Oliver to meet me in the Library. I was curious but not stupid. The walk there was the fastest I'd ever done. It was quiet as most had left home for the day. The smell of books greeted me. It was eerie walking down the aisles not looking for books. Each path I took was a dead end. From the comedy section to nature. It was there I stood. Oliver waited near the front, hidden by a display of books studying a book on Latin. He played the part well of an absorbed studious subject. A curl fell lose from my bun and wisped across my brow. Lilacs and lavender sunbathed in the sunset of evening. I looked at the beautiful sight by the window sill. I stopped breathing for a minute to listen. I had heard something faint. Turning the corner, near the wooden poetry shelves, I saw a whir of orange and blue. Oliver was closer now, near a different display. I signaled to him with a slight look of surprise. It was a cat. It had blue ears and soft orange fur with a curious kitten face. Then who sent the note? Certainly, not the cat? This cat had blue ears so this is an unusual tale. Oliver was right beside me, as he is a skilled stealth technician in sneakers (we made up that term in middle school). We both stared at the cat, mystified. I looked at him, he looked at me. We were dreaming? Poke, poke. Nope. The pokes proved that we were indeed here and there was a cat with blue ears. "Hello cat, my name is Oliver." "Hello, I said." The cat looked amused and shook it's whiskers. He sprawled out on the blue and grey checkered carpet, stretching in the fading sun, in the spotlight of our spectating. We both crouched down to pet it. Oliver grinned at me and I smiled with my dimple, a wash of sunset on our faces. It smiled, before prancing off like a ninja. We followed. It was too fast, it vanished. Then I bumped straight into a t-shirt that smelled like old spice. To be continued, maybe.

r8pu9p

The Sphere

It had been years since they put the sphere up. Blocking out the outside world and hiding us from the sunlight. They said the world was gone and that we were the last of our people. That everything had gone to shit. Our grandparents all told the same story, “The outside world is gone, there's nothing out there. The sphere is perfect. Why would you want to go anywhere else?” The government forbade people from asking questions about the outside, others forgot about it. It was a controversial topic that got people beat in alleyways. Others were taken away by the government and some given hush money. The outside was a myth, a story that our ancestors talked about but we had never seen. A curiosity in the pit of my stomach that could never be soothed. Until finally I found a way out. I talked with Jimmy, an old shopkeeper in the city. His shop was crowded selling different parts for various machines. The vast neon signs lighting up the inside of the shop. Walking in, most customers choked on the smoke from the cigars Jimmy enjoyed. He was talking about the time before the sphere and how the sun used to feel. He had gotten hush money but completely ignored it, throwing it into a pile and burning it in the middle of the street. Jimmy didn’t care about the government and was only here because of his wife. “You listenin’ kid?” Kid, the nickname he used for me. He was the only person I let call me that. He flicked his cigar onto an ashtray before taking another inhale. Of course by now he had probably forgotten my real name, Lilith, but it didn’t matter. “Yeah, yeah I’m listening” I said, ringing out a customer who had approached the counter. “You looked like you was starin’ off again” He looked at me smoke coming off the lit cigar between his fingers. “Leave her be, I’d be dozin’ off too listenin’ to you ramble all the time” Jimmy’s wife Patricia walked in coughing from the smoke walking over to the window opening it. “You need to stop smokin’ those damn things,” She coughed again taking the cigar out of his fingers and putting it out in the ashtray. “Yeah,yeah” He sighed, waiting for her to leave before lighting the cigar again. “Maybe you should listen to her” I suggested opening my mouth to speak again before I was interrupted. “Bein’ alive at my old age I can do whatever I want. I ain't gotta listen to my wife” He said taking a puff from the cigar. “Excuse me!?” Patricia said from down the hall. Jimmy took his cigar and put it back out as Patricia came back down the hall. “Nothin hun.” “Mhmmm that's what I thought.” She said standing in the doorway. I laughed, the two were so deeply in love they were more like best friends than husband and wife. I had been working for these two for years now. They were friends of my family babysitting me for my parents when I was younger. Taking care of me the nights my parents couldn’t come home or when they had to stay late for work. To me they were more like grandparents to me at least that's what it felt like. “Anyway, the sun?” I asked, looking at Jimmy pulling up a stool to sit on. “Ah the sun, it felt warm and comforting. It was like this beaming light that sometimes felt as if it was directly on you, putting you in the spotlight.” Anytime Jimmy talked about the outside I was fascinated it seemed like such a fictional topic. “You could hear birds and when the wind would rush by you could hear it rustle the trees. It was peaceful, relaxing. The complete opposite of here.” “Wow. Really there's no loud machinery?” I asked, I had grown up in the sphere my life was full of noise I couldn’t imagine a second of silence. “Nope, no machinery it was amazing” As Jimmy spoke his eyes lit up almost as if he was reliving the moment. “I’m gonna find a way out of here” I was determined, I wanted to know what the sun felt like and how the birds sounded. “There is a way,” Jimmy whispered, making sure no one was in the shop. “There is a way out.” “What? Where?” I leaned in waiting for a response impatiently. “Down by the docks I’ll take you but we’re gonna need some cash” Jimmy opened the cash register and pulled out some cash. “Take it from my paycheck” I stood watching as he pulled out money from the register. “I already do,” He said with a laugh, closing the register and grabbing the store keys to close up. We made our way down to the docks where Jimmy then paid a ferryman to take us across the water. We waded across the water towards the other side before running into a side of the sphere where a door rusted into the metal of the sphere. Jimmy pulled out a chisel and removed the rust between the door and the frame before prying it open. The door led to a long humid hallway, the end of it pitch black. “Follow down the hallway and open the door at the end it might take a bit but give it a good shove and you’ll be jus’ fine.” He said pointing to the darkness at the end of the hall. “You’re not coming?” I asked, taking a step into the hall. “I’m being watched, you're not. Go get your peace. I'll be back at the shop. I need them to think I just took you across the water.” He explained, the government was watching Jimmy constantly making sure he stayed in line. “Alright I’ll meet you back at the shop” I said as he closed the door, the darkness consuming the hallway. My eyes tried to adjust to the darkness as I started to walk straight. I could hear the faint sound of cars honking and advertisements playing coming from the sphere’s end of the hallway. I pushed on and continued towards the other side, the sound becoming farther and farther away. I reached my hands out in front of me to feel for the door when I got there. The cold metal shocked my hands and I quickly pulled away before reaching out again. I took a deep breath as I tried to push the door open. The door didn’t budge as I pushed harder and harder. I grew tired of pushing and turned to my side using my shoulder as I slammed into the door. The metal creaked open loudly, the sound echoing through the hallway. I was blinded by a white light as my eyes adjusted to the outside light. The smell of dew and grass filled my nose. My eyes adjusted to see the greenery to way the tall grass filled the space the large trees making a canopy overhead. I walked through the tall grass and bushes until I found a river, the sounds of the running water filling my ears. I sat down on the edge and took a second to take it all in the sound of the water, the feeling of the breeze and grass in between my fingers as I leaned back. It was then the sun shone through the leaves of the trees up above. The warmth hit my skin and I could feel the comfort Jimmy had described. I sat there for a while watching as a few animals came to drink from the river a few deer and rabbits. I had always heard of deer's and bunnies but had never seen any. I watched as the forest was full of life, the sphere far behind me. I closed my eyes and relaxed, no longer hearing the sounds of cars. It was odd but comforting. I don’t know how but my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep. I woke up to a man standing above me looking at me. His eyes were lit up like he hadn’t seen someone before. “Hello” He spoke in a dark and gruff voice. “Hello?” I questioned moving away from him. “Can I help you?” “Who are you?” He asked, looking at the various pieces of metal in my body. “Where are you from? Wait, are you from the sphere?” He asked, grabbing my arm and looking at my techniware. “Yeah how’d you know?” I looked at him realizing he didn’t have any upgrades or metal pieces on his body. “Do you live here?” I asked. “Yeah… I live in a village nearby. How’d you get out here?” He asked, sitting next to me. “I used a door? I’m still confused. You live out here?” I asked, He was wearing some shorts and a shirt that showed the tattoo of a phoenix on his upper arm. He was tan with shaggy dark hair. “What’s your name?” “I’m Maximus, Max for short. You?” He looked at me with piercing brown eyes. “Lilith” I respond trailing off. “I’ve never seen you before and I come here everyday so why are you here?” He held a basket filled with berries and herbs. “I just found a way out of the sphere. This is my first time out here.” I looked at the basket. He stood up and grabbed the basket. “I should go, technically I’m not supposed to be around here” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wait-” I stood up, our eyes locked. He was quite taller than me and definitely more burly. “If I come back out here will I see you again?” I asked curious. “I-I don’t know” He said. “Like I said I’m not supposed to be here goodbye. You should go back.” He suggested starting back off into the forest. “Okay” I whispered. For months I came back out of the sphere occasionally seeing Maximus where we would discuss something about our childhood or our lives and then he’d have to leave awkwardly. We did this for over a year going back and forth until he trusted me. He trusted me enough to bring me to his village. They were so mad at him and completely turned me away disgusted at the way I looked and where I had come from. His parents tried to accept me but struggled in their own way. As I began to come around more they grew used to my presence and I grew used to theirs. I began to be outside of the sphere more than being inside basking in the sun and listening to the birds. Until one day Maximus asked to see inside the sphere. So I took him. We carefully walked through that long hallway and got onto the ferry going back to the docks. I brought him to my house and showed him around. I showed him my favorite parts of the city, the views, and the food. I eventually decided to let him meet Jimmy. We walked into Jimmy’s shop and the smoke that was always in the shop had dissipated. “Jimmy?” I called into the store walking in and behind the counter. “Hold on he might be in the back” I walked down the hall and looked for him to no avail. I came back out from the back Patricia now walking in. “Patricia!” I exclaimed with a smile. “Hey darlin’” She said, giving me a small hug. “Where’s Jimmy?” I looked at her worriedly. “Hun’ I thought you knew,” She said solemnly, grabbing my shoulders. “Knew what?” I was confused. “They got him. They stormed in here and took him, "she whispered. “The government?” I asked when the sound of boots approached behind Patricia. I looked out to the front of the store Maximus had joined me next to Patricia. Soldiers approached from the front of the store. “Lilith Staroski stand still for detainment” One spoke with a booming voice. “What is going on?” Maximus asked, confused as alarms started to go off from the soldiers. “Unidentified citizen detainment required. Do not move” The soldier spoke again. I grabbed Max’s hand and turned to run when a soldier knocked me in the head knocking me out. I awoke to a dark cell, the only light outside the bars. “Maximus?” I called out searching for him. “Lilith? What is going on? What are they going to do?” He questioned reaching his hand out of his cell and reaching over to mine. I carefully grabbed his hand. “I don’t know,” I paused, “I’m so sorry Max” Soldiers walked into the room opening each of our cell doors and grabbing us roughly one pair of soldiers dragging Max out by one door and the other pair dragging me out by the other. They dragged me to a room with a chair in the middle handcuffing me to the chair and leaving. I pulled against the handcuffs trying to get out of them when an important looking sergeant walked in. “Lilith do you know why you're here?” They asked. “No,” I said shortly. “You know why you’re here. You left the safety of the Sphere multiple times and then thought it would be a clever idea to bring a person from the outside into our walls” They paused. “You know we can’t have that and I can’t let you bring in well whatever his name is- so here is where we make a deal. Because of the rank of your parents I believe that you can change your friend on the other hand well we need to dispose of him so his life for yours you’re welcome” “That’s not a deal” I said. “Oh is that what I said because I meant compromise and to think Jimmy already did that for you. Well look where that’s got you. Anyways I’ll give you some time alone” They said slyly. The guards then came back taking me to my cell. Once they were gone I immediately searched for Max. “Maximus!” I cried out feeling his hand as I reached through the bars. “I’m a little tired Lilith” He squeezed my hand. “Max don’t fall asleep please, please don’t” I said, feeling the grip of his hand on mine loosen. “Max?” I paused for silence. “Max?”

5v0ufe

5 Stars Infiltration: A Crazy Duo's Diamond Heist

The eccentric duo, known as "Crazy One" and "Crazy Two," found themselves amidst a torrential downpour on an otherwise quiet Sunday evening in the captivating locale of Cancún. Their unlikely pairing comprised an Italian man and a Canadian woman, united by a daring mission: infiltrating the opulent hotel via a clandestine route concealed along the coastline. As they made their way along the beach, nature's fury was unleashed upon them, with the ocean tumultuously roiling and the rain descending in a deluge. Undeterred, the Italian discarded his sandals with resolve, signaling the start of their sprint. The intrepid pair forged ahead, their steps sinking into the sodden sand under the onslaught of water. The tempestuous winds whipped at their skin, rendering their visages tense and wrinkly, the drenched fabric clinging to their bodies. While the Canadian exuded delirious enthusiasm, belting out the theme of "Mission Impossible" at the top of her lungs, the Italian remained steadfast, cautioning against the looming dangers. They were alert to the presence of potential adversaries, aware that colossal sentinels guarded the hotel's entrance vigilantly. Access to the hotel was fortified, requiring explicit authorization and the possession of security bracelets. This exclusive sanctuary housed treasures beyond measure, including a resplendent gray diamond of unparalleled rarity—a source of national pride shrouded in secrecy. Undaunted by the formidable barriers, the audacious tourists pressed forward to explore the hotel illegally. They skillfully evaded the scrutiny of a maintenance worker before navigating past the watchtower's penetrating gaze, where vigilant guards stood poised to thwart any unauthorized intruders. As fear gripped the Canadian, the Italian offered reassurance, guiding her along the path obscured by foliage. Beneath the serene moonlight that contrasted starkly with the tumultuous weather, they pressed onward, determined to breach the perimeter. Upon reaching the fence, their strategy unfolded seamlessly: they maintained a low profile, concealed their wrists, and advanced with purposeful strides. However, obstacles loomed on all fronts—a quagmire of water to the left, a morass of mud to the right, and treacherous puddles ahead. Their relief was palpable upon spotting a bridge in the distance, sparing them from becoming unwitting prey to lurking alligators. With each step, they drew closer to their objective, their senses heightened by the anticipation of discovery. Their stealthy approach went undetected, circumventing infrared lasers and smoke detectors with finesse. As they ventured indoors, the Canadian's balance faltered on the slippery marble floors, only to be steadied by the reassuring grip of the Italian. Their presence aroused curiosity among the residents, who puzzled over the spectacle of two adventurers braving the elements. Little did they know the true nature of the duo's intentions, which would surely astound them. They passed the busy salon and entered the make-it-or-break-it moment: make it through the main entrance lobby. Dogs are sniffing about, and armed guards patrol the area. The Canadian worries that they have already picked up their scent or noticed the footprints of fine sand left behind them. However, the crazy duo maintained their course, suave and discreet. The couple is quick on their feet. This is not their first rodeo or robbery. They won't leave without the precious jewels. Swiftly, they turn the corner; the guards are foiled so easily. They cross the wall, giving access to the elevator. From there, they can hide for the time being. Yet, they must make it all the way up. How? They can't wait for the elevator doors to open. Time is running out! The guards might catch them before the doors open. They find a stairwell and climb up the steps, one at a time, with a burst of laughter. Having successfully navigated past vigilant guards, they reached the upper floors where the coveted diamonds awaited to be snatched. With each obstacle surmounted, their confidence swelled, propelled by the promise of untold wealth. They are almost there! One, two, three, four flights of stairs… Their ascent culminated in the grand reveal—the elusive jewels gleaming resplendently in a dark room, casting a luminous aura. Yet, amidst their jubilation, a startling revelation emerged: the precious gems had adorned the Canadian's wrist all along, concealed within the bracelet her beloved Italian companion bestowed upon her. In the flurry of excitement and adrenaline-fueled action during their heist, the duo focused squarely on executing their plan flawlessly and securing the coveted diamonds. Amidst the rush of navigating through the labyrinthine corridors of the hotel and evading the watchful eyes of security personnel, they inadvertently overlooked the fact that the precious jewels were already in their possession, hidden within the bracelet worn by the Canadian. Considering this revelation, they shared a moment of incredulity and laughter, marveling at the irony of their oversight. Yet, they couldn't help but be awestruck by the serendipitous twist of fate that had ultimately led them to their prize. The story of how the Italian obtained the bracelet for the Canadian is a tale of cunning and sentimentality woven into the fabric of their partnership. It began weeks before their daring escapade in Cancún during a leisurely stroll through the vibrant streets of Rome. As they wandered hand in hand, immersed in the rich tapestry of the city's sights and sounds, the Italian chanced upon a quaint boutique nestled in a quiet corner of the cobblestone alleys. Intrigued by the exquisite jewelry displayed in the boutique's window, he ushered the Canadian inside, eager to explore the hidden treasures. Amidst the glittering array of baubles and trinkets, his gaze fell upon a delicate bracelet adorned with shimmering gray diamonds—the very same jewels that would later become the object of their audacious heist. Enthralled by its beauty, the Italian knew at that moment that it was destined for the Canadian's wrist. With a twinkle in his eye and a smile playing at the corners of his lips, he purchased the bracelet secretly, determined to surprise her with this token of his affection. In the following days, he bided his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to present his gift to the Canadian. And so it was that on a balmy evening beneath the romantic glow of the Roman moon, he revealed the bracelet to her, his heart brimming with love and anticipation. Moved by his gesture, the Canadian accepted the bracelet with tears of joy, its elegant design a testament to the depth of their bond. Little did she know at the time that nestled within its exquisite setting lay the jewels they would later seek to liberate from the confines of the opulent hotel in Cancún. Thus, the bracelet became a symbol of their love and devotion and a key to their daring adventure—a tangible reminder of the lengths to which they would go to protect and cherish one another. As they embarked on their escapade, hand in hand, the Italian's gift served as a beacon of hope, guiding them through the perils that lay ahead and leading them to the ultimate prize that awaited them at the journey's end.

6v43n9

The Empyrean

*contains consensual sexual content* March 20th, Dear Diary, Today I will take my first steps on Empyrean Island. A place from which, I have been assured by everyone, I will not return. It is most curious that all the stories can be wildly differing accounts: everything from demons and wild animals to portals to other realms. The only consistency, beside the inherent fear in each story, is that “no one EVER returns”. At first these warnings intrigued me. Rather than deter me these tales made me more eager than ever to explore the Island’s secrets. However, as the date of my departure grew nearer the urgency with which I was begged to stay and the genuine fear for me that I saw in those around me gave me cause to hesitate. Last night I was visited by the local priest. He offered me a blessing. I declined on the grounds of being a atheist. Nevertheless, he proceeded to utter his holy words, gesticulate and give me a good sprinkling of holy water. He gave me a chain from which hung a medallion of gold and bade me wear it at all times around my neck. He said it was for his benefit if not for mine, “I need to know that your soul is prepared for where you are going” he explained before leaving. Am I doing the right thing? If I am “never to return” I think I shall have a second sausage and an extra slice of fried bread at breakfast. March 20th (Evening of) Dear Diary, I am utterly exhausted. The Island may not look far away but it took two hours of rowing. I’ve secured my little boat above the water line and made camp for the night. The Island does not feel in the least bit sinister. I have to confess to feeling rather cosy though that may be due to the contents of my hipflask. Goodnight dear diary, its quite lovely that you are here with me. March 21st, Dear Beatrice, Yes, dearest diary, I have renamed you. It feels more companionable to be thinking of you as a person as I write in your pages. I have named you Beatrice after my wife, she has been in my thoughts so often today. I broke camp this morning and have been slowly navigating the heavily forested terrain that covers the Island. As I have no map to follow I have decided to simply head Eastwards toward the Island’s singular mountain. I figure I will climb as high as possible and get a good vantage point from which to view the wild beauty of this unspoiled land. Beatrice would have loved it here, that is the real Beatrice not you dear diary. She loved wild things, she said that was why she loved me. I regret my inconsistency in my treatment of her. I broke far too many promises. What a fool I was. I am too temperamental. I blow hot and cold; I wax and wane. I should have braved hell and highwater to keep my vows. I am sorry Beatrice. March 22nd, Dear Beatrice, This afternoon I stumbled into another campsite. I had been clambering through vine draped trees when I could have sworn one of them moved in an unexpected way. Fearing a snake I lurched to the side, lost my footing and found myself half slipping, half running down a steep incline. After landing unceremoniously at the bottom I did a quick body check and was relieved to find no broken bones or open wounds. As I stood up I caught a glimpse of a campsite. I hallooed and called out to announce myself but got no reply. The place was deserted. I followed a trail which led me to what once was a cave or tunnel entrance. However, it had caved in on itself and was blocked completely. I fear that the campsite’s occupants may well have been on the other side as it collapsed. I have returned to the campsite and will rest here for the night. Now I have had more time to explore the campsite it is obvious that it has not been occupied for a very long time. I am now convinced that what remains of its inhabitants is entombed behind or underneath the rockfall I found earlier. While searching I found a diary in one of the tents. I read it while I enjoyed my makeshift tea of cold camping rations. I am already missing a cooked meal. Beatrice you were a wonderful cook. I never told you how much I appreciated coming home to such delights as your cottage pie, slow cooked stews, roasted meats and steamed puddings. Opening the door I would be warmly greeted by delicious smells wafting from the kitchen as you sang along to the radio, dancing in your apron and slippers. The diary was mostly filled with data, notations and formulas. From what little I could glean the occupants of the camp were a young, very ambitious, research team of geologists. Their aim it seems had been to discover, for glory and profit, any mineral deposits of worth the Island may have held. It seems to me the Island had may have had other ideas about being plundered for personal wealth and fame. March 23rd, Dear Beatrice, Perhaps the water was tainted or some bacterium within the camp infected me but I spent the night in fevered dreaming. I feel quite myself again this morning but I am quite shaken and worn out. I will rest here again today. I am not afraid of staying here another night because, dear Beatrice, what dreams! I dreamed I was back in your arms. Making love over and over again in endless heated ecstasy. I swear I could feel the heat of your skin against mine, your lips so soft and inviting, taking me in whole with flickering, agile tongue, stroking and caressing so intimately. My fingers entwined in your soft hair, pulling and thrusting and being pulled in ever deeper feeling warmth and wetness and sweet perfect pleasurable pressure. My hands and mouth exploring every inch of you, suckling, kissing and tasting, the spine tingling feeling of your cool breath on my warm skin and the taste of you on my tongue exactly as I remember. Our bodies in tune as we moved tenderly one minute and urgently the next, alternating rhythms and positions. Simultaneously wanting to both satisfy and delay the inevitable climax. Collapsing as bodies and souls melted into one sticky, sweaty, satiated mass of beloved flesh. Oh Beatrice why, why did I ever let you go? I should have held on tighter. I should have paid attention. I should have seen the signs. March 24th, Dear Beatrice, I have discovered new friends! This morning I came to the edge of the forest and before me lay lush green fields and what I can only describe as a little village. I was welcomed heartily by the handful of fellow explorers that have made this place their home. John-Paul and Francis seem to be the village “Chiefs” although they were keen to point out they all live as a democracy, sharing work and ideas. John-Paul explained that he and Francis had been tired of hiding their relationship and living in fear of the repercussions for themselves and their families should they be “discovered” as a couple in their own home town. They had come to the Island for an adventure but when they found this valley John-Paul had seen the potential to live here as they wished to live; in peace and without judgment. Other explorers had followed the same path and while some carried on further a few, over the decades, had decided to call this place home and the village had grown. Animals, fruit and vegetables were farmed and a nearby stream provided fish and water for irrigation and washing. Drinking water came from an well and they even produced their own alcoholic beverage which, dear Beatrice, I have to confess went down a treat. As they are not great in numbers the whole village works together, eats together and spends most evenings together drinking homemade hooch and talking under the stars. Such conversation as I have never experienced before, philosophy, science, psychology, religion, everything, debated, discussed, argued and probed. If only they would rejoin society; these people could save the world. If, that is, the world would listen to them. March 25th, Dear Beatrice, I left the village with a heavy heart and a somewhat heavy head. My back pack was replenished with fresh food and drink to sustain my expedition onwards. Though I do feel it may be a while before I will feel up to imbibing from my refilled hip flask. John-Paul walked with me and we talked as we followed a track that climbed slowly into the foothills of the mountain. Before he left me he told me to stick to the path and before many miles I would find myself passing another small settlement. He advised me that here a group of women had settled and set themselves up as a defense force for the Island. They traded meat from their hunts with the village and provided help if needed. “They will ask you to surrender any weapons you may have.” he told me. “I would strongly suggest that you do so.” With a wave we parted ways and soon the track took me to the village he had described. Stone huts stood on either side of the track and the wind was chillier here. I looked back and could see that the winding path I had pleasantly strolled along had taken me to a much higher altitude. The track brought me to a style that would take me over a stone wall and I was just putting my foot on the first step when I caught a movement at the edge of my sight. I turned and to my amazement two women stepped forward appearing as if by magic. They had been so silent, still and camouflaged that I had completely missed their presence. “If you wish to continue, you must leave behind any and all weapons. Nothing of iron or steel must pass this wall.” The woman’s voice was quiet and non threatening but it held that quality of confidence that is only possessed by those who know they will be heeded. “I..I..I.. have nothing on me other than my knife.” I stammered. “Leave it here or turn back.” I knew no argument would be tolerated and laying my knife down on top of the wall I turned back to talk to the women but they had simply vanished. I knew now that they were there, somewhere, I just could not get my senses to detect them. Dear Beatrice what hunters they must be! As I mounted the style I heard a quiet voice on the wind say “Weapons would not help with what comes next. If you have lived an honest life you need have no fear.” I have no hesitation in confessing I nearly turned around and ran. Instead I held fast, breathed deep and screwing up every ounce I had of courage climbed over the style and carried on up the narrow trail. March 26th, Dear Beatrice, After an uncomfortable cold night huddled in my sleeping bag in a small hollow beneath some stunted shrubbery, which did little to provide cover from the chill winds, I recommenced my climb. My trail led ever upwards and soon I was no longer walking on grassland and heather, now my footsteps crunched down on rock and gravel. I had to watch the ground before me with care so I didn’t trip or twist an ankle. Perhaps it was because my eyes were so focused on the ground that I did not realise the danger that was gathering above me in the skies. It was only when I heard a bone chilling cry that I looked up. The shrill sound split the air and was soon answered by others among the birds gathering above me. Eagles. Six or seven of them whirling in effortless circles, their great wings barely moving. I had barely time to register their presence before the first one swooped down, talons and beak ready to strike. Instinctively, I ducked and covered my head. I saved my sight by mere inches but I felt warm blood start to drip down past my ear and soak into my collar. In shock I stumbled forward. I tried to hurry along the path hoping to find shelter. I ran in a crouch my arms protecting my head and eyes but more of them swooped and struck with razor sharp precision. Hair was ripped from my head, my right ear torn by a vicious beak. The words whispered to me by the wall rang again in my mind. I fell to my knees and cried out “I HAVE BEEN A GOOD MAN. I HAVE LIVED A HONEST LIFE!”. I wept, terrified and humbled by nature’s attack. I pressed my hand to my chest and felt the shape of the medallion the priest had given me. Dear Beatrice, you have known me to be nothing but a complete and unrepentant unbeliever but in that moment I prayed. I pulled out the medallion and held it to the sky and I begged God to believe in me and save me, swearing on everything I hold dear, including you, that I was a good and true soul. The attack ceased. It could have been minutes or hours later, I do not recall. I know only that when I finally dared to look up the birds had gone and the skies were clear and free from any threat. March 27th, Dear Beatrice, Once more I find a friend. His name is Peter and he has made a home of sorts in a nearby cave. He has kindly nursed my wounds, bathing them in ice cold water and anointing me with herbal remedies. I have endured his stinging ministrations with gratitude and I am now feeling much better and definitely calmer. I am not sure what herbs have been brewed into his tea but I am certain they have positive effects. The hooch in my hip flask was swiftly used as a disinfectant much to my initial annoyance but I must admit this tea more than makes up for my loss. Peter lives up here, isolated by choice, in contemplative seclusion. He says he feels closer to God’s truth here. He lives simply, with so few resources I wonder at his discipline. He, in turn, seems surprised that I would expect him to want anything more. March 28th, Dear Beatrice, My sleep last night was deep and dreamless. Perhaps it was due to Peter’s herbal tea or perhaps it is because I feel as though I have passed through some personal crisis. My heart feels lighter Beatrice. My mind feels unclogged and I see my own life now with clarity. Peter asked me if I held a Faith, a belief in the spiritual. Until yesterday I would have said no but now I find that I do. In need I cried out to God and I believe He answered. Peter asked me if I had Hope. I affirmed that I did. Hope has never left me. I have always lived a hopeful life and my dearest, cherished hope is that one day I will be reunited with my beloved Beatrice. Finally, Peter asked if I understood Love. I told him that for me Love wasn’t one thing but all things together. That Love is passion, kindness and forgiveness. Love is also sorrow, pain and arguments. In the wrong hands it can be twisted into evil stinging knots but it can never be broken or erased from the world. Love waits until it is noticed, until you can recognise and accept it. Until you finally see that it was always by your side. March 29th, Dear Beatrice, Peter says I’m ready for my final ascent. He points towards the top of the mountain where a dazzling brightness emanates from the rocks. There he tells me I should follow the path through an tunnel of stone. He warns me that the tunnel is dark but assures me I will be safe and at its end I will find the answers I am seeking. I follow his instructions and blindly feel my way through the darkness. I have no fear and I am soon blinking rapidly as I step back into the light. The mountain’s peak is hollow forming a vast shallow bowl which is beautiful to behold. I am on a wide ledge of solid rock which stretches out before me culminating in a crude temple from which emanates a light so pure it feels like life itself is shining on me. As I approach the temple I note it’s pillars are entwined with roses and marvel that such a plant could thrive here. Their heady scent lies in the air, the flower petals drift like confetti and stir in the breeze. At the centre of the temple I see three circles of light, bright and pure and in perfect balance with each other. At first that is all I see and then it is as if everything comes fully into focus and standing in the midst of the circles is my Beatrice. She is now more lovely and beautiful than I have ever known her. Dearest Diary I must leave you behind now as I have my Beatrice to be my companion and follow into unknown adventures with. I cannot take you with me. It had been my intention to be the first to return from Empyrean and bring this story back into the world. However, I do not have the wings within me to fly back along that path; I find it is not my flight to take.

8lc3qu

Desperate Remedies

A dry desert wind blows across the surface of planet Argot. Thick dust clouds fill the air, twisting and turning, constantly changing the appearance of the dunes. Its citizens have moved underground centuries before. Argot was one of the first planets in all the galaxies to produce life after the Big Bang. Over millions of years, its population had used all its elemental resources. Their scientists worked hard to solve the dilemma but with little success. They eventually achieved a momentous victory when they learned how to convert dark matter into energy. With this unlimited power source, the Argotians built a fleet of spacecraft to travel to distant galaxies, seeking out uninhabited planets and stripping them of all their resources. However, they soon discovered that planets with colonizations of beasts and beings had far more resources than those without. It is for this reason the Argotians attack only planets that support life. They have developed a dark matter bomb that, when exploded over the chosen planet, will eliminate all forms of organic living matter, thus leaving behind only the elemental resources. They then exploit these resources and send them back to their home planet to restore it to its once magnificent glory. While searching the cosmos for suitable planets to plunder, the Argotains discovered a small blue planet orbiting third from its star. They could tell it was rich in resources even from a great distance. They quickly charted a course.                                                                     … The doors to Ensign Mirri’s navigation deck hiss open as Commander Loo enters. As Ensign Mirri rises to salute his superior officer, Commander Loo tells him to be at ease. “Have you decided on a course, Ensign?” Sitting at his console, the ensign replies, “Yes, sir. I have been studying the charts and learned that the star is Sol.  It has eight planets orbiting around it at various distances. The one we are interested in is the third planet, known as Earth. Earth also has a natural satellite called the Moon. Of the eight planets in this solar system, only Earth sustains life.” Leaning over the ensign’s shoulder to view the charts, the commander asks, “Is this the course you’ve decided on?” “Yes, Sir. I’ve planned our approach to be a series of stealthy moves that will keep us hidden behind each planet in the system until we finally reach Earth’s moon. The Moon rotates at the same speed as its orbit, making it appear only to have one side facing Earth. Therefore, if we land on the Moon during its night cycle, we should be able to remain in the dark and unseen from Earth.  This cycle takes 27 days, 7 hours, and 43 minutes to complete. During this time, we should be able to prepare a completely operational station.” Placing his hand on Mirri’s shoulder, the commander praises him. “Good work, Mirri. We’ll be counting on you.” After leaving Mirri, the commander heads down to communications. Upon entering the communications station, Commander Loo demands, “Report Lt. Zpa!” Zpa replies, “Greetings, Commander, and I must tell you I have much to report, Sir. Would you kindly have a seat, please?” Pulling up a chair, the commander bids the communications officer to continue. “I take it that you have infiltrated the communications satellites?” “Oh, yes, sir. Their communication satellites, as well as their radio, entertainment satellites, military and spy satellites. In addition to these, they also have two large interstellar telescopes that see very far into space. Ensign Mirri must use extreme caution in our approach, lest we be seen. The commander protrudes his lower lip. “I’ll be sure to inform him. What else have you learned?” “Its computer system contains a resource website entitled “Wikipedia.” Zpa displays it on his service screen. “As you can see, sir, this site contains a vast knowledge of Earth, everything from its prehistoric past to its present day. Anything, anyone, or any place you need to know about is on this site. Most fascinating.” The commander leans back in his chair and smiles. “Most helpful indeed, Lieutenant. Zpa. What is your general impression so far?” “Sir, I had my computer analyze the entire site for accurate and precise reporting of the facts contained in it, and it has returned a definitive overview of Earth and its history, concluding with its possible outcome over time. Earth began much like all planets- a molten ball of rock. It underwent many profound changes in time, but it wasn’t until the Ice Age that humans first appeared. As humans slowly advanced into the Industrial Age, they succeeded in driving into extinction a vast number of beasts and birds along with a great deal of fern and fauna. Also, along the way, humans themselves changed. As they spread across the face of the Earth, they developed colonization, kingdoms, and countries and gained rulership over others through governments and religious practices. The driving tenets of these governments and religions were greed and prejudice. Certain groups of humans look down on others who are less fortunate than themselves and figure those people are less intelligent or even less human. Therefore, this gives them the right to rule or even enslave other humans into doing their bidding.   They created laws to control and enforced those laws to control the masses. They speak different languages and practice different religions, some of which are peaceful, while others entail terrorism to achieve their goals. The thing is, sir, that they have entered the Atomic Age and still insist on using coal and oil as their primary energy sources. They detest wind and solar power and have yet to manage nuclear power safely. Still, many of their nations have nuclear weapons, and considering how barbaric they still are, this will lead to a dangerous situation soon. If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, we have arrived at a critical point in their evolution. If we don’t eliminate them now, hardly any elemental resources will be left for us to harvest.” Commander Loo sits, holding his chin between his finger and thumb. “Thank you for your hard work, Lieutenant. Zpa. I shall send a copy of your report and a recommendation to Headquarters. In the meantime, I will gather the captain and the members of the department heads to discuss our mission.” Before leaving, Commander Loo sighs heavily. “I can’t help but feel sad about the way the human heart chose to move forward on this planet. Earth offered so much good that could have been shared if they had not been so greedy and self-centered.  Suppose they had used their intelligence to create and share wealth, health, and love instead of using their achievements to make war as a way to achieve peace. That plan is the way of madmen.”   As his commander rises, Zpa asks, “Sir? I don’t want to seem impertinent, but are we that much different from them?” Commander Loo chuckles softly. “Our quest is not to hate and to enslave others. Ours is a simple matter of gathering the things we need to restore our planet to its former glory.”   With that, Commander Loo strikes his fist to his chest. “To the glory of Argot!”  Lt. Zpa repeats, “To the glory of Argot.” As the doors hiss closed behind the commander, Zpa unclutches his fist and lets his hand fall. “Does not the commander hear the irony in his words? Our mission is nothing but selfishness and greed! I suppose all I have learned from this is that humans, or men in power, are the same, no matter where they are from. Power corrupts, and as powerful men get what they want, the masses suffer and die. All hail Argot.” 

vuzqtl

A Shimmer on Sunday

She didn’t seem to hear me, but used the light on the acrylic glass for a mirror to check her bangs. Her computer flashed something, the screen faced the other way so that public couldn’t view it. The immigration official fixed her glasses while viewing what had come up. Air Conditioning pumping through the vents proved to my ears just how large the Valon Customs Entry Port was. Much bigger than Brentwood. “It looks like you’ve overstayed your visa.” She looked in my direction, but it was clear that her eyes were focused on the glass. Not much communication was going to happen here. I already knew the outcome of this, but I needed to play the part in case she did pay attention. “But I’m coming in to the city. I wasn’t even on a visa.” The air conditioner spun down leaving a hollowness in the vents. My question didn’t even make it through the glass. Wouldn’t have mattered anyways as she wasn’t hearing anything I said. “You’ll have to take it up with Deportations Department.” The custom’s official made a gesture without even looking and motioned towards a room off to the side. Door sign read simply: Customs Official: Deportations Department and a hallway window showed a dark room without anyone inside. Usual furniture was there, not tidy, not messy. Just an office and no one was home. Kind of like who I was dealing with now. But I guess that’s what I get for trying to get through to the Valon city on a Sunday Night. Perfect. She pulled out a stamp gun and reached out for my hand. Quickly, I looked behind me. No one was there. I flipped my wrist over, and projected a fake arm. Tangible to the touch, but there was no way in hell I was going to get that tracker injected into me. Plus, I had another passport in the storage unit I could use to get out of the country if she remembered to put a date on her stamp. She grabbed my fake hand and injected into it a tracker. In a monotone, and completely rote manner, she fixed her bangs and recited a well trained phrase. “You’ll have to report back on Monday during working hours. If you don’t report back my 5pm tomorrow afternoon, you will be in violation of city immigration code and subject to search and seizure followed by banishment.” She didn’t even look at my passport. “You can go.” She handed me back my hand. No date on the passport stamp. “Mam, have a nice night.” No answer. None was needed. I got exactly what I wanted and she got to return to her mirror. As I put away the passport, I knew that this mission was going to be a success and that I had finally made it into the city. But I looked up and saw a camera trained on me. One that I hadn’t shut off. -- About 20 minutes away by tread, a large hand reached for the keyboard. The screen had been enlarged to watch the camera of a Valon City immigration official dealing with a tourist. But his Valon Hunter training told him that he was looking at a werefinder. Tensions had grown tough between the cities of Valon and Bramblewood, and the question of possible werefinders moving in to disrupt communications between the shipment ports had placed everyone on high alert. “Jarvs, who comes in at 2am on Sunday night?” Jarvs turned around to answer and his ears twitched as he drew in a smile. “Do you think you have one?” He responded. “Well-“ As the hunter began to respond, both Jarvs and he watched as the individual on the screen cautiously looked around and projected an arm for a fake tracking implant. Jarvs picked up the radio. “Vrai, this is immigration office. Vrai, over.” A crackling picked up on the radio speaker. “Go for Vrai.” “Potential werefinder entering in to immigration terminal 7. Five and a half farthings tall, grey fedora, sapphire skin, white beard, light grey trench coat, white collar shirt, blue tie, dark tan valise briefcase.” The werefinder paused. It was clear he was sensing something. Jarvs stopped talking and the two watched the monitor. Then he looked straight up, right at the camera and began running. “Stay here.” Jarvs said and he grabbed a hat from the coatrack. He ran out of the office and the alarms started going off as he ran down the hallway. “Son of a bitch has tripped the shimmer wards.” -- The Customs official looked up to the alarm, finally broken from her entrancing hair. The air behind her head shimmered and what looked like a shiny, silvery strand of hair was pulled out from her head. -- The camera was clearly watching me and I knew that the time was up. Immediately, I started booking it. If I could make it through the first set of doors, I would be able to cast into a tread as I’d be outside of the wards. But before I could make it to the door, the shimmer alarms started going off. Immediately. I knew. It’s interesting how the pawn knows he’s the pawn. Life is always a serious game when you are the one being played. Somehow, I’m going to have to face a shimmering charge even though I had never even learned that trick. I stopped. Clearly, someone had followed me through and was using me as cover to be able to shimmer through the wards. It had to be someone who did not want to be found and could not risk holding a tangible body in order to get through customs. Everything would be pinned on me and whomever this was would be able to wait until the wards were being reset and simply meander through. The only chance I had was to prevent myself from leaving until I found whoever had come behind me from Bramblewood. The age old tale of these two cities was going to have to be played out in a travel customs entry port, and I was hopefully the protagonist.

yecqjw

The Prospector

THE PROSPECTOR MANAT 27, 479, 08:24 I have reached Oric 3, as barren and ugly as any other asteroid. This was supposed to be my week off but of course The Company came up with an “emergency” to pull me back in. They detected traces of the rare element prazosium in this piece of rock, and now I’m wasting my vacation assessing whether this is accurate. If so, they will send a mining crew to extract it all. That will be one less asteroid in the infinite cloud, and nobody will miss it. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing with my life. Prazosium is used to make laser weapons. I try to make myself believe that the weapons will be used to protect the innocent, but sometimes I can’t suppress that nagging feeling… what if they’re not? Honestly, I don’t feel like I’m making a tangible difference in the universe. On Maslow’s Hierarchy, “having a purpose” is the penultimate, achievable only if you’ve already met all your other needs. I don’t think I agree. Not having self-esteem or family shouldn’t get in the way of making a difference, should it? Maybe it does. Maybe that’s my problem. Where would I be now if I’d taken a different career path? I did have that choice, once, back at university. I could have spent my time helping living beings. Medical school or veterinary school? Whatever choice I made would determine the course of my life forever. In an attempt to evade the overwhelming stress of the decision, I dropped out. And now I’m here. Prospecting for elements in the middle of nowhere. Enough griping. Time to get to work. Probably a drink later. MANAT 27, 479, 18:32 Something happened.  As soon as I started collecting data, I could tell that there is a lot of prazosium here – but also something far more unusual: the interior of Oric 3 is hollow. Finally, some excitement in my life! About damn time. I pulled up the lance anchoring me to the ground, unclipped my long tether, and went hunting for any entrance to a cave or tunnel. And wouldn’t you believe it, I found one. I switched on my head lamp and there, etched into the sides of the tunnel, were drawings. Good ones, too, real works of art. They all featured small furry creatures of a kind I’d never seen before, with gentle eyes, large ears, and tails as long as they were tall. Almost like tiny bears. The animals were depicted walking among strange plants; swimming in a pool of water as two suns beamed down on them; lined up like they were waiting for something. Venturing deeper into the tunnel, I reached a vast room. Bright light illuminated the scene in front of me: a crowd of the little animals, swaying back and forth, tails and arms raised. They formed two concentric circles around a larger individual in the middle. The larger creature turned its big eyes on me and I froze. I had the feeling I was intruding on something sacred. The others followed the gaze of their leader, parting as it strode through the crowd towards me. Before I could act, it laid its paws upon my feet, and I was thrust into a vision. I stood in the forest I’d seen in the drawing. Light filtered through enormous leaves towering high above me. As I watched, a group of the small animals raced past me through waves of sweet-smelling grass, taking no notice of my presence. They were pursued by a hoard of tall four-legged beasts whose hooves shook the ground as they galloped after their quarry, trampling the stragglers. Smoking rays of light shot from the brutes’ narrow eyes, tearing through their helpless prey and leaving them sizzling on the ground. I watched, horrified, as the entire group was rapidly exterminated. The vision shifted and I was pressed against the wall of a spaceship which rumbled as it struggled to escape the pull of the planet’s gravity. Through a small window I saw the hoofed beasts, weapons aimed upward. A steaming laser sliced through the ship’s side and several of the animals rushed to fill the breach with their own tiny bodies, melting into the crack, sad eyes turned to their families as they sacrificed themselves. Then I was back in the cavern on Oric 3, the creature looking up at me. I read sorrow in its gentle face. And I understood. These creatures were refugees, driven from their home planet by some alien predator. This small population is all that remains of their kind. My heart broke for them. I thought, finally, here’s my chance to make a difference. I reached out and placed my hand on the animal’s furry head. Don’t worry, I thought, gazing down into its soft eyes. You’re safe. Somehow, I knew it understood.  When I returned to my ship, I submitted my report to The Company: no prazosium here. MANAT 27, 479, 20:75 The Company didn’t buy my story. They’re convinced that there is a huge profit to be made off of this asteroid. They’re going to send another prospector to get a second opinion. So I came clean. I didn’t tell them about the massive amounts of prazosium, but I did tell them about the creatures. Leave this asteroid alone, I said. There’s thousands of others, and this is the home of intelligent life. How would you like it if you were in their place, fleeing your home only to be destroyed? I should have known The Company would have no regard for life. All they care about is money. They ordered me to leave immediately. I can’t stand the thought of it. The other guy is going to get here, see that there’s a buttload of prazosium, and report back to The Company. Then the miners will come and completely eradicate this beleaguered species that has already been through so much. I’ve got to figure something out. MANAT 28, 479, 15:87 I had to do it. Mr. Second Opinion got here this morning in a dilapidated shuttle. He stepped out in his scuffed-up suit, a cumbersome oxygen tank strapped to his back. I told him: there’s an intelligent species here, just pretend the asteroid is barren of prazosium and let it go. His response was that he was going to do his job and get paid his bonus for finding the element. Why? I asked. It’s just money. There will be more. Yes, he said, that’s the point. Money. Look at my shuttle, he said. I need a new one, and this job will pay for it. Then if there’s any extra, I can send some home to my folks. He was a good man. I yanked my sharp anchoring lance from the dirt and thrust it into his oxygen tank. Air hissed out, the tank crumpling inwards as it deflated. He looked at me, shocked, and tried to speak, but his face distorted as he inhaled, unable to breathe. I quickly struck his side, toppling him to the ground. He struggled to stand up, but his outdated, chunky suit prevented any agile movement. I rammed my lance back into the ground as hard as I could, then pulled him to his feet and poised to deliver another blow. He shoved me, and the force lifted us away from the surface of the asteroid, clawing and grappling. We bounced as my tether reached its limit. Weakened by the lack of oxygen, he could not hold on to me and was jerked free of my arms. Off into the black nothingness of space he sailed, arms and legs flailing wildly. Numb from the shock of what I’d done, I boarded his shuttle in a haze and sent his report to The Company. No prazosium here.

xsh3w9

The Adventures of Cliff Allen

Preface I am Cliff Allen, an explorer seeking to discover new nations in this world. This is a journal that will keep accounts of my many expeditions and adventures. January 1, 1698 France France is by far the most beautiful country I have ever been in! Well, it is the only country I have been in, apart from my home country, England. But it is still the most eye-catching, alluring place I have ever been! As nice as England is, my breath has been taken away by the awe this country has struck me with. Although my goal is to discover somewhere new through my expeditions, I have always wanted to visit this wonderful country. Now that I have, I could leave and pursue the rest of my dreams, but... I am not ready to leave just yet. I shall remain here for just a fortnight more, then perhaps I will go. But for now, I will dine on exquisite French cuisine and see the rest of this divine city. January 15, 1698 Somewhere... I am not of the exact location. I just recently left Paris, and I am now traveling to wherever this dirt road takes me! I do not have much; all I have is my loyal horse, map, and compass. However, this mysterious road could lead me somewhere new, and that is my intention. My purpose for exploring is to find something new and share it with the rest of the world. I want to make history. I want to be remembered. Everyone shall know my name, Cliff Allen! However, if no one knows my name, then perhaps somebody will discover this journal and share what adventures I did go on with the world. That way, if I never find somewhere new, I will still be remembered. I might be known as the foolish explorer who failed to do his job, but I will still be remembered! January 1, 1699 Portugal I have been in Portugal for nearly a fortnight now. For the first few days, I had genuinely believed that it was a new, undiscovered place. But once I dug a little deeper into the depths of this country, I found that it was not new at all. I feel rather clueless. How am I finding so many places that have been around for centuries? I have a map and several other tools that should assist me, but they are doing nothing! You would think that by now I should have found somewhere new, but I have not. It is almost as if I am holidaying around the world, but that is not my intention. I do not want to waste my time on such foolish errands. I have left my home for a purpose, and I will fulfill that purpose! I am unsure of how I will do that, though... January 1, 1700 England My adventures have come to a close, or at least to a point of abeyance. I have explored many places and seen many things, but my time is over. I have discovered nothing new. If I continue attempting to discover new places, then people would look down on me with such disapprobation, and I would not appreciate that. As much as I would love to continue seeing the world and seeking new places that no one has seen before, I have not the funds to do such a thing. I will only exacerbate things for myself if I continue pursing my foolish dreams of becoming a successful explorer. I have no chance. How am I to find a new place in this world that is full of successful adventurers? They have already discovered every place possible. What is left for me? Every significant place that this world cares about has been found. Not a single person would hear about anything I found, if I were to find something. So not only am I lacking funds to send me off on another expedition, but I also do not have a place to explore. No one wants to hear the tales of a man who just saw the places people found centuries ago. People want to hear something new! However, people have been exploring this world for centuries, but they also didn't leave much for me. I came too late; I have nothing new to find. It is hopeless. There is nothing left for me. I cannot pursue the thing I love most. My dreams are crushed, and there is nothing I can do about it. I will not be remembered, and no one will know my name. Now I am just a foolish, halfwitted man who thought he could be something great. July 1, 1700 The sea This is unbelievable. I am aboard a ship with a group of fellow explorers who are seeking to discover a new world, just like Christopher Columbus did! I cannot believe that I, of all people, was invited to join such an inimitable, laudable cohort of men. I am sure that we will be able to discover something great together. I will admit, I the weight that despair had put on me just mere months ago was quite heavy, and I thought that I would never recover from such a time. However, when the leader of the group, a rather aloof, laconic man by the name of Monty, came to me with the offer to join his band of explorers, I immediately accepted. How he discovered me and why he wanted me I did not know, but I was still exceedingly grateful for such an opportunity. This trip has not been everything I had dreamed it would be, though. The ship we are on is rather small, and our bedchambers are not nearly as private as I would like. Everyone shares one small room, and each of us gets an old, ragged hammock to sleep on. It is not comfortable--especially when the ship rocks back and forth and nearly dumps me out of my hammock. Not only that, but the other men are a little... malodorous. Clearly they have not washed themselves in quite some time. It is not pleasant sharing with such foul-smelling men, but I suffer through it. I make it out of that tight little room every morning somehow alive, so their smell must not be as poisonous as I thought. Despite those minor details, I have been enjoying this adventure overseas very much. I have never done much exploration across the ocean, so this is all very new to me, but I am not frightened at all. I look forward to everything that is to come, and I cannot wait to see what happens next. October 1, 1700 Still at sea I am beginning to think that I failed to identify the differences between what is spurious and what is authentic. These men, especially Morty, are causing me to believe that they are not what I thought they were. Have I been fooled? Have these men outwitted me? Now that I think of it, they seem rather supercilious and they have addled my mind. They made me believe that I belonged with them and that they were going to help me make history, but now I am not so sure. At first, their request to have me on their ship made me feel like the venerable explorer that I always wanted to be, but now I feel extremely chagrined. I have never felt like this, and it is not pleasant. Monty beguiled me with his invitation, and now I am trapped on this ship. There is no escape; we are in the middle of the ocean. I cannot leave until we are on land, and we are unfortunately not. Was that Monty's plan the entire time? Did he captivate my attention enough to get me on his ship, only to keep me imprisoned here forever? That cannot be... but it does not sound unlikely. I had an intense feeling of trepidation concerning what was going to happen. I feared that Monty would keep me here forever, but then I remembered something... We would have to come across land at some point. It was nearly impossible to stay at sea forever. Monty would have to stop the ship somewhere in order to restore the perishable things like food. Unless Monty's plan was for me to starve... but he would not do that because he, too, would starve. We all would. But what if that was his plan? Would he let himself die just to cause us all harm? That was likely not the truth. I was almost positive that Monty would not do such a monstrous thing. I need to stop rambling about such ridiculous things. I will stop writing... for now. October 30, 1700 Nearing land... I hope We have been sailing the seas for nearly another month. How much longer would this go on? I was anxious to get my feet on solid ground. I wanted to go back home, or at least anywhere but here. I tried not to fear the possibilities of what was to come; I believed that it was not very mature or manly of me to be scared of the future, but I couldn't help myself. I was frightened by Monty and the devious plans that were likely buzzing around his head. I hoped that Monty would not hurt me. To my surprise, he had not yet done such a thing. The only thing he has done was cut back the food rations we all got. We were slowly running out, and Monty often assured me and the others that we would reach land soon, but I had doubted his words for quite a while. When Monty invited me to join him on this ship, he had claimed that he was a highly experienced sailor and explorer, but I wondered if that was true. If he was such a good sailor like he claimed to be, then wouldn't we be on land by now? This expedition seemed very strange to me... November 14, 1700 Land! Despite my many doubts, Monty has lead us to land! Solid ground! Oh, I feel as if I could kiss this disgusting, filthy dirt road that we are now on! Monty claims that this place is not inhabited, meaning that it might also be undiscovered. Even though Monty was not the most trustworthy person, those words made my heart skip a beat. Perhaps this would be the day I made history! Maybe I really will be remembered! I was giddy with excitement. I had never felt this good about an expedition in quite a while. Even though I have struggled to believe Monty while on this escapade, I am faking my belief in him until I really do trust him. November 18, 1700 Spain After a fortnight of exploring this new land, we discovered that it is not new. The moment we discovered that this area was Spain instead of somewhere unknown, an incredibly heavy feeling of disappointment hit me harder than a mighty ocean wave. I thought that this would be the place that made me a well known explorer. I thought that this would be the year everyone realized who I was and what I had done. But it wasn't my time. I felt so imprudent. Was this failed expedition because of me? Was I the reason none of us knew this was Spain? Maybe I was. Unless... it was Monty. Who else could it be besides the deceitful leader of this expedition? I doubted any of the other men on this adventure would lead us to a country that was discovered centuries ago. Now that I think about it... Monty has seemed a bit suspicious lately, especially during this part of our adventure. He has been much quieter than usual; he only spoke to give us directions. He did not use a map, compass, or any such tool; he relied only on whatever came out of his mouth. When he did give directions, he would randomly say "left" or "right", rather than something more specific. He never said where they were headed, nor did he answer many questions that his fellow explorers asked. So this was all a trick... That thought boggled my mind. How had I and the others fallen for such foolery? Why did Monty do such a thing to us? Why did he fail to tell us of his plans? How could he let us follow him so blindly? Monty had a wicked soul, and we had all fallen for his tricks. I felt doltish and dumb, but I refused to let things end this way. I would confront Monty and make sure he felt just as foolish as I. Even if it was a fight to the death, I would do it. I had to get that sweet, sweet revenge. 

txoh4d

A Tale of Two Cities

I looked across the battlefield at the opposing army. They weren’t big, but then again, neither were we. They came from the city of Walnut, a land of dark wood and even darker intentions. It was no surprise to see them on the battlefield again. Our two cities had an eternal feud, always clashing, always competing. Maybe one day we’d sort things out and make an alliance, but today was certainly not that day. Today, we fought. To the right I saw my friend Leonard take the first charge forward. Like me, he was one of the foot soldiers on the front line. He was quick on his feet and wasn’t afraid to make the first move. Our army usually moved first. We came from the city of Maple, a land of light wood, bright futures, and glorious motives. We refused to let the Walnuts push us or anyone else around. Led by our Deity, the Mighty Hand, we knew nothing could get in our way. Shortly after Leonard moved a foot soldier from the opposing army charged forward as well. Typical Walnut strategy, wait for the real strategists to start and then copy them. Even their formation resembled ours, with a line of foot soldiers leading the charge, and the specialized forces protecting the royalty in the back. Of course, the specialists could move a bit quicker than we pawns could, so they often ran ahead and made the first strike. But we were always there to support them, blocking the opposition and opening pathways for our team to get through. Several more foot soldiers advanced from both sides. After a couple minutes I felt the urging from the Mighty Hand that it was my turn, so off I went. It felt good to approach the enemy, knowing I was fulfilling my duty to the king and to the Mighty Hand. Usually known to only take one step forward at a time, I boldly took two steps on this first approach. The Walnuts needed to know that us Maples didn’t fear them one bit. A moment later I heard a thundering of hooves from behind me and to the right. I looked back and saw one of our majestic knights leap over the pawns in front of him and join the fight. Our knight was one of the cleverest soldiers I knew, always attacking from unexpected angles and directions. Riding on his powerful steed, he was practically unstoppable, able to jump over those in his way to land the killing blows. The Walnuts saw the knight move too, (who could miss it?), and they decided to send one of their specialists out in return. It was a bishop, sliding at an angle across the field. They call him a bishop, but I don’t know what religion he could possibly claim. Unlike our noble Maple bishops, I’d only ever seen Walnut bishops lie and scheme and backstab, always selfish and deceptive. Nonetheless, he was a powerful foe that one must keep an eye on. Now that specialists were on the field the real fighting was about to begin. A few more moves from both sides, and then our knight gloriously jumped up and came down on an opposing pawn, knocking him down in a single hit. The Walnut’s Deity (whom we refer to as the Lesser Hand), picked up the defeated pawn and laid him to rest on the grounds next to the battlefield. Our Deities show great respect for the dead, and they like to keep the battlefield open for those still engaged in the conflict. Unexpectedly, an opposing bishop struck next, ruthlessly slaying one of our pawns, my fellow foot soldier. Her name was Eleanor, she was a strong woman on and off the battlefield. Her presence would be greatly missed. I bowed my head for a moment as the Mighty Hand removed her, but then looked back at our enemies. The battle was far from over, and I couldn’t waste time grieving now. I had a job to do. The battle continued, growing fiercer every minute. Soon specialists started falling, as well as several more pawns, including my friend Leonard. I was slowly moving forwards, but hadn’t had any action yet. Right when I thought I might need to lunge diagonally at an opposing pawn, I heard gasps of surprise and delight behind me, and then I saw our queen rush by, slaying the soldier ahead of me. I cheered in glee with the rest of the army. Our queen had entered the battlefield! Queen Maple was a woman of extraordinary strength and speed, and a firm protector of her people. She wasn’t afraid to step up and get her hands dirty when needed. We all aspired to become like her one day. The battle continued for several intense minutes, and right when I thought we had the upper hand I heard a shocking cry from behind. “Check!” One of the opposing knights yelled, maliciously laughing out our king, who was now in mortal danger. Our army froze for several moments at the unexpected turn. We had been so focused on advancing against the Walnuts that we had almost forgotten our most important duty, that of protecting the king. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that there were still a few pawns and specialists diligently guarding our king, but they were unfortunately in all the wrong places to stop the evil knight who had snuck in. Our king was a man of grace and wisdom, and although he didn’t have much agility anymore, he knew how to use the strength he did have. He courageously stepped to the side, out of the way of the approaching knight. The plan of the Walnuts had failed. Or so I thought. To the front left I heard a strong, female voice yell “Check!” I nearly fainted when I saw the Walnut queen step out of her hiding place, walking right into the perfect position to fly past our defenses and destroy our king. That conniving little jerk! Unlike our queen, she had been hiding from the battlefront until the moment she could get all the glory. If I had been closer, I’d have spat at her feet. She was the lowest of low. Although I would have gladly fought their queen myself, I was too far away to do anything, so I looked around to see who else could help. I saw our Queen Maple to the far right, looking in horror at the other queen. A firm look of determination then crossed our beautiful queen’s face, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed across the entire battlefield in righteous anger, ready to sacrifice herself for her king. The opposing queen had strategically placed herself in front of a pawn. She knew that it would be suicide for anyone to try to kill her, and thus she was confident in her move. But she had grossly miscalculated. Queen Walnut, a selfish and cowardly royal, didn’t know what true loyalty could do. She turned in shock and fear when she saw our majestic queen approach. She hadn’t counted on Queen Maple’s love for her king and for her people to be greater than the love of her own life. The evil queen screamed in agony when Queen Maple cut her down, and then our queen turned and gave us all one last smile before the Walnut pawn stabbed her from behind. The battlefield fell silent as the Deities removed the queens. The two key players were gone. This battle was just going to get uglier and uglier now that our champions of skill and grace were absent. So, I gritted my teeth and got ready to fight. It was time to avenge our queen! As the battle waged on, I had the chance to slaughter one opposing pawn, but other than that the worst of the fighting didn’t get close to me. At one point, when most of the attention was elsewhere, I looked forward and was surprised to see an opening to the opposite side of the battlefield. Legend stated that a pawn who could make it to the other side would be endowed with the powers of their late queen. If I could just touch the far side of the field, I would gain her powers and turn the tide of the battle in our favor for good! I took a sneaky step forward, waited a moment, and then took another step. I was slower than the specialists, so stealth was my greatest ally. The closer I could get before they saw me, the higher the chances of completing my mission. Unfortunately, they had a pawn in my way that I had to eliminate, and I was too loud when I took him down. Three steps from the edge of the battlefield and suddenly all eyes were on me. Everyone knew in an instant what would happen if I reached the edge. Every warrior on both sides immediately started moving in my direction, putting their ferocious attacks towards the kings on hold. I took a step forwards, now only two steps from the edge, and everyone got closer. I managed to take another step, now only one step away from the powers of my queen! I was just about to take it when the opposing rook sprinted to his edge of the battlefield, to my far left. No! If I took a step forward now I’d get the powers and then be slaughtered immediately. What could I do? I stood still for a moment and offered a prayer to the Mighty Hand. One of my fellow warriors started to approach, but then I heard the dreaded sound of hooves behind me. I turned, and behind me to the right was an evil Walnut knight. He was in the killing position. I was doomed! If I took a step forward I’d die by the rook, and if I stayed where I was I’d die by the knight. My noble quest had failed! I cried out in agony. The only thing I could do now was admit defeat and pray that the few Maple specialists remaining had what it took to win the battle. But wait, what was that? I felt a gust of wind behind me and saw the final Maple bishop rush forward and kill the knight who threatened me! The bishop had no time to gloat though, because immediately the pawn who had been protecting the knight stepped forward and slashed our bishop down. The bishop knew that he was sacrificing himself for me, yet he did it anyway. It was a rare day when a specialist would do such a thing for a pawn like myself, and I didn’t plan on letting his sacrifice go to waste. Now no longer in immediate danger, I just had to figure out how to avoid the opposing rook. Suddenly, with another rush of wind, our final rook appeared in front of me to the left. Yes! He chose the perfect position! Now the opposing rook couldn’t reach me. If he tried to take our rook (nicknamed The Castle, due to his strength and fortitude), he’d be within perfect striking distance of me, and I’d be able to kill him and win our queen’s powers. The look of shock on the Walnut rook’s face when he realized his predicament was nearly comical. I could tell he wanted to kill The Castle out of anger, but sacrificing himself would cripple his team, so he rushed away to safety instead. I looked around the battlefield at the few remaining warriors, and then triumphantly stepped forward onto the edge. Suddenly I started to glow, and I was lifted up in the air by the Mighty Hand. I could feel myself changing, getting taller, faster, and stronger. When the Mighty Hand placed me back down, I felt like a new person, in the image of the queen. The opposing rook wasted no time and took out our last pawn in a desperate effort to still win. But me and The Castle were hot on his tail. It was amazing to have the powers of the queen! I could move from one end of the battlefield to the other in the blink of an eye, and in any direction too! The Walnut rook fought hard, but he was no match for me and The Castle together. We soon knocked him down then looked to see where else we could help. Several paces away our last knight was battling their last knight and pawn. Our knight fought nobly, as all Maple knights do, but the other knight cut him down before we could intervene. Me and The Castle then swiftly ran over and easily disposed of the Walnut knight and pawn. There was silence on the field for a moment, and we realized that there were only four of us remaining. Me, The Castle, our noble Maple king, and the wicked Walnut king. The Walnut king was evil, but he was no coward. He immediately moved forward to attack, putting The Castle in mortal danger. We reacted quickly though, and for the next several minutes we went back and forth with the king, trying to gain the upper hand. We eventually pushed him into a corner, and I made the final move, making it impossible for him to retreat. “CHECK…. MATE!!!” I yelled triumphantly, with cheers from The Castle and our king. The Walnut king grimaced in defeat, and then fell, joining his bested army on the sidelines. It had been a brutal battle, but the Mighty Hand was with us, and victory was finally ours. Our king was protected, and we would live to see another day. Now that the battle was over, I returned to my normal pawn form, and I felt the exhaustion of the day set in. We celebrated briefly, and then the Mighty Hand and the evil Lesser Hand returned us to the resurrection box with our fallen comrades. My spot was right between Eleanor and Leonard, my good pawn friends and soldiers. They awakened from the sleep of death as soon as they entered the box, and then congratulated me on the courageous win. I reminded them that their sacrifices were even more noble than my transformation, and that their efforts were needed just as much as mine. With a team like ours, the Maple city of light and righteousness would always prevail over the wicked city of Walnut. I smiled as the resurrection box closed, ending this chapter of our eternal war. The evil Walnuts would surely challenge us again, but right now, with my noble teammates at my side and the Mighty Hand up above, we could rest.

tiqhsm

Persuasion

          “Are you kidding me?” Meg said. “We’ve got to walk that narrow ledge? With that sheer drop-off?” June knew that Meg was afraid of heights. June had been on this hike many times, and had thought that Meg could handle it. That it wouldn’t be too scary. But now Meg had stopped, her eyes huge.            “It’s not bad at all, trust me,” said June. “Just go right behind me, keep your eyes on my back. Don’t look down.”            June started along the ledge slowly, not looking back to see if Meg was following. “Keep one hand on the rock wall,” she said over her shoulder to Meg, “like I’m doing.”            “Holy shit,” said Meg.            “Did I tell you about the time that George tried to talk me into having a baby with him?”            “You’re just trying to distract me, to take my mind off this damn ledge.”            “So,” June said, “we’d been living together for maybe a year. Neither of us wanted to get married; we had talked about it. I was so glad when he said he wasn’t interested in getting married, to anyone, ever. Same as me.”            “Yeah. I’ve heard this before. But go on.”            The ledge had ended and the trail climbed steeply now, but it had entered the woods again, so Meg wouldn’t have a problem with this section.            “We had a dog together,” said June. “Frankie. We were in the park with Frankie one day;  I remember it was a beautiful spring day with so many people out enjoying the weather, so many dogs, and so many kids on the playground. And George was watching this little girl on the jungle gym; he thought she was adorable. He said maybe we could have a kid like that. Like that little girl.”            June stopped to catch her breath and drink some water, and Meg stopped too. Meg was in much better shape. She didn’t huff and puff up the hills like June did. They started off again, and June went on with her story.             “I told him I probably didn’t want to have kids. That I hadn’t decided for sure, but probably not. He asked why not, and I told him because of the hassle, and the expense, not to mention bringing another person into this world with the earth falling apart due to global warming, plus this country with the politics headed the way it was, everything was such a nightmare. Then after that day he kept bringing it up. He’d be like, ‘June, you and I would make the most beautiful baby ever.’ Big ego that guy had. Or, ‘June, I want to be with you forever. We should have a family. It would be so great.’ Or ‘Maybe she’ll grow up to be a scientist and she’ll discover how to reverse global warming.’ On and on. Meg passed her and took the lead because the trail was too narrow to walk side by side in this part. Meg asked her, “Were you really against it, or were you torn about it?” “Well, I guess some days I thought ‘no way.’ I was so into my career, and I didn’t want to have to quit my job, and I couldn’t see how we could afford day care.” “And you told him all that?” “Oh, of course.” “And what was his argument, about how to pay for childcare?” Now the trail was back onto rock. Big flat slabs of rock with random boulders here and there. The trail was marked by blue blazes painted onto the rocks. June always liked looking ahead for the next blaze.            “He said his job was more flexible so he could do the bulk of the work, and he could stay home a lot, so we wouldn’t need day care. I thought that was unlikely to work out. He also talked a lot about these friends of ours who were in a babysitting co-op. He thought we could join something like that to fill the gaps. But that was just for weekend nights; he didn’t get it.”            Now they’d arrived at the little crevasse that you had to jump across. It was a little bit scary, and June always took a few running steps before leaping across, just to make sure she’d clear the gap with plenty of room to spare. They stopped at the edge, and Meg stared down into the deep crevasse. June explained her technique of the running jump.          Meg shook her head, but didn’t say anything.            “It’s not really scary,” said June. “It’s kind of fun. Just look at the landing spot on the other side when you jump across. I’ll go first.”  She backed up, ran and leaped across, one leg stretching out far in front. She landed easily on the other side. She looked back at Meg and laughed.            “Piece of cake!”            Meg shook her head again, and whispered “no.”            Oh no, thought June. She had assumed that the ledge they had already traversed would be the hardest part for Meg. Hadn’t even thought of this gap as something that would trigger a fear of heights. “It’s not bad, really,” she told Meg.  “You’re much more agile, and strong, than I am. You’ll clear it easily.”            “I think I’ll go back,” said Meg. And she turned and looked back down the trail.            “Oh, no. No! Going back the way we came would be much harder than coming up. Remember those steep sections? Much worse going down. I don’t think my knees could take it. This way, we get to the top and then take the fire road down. It’s so easy and gentle.”            Meg shook her head again.            “Look,” said June, “you can do this! Easy-peazy.”            “Why did you bring me here? You know I’m afraid of heights. You said I could do this hike. I can’t!”            “Yes, you can.”            “I can’t!”            “OK, listen.” June took a breath. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m coming back over to your side, and we’ll sit down and rest awhile.” June backed up again, ran and jumped over.  Then she sat down, some distance back from the crevasse, and said,            “Let’s sit down. We’ll take some deep breaths.”            “Like that will solve it.”  But Meg sat down next to her.            “I’m sorry,” June said. “Really. I didn’t think this would be a hard spot for you. I thought that ledge back there would be the hardest. And you did great on that!”            “I almost shit my pants.”            June took a big breath, then let it out audibly. “Our brains are so weird,” she said. “Like they tell us one thing, even though we might really feel something different, deep down at a feelings level. Like with the whole argument about having a baby, I kept saying we couldn’t afford it. And I told George that he had no idea how much work it was. How you don’t get any sleep, and you get sick all the time. I had friends at work with babies, so I knew all about the reality of it. He didn’t.”            “So, are you saying that deep down you really wanted a baby even though you were telling him you didn’t?”            “Yeah. That’s what I realized later. Once I was pregnant, I was happy. I was actually glad I was going to have a baby. Maybe it was the hormones, or the whole biological imperative thing, whatever. But I was glad that he talked me into it. I was glad I was going to be a mom.”            “But then the scumbag left you!”            “Yeah. He did.” “And you had to do everything by yourself!”            “Yeah. It was rough. But I never regretted having that baby for one second. It was the best thing I ever did in my life. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”            Now June was choked up, but she looked Meg in the eyes, even though she knew Meg could see her tears.            “Oh, fuck,” said Meg, as she stood up. She took two steps back and ran towards the crevasse. She sailed over it, and landed safely. She turned back to face June across the gap, and yelled,            “I hate you, Mom.”            “I love you, too,” said June.   

6o7rw6

A Tale of Two Cities

I was born in Staten Island, New York. I love where I come from. Some of the best parts about me are because I'm from this city. People say New York is the city that never sleeps and its honestly not far from the truth. There's an energy in New York that you won't find in other cities. As a writer, I have the advantage of living almost anywhere I choose to. It was soon after college that I realized to stay in this city would require me to get a second job if I was to live here comfortably. I knew just about everyone from my old neighborhood. My Gram still lives in Stapleton, in the exact same house where she raised her four children. One of those children just happened to be my Mother. Gram had gone to school there, learned to drive there after her husband of thirty five years passed away suddenly from cognitive heart failure. Most of my immediate family moved away years ago, some live in Queens, a few in New Jersey and my younger sister now calls Virginia home. I was faced with a harsh reality. Do I stay in New York and struggle or find myself a new city? This was when I talked a few of my good friends into taking road trips with me. At the time, most of us were twenty two and had saved enough that we decided to visit the South. It wasn't hard to see why people liked it down there. The weather was better, the people were good natured and the scenery was incredible. **** Florida was never my first choice when it came to a change in location. Don't get me wrong, I liked it there alright. What's not to like? Palm trees swaying in the breeze, crystal clear water at every beach and sand so white, my eyes popped out of my mind when I first laid eyes on it. My first trip to the sunshine state, I stayed in a condo in a town called Hudson (with three of my best buddies) the views were unbelievable. Early in the morning, I'd take my coffee and laptop and sit on the balcony watching dolphins swimming nearby. I remember thinking how can places like this exist? Most mornings I could write several pages before anyone else was even awake. All the fresh air and beautiful scenery seemed to inspire me. Less than two years later I returned to Florida. This time I went to Vero Beach. I had a friend Debbie that moved there shortly after high school. She had a guest room in her small bungalow that she normally used as her art studio. We were nothing more than friends in New York but here I could tell she wished for so much more. One night after we had barbequed, Debbie leaned in to kiss me and I stopped her. "Its not that I don't like you or think your cute, cause I actually do. But I need us to remain friends." She turned her face away from me and I was afraid I had blew it in the friend department. "I'm sorry. It never occurred to me..." "Stop it Rick! You don't have to take pity on me now. I feel bad enough already." I gently touched her hand. She looked at me through tear soaked eyes. "I always thought you knew I liked you. I feel like such a fool." "Why? For being human? You did nothing wrong. And your certainly not a fool. I mean I can see how I may have given you the wrong impression. Lets forget the whole thing ever happened." "Ok, thanks for being so cool about it. Now help me dry these dishes or I'm gonna start charging you rent." We both laughed as she washed and I dried at her kitchen sink. **** I returned to New York and began working for a local magazine. The pay was decent and it suited me just fine but I had always wanted to write a book. I phoned my Gram and told her I was coming to visit. She was thrilled. That night we sat together in her kitchen and I told her all about my last visit to Florida. She made us grilled cheese with tomato soup and suddenly I felt like a ten year boy again. I watched her at the stove and I thought back to a summer day long ago, when my parents wanted some time to themselves. My brother had gone out with his friends but my sister and I stayed over Grams. That day she told me stories about my father. I learned about his stubborn streak and then we ate our sandwiches together. Every visit with Gram was always memorable. This time I did most of the talking and she just listened. We had coffee and crumb cake that I had brought from Grams' favorite bakery. I stayed late but I now had clarity about my future. **** My third trip to Florida, I went to Naples. Now this was my kind of city. I was now twenty nine and writing mostly freelance. This allowed me the freedom I craved to do two things I generally loved, writing and traveling. This was also the trip that made me fall in love with Naples. There were so many reasons why. Long days spent down by the water. I fished, I walked, I rode bikes and this city was more beautiful than any of the others. Then after I was in Naples for almost a week, I met Megan. We just bumped into each other. There I was about to leave an ice cream parlor named "The Salted Cone" and I was looking down as the chocolate melted on my shorts. She was heading towards me but dropped her keys on the tiled floor. I got colored sprinkles all over her blouse. "I'm really sorry. I didn't see you there." I told her. She smiled and my heart felt like it fluttered inside my chest. "Its ok, I wasn't even paying attention." She lifted her keys off the floor and glided right passed me. I wanted to say something else but my tongue felt broken. So I took my cone and left the store. When she returned to the sidewalk, I was waiting there. My ice cream was still melting and she offered me some napkins. "You always this nice to strangers?" "No, not always. But you looked like you needed help. Isn't this place the best?" "Yeah, its awfully good." She smiled again. "What part of New York are you from?" I laughed. It seemed every time I opened my mouth some local was asking me this. "I'm from Staten Island. I guess I really couldn't hide it if I tried." Now she laughed. "No, not even if you tried. I'm Megan. I have some family in New York." "Wow, that's interesting. I'm Rick, are you in a hurry?" "No, its my day off." We walked as we finished our ice cream and Megan told me all about her family in Queens. She had first cousins there and she missed them dearly. I told her about my older brother who now lives in New Jersey with his wife and daughter. She asked me about my parents. I filled her in. My Mom had passed in 2012 and my Dad was soon after that. He never got over her and just couldn't go on without her. We spent most the day together. Megan showed me some local restaurants and we shared a lobster roll at a cute little beach hut down by the water. Seeing the city with someone just made it that more appealing. I walked her to her car and asked her if she was free for dinner. "Maybe, it depends." She answered. I stood there trying as hard as I could to come up with a reply. Then I just leaned down, closed my eyes and kissed her. When I opened them, she was just staring at me. "So, will you join me for dinner?" "Yes, I'd like that." **** My return trip home, was not like all the others. I missed Megan. I missed the city of Naples and the state of Florida. How had this happened? When I entered my apartment it seemed smaller than usual. I called Megan before I even unpacked. When I got her voicemail, I was more than disappointed. I opened a few windows, sorted my junk mail from the bills and then phoned my Gram. She invited me to dinner but I had to take a raincheck, because I was exhausted from the flight. That Sunday I stopped at her favorite bakery and went to have dinner with my Gram. "Your early. Dinner wont be until six. Come in, Rick." We walked into her den and I started pacing the floor. Gram had a look of concern on her face. "I'm glad I'm early. I wanted to talk to you about something." Gram pointed at her sofa. "Sit Rick, please your making me nervous." So I did. I watched Gram lower herself slowly down to her favorite arm chair. She sighed deeply when she did this. "Gram, first of all its not bad news. You know I've been spending a lot of time in Florida. I just came back from Naples. And I swear this was the best time I ever had there." "I see, so was that it?" I shook my head but Gram stared me down. "Ok, well, I really like it there. Its got everything I could want in a city. Its warm, the beaches are the cleanest ones yet and I swear the palm trees sway just the right amount..." "Would you stop being so dramatic! I had a feeling this was coming. All I want is for you to be happy. And if that means Naples, well then you go and live your life." I leaned forward and took her hand in mine. "I will miss you terribly. You know that right?" "Well, yeah but I'm not dead yet. You and this girl come and visit me as often as you like." I kissed Gram on the cheek. "How did you know there was a girl?" "I was young once and that look in your eyes is not just for a new city. So, are you going to tell me about her?" I smiled. And then I told Gram how Megan and I met. She said it was pretty romantic. Four days later I returned to Naples. Megan and I had our second dinner together. It was one of the best nights of my life. The next day I asked her to move in with me. And we've been together ever since.

ulbxoa

Star Oddity

Somewhere during our second year in space, we started talking about astrology. One might think that flying past countless stars each waking minute would make us wonder at our own heavenly correlations, but we were too busy being proper astronauts to think about anything except propulsion and coordinates. National Geographic had run a special on us before we left, on New Year's Day, 2086. Star Light, Star Bright, Guide our Travelers Tonight , the headline read. It was not an overall hopeful piece, since most people assumed we would die. This fact alone split the population into those who admired our bravery, those who hated us because they were sure we were wasting the precious gift of our lives, and those who were bored enough to keep one eye on our story while the other went about their far more practical and productive lives. In the special, Aaron Gamble, head physicist at NASA, explained the invention of our craft. “ Bowie is the first spaceship that has the ability to travel faster than the speed of light. Of course, we have been able to send satellites into space at 186,000 miles per second for nearly a decade now, but there has been no question of moving quicker than that, and no faintest rumor that a human being could survive the ride. Now, the question has an answer and the rumor is true right in front of us. Six of NASA’s courageous astronauts will climb aboard Bowie , and in approximately six years they will return with pictures of the stars. Maybe pictures of them on stars.” After Dr. Gamble’s speech, they had cut to a picture of the six of us, standing in our space suits with a green screen behind us making it look like we were perched on the curve of a star. After seeing the picture, most people began to wonder if, rather than us surviving the stars, we would even survive each other. A more inharmonious arrangement of adventurers would be hard pressed to find. Our small group ranged from our pilot, Bear, who had been born on a peace commune in Idaho and never lost his long hair, beads, or impressive beard, even when he replaced his linen for a spacesuit and his yurt for a switchboard and white sterile bunk. Cassidy landed on the opposite end of the spectrum, raised by a neurosurgeon and astrophysicist. Bear often joked that she must have come from the womb with a severe bun and figures on the tip of her tongue. It took six months on a tiny ship together for her to disclose that she had an identical twin sister who had died in an airplane crash five years ago. Even Bear had held back on the jokes after that. Handsome Ryan, petite Kylie, and quiet Terrance were all cut from the same serious, scientific mold, and without them Bowie would not have made it past the second day of her voyage. In the National Geographic picture I was directly in the middle, and beaming, a stark comparison matched closest by Bear’s confident half smile. I looked as though I couldn’t stand a single day longer on the Earth, like my head was already in the galaxies above. The caption credited me as the youngest NASA astronaut; at only 25, I barely qualified for this trip, and it was only Dr. Gamble’s desire to have an astronaut for each predicted year of our voyage that granted me permission to join the crew. Not many lined up for our position, to say the least. My mother sobbed the day before she left, and my younger sister wore solemn black to watch us take off. As we burned up through the ozone, I imagined them below, assuming that the bright flare of our rockets would be the last sign of me forever. The thought exhilarated me, and I imagined that in six years, they wouldn’t recognize me, not due to the years elapsed, but the sheer disbelief at my survival. My excitement and optimism made me the least popular on the ship for almost the first full year. Cassidy couldn’t understand my joy at the exhilarating recklessness of our carefully planned journey. She was a scientist, and there had been no emotion in her decision, just the calculation that she was the most qualified for this, her position in life held higher than her life itself. I tried to become close with her, since we were both the insomniacs on board. I would spend my sleepless nights staring at the footage of the untouched space we were flying through, like a yoyo set loose from its spool with disbelieving freedom. Cassidy on the other hand would spend her nights desperately calculating to determine that we were still on course, her knuckles white and her face illuminated by blue light. As she worked her brows would knit close and her mouth would form tighter and tighter slashes across the plain of her face. After six months and no star in sight, just the Hellish red of Mars burning on our cameras, she stopped her nightly calculations, and would just sit, looking straight ahead. I imagine that she was probably thinking about her sister, and imagining the way she died, the metal and heat and screams. I imagine she came to think she was destined to experience the same thing, that they came into the world together, and although they would leave separately, they would still go out in parallels When I couldn’t connect with Cassidy, I tried mousy and unfailingly polite Kylie. Her initial kindness wore off quickly, partially due to my own error. I thought we were getting close, our mornings tediously checking power levels in each of the many batteries keeping us going had helped us form a tentative bond, quickly broken when I disconnected the gravity as a practical joke. This incident, however uncomfortable, did form my first and only companionship aboard the Bowie. Bear found my prank hilarious, and he started sitting next to me in the morning when we all ate our freeze dried breakfast. After I finished my morning camera observation shift, I would sit in the cockpit with Bear and watch his hands fly across display screens in front of me, faster even than Cassidy’s nighttime calculations. It awed me that his hands, average sized and slightly hairy at the knuckles, held us all in them. Without him, we would be nothing more than stardust, which was ironic, since even with him we didn’t feel the slightest whisper of stardust on our bow until nearly thirteen months in. Bear wasn’t the most talkative person, but he enjoyed my presence, which was more I could say for any of my other companions. One afternoon, he admitted to me that he was having a hard time connecting to our shipmates as well. “I’m not a scientist,” Bear had said, his flying hands suggesting otherwise, his doleful tone substantiating the claim. “I just like the idea of going places no one has been before.” “In kindergarten,” I had replied, “I got in trouble because I pushed another kid off the slide because I wanted to be first. My teacher told my mom I would grow out of it, but clearly I haven’t.” Bear had laughed, and my throat tightened with happiness. For the first time since being trapped in a tiny ship with five other human beings, I didn’t feel completely and despairingly alone. That was the day we saw our first star. It had been stoic Terrance on camera observation, and his unprecedented shout had startled Bear so much his hand hit something on the panel that made the entire ship shudder, like it too was shocked. “Proxima centauri!” Terrence had shouted, and the words were God to us. Proxima centauri , the words we had thought every day since we first stepped foot on Bowie . The sign of our success that we had first hoped to see after two months, and then dreamed with growing desperation each day after we didn’t. Proxima centauri , the closest star to our home planet, a star that, just half a century before, would have taken us over six thousand years to reach. On the camera, which grew fogged by our breath as we clustered over Terrence, the cardinal star seemed tiny, just a speck in the endless blackness we had grown so accustomed to watching for countless days now. As we stared, we watched the star grow larger and larger, until the blackness was only a sliver as thin as the nearly forgotten moon, seen in the opening days of an Earthly month. Cassidy’s hand found my arm and squeezed painfully tight, and I heard Kylie start to cry as we passed by, and the eternal night of space swallowed us once again.  Faintly, I heard Bear radioing NASA, I made out Dr. Gamble’s shout of delight, followed by Bear’s ever eloquent, “ Fucking finally! I thought your ship was going to kill us before we saw a goddamn star.” Ryan swept Kylie off her feet and Terrance kissed me on the mouth and Cassidy sat down in her bunk and sobbed. I was so happy, it felt like someone turned the gravity off in my chest, like my heart was bubbling into my throat. I don’t think any of us really realized how terrified we were before we saw Proxima centauri. I think that’s our brain’s way of protecting ourselves, that we can’t fully understand the terrifying nature of a situation until we are on the other side. Of course, we weren’t on the other side. We were a year into a mission and only just now reached a goal that we had been scheduled to meet at two months. Of course, in the moment that didn’t matter, all that did was that now we knew for sure that even if we never saw the blue of the ocean again, we had seen the unprecedented burn of a star. “And they say that we were monkeys,” Ryan had roared, and we all dissolved into laughter, because in that moment we felt like the furthest thing from monkeys, we felt like Gods. The second star never came. Based on our calculations, after reaching Proxima Centauri, 4.2 light years from each, we should have come across Rigel Kentaurus only days later. Rigel never came. After ten months, Dr. Gamble stopped radioing every day, instead he would check in once a week, and it was clear that was only out of obligation. We were told that the news still ran hopeful segments on us, but everyone knew the mission had ended. Based on the force of our initial propulsion, it would still be three years before we would slow down enough to descend again. We stopped camera observation. Instead we played cards and used our precious oxygen to smoke weed that Bear had secretly brought aboard, and turned the gravity off. Upside down, higher than the space we careened through, Bear accused me of being the kind of girl who might like astrology. His nose touching mine, I wondered what he really wanted to say, if Ryan wasn’t floating two feet away and Cassidy clutching her bunk in annoyance, only halfway believing herself that she was dismayed at our behavior. “Absolutely not!” I shouted, then giggled because my voice was so loud. “We have literally seen a star, and it was most definitely nothing more than a hunk of rock.” That was a lie and we all knew it. That star was the most beautiful thing we had all seen, and the only thing keeping us from true despair. It was the reason why one of us would still check the camera’s every night, frantically watch the footage from the day to see if we had missed something, never giving up completely. “I believe in astrology,” Kylie said, and pushed herself towards the gravity panel, planted her palm on it and sent us to the floor. “I am an Aquarious.” “What the hell does that even mean,” Bear said, righting himself, and moving towards the cockpit. We were on autopilot, no longer afraid of running headlong into an errant constellation, but Bear still kept up the pretense of his job. “It means that I am emotional and sensitive and really honest,” she said, “And that I love the moon, I think.” “Hold on,” I said, “You’re trying to convince me that we are who we are because of what star was a billion light years over our heads when we were born?” “Yes,” she said firmly, “Why are we all doing this if we don’t believe in the stars?” It got tense then, all of our minds instantly filled with the memory of Proximi burning through our cameras with a palpable hope. “I don’t believe in stars,” Terrance said, “I believe in science.” “What the fuck,” Bear said, “Science isn’t going to save you, buddy.” We all stared at Bear, who stood fierce and white faced in front of the control panel, every bit of him all self righteous and rage filled. “What are you talking about?” Kylie asked shakily, “We’re going to be fine, in three years we will be back on Earth, we have plenty of oxygen and food.” Bear opened his mouth, and then stopped. He sat down heavily and spoke without opening his eyes. “I talked to Dr. Gamble. They aren’t picking up our signal anymore, they can’t find us on radar or satellites or anything. Even the radio signal is getting weaker.” “Oh my god,” Cassidy put her head in her hands and I may have imagined it but I thought I heard her say, “ Cammie,” under her breath, like she could feel her sister closer than ever. “I don’t understand,” I said, “We had a very specific course, how could this be happening? We saw that star-” “That’s right, Leila, you don’t understand,” Bear’s voice was full of hostility, “None of you do. You all need to understand that we can’t put any more faith in Dr. Gamble, or NASA, or science or known fucking logic, because what has happened has completely disproved all of the above.” “All that’s left is faith,” Kylie said, and I looked at her surprised, having expected she would surely be the first to break down. Bear put his head in his hands and I walked to the cameras, stared out and willed myself to see something, anything that faintest light that might signal a sign of our doubtful survival. One by one we stood before the cameras in silent prayer, children believing if they wish hard enough, they can make the stars come out. The next morning Ryan woke up obsessed with the constellation Orion. “Just a tiny insignificant ‘o’,” he kept saying, “That’s all that separates us.” He told us that he needed to see the constellation, he sat in front of the cameras watching for it for weeks, and told us facts about the archer until we all begged him to stop. “Where does he go?” he kept asking, over and over. “Where does he go ?” One morning, I was sitting beside Ryan on camera observation, which we had begun again since we started to believe in the stars again. Suddenly, he leaned forward, a smile illuminating his face so wonderfully that he was almost too handsome to look at for too long. “Look, Leila,” he whispered, “That’s where he went.” On the camera, Orion’s arms stretched out, his glittering belt too bright to look at, and impossible to look away from. I stared, transfixed, the bravery in his shoulders, the loneliness and grandeur of his brilliance in all that nothingness. When I looked at Ryan, he was gone, and the constellation shattered before my eyes, a new star winking with sudden beauty before he became lost in the hunter’s sword. Kylie was next, when our ship grew tangled with the great cosmic kite, she let out a great whoop of childlike laughter, and was gone, to fly with Boötes forever. Cassidy started speaking to Cammie days before Gemini blinked into view, and at the last moment, I swore I saw a mirror reflection of my somber shipmate beside her, beaming more than Cassidy ever would, before Castor swelled and Pollux rejoiced, and our ship became lighter. Terrance swore it wouldn’t happen to him, before science and geography once again was proven to be obsolete and he shouted that he saw Sagittarius, right there, and it was impossible , before his eyes widened in surprise and he was gone. It was just Bear and I then, and we didn’t know what to say. I asked anyway, “What do you think is happening to us?” “I think we started to believe,” he said, “And now we are going home. I think maybe this was our mission all along.” “We aren’t going home,” I said, confused, “We are so lost.” “Do you feel lost?” He asked, and his eyes were so bright. “No,” I said, “I feel like I am on the very last mile of a very long trip.” “We found the stars,” Bear whispered, “But I think they have been here all along.” I reached for him, but he was standing up, and on the camera the great Ursa bounded through a galactic forest, waiting patiently for her cub. I wasn’t alone for long. The radio signal had been long lost, and I didn’t know anything about how to pilot the ship, but I wasn’t afraid. Three days later, I felt the warmth slip onto my face and skin, like I was on a white sand beach, or a summer meadow at noon. The ship split open and the sun was there, and I forgot I had ever been anything else. On Earth, the stars burned through into the day and they declared us lost and the Sun shone brighter than ever and declared that we had been found . 

jox0ya

Paradise Lost

In the heart of the South Pacific, where cerulean waters stretched to infinity and palm trees whispered secrets to the wind, lay a hidden heaven. Its name was whispered only by those who had glimpsed its shores—a name that held the promise of eternal bliss: Eden Isle. The island was a symphony of colour. Azure skies melted into turquoise seas, and golden sands cradled the feet of wanderers. The air smelled of salt and hibiscus, and the sun painted freckles on the skin of those who dared to linger. Birds with iridescent plumage danced through the foliage, their songs weaving tales of forgotten love and ancient magic. Now for you to understand - I leave it to your imagination. Many may say that a beautiful place cannot be described but needs to be seen. However, this solace is so beautiful that one does not need to see it - but rather feel it as the words rush through the mind. Feel the rush of wind as it descends in swirls with the leaves and twigs waltzing in the breeze - yet there is still not a sound. The breeze of ferns spiralling down a peeled tree. Not a sound. And a polished yet unnecessary bridge going over no body of water or hill. A joint of nature creating a path from one to another. And a better perspective of this solace. At the heart of Eden Isle stood a magnificent banyan tree, its roots like serpents entwined in the earth. Locals spoke of its mystical properties—the ability to heal broken hearts and grant visions of the future. But there was a price to pay: once you stepped beneath its sprawling branches, you could never leave. The tree held you captive, ensnaring your soul in its gnarled embrace. Lena, a weary traveller, stumbled upon Eden Isle during a tempest of flurries - a tornado picking up . Her shipwrecked against the coral reefs, and she washed ashore, half-drowned and ldisoriented. When she opened her eyes, she gasped at the island’s beauty—the kind that made you question whether you were still alive or had slipped into the afterlife. The locals welcomed Lena with open arms. They wore garlands of frangipani and spoke in lilting melodies. Their eyes held secrets—of love lost, of dreams abandoned, of lives forever changed by the banyan tree. They warned Lena not to venture too close, but curiosity gnawed at her like a persistent hunger. One moonlit night, Lena followed the flicker of fireflies to the tree’s base. Its roots rose like ancient columns, and the air hummed with energy. She touched the bark, and a vision flooded her mind: a man with eyes like the sea, standing on the precipice of eternity. His name was Elias, and he had been trapped here for centuries. Elias told Lena of the island’s curse—a punishment for defying the gods. He had once been a sailor, seeking adventure beyond the horizon. But when he tasted Eden Isle’s forbidden fruit, he became immortal, bound to the banyan tree. His love for a mortal woman had led to his downfall, and now he wandered the island, yearning for release. Lena vowed to free Elias. Together, they deciphered cryptic inscriptions on the tree’s trunk, seeking a loophole in the curse. They danced under the moonlight, their laughter echoing through the jungle. But as days turned into weeks, Lena felt the island’s pull—the desire to stay forever, to forget the world beyond. One morning, Elias kissed her forehead. “You must leave,” he whispered. “The longer you stay, the harder it becomes to break free.” Tears blurred Lena’s vision. “I can’t abandon you.” Elias cupped her face. “You are my salvation. Find the hidden cave—the one where the sun kisses the water at noon. There lies the key to our freedom - and remember what you hear and feel amid silence,” Lena set off, guided by the sun’s rays. The shine was a comfort amid the dark abyss in which her heart floated in. The cave was a grotto of emerald pools, their depths concealing ancient relics. The cave’s walls pulse with veins of luminescent minerals. Emerald greens, sapphire blues, and amethyst purples weave patterns that defy logic. When the darkness descended, these veins came alive, casting a soft glow. It was as if the cave breathes, exhaling magic. Above, stalactites hang like chandeliers. Their tapering forms drip with ancient water, each drops a note in a silent symphony. When touched, they resonated—a celestial melody that reverberated through the cavern. The cave’s heart cradles mirror pools—still as glass. Their depths reflect the ceiling’s artistry, creating an illusion of infinity. Lean over, and you’ll glimpse your soul—the raw, unfiltered version. The air is thick with silence, broken only by your breath. The cave absorbs sound, leaving you suspended in a cocoon of stillness. You’ll hear your heartbeat, your thoughts—the universe within. And one thing Lena knew very well was that silence wasn’t empty - It was full of answers. No matter how painful they may be. And so, she sought for those answers. Whether they were as painful as she was told they were or whether they gave her heart the consolation it needed. She found a crystal vial, as she expected there to be, filled with starlight—the elixir that could sever the banyan tree’s hold. But as she returned to Elias, doubt gnawed at her heart. Could she leave this paradise? Could she forsake love for freedom? And nor was it love where she was committed to Elias - rather the love for the island and the peace it provided for her. Elias took the vial, his eyes brimming with gratitude. “Drink this,” he said. “And when you wake, you’ll be back on your ship.” He was now just a hologram that she could see. Her mind already knew what to expect. Lena hesitated. “What about us?” He smiled, a bittersweet curve of lips. “Perhaps in another lifetime, we’ll find each other again.” She drank the elixir, and the world blurred. When she opened her eyes, she lay on the ship’s deck, salt spray on her lips. The island shimmered in the distance, a mirage fading into memory. Lena returned home, a single sailor on the bow of her boat. And even though she left that one place where her mind, body and soul could always call home - her heart remained on Eden Isle. She wrote stories of love and the loss of a brother, of an immortal sailor and a mortal girl. And every night, she dreamed of Elias—the man with eyes like the sea, waiting beneath the banyan tree. Paradise lost, but love found.

jqdgh7

My Last Breathe Close to Mars

Ever since I was little I wanted to explore space and explore my curiosity of a world unexplained. After I graduated high school I told my parents how passionate I was of going to college for astronomy and astronautics. They weren't proud nor happy and thought little of the accomplishments of NASA and told me no. They were not even willing to help me pay my way through college. So I took the pain of rejection and I remember crying and looking at old books and exploration tapes because it was not fair. That's when I decided that I was going to try anyways and I applied to the Emory-Riddle Aeronautical University. I waited for months and my father told me I received a letter, so I remember grabbing it happy and disappointed because I was too afraid to feel just one thing. I was accepted, I was literally accepted and I was finally happy with life. I studied astronautics for 4 years and was granted a chance after college to be apart The NASA Exhibition for a space launch. The date is set for March 06, 2041 that was eight months ago today. I have been in space now for six months exploring Mars, the fourth planet from the sun, that is red in color but dessert like with fridge temperatures makes Mars hard to explore. The exhibition is set to last for a year and a half hitting places like Europa and the Titan next. I wanted to be the first to try and manipulate the gravity of Mars. The closer The Space X spaceship gets to Mars the closer the camera set on shows me in this spaceship the features of Mars. I was already warned by NASA that the closer we get to Mars the worst it could potentially affect the spaceship. In each camera we see dessert grain red sand. I keep reporting in happy showing the team of the cameras that are landed on Mars. I know my parents are in NASA's domain looking at me and my team. Until one of my team members noticed the hydro fuel that keeps are spaceship safe from Mars radiation is becoming low. Worried Jack runs to me telling the team that the hydro fuel was never made to get low because the kind of fuel affects the generator system of the spaceship. The whole team not knowing what Jack was talking about we start asking him again to explain further. He expresses that the closer we get to Mars the spaceship will blow up due to the level of radiation on Mars. The beeping starts to become erratic and the team starts to cry and NASA operator's check in and start demanding we follow instructions. How can the best day of my life possibly be the last day of my life? NASA operators tell us to turn the spaceship around William with Cindy start quickly to change directional paths but are losing control over the system because the spaceship runs on hydro fuel which is running low. Mandie tells us there is a force filled around mars due to its lack of gravity and the hydro fuel is running to low to move the spaceship. Which meant we were stuck miles into Mars force filled of radioactive heat with nowhere to go. Soon as the hydro fuel runs out the spaceship will become un-functional. The spaceship starts to tremble and Luis is praying and i'm terrified. Jack tells us that NASA says with no place out the radiation we will soon be exposed to its toxicity in matter of hours and eventually die. I can't feel anything but the tears falling down on my face. My parents are going to watch me die with my crew in less than 5 hours. My crew has family and kids and they are never going home again in less than 5 hours. It's 3 hours in and two of my crew members have passed, Cindy and Maddie, Luis is wheezing bad and me and Jack are panting heavily. Its 4 hours in a Luis is finally pronounced dead I start trying to keep Jack up and NASA keeps checking in on us. He tells that I've always been like a brother to him and whenever he needed encouragement from his screwed life to become an astronaut I was there for him, motivating him. I told him I loved him like a brother and after I said this I watch my brother take his last breath at 4:45 pm. I cry and say Jack I'm not strong enough for this the minutes feel like hours my lungs feel like a truck it is repeatedly being run over and the smell of Mars radiation fills the spaceship. I cough and hear NASA operators asking me are you okay? we are checking in on you. And thats when I couldn't breathe I see my vision cloud and hear the engine rumbling as I cough I can smell the smoke. I feel nothing and everything all at once. I try to mouth whisper my 'parents' to the NASA Operators the best I could. I want to tell them I love them and I wish I could explain my thoughts but I was becoming short of breathe and then my parents say "I hear I love you Michael we love you, your gonna be okay." The fire from the engine room starts to blow up to the lower half of the spaceship and I know it's only a matter of minutes before I'm engulfed by flames or dead. This makes the radiation harder and harder to breathe in. As I feel me slipping away the waves of heat touch my skin first and I'm starting to loose consciousness. The only thing I knew in this moment I was blessed to live out my dream. As young boy I was always playing with a spaceship, a space shuttle, reading space books and watching space movies. As the flames engulf me as I start to die I will forever know that dreams are real but only as real as you make them.

7kks04

Sambas and Birdsongs: A Tale of Two Cities

João Santos, Music Journal, April 1, 2024, Rio de Janeiro They say once you lose your groove, you never get it back. But they are always wrong. I climbed on the mossy rock in the heart of Tijuca Forest and closed my eyes, letting the sounds resonate. The rustling of the breeze, birds chirping, and a waterfall's distant roar vibrated the earth beneath my feet. This was the place my Mom, Beatriz Santos, had taken me before she passed away. Growing up, we camped in this secret spot and explored the Rainforest together. Mom taught me to appreciate diversity and to let my heart and soul be my compass. She would say that life is about duality, the highs and lows. When I became a Samba star, she said I had reached the top of the mountain, but I could eventually see the dips into the valleys again. I began to sing at the top of my lungs, letting the music flow out of me and blend with the wild orchestra all around me. The haunting yelps of the toucan echoed through the trees, blending with the melodies of the macaw in the distance. The croaking of frogs added a deep bass line to the mix. As I continued to sing and listen, I realized that the sounds of the Rainforest would be the perfect background tracks for my comeback album. My phone buzzed, and I retrieved it from my pocket, curious to see what notifications awaited me. As I scrolled through my missed calls and messages, my manager, Eduardo Lima, texted me. He checked to see if I had found my inspiration in the Rainforest. Instead of responding with a simple yes or no, I replied with an exciting idea percolating in my mind. Me: I want to have a fundraising concert for the Rainforest. Can we make that happen? Eduardo: Absolutely! That's a fantastic idea, João. When were you thinking of having it? Me: In the fall, get as many people involved as possible. Eduardo: Sounds like a plan. Let me start looking for sponsors. Do you have any specific ideas for the concert and venues? Me: My new direction combines traditional Brazilian rhythms, modern styles, and blended natural sounds. The Jeunesse Arena is perfect for music events in Rio. Eduardo: Wow, that sounds promising. I love all your ideas. I'll contact the Ornithology Institute in São Paulo to coordinate the fundraising and ensure the money goes where it's needed most." Me: Thanks. I'm passionate about this and plan to do it in homage to my Mother. I'll talk to you next week when I get home. Do you remember when Madonna reinvented herself over and over? I need to rise from the ashes, be reborn in my art, or be finished in the music industry. I set up my equipment and started recording the otherworldly rhythms of nature to help me transform my genre. João Santos would not be a has-been at 32 years old. **** Dr. Ana Luiza Oliveira, Ornithologist, Field Notes Date: May 13, 2024  Location: São Paulo, Brazil Subject: Green Parrots Procedures: When I arrived at Trianon Parque, I noticed the brilliant green parrots fluttering around. With the help of my binoculars, I carefully observed their movements and set up some advanced audiovisual recorders to capture their distinct calls. My primary goal was identifying different species and gaining insights into their behavior. By analyzing their patterns, I hope to discover fascinating insights into cross-species communication. Observations:  One thing that struck me was the green parrots' diet, which consisted mainly of fruits, seeds, and nuts. They devoured apples, bananas, and mangoes, and I watched as they cracked open nuts with their beaks before eating the insides. Appearances: I spotted a rare Rio Toucan in my urban jungle today. Its bright orange bill was so impressive! The rest of its body was primarily black, but it had a white throat, rump, and red vent. The toucan's eyes were surrounded by orange and blue skin, and its long tail was brightly colored. Its feet were zygodactyl, with two toes pointing forward and two toes pointing backward. In contrast, the parrot has beautiful bright green plumage, a short tail, and a curved beak. Its unique features include the red patch on its forehead and the yellow patch around its eyes. Birdsong and communication:  A species has always been thought to have its unique language. Distinct birdsongs served multiple purposes-establishing territories, attracting mates, and warning of predators. I witnessed some green parrots engaging in a unique form of communication, playing in front of traffic cameras and using their feathers to signal aggression or submission. Others displayed courtship behavior, their wings flapping in an elaborate display of love. **** Trianon Parque, São Paulo The emerald-feathered parrot and the vibrant toucan rendezvoused amid the São Paulo urban jungle, perched atop their towering trees. They gazed upon the disheartening sight of another patch of verdant green consumed by urban development. "Hey there, Greenie! How's life treating you?" asked the toucan, flapping his wings. "Oh, just hanging in there, Toucy! It's tough with all the construction and pollution. But I'm feeling optimistic since the clever scientist Ana, the ornithologist, started showing up. She's here to help us out," Greenie replied, ruffling her tail feathers. "The Ana? The one who saved the Rio de Janeiro macaws from the illegal bird-fighting trade? Wow, that's great news! I hope she can help us too," Toucy said, tipping his bill and making a loud, raucous call. "Yeah, she's been studying our habitat and behavior for years. I heard she's trying to find ways to preserve our home and reduce pollution," said Greenie, preening her feathers. "That's fantastic! We need more people like her to protect our dwindling Rainforest," said Toucy, spreading his bill in a smile. " I hope she can get them to listen." "Me too, Toucy. Me too," Greenie replied, looking up at the pollution-filled sky. Let's hope for the best." Just then, Ana emerged from the bushes with a notebook and binoculars. "Look, there is Ana now!" Greenie exclaimed, flapping her wings. Well, you know how us birds always have to stick together, and I thought maybe you'd want to stay here in São Paulo with me," she said, dancing along the branches and twittering. "Hmm, I don't know, Greenie; I'm content in Rio with all the beautiful beaches and mountains to explore," Toucy said, shifting his perch. Greenie said, jumping to a closer branch, "Oh, come on! São Paulo has a lot to offer, too. You'd love it." "I'll stick to my home in Tijuca Forest. It's full of rhythm. Plus, São Paulo has traffic cameras and are watching our every move," Toucy said, craning his neck at a nearby camera. Greenie cawed, "Yeah, that's true. At least we can fly over it all, right? " "Haha, that's true enough. You should retire from the concrete jungle and move to Rio one day. But for now, I'll just come for our regular visits. I like talking to you, Greenie, until next week, I bid you ado," Toucy said, spreading his regal wings and flying away towards the Rainforest. **** Ana I returned to my lab and made a massive discovery. "The birds are communicating with each other across species. Today's recording was of a São Paulo Green Parrot and a Rio Toucan, and they finally prove my theory," I told my assistant, Isabella Torres. "Come watch this footage," I said, waving her to my computer. Isabella asked, leaning closer to the speakers and scanning the screen. "What do you mean? Is it a similar call or a song? " "No, it's not just sounds and movements. It's a symphony of chirps, flutters, and dances, each conveying a specific message. You can see an actual exchange between the two species." Isabella watched the birds conversing. Her eyes widened, and then a smile formed on her lips. She said, "That's amazing! But why do you look worried?" 'I fear surveillance gurus would exploit it for profit,' I confessed, my voice trailing off. There are people out there who would do anything to use this information in communications technology,' I said, turning off the recording. Isabella folded her arms across her chest. "What do you mean? How could they profit from the birds' communication skills?" I shrugged and said, "They could use it to spy on or control people or even events. Have you heard about the "Birds Aren't Real" movement?" Isabella said, "No, what's that?" "It's this conspiracy theory that claims the U.S. government killed over 12 billion birds and replaced them with the surveillance-capable drone bird called an ornithopter." Suddenly, my phone buzzed, indicating a new notification. I checked the message and was surprised to learn of an impromptu visitor to the lab. Isabella shot me a concerned look. I nodded reassuringly and replied to Dr. Silva's message, confirming our readiness. We decided to table our discussion and waited for our surprise guests' arrival. **** João My manager, Eduardo, and I arrived at the Institute of Ornithology, a renowned research center in São Paulo dedicated to preserving the Brazilian Rainforest species. "Welcome, João and Eduardo! We're thrilled to have you here," Dr. Maria Silva said warmly. "Thank you, Dr. Silva. It's an honor to be here," I replied, returning the smile. "We are excited to have you as a sponsor. I'd love to share a sample of my new music with you." Dr. Silva replied, nodding, "It would be my honor to hear your new music." I scrolled through my playlist of Sambas and Birdsongs: 1. "Feathered Sambas" 2. "Parrots Rhythm" 3. "Tropical Tweeting" 4. "Chirping Cha Cha" 5. "Rhythmic Flight" 6. "Birdsong Carnival" 7. "Samba Skyline" 8. "Toucan Tango" 9. "Melodic Migration 10. "Rainforest Roxy" I selected sample track six, "Birdsong Carnival," and hit the play button on my phone. The snare drum, shakers, and cowbells produce a fast and upbeat rhythm that makes you want to dance. The horns and trumpets add a bright and celebratory sound to the mix. The vocals are rhythmic and melodic, sung in a call-and-response style but with the echoing sounds of nature. Dr. Silva nodded, "I love this new sound; it reflects Brazilian culture. The Rainforest faces unprecedented threats, and we need all the help we can get. Let's head to the lab, and my team can give you a tour and show you some of the work we're doing here." **** Ana I must be hallucinating, I muttered, rubbing my eyes to take another look through the glass doors. My heart is beating at a fast tempo like one of his Quinto drums. João Santos, my favorite musician, appears in the flesh. His voice is like silk, and his music has always been my solace, but seeing him in person is something else entirely. His long dark hair falls over one eye as he strides in, giving him a bad-boy look. His muscular drummer's forearms are a patchwork of tropical birds and rainforest fauna tattoos. João’s chiseled jaw is accentuated by a five-o'clock shadow, making him look even more rugged and handsome. Another man wearing a dapper business suit followed behind Dr. Silva and announced, "I'm Eduardo Lima, João’s manager. We're here to present his new album, Sambas and Birdsongs . He plans to premiere it at his benefit concert to help save the Rainforest. We believe his music and our shared passion can be a powerful tool to raise awareness and inspire people to act." "As João shook my hand, I couldn't help but feel a spark as his skin touched mine and a mutual respect," I said to him. So, João, it's nice to meet you. Can you tell me more about your idea of hosting a series of concerts for the rainforests and donating profits?" "Well, it's about creating environmental awareness and supporting the local tribes in the Amazon and Tijuca Forest," João replied. I've always been inspired by the beauty of the Rainforest and the music and culture that comes from it." I nodded, trying to keep my composure. I looked into his gorgeous eyes and said, "I can see the potential." João smiled and continued. "We'll take precautions to ensure everyone's safety at our events, including working with the local authorities and environmental organizations. And we'll leave the Rainforest better than we found it." I took a deep breath, feeling more at ease. "Okay, I want to hear more about your plans and how we can help." João looked at me earnestly. "Dr. Oliveira, that's why I wanted to meet with you. I know you're an expert in Rainforest conservation, and I believe we can work together to make this festival a success. Would you join me for dinner tonight?" **** João Ana smiled playfully and asked, "Have you ever tasted a Bauru sandwich, Joao?" I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "No, I haven't. What's so special about it?" "It's a classic here in São Paulo," Ana said, leaning closer. "Made with roast beef, melted cheese, tomato, and pickles in a crusty bun with the soft inside removed. It's a delicious and sensual experience, João." I felt a pounding in my chest as my heart raced at her words. "Sounds like you're trying to seduce me with a sandwich," I joked. Ana laughed, a sultry smile on her lips. "Maybe I am. But who said food can't be sexy?" She leaned closer, "Let's try it tonight and see if its even more delicious than it sounds." After Eduardo called Ponto Chic, the famous restaurant, we secured a table for the night. He had promised them that I would send a signed publicity shot for their wall of famed customers. Sitting across from Ana, I was amazed by her beauty. Her long curls of light brown hair danced around her heart-shaped face, framing her sultry eyes and clever smile. She was still dressed in a scientific field study outfit that made me smile - it looked like she was on safari. I was pleasantly surprised to discover we had so much in common, from our love of the Rainforest to our shared passion for Brazilian music. I noticed her studying my forearm tattoos, her gaze lingering on the name Beatriz interwoven in a fauna tattoo. "I got that one to honor my Mother," I said, looking into Anas's eyes. "You may have heard of her death at the hands of a radical group. She was the Rainforest Biologist kidnapped for ransom while working for a Big Pharma company. I know how dangerous being a prominent scientist can be." ***** Ana "I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you," I said softly. "I'm here if you want to talk about her. Your Mother was an incredible woman; her legacy lives on through you and your music." João looked up at me, his eyes mirroring his appreciation and affection for her. "Thank you, Ana. It means a lot to me. You have no idea how much I want to talk about her and share her story with someone who understands. But we can do that one story at a time on future dates. That is if you're interested in dating me, Ana." I knew João was special, and I was grateful for the opportunity to get to know him better. "I would like that very much," I said, touching his hand. Let's take things one step at a time and see where this goes." **** October 31, 2024, Rainforest Benefit Concert, Jeunesse Arena, Barra da Tijuca João As my Samba Nova Band played the enchanting beats of "Toucan Tango," the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. The audience went wild as they moved and grooved in the aisles. But amidst all the excitement, my eyes drifted towards the VIP section on the right side of the stage. And there she was, Ana, my queen of the Rainforest, smiling at me with the sunset behind her head like a fiery crown. It was as if time had slowed, and we were the only two people in the world. Her eyes held me captive, and I felt a surge of emotions. After a long, slow climb, I was back at the top of a mountain. "You're killing it," she shouted over the music, her voice carrying over to me. I grinned, feeling a rush of pride and happiness. "Thanks, Ana. This is all for the Rainforest, and now you." She nodded, her eyes shining with admiration. "I know, and it's amazing. Beatriz would be so proud of you." **** The Barra da Tijuca Rainforest She suddenly heard a familiar voice behind her. "Well, well, well, look who we have here. Greenie, my dear, you look stunning as always," Toucy said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Greenie felt a flutter in her heart at his words. She always enjoyed the way he flirted with her. "Stop it, Toucy. You're making me molt," she said, chirping. Toucy yelped. "I can't help it. You bring out the best in me," he said, splaying his wing. "Shall we tango, my love?" Greenie took his wing, feeling a surge of excitement. The music filled the air, and they moved together, their plumage brushing against each other. Toucy tweeted sweet nothings in Greenie's ear as they danced, making her tail feathers shake. As Greenie and Toucy continued to dance, they noticed the unfamiliar bird that had landed nearby. Its movements were stiff and robotic, unlike any bird they had ever seen. Its feathers lacked the usual brilliance and shine, making it seem almost lifeless. But what caught their attention was the red light that suddenly flicked on, indicating that the bird was recording their every move. The two birds had a sense of unease as they wondered who or what was behind this mysterious bird's appearance.

vm21w2

Beyond the Veil of Stars

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where the boundaries of time and space blur into infinity, there existed a band of rebel space pirates like no other. They called themselves the Wanderers, a motley crew of beings whose origins are as diverse as the stars themselves, each member hailing from distant planets that had been ravaged by the cruel hand of fate. Their home worlds, once lush and vibrant, had fallen prey to the ravages of cosmic disaster and climate change or the relentless onslaught of intergalactic war. Forced to flee their homes, they found solace in the freedom of the stars, roaming the far reaches of space in search of a new beginning. Leading the ragtag crew was Captain Selena, a fierce and determined woman with eyes that burned like the twin suns of her home world, now lost to the void. Her resolve was unyielding, her spirit unbreakable, as she steered her ship, the Stardancer, through the cosmic currents of uncertainty. At her side stood Jax, a masterful pilot whose hands moved across the controls with a grace unmatched. He emerged from a world where the skies blazed with the fires of celestial conflict, and the very earth trembled under the weight of cosmic chaos. Yet within the cockpit of the Stardancer, he discovered a liberation from the burdens of his history, steering his comrades through the abyss with resolute determination. Among the crew were others, each with their own tales of loss and resilience. There was Tali, a brilliant engineer from a world drowned by rising tides, who kept the Stardancer's engines roaring with defiant vitality. And then there was Ryn, a former soldier from a world torn apart by intergalactic war, seeking redemption among the stars. Their journey was fraught with danger, as they roamed the fringes of known space, evading the grasp of those who sought to enlist them in their battles. Enemy ships would often give chase, seeking to force the Wanderers to choose a side in the ceaseless conflict that engulfed the galaxy. But Captain Selena and her crew refused to be bound by the chains of allegiance, stealing only what they needed to survive and defending their right to freedom with every fiber of their being. One pivotal day, as the Wanderers concluded their latest mission infiltrating an enemy cargo delivery, Ryn and Tali found themselves cornered by low-ranking soldiers engaged in an impromptu game of intergalactic poker. Concealed behind crates, Tali's intercom crackled to life, Jax's voice reminding them of their dwindling oxygen supply. In a daring move, Ryn engaged the soldiers in a firefight, providing cover for Tali to secure the much-needed supplies for a refugee ship they aimed to aid. "Tali, I'm finished!" Ryn's voice echoed as he leaped onto their makeshift hovercraft crafted from recycled remnants of ancient galactic warships. "Jax, we're inbound! Initiate closing of Cargo B's loading dock—pronto!" Ryn's urgency cut through the tension. "You just had to make an exit, didn't you, Ryn?" Jax's playful retort crackled over the intercom. With seconds to spare, the loading dock gate sealed shut just as the pursuing soldiers collided into it—a futile attempt thwarted, Tali thought, akin to bugs meeting a windshield after a rainstorm. "Hurry, Tali! Assume battle stations!" Ryn's command snapped Tali back to the present. "I'm on it!" Before Tali could respond, a violent impact shook the Stardancer, sending a cargo crate crashing down, rendering her unconscious. "Shit! Tali!" Ryn's distress reverberated through the ship. Snatching his intercom, Ryn urgently relayed to Captain Selena, "Captain, Tali's down! We need to evacuate fast! My blaster's trapped—crushed beneath cargo!" "Take Tali to the medical bay, Ryn! And alert the crew to prepare for a time jump!" Captain Selena's orders were swift and decisive. Turning to Jax, she declared, "We must initiate a space jump immediately. The last blast has destabilized us. We're ill-prepared for further engagement." "On it, Captain!" Jax's fingers hovered over the controls, poised to execute the jump. Yet, before he could act, a critical hit rattled the Stardancer as they engaged hyper-speed for the time jump. The universe twisted and turned around them as they hurtled through the fabric of time and space. Colors blurred into a kaleidoscope of chaos, and the very stars seemed to weep as they passed by. And then, with a jolt that sent shivers down their spines, they emerged into a realm unlike any they had ever known. Before them, two planets collided in a cataclysmic dance of destruction, their surfaces torn asunder by the violent forces of nature. Debris rained down upon the Stardancer, battering its hull and threatening to tear it apart. With a grim determination, Jax fought to keep the ship aloft, hands steady upon the controls as he guided them through the chaos of debris flying past them at the speed of sound. But their trials were far from over. As they struggled to escape the gravitational pull of the colliding worlds, they were drawn inexorably toward a swirling vortex of darkness—a wormhole, yawning wide to swallow them whole. With no other options left, Captain Selena ordered Jax’s to steered the Stardancer into the maw of the abyss, praying to whatever gods still listened that they would emerge on the other side unscathed. Time seemed to lose all meaning as they hurtled through the depths of the wormhole, surrounded by a void so profound it threatened to consume them whole. The laws of physics and gravity ceased to hold sway, leaving them adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Emotions ran high as fear and desperation gripped their hearts, but still, they clung to the flickering flame of hope that burned within them. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, their journey through the abyss came to an end. The Stardancer emerged into a new universe, bathed in the light of unfamiliar stars and bound by the rules of an unknown reality. For a moment, they hung suspended in the void, their senses reeling from the sheer magnitude of their surroundings. Their respite was fleeting, interrupted by the emergence of a horde of shadowy figures, their forms contorted by the alien energies of the realm. With a primal roar, they descended upon the Stardancer, driven by a clear intent: to annihilate anything that dared trespass their domain. With time slipping away, Captain Selena rallied her crew, fortifying them for a final confrontation. "Ryn! Do you copy?" Captain Selena's voice commanded through the intercom. "Yes, Captain! Tali's in the medical bay! Heading to battle stations now!" Ryn's response echoed with urgency. "Good! We're not out of this yet!" Selena's determination rang clear. "Jax! Can you adjust the ship's course slightly to the left to stabilize the cargo load?" Selena's directive was swift. "Yes, Captain!" Jax's acknowledgement is filled with resolve. Seizing the intercom, Selena issued her orders: "Attention, crew! Brace yourselves! We're making a hard left to balance the cargo load. Once we stabilize, prepare for battle!" As the enemy closed in, the crew fought with a ferocity fueled by desperation, each soul resolved to safeguard the hard-won freedom they cherished. Blaster fire illuminated the void as they clashed with their unearthly adversaries, their determination unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds. But just as it seemed that all hope was lost, a miracle occurred. From the depths of the abyss, a beacon of light shone forth—a gateway back to the familiar stars they had once called home. With a surge of renewed vigor, Captain Selena ordered Jax’s to guide the Stardancer towards the shimmering portal as they narrowly escaped their latest battle yet. And then, with a burst of speed that defied all reason, they shot through the gateway and back into the familiar embrace of space. Behind them, the darkness receded, driven back by the light of their indomitable spirit. The battle won, Captain Selena and her crew set a course for the stars, their hearts filled with hope for the future that awaited them. For they were the Wanderers, rebels without a cause, explorers without boundaries. And though their journey had been fraught with peril, they knew that as long as they stood together, they would always find a way to defy the odds and chart their own destiny among the stars.

0tcv7w

Desperate remedies

                       Desperate Remedies Summer was just around the corner, and this late spring Sunday started off magnificently. Warm, sunny, and a gentle easterly breeze wafting out over the calm, Indian ocean. However, to a trained eye, a closer look at the red sky foretold of bad weather on the way. There was an old saying, "red sky in the morning, sailors warning, red sky at night, sailors delight." Back in the 1970s, Rob’s normal job was as an electronics technician, but he did some moonlighting as a deckhand on a crayfishing boat. He had a standing invitation and would go out as often as he could, weekends, public holidays, and rostered days off. He didn't get paid, he just loved being out on the ocean. Saying that he didn't get paid was not quite right, he always came home with at least 40 or more crayfish that had a black-market value of about eight dollars each. Two large freezers at his place plus three others at family and friends' houses amounted to many thousands of dollars. The twenty-meter Cray boat was anchored at the Ocean Reef breakwater located on a northern beach of Perth, Western Australia. He met the crew in the parking lot that was close by. The skipper, Bob, had a full white beard on a weathered, leathery face that made him look twenty years older. The other two deckhands, Josh and Simon (Simmo to his mates) were in their mid-twenties, and you could describe them as strong, scruffy and a bit rough around the edges. Rob was probably only two minutes late, but that didn't stop the ribald comments, "hey Robbo, get the leg over this morning?" They were great guys, and they all worked well as a team. The heavy, wooden craypots were already set about eight kilometers offshore close to a small, natural reef. The work, although physically demanding, was a little monotonous with the occasional bit of excitement. The skipper would sometimes place a large, baited hook, usually with a live octopus, on one of the ropes that were used to haul in the craypots and nine times out of ten you would find a very unhappy shark had taken the bait. Bob would sell the sharks to local restaurants and, for the bigger sharks, sell the jaws to Japanese tourists. Today was no exception. They all knew something big was on the line when the winch used to pull the pots up started slipping. Eventually, a three-and-a-half-meter grey surfaced, and it took nearly twenty minutes to get it on board. These fish are very strong and dangerous; Josh managed a gash to his leg that needed bandaging. They had almost finished when the skipper announced that a change in the weather was on the way, and they needed to hurry up. To Rob, the conditions hadn't changed that much. Maybe the wind was stronger, maybe the light had changed, or perhaps the color of the sky, but whatever it was, Bob had sea water running in his veins and he knew the weather was turning bad. Just as they pulled the last pot and headed for home, heavy pelting rain hit them. The wind changed direction and significantly increased in strength. The sky turned black, and together with loud cracks of thunder and dazzling lightning flashes a very eerie, almost surreal scenario unfolded before their eyes. Rob wasn't that worried. They had a big boat, an experienced captain, and he had weathered much larger storms than this. As they approached the breakwater, they could see many people standing on the rocks and frantically pointing to the windward side. It was obvious that some of them were shouting and although the crew were perhaps only fifty meters away, the noise of the storm and the deafening crash of the waves on the rocks made it impossible to hear them. Bob turned the boat away from the lee side and headed around the breakwater to the other side. It didn't take long to see what was going on. A small aluminum boat, maybe four or five meters in length, was in dire trouble. It was just meters away from the rocks, and it looked like a lot of water had flooded the back end. Standing at the steering wheel of the boat was a large, middle-aged man. Just behind him was an equally large woman and three young kids. The look of fear on the woman's face said it all. With the waves crashing onto the boat and the howling wind both doing their best to smash the boat onto the jagged rocks, disaster was only minutes away. Bob, with his many years of experience, maneuvered the boat as close as he could to the stricken vessel; this was extremely dangerous as it put his boat in imminent peril of also being tossed onto the rocks. Rob motioned to the man that they were going to throw him a rope; he didn't look up, and his face was frozen in fear. Rob threw the rope perfectly, and it hit the guy in the middle of his chest. He didn't flinch, and the rope fell forlornly to the bottom of the boat. The eldest of the kids, an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy, got the idea. He grabbed the rope and scrambled to the front of the boat. He sat on the bow of the boat, clutching the rope in his hands. Unfortunately, no amount of gesturing could convince the young boy to tie the rope onto the conveniently located bollard. If they tried to tow the boat with him holding the rope, he would have been pulled into the ocean, probably to his death. The boat was almost on the rocks by now. Time had run out. Simmo didn't hesitate. He jumped into the maelstrom and swum to the little boat that was being tossed around like a cork. He scrambled on board, secured the rope, and took control of the wheel while Bob used maximum power to pull the hapless family to safety. When the crew finally got to secure their boat and made their way to the shore, they were greeted by a TV news team and a large crowd who were cheering and calling them hero’s; being a little embarrassed with all the attention they managed to sneak into the nearby sporting club bar for a well-deserved beer. The beers arrived just in time for everyone to see the rescued family get in their car and take off at a rapid rate. The boat trailer had been left in the carpark, and the boat was still on the ramp where it had also been left. Bob had a bit of a whimsical laugh and guessed that boating was now off the agenda for them. Later that night, sitting in his cozy, safe house, with a crackling fire and a large whisky, Rob could hear the still raging storm outside and realized that today he had witnessed what desperate remedies had been taken to save that family from certain death. Bob had risked his boat and his crew while Simmo had done the bravest thing that Rob had ever seen.

xjvwuu

A Disappointing Truth

Stormday, Decæmon 13, 998th year Finally, I have gathered a crew that is willing to fall off of the globe with me. Even from the highest point in any continent or from The Origin, the other side of the planet is obscured by the planet’s curvature. Most living things on this pathetic rock are too cowardly to risk their lives for the pursuit of understanding or even the childish ecstasy of exploration. However, these fifteen men around me possess at least one of these two qualities or are at least so stupid they have not yet realized the risk of this endeavor. Having been forced to live in a world populated exclusively by dolts meandering through life far below my intellectual caliber, I am used to putting my life in the hands of people who I do not trust. Thus, I have little reservation about sailing with men with no self-preservation instincts, especially so since it is what makes them so useful to me. I am seconds away from breaching the final frontier and going to the region I only know falsehoods and legends of. I made an offering to Hima-a, the Goddess of travel, Amiuzike, the God of knowledge, and, of course, the four ocean gods. The Gods are the only beings in reality that I can truly trust and that are more perfect than I am. I have no doubt that I have only lived for as long as I have because of their blessing. Friegday, Decæmon 14, 998th year Only thirteen hours past the southern tip of Sasilla, the winds and waves beg us to turn back. Despite the storms and cold, I find myself unable to stay in my quarters. My eyes are the first to reach every sight I see here. I will stay out here until my fing~~~~. Damn! The boat’s rocking sent my pen gliding across the page, an inevitability given I cannot control my numb fingers. It seems the sailors have not lost their spines, as we have not turned back. By my calculations, it should only be another day until we reach the opposite point on the globe from which we started. But there is no end in sight for this storm, and it can substantially slow us down. Satenday, Decæmon 15, 998th year Somehow, the storm has gotten worse. I must commend my crew for continuing to brave these elements. Perhaps I underestimated these men. Perhaps they do possess the scholarly virtue that has blessed me with my lust for discovery. Though I must admit, I am starting to worry for my own life, which is a new sensation. I feel my own preservation instinct crawling up my back, whispering into my ear suggestions of surrender. A ridiculous notion, as it is too late to turn back now. I had committed to this journey from the day I was born, ever since the gods put me on this world to decode the secrets of this world. It is with a strong will and pious duty that I refuse to relent for the sake of my crew with whom I have come so far and for the pursuit of knowledge I have lived my life in service of. Solday, Decæmon 16, 998th year Well, half the crew is dead. So it goes, as they say. Disposing of their bodies was a rather trite affair. The other sailors were sniveling over their fallen comrades as we pushed their corpses into the sea. I have noticed that sailors tend to try to remain stoic around each other, as if their insecurities were not so plainly seen through their facade. On the bright side (literally), the weather has cleared up. We find ourselves shimmying our sloop through expansive sheets of ice. They are so large that just one of them could not fit anywhere in the seas between the continents. They each stretch on for miles, and if not for the occasional break in the ice, I would think there were just two giant sheets of ice covering this entire side of the planet. The weather is pleasantly warm. Too warm, I think, for the water’s surface to be covered in ice. We can hear a very faint thumping noise regularly as if there is some earthquake occurring miles away at random times. At other times, we see the sea quake and the ice sheets begin to crack. Just what are we sailing toward? Areday, Decæmon 18, 998th year I was woken up in the middle of the night by a blistering cold, one much worse than in the storms. I was going numb before I even gathered my thoughts to leave bed. Luckily, I had ordered the crew to pack clothes for all types of weather, and three layers of heavy clothes now shield us from frostbite. Oddly, it is still sunny. The weather still looks clear and cloudless. The sun still burns through the sky’s blue canvas, but none of its warmth seems to reach us. I was so taken by shock yesterday that I forgot to test the ice and waters below us. But today, noticing that the ice masses are completely gone despite the freezing weather, I was urged to test the waters. I fetched a thermometer and attached it to a string that descended into the water. When I pulled the rope back up, It had melted. The glass was molten and glowing. What is in the water that is making it so warm? And how long will we have to bear this godsforsaken cold? Kingsday, Decæmon 19, 998th year I am writing this late at night since it took all day for my hands to recover from the frostbite (I took off my gloves to write). The weather has warmed up again, but in place of the cold, we are subjected to giant, spontaneous waves that almost capsize the boat. After the trials we were put through, I cannot imagine anyone coming to save us if we get stranded here. If just one small mistake is made, if any one of these waves capsizes us, my story ends. I will have ended my life in my greatest failure, not completing my journey across the dark side of the globe. I do not know if the four sea gods will hear me from here, but all I can do now is pray. Stormday, Decæmon 20, 998th year Finally! After a week of traveling, perhaps the worst week of my life, I have been bestowed with the greatest reward my eyes could ask for. A stunning castle of ice, at least twenty times larger than the Emperor’s Ruby Palace. My ears have been blessed with the truth of the thumping sounds. Not an earthquake, not an eruption, but a chanting coming from inside the castle. A cacophony of male shouts, perhaps some arcane ritual. I can see the origin of the waves and quakes, too. Sometimes, the structure violently shakes, forming waves around it. Luckily, we are close enough now that the waves are too small to be a threat anymore. We are docking at the walkway in front of the gargantuan front door. As I write, I and the six remaining crew members are knocking on the front door. By that, I mean we are firing a cannon into it since knocking on ice will not make any sound, especially since we are so small compared to the giants that must live in the castle. It was very difficult to convince the men to load the cannon, as they did not want to upset whatever resided in the castle. What happened to the brave men with whom I conquered the storm and the cold? Are they not willing to sacrifice their lives so that their souls may know the absolute truth? Are we really just going to sail past this impossible discovery? Almost an hour after we shot a cannon into the door, which barely made a dent in it, a giant flung open the door, looking as if he could barely stand. If he falls, would it cause the quake that shakes the castle? He must be sixty times taller than a human and much, much heavier. He was wearing ragged pants, an open-buttoned shirt, and a large potbelly. I could tell, even from this distance, that he was drunk. He opened his mouth to speak;1 but before he could, another voice called to him from inside the house: “Zheng, what is it?” “It’s a ship,” Zheng peered ovr2 th door to the bal. “They fired a cannonball into the door.” “Could they not just knock?” th voice askd. “I dunno.” He was slurring his wrds. “Lemme ask.” He turnd bac 2 us. “Could you not just knock?” I and the crew stood there in silence for a minute as we took in what we were witnessing, but what was harder to process was the name of the giant at the door: Zheng. Could it be Zhengine, the Hemiyan God of the Eastern Sea? This drunken slob? Impossible. “Well?” The giant asked, “why didn’t you knock?” “Greetings, Giant. My name is Hasi Ko, a researcher from the Eastern kingdom of Hemiya. We have travelled through terrible conditions to explore the unknown. It is an honor to meet-”3 1 This was meant to be a colon, as I expected the giant to speak, but I was wrong, and haphazardly changed it to a semicolon. 2 I apologize for my contractions and mispellings. I was in a rush to write down every word they said. 3 I gave my notebook to a crewmate so I could speak to the giant and still have the dialogue recorded. “B-but why the cannon?” “Oh. Um, we did not think knocking with our small hand would make enough noise, especially not since the door is made of ice.” Zheng looked back inside & called, “Should I let ‘em in?” “Sure,” the voice said, “but have them get the mail.” “We have a mailbox?” “Yeah, they put the prayers and offerings in there.” “People pray to us?” “Hold on,” Ko said, “are you the God of the Eastern Sea, Zhengine?” “Yeah4. So, uh, get the mail.” “May we enter your castle?” “Yeah,” Zheng said, “after you get the mail.” I looked up, and the mailbox he spoke of was so far out of our reach that I just looked back to the buffoon. “Ok,” Zhengine said, “fine. I’ll get it.” He stumbled over to the mailbox and flipped it down. Immediately, letters and burnt offerings flooded out, spraying Zhengine in his face5. After the mailbox was empty, and most of the people’s prayers were floating away in the water, Zhengine picked up one and put it in his pocket. “Come in,” he said to us. 4 Needless to say, my heart dropped at this point 5 In the mess, I thought I saw a few letters containing my own prayers to Zhengine, obviously having gone unanswered. I cannot even describe my reaction to what I saw inside the castle. Only one word can begin to describe how I felt: disappointment. I could tell the place was once beautiful, but it had been trashed by spilled wine and broken ornaments. We turned the corner into the next room, which had blue walls stained purple, and saw the other three giant inhabitants of this house, the perpetrators of the destruction. One was lying on a broken couch, holding a hand to his head with a pained expression on his face. Another was on the floor, holding a bottle of wine between his lips with his hands at his sides. When we walked in, he started to sit up, but the wine fell out of his mouth and spilled over his face. One more giant walked in through another door and plopped down onto the couch, ostensibly not seeing someone was sleeping on it and woke his friend up by sitting on him. The giant below him reacted with a queasy yelp, and rolled his friend off, causing them both to tumble to the floor. Zheng pointed to the giant who had just walked in. “That’s Sinbi, God of The Southern Sea. You know Sasilla, right? It’s the sea around that continent,” he said as if I didn’t already know what Sasilla was or who their Sea God was. He pointed to the one who had spilled wine on himself. “That’s Odeius, North Sea God, for the Numer continent.” He pointed to the last one, saying, “That’s Guertkl, for the, uh, Western Sea...” “Around the continent of Waima. Yes, I know” Ko said. “You men are all Sea Gods? why don’t you live with the rest of your pantheons?” “Did the gods not tell ‘em?” Sinbi said. He turned his head to us from the ground and said, “They imprisoned us here after we defied the will of the other gods. They made some, like, really bad storms to stop people from reaching us. At first, we were, like, sad, but then we realised we could do whatever we wanted to now. So we invited a bunch of mermaid babes to the castle and-” “SHHH!” Guertkl silenced him. “And what?” Ko said, “What happened next?” “Alright,” Odeius said, “These sailors already saw too much. They’re not dumb.” He turned to us. “You humans can tell that we’re just having parties day in and day out, right6? Well, we aren’t doing it alone, duh. We bring all sorts of fish-people and merfolk here, and they party with us. Eventually, we decided we didn’t want any humans bothering us, so we made some extra barriers on top of the storms, like the desert of ice that boats shouldn’t be able to sail through and the intense cold spot. But somehow, you guys got through. The thing is, since we can only control water, the only way to make the air cold was by getting the sea to absorb all of the heat, so if you went into the water, you would’ve boiled alive. We don’t really leave the house, and we don’t get sober, like, ever. We don’t get hung over cuz we just never stop drinking, but when you guys knocked, Sinbi went to gather everyone up and hide them. We stopped drinking, so the hangovers are setting in. Thanks for that.” 6At this point, it was painfully obvious. This is it? This is who the Sea Gods really are? This will change everything. We must return with haste and Friegday, Decæmon 21, 998th year The crew and I woke up in what seems to be a prison cell in the house. The last thing I remember was the gods picking us up and how much we shook in their grip as they stumbled through the castle. We must have passed out due to our bodies being thrown around, and now we are in this cell made for a giant, which I can tell because the prison bars are so far apart from each other that any regular human could just walk through, though I doubt even these oafs are not asinine enough to put us in a prison we could just walk out of. There must be a hex on the door, and I do not want to find out what will happen if I try to walk through. This may be a blessing in disguise, however, as I can see into the room where the party is happening. I can get a glimpse into the daily life of a god. It was mostly just regular, nonstop partying, which was not much different from human parties, but I did find out what caused the castle to shake. One god tossed multiple bottles of mead into the air, then shot them open with bullets of liquid, and all of the partygoers, including the gigantic gods, jumped for a sip of the booze. These jumps rocked the castle, and I must conclude that the quakes and waves we suffered for most of the trip resulted from drunken buffoonery, and the noises we heard were just the unhinged chantings of a pathetic mob. The second event that night was one truly bone-chilling. Zheng decided to take a nap and pulled the couch away from the party, closer to the cell. Muttering that he was cold, he went and fetched a candle, which he lit and placed under the couch. Obviously, it caught on fire, waking him up, and he tried to put the fire, which had engulfed the couch, out by just blowing on it. It did not work, of course, but he continued to try for what felt like an eternity before remembering he could control liquid and tried to put it out by raising the alcohol up off the floor and pouring it onto the couch. This only made the fire grow, and he spent another eternity panicking before conjuring water to finally put out the fire. I was blown away by his stupidity. He did not know how alcohol works, forgot that he had control over liquid, and he even put an open flame under a regular, flammable couch. Is it possible that gods can be this stupid? Am I giving them too much credit for thinking they actually put a hex on this cell? I gathered my courage and leaped through the bars, ready to die. I was honestly a bit disappointed to find that I was still alive, as my faith in the gods had surely perished today. After leaving the cell, escaping with the crew was easy. The gods seemed to have completely forgotten about us and hadn’t even done anything with our ship. I have made the greatest discovery in the history of the world, and I feel more empty than before. I do not know if it is right to share this knowledge with the world. Perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved. Oh, what am I saying? Of course I’m publishing this.

ahipzo

Desperate Remedies

It lay across my chest like a moist log and I knew it was just Carman’s arm but it seemed to push down on me as I inhaled and it made me gag. I sat up quickly as the bile rose in my throat, singeing the sides, forming bitter spots in my mouth. It was coming up and I could not breathe. My eyes searched shadows with moonlight hard against walls and still curtains. Her eyes were wide and staring, mouth moving words distant; not understandable. A little air, then a little more, then it closed off again. Alive, I thought with that air. I screamed silently and more air mixed with her words of are you all right? The corners of my eyes saw her but I knew I did not want to be there any more. A little air, then a little more and more came, the bile subsiding, the throat relaxing. I knew I should not lay back down, that I should get up and get dressed as her words rang clearly beside me, her warm hand smoothly rubbed in a circle on my back. I nodded, wiping foul tasting and smelling stuff from the corners of my lips. ‘Go back to sleep,’ I said to the hard light against the curtains. I laid back down, my back to her, my knees drawn up tight. I knew water had stopped running. The light was in slits through little checks in the closed tall doors. The room was muted colours. Porcelain wash bowl with porcelain pitcher, a flower design of some kind half turned round. She came through the curtain from the bathroom wiping herself with a towel and beautiful to my eyes. I looked down at the crumpled and wet sheet. ‘How do you feel?’ she smiled at me with concern in her eyes. ‘You really scared me this morning.’ I thought, This morning?  and said, ‘Just choked.’ ‘Is there something wrong?’ I kept looking at the sheet. ‘Naw, why?’ ‘There is something wrong. I did something?’ ‘Naw,’ I said fast, too fast. ‘Why don’t you look at me?’ ‘I just woke up. Give me a chance, okay?’ I spoke harshly, too harshly. There was something wrong, like he was in a play or somebody else talking to somebody else. ‘I don’t feel right.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘I don’t know. I’ll take a shower and maybe that will be all I need.’ ‘Wait a little on the hot water. I just used a bunch.’ ‘Yeah.’ I pulled the top sheet off and swung my legs off the bed as she approached, dropping her towel and taking my head in her hands. I pushed her hands away and moved off toward the bathroom feeling her eyes on my back. ‘Gotta piss.’ I stayed in the bathroom until I heard her dressing. ‘What’s for breakfast?’ I tried to sound jovial. ‘Whatever you want. Eggs, bacon, toast, coffee. Anything else?’ she asked. I was feeling a hurt in her voice. ‘Perfect.’ ‘I will go down and see to it. We are rising late, so the cook will have to make it all again.’ ‘What time is it?’ ‘A little after nine.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Are you going anywhere? Something to do today?’ I smiled at the thought. ‘Yeah, the boat. Been away too long.’ ‘I’ll go with you?’ ‘Naw. Boring.’ She left without shutting the door. I heard the softness of her feet on the tiles. Somehow I knew she would be instructing to keep a watch on me. As I closed the front door to the house, Bernardo, the watchman, came running up. ‘Capitan Brown, you need a taxi?’ ‘Naw, man, I will walk.’ ‘No Señor, it is dangerous. I call the taxi. Just stay here and I goes for him.’ Bernardo looked both ways as he began his exit from the door within the main gate. He closed the door carefully. I made my way to the door, opening it and looking out and up the hill to see Bernardo running, his gun poking through his shirt, stuck in his belt. I went out, crossing the street quickly and going down the hill, hiding myself from the watchman by pushing into a crush of people standing around waiting for a public bus. It was hot and the people had individual odours. I felt free. Was it the odours? They were outside the compound and free. I was outside the compound and free. I breathed and was smiling and people smiled and nodded to me. God, I love this place, I thought. A couple of blocks down the hill I re-crossed the busy street to stand with a another small group waiting for a bus. They were grumbling and a couple, who had watches, were pointing at the time and shaking their heads complaining to the others. I smiled at them and they stopped grumbling and smiled back, a few buenas dias came from them. Then, they resumed the grumbling, cabron and head shaking with Mexico and no es bueno through a lot of lips. They suddenly were silent and looking down at the pavement. I saw an old chocolate and off white Plymouth slowly coming down the street, holding the traffic at bay behind it. It was crowded with men showing guns. They came alongside the group and stopped with one man turning his sunglasses toward me. The group had somehow moved to one side and I was standing alone. The man raised his head in an assessing way, his revolver slowly moving upward as I ran in front of the car and across the street. I could hear arguments and commands behind him as I pushed through the slowly walking lines of people moving up and down the pavement. I turned once to see three men running after me as the car sped down ahead of me. I turned off the sidewalk and ran down an embankment of banana trees and underbrush. I slid on mud and tripped on rocks and jumped streamlets as a shot rang out behind me. I ran faster, tumbling and falling down a steep hill, ending up in a pile of garbage from a house behind a wall. I jumped up and ran alongside the wall, then down the embankment again where the wall stopped. At a small river I stopped and listened for them following but it was mainly quiet, just the murmur of people above and the swish of coco-palms overhead. My hands were covered in mud and my clothes drenched in it and wet. I pulled my wallet from the back pocket and stepped into the river to wash everything at once. It was surprisingly cold and it shocked me into thinking about the rate my heart was already racing. ‘This is fucked,’ I said aloud, then looked around at plays of light on banana plant colourings and scraggly underbrush, and the stiff trunks of coconut trees. There was still steam lightly sifting upward from some mulched humps of rotting leaves. I washed a bit and started back up the hill. The people who saw me coming out of the growth did not pay much attention to my state. I looked like them, just wetter. Everybody relieves themselves and you are not to pay attention out of courtesy. The traffic had resumed on the other side of the street, so I crossed over and looked for a taxi or a bus. I smelled him before I felt the gun muzzle in my back and heard his orders. The gun muzzle was not a finger nor a pencil like in the movies. I was being pushed out into the traffic and saw the Plymouth spurt out and hit another car in its side, the other car’s driver’s eyes were wide as he jockeyed away from the guns poking out of the windows. The Plymouth pulled next to us as the back door was opening. I was pushed inside and pushed away from those inside while being pushed by the one with the gun getting in behind me. The door slammed and they took off like a little kid with a prize. The car stank and I was scared. They were young and looked serious in sunglasses. There was a submachine gun and some machetes on the floor and they all waved pistols around. Nobody smiled. The man next to the driver was giving directions with waves of his revolver. Every now and then he would look back at me. I slowed my breathing. I waited for a chance to do something. Women were bargaining for mangos at a stall, standing rigidly tall and proud in dresses with the backs unzipped and sweat sensuously accenting strong muscles. Maybe this is my last scene alive, I thought, but they drove on and I felt I had accomplished something by living a few seconds more. The man at my side started ordering me to do something but not knowing his dialect I did not know what to do. The man insisted, pulling off his sunglasses in frustration and looking into my eyes. He was very young and very angry. Then, he canted his head. ‘Spek Ingles?’ he asked in a humble way. ‘Yes. Ingles. I am, estoy Americano.’ ‘Americano? Black … Huey Newton, Black Beautiful, Stokely. Africa bad. Ras. Bob Marley. Brotha.’ ‘Yes, si.’ I was putting on a smile now. ‘Black is beautiful and the Black Panthers are my brothers and we are all brothers.’ I looked around at all in the car. They were all part black. ‘Brother. Black Panter?’ he started rapid dialect to the leader in front and the two on my side began looking at me differently, both taking off their sunglasses to assess me, then putting them back on and both looked toward the leader, who was talking back to the abductor. ‘W’as you in Oaxaca?’ ‘Barco. Tenemos el barco aqui. Lo tomamos al Caribe.’ ‘Ship. Cruiseship. No cruiseship Puerto Angel. No cruiseship Puerto Angel.’ He looked cross at such a lie. Looking at each of them I said, ‘No. Nuestro barco with sails, velas. Schooner at ancla. Goleta at ancla.’ I started talking to the leader again, who nodded, and shook his head. They all started talking, including the driver, who was not particularly looking at the road. The leader pointed to the right with his automatic and the driver swerved partially onto the sidewalk and stopped. Everybody got out and I was pushed into a dark café with three tables and a few chairs. Everybody pulled a chair up and I was pushed down onto a plastic one that creaked. They sat with their guns in their belts. The leader started talking in an inquisitive manner to me in a vague pigeon language of one word phrases. ‘Black. Bruja. Majica Negro. Santa Muerte. Blancos. Crazy man. Oaxaca.’ I looked up and saw a man behind the bar with no way to escape, which was obviously his wish. Behind him were dark and clear bottles. I raised my hands palms outward, then cupped one as though holding a glass. I gestured toward the man and bottles. They all turned and looked at him. ‘Ron.’ I said, ‘Men drink ron.’ The abductor said, ‘You wants ron?’ ‘Si.’ And gesturing for all to be included, I said, ‘por todos nosotros.’ They all laughed at my Spanish and the gesture. The leader smiled bashfully and nodded for the man to come over. He told him in soft dialect something and the man smiled anxiously nodding and sweating and ran over to the shelves on the wall returning with two bottles, one dark and one clear with cups on the tops. He was a round man with a large balding head and wide eyes. I took the rum bottle and unscrewed the lid, dropping it on the floor and started pouring the rich liquid into the cups. One of the young men put his hand over his cup to signal he did not drink. He looked over to me and placed a revolver on the table top. The leader berated him and he took his hand away. I poured a small amount and he looked grateful. I finished pouring and raised my cup. ‘Viva Mexico.’ They frowned, spoke to each other than each smiled and raised their cups. ‘Viva Oaxaca.’ Everybody sipped the rum, shuddering and looked around the table. I said, ‘Capitan Brown.’ Pressing my two right hand fingers to my chest. ‘Capitan…’ the leader said to the others. They responded with assessing nods. The leader poured his rum onto the floor, then the others did. He took my cup and poured it onto the floor also, smiled up at me and opened the mezcal bottle and poured it into my cup. He poured himself a good shot and passed the bottle to the others. The one who did not want to drink was the last to pour some into his cup. ‘Ahora.,’ The leader said, ‘real drunks, us. Al Diablo.’ And laughed a loud shriek, and they all started screaming then gulped down the cups. I lifted my cup and downed it too. The mezcal was nice and simple and slightly burning. I had expected a tequila taste and actually raised my eyebrows to them and they responded by fighting to fill my cup again. The leader took the bottle and topped my cup, then his, and smiling at me gulped it all down. One of the boys called to the proprietor and he brought over a brown clay bottle. When everybody was looking warm and relaxed I smiled at the leader and asked, ‘What do you want with me?’ He blinked a few times, bashfully. His eyes moved around the others and leaned over without a smile and stared into my eyes. ‘We wants money from you bruja. We knows you wid her in dat casa…’ He looked like he wanted to say more but his English was gone. His eyes wandered in a frustrated bouncy way. I looked toward the doorway. ‘We no kills chu… she gives money,’ he was still grasping for English. ‘She money. All give money a la cabrona. Majica, no? Pow’rful witch, no?’ He smiled, drank a little, ‘Chu want go us?’ I was still on the witch part? ‘Vamos a jugar fútbol, amigos,’ the leader shouted. I mumbled, ’Futbol?’ ‘Si. Yes. Ramon es lo mejor, best, in our pueblo. Come, you likes.’ We drove to a sandy soccer field with some kids running up and down kicking a ball. When they saw us getting out of the Plymouth, they stopped running and stared for a moment before running off the field. The ball was left and Ramon ran over and started kicking it up to bound it with his head over to us. Guero brought it up with his foot and pushed it toward me with his chest. ‘Come on, Capitan.’ He was grinning broadly. I responded with a kick that sent the ball back out to Ramon, who recovered it with a nod to me. We started a game of three per side and after about an hour my team of the leader and Guero won the game. The round clay bottle of mescal was produced and four of us sat against the Plymouth with Ramon continuing to play on the dusty field. The breeze had gradually become little whirlwinds forming at times. We sat in the lee of the car without saying anything about the wind nor dust. The dust hid the two players for a moment and that reminded me that I was their prisoner, their kidnapped victim. I stood with the clay bottle, took a slug and called out, ‘Ramon.’ Ramon smiled and kicked the ball to me. I handed the bottle down and kick it back. Ramon stopped and looked back at our group sadly when the dull pops of an automatic weapon began its sputter and the dust began to shoot into the air near Guero’s feet. He threw his pistol down quickly and looked for a way to run but settled on seeing what came next. From out of the shrubbery came four muscular men in black shorts and white guayabara shirts. They all wore the same type of sunglasses and I could not recognise their faces, but behind them strolled my Carmen talking to another man who I also had never seen before. Carmen waved at me and smiled warmly, showing her comforting brilliant teeth. ‘We die now.’ I heard the leader tell the others. I did not look back but I could hear sobbing from one of them. ‘Die like men, cabron,’ he shouted to them. I heard his pistol discharge and the four men opened fire with me between everybody. I dared not move for fear of attracting bullets and when the firing stopped Ramon lay before me with five holes in the back of his shirt and a small pink drip line starting to spread. I turned and they all lay with their legs in front of them as though resting to tell some more stories but their heads were either turned down with chins on chests or the chin was pointing skyward toward a perfectly blue ceiling of heaven. The leader attempted to raise his pistol but didn’t have the time left on earth and his gun and hand fell onto his lap. Carmen was holding me and talking about how she was so scared they had killed me. She had found out that they were here playing football and brought some friends to take care of the whole thing. She also said that she was starved and hadn’t eaten breakfast and smiled happily. ‘How did you manage to stay alive? The last ones they captured were skinned and left alive hanging from a tree Christ fashion.’ She put her lovely arms out and drooped her head to the side. ‘Can you imagine stripping the skin off a man?’

hpek9o

A Tale of Two Cities

Lazarus pulled a petal off the small dandelion flower in between his index finger and thumb, he examined it. Sniffing it, taking in its tainted fragrance. He blew it away and continued to stare at the passing clouds. Lazarus lay on his back on the outskirts of the wheat fields. There was a small pasture just beyond the brush. Lazarus would take the livestock to these pastures early in the morning. He would watch the sunrise and wonder. On his back, he imagined he was flying with the clouds, traversing their thin matter taking no thought of expectations. The gravity of the decision he had to make threw him back into his body, his wonder dissipated.                  “Laz! Laz! Guess what!” The annoying noise came from Tilly. He was a clumsy tall child with a new ailment daily. He ran to Lazarus fighting for breath.                  “Tilly, you don’t have to holler everything.” Lazarus let out a sigh and rose to greet Tilly; who was out of breath by the time he reached Lazarus.                  “Well, what is it? What’s the excitement about?” Lazarus questioned Tilly.                  “They just got word. It’s going to be a war; we’re going to war with the Scepter clans of the West. I heard it from Ms. Lou whose daughter works in the palace.” Tilly blurted the words out. Lazarus fell to the ground, his mind searched for solace, a way to unhear what he just heard. There was no way out, no way to avert the thoughts. He thought of his father, but mostly the thought of death usurped his mind. Tilly was still talking about something or another, but all Lazarus could do was think about the war. The thought of deciding on a bride seemed juvenile compared to the decision he had to make about joining the war. It was less of a decision and more of expectation. He was expected to join the war efforts because of his last name, Warmonger. What was he to do? Go against his family? He couldn’t.                  “…and capt’n Jeffers told colonel Hist that it was gonna be a blood bath because both the houses don’t like each other after the death of the Scepters Queen. No one knows…”                  “Shut up! Stop talking Tilly! Please!” Lazarus couldn’t think he couldn’t take Tilly’s voice in his head too, there were already so many unwanted thoughts. Tilly looked like his feelings had been hurt. Lazarus couldn’t care about Tilly’s feelings too; the thought of death consumed him. The Scepters were known to cannibalize their captures and leave their heads on wooden stakes along the road. Lazarus was more of a lover than a fighter, his nature was the opposite of war. The fear rushed through his body as he thought of the war stories told by his older uncles and cousins. Lazarus tried to remember a story his father used to tell him as a child, but none came to him, he couldn’t even remember how his father sounded. The shame overtook the fear and Lazarus hung his head resting it in the palms of his hands.                  “Oh you’re worried about having to join the war as a soldier.” Tilly finally understood the gravity of his words.                  “Yea, I’ll be expected to join the war and fight bravely to the death if I must. But the thing is Tilly, what if I don’t want to die for some crown in a palace a hundred miles from here? What if I want to live, what if I want to find more beauty on this miraculous earth? Will they care about that, will my family care about my dreams or will they forsake them for the hopes of a king hundreds of miles away?” Lazarus cried out. Tilly looked at Lazarus with eyes that said a million words, but none came out of his mouth, instead he grabbed Lazarus and hugged him. They both embraced and cried out in hopes that God would hear their weeping and send help. Joshua Hornsborn was being sized for new armor, as the prince Shaman he was expected to fight in large wars and be seen among the front line at battles. Joshua had trained all his life for a war like this, it will be his first, but he was ready to show his strength. He was mostly excited to impress his father, a man who is not easily impressed. Joshua looked at himself in the mirror. He saw the way his armor twisted as he gestured as if he held a sword. He felt powerful, he felt invincible. His father had sent the tailors with word that the fighting had begun, and Joshua was expected at the front lines once he was fitted with his armor. The mirror didn’t show the butterflies in Joshua’s belly, it didn’t show the fear that welled up in his heart. No, he was trained to show no weakness. Joshua had no close friends or people to confide these feelings to. So, the dialogue in his mind was also his greatest enemy at times. He worked hard to show no weakness, he trained harder than any of the other warriors mainly to cover the fear that bled from his heart.                  “Is it to your liking sir?” The tailor asked looking at Joshua through the mirror.                  “It’s perfect, I can move freely and it’s not too heavy. Thank you, Iris.” Joshua turned around to shake Iris’ hand. They exchanged pleasantries and Iris departed. Joshua was alone again, staring at himself in the mirror hoping that the fear usurping his body would not be the death of him. The time was near, he knew it.                  “Are you ready sire?” Josue, one of the guards, asked Joshua.                  “I am ready.” The words slipped from Joshua’s mouth without him even being conscious of speaking. Joshua’s mind was racing, he was mainly worried about making his father look bad. He was expected to kill during battle, this was to show the strength of the prince Shaman. One day he would be High Scepter Shaman, he had to exhibit his strength. He was taught its either kill or be killed, that was the mentality of the higher caste Scepter community. From a young age he was trained to fight, to be a bureaucrat, and most of all to be a leader. The time had come for Joshua to see the cost of war. Lazarus sulked on the walk through the fields back home. His heart was heavy, and his mind was tired. Tired from thinking of ways to get out of this war, to find a loophole in the rules of family affairs. He didn’t want to go to war, he pictured his death more times than he was willing to count. By the time he reached his front door his spirit was already broken. His father stood inside. Lazarus looked into the eyes of that sullen man and knew he didn’t have a choice. He would serve his king in the war and die if he must.                  Ms. Joy was there with her husband Mr. Herndon; they were the town craftsmen. They could build or make anything. Lazarus knew they were present to size and fit him for his armor. Lazarus wasn’t ready to die, he hadn’t yet lived. The thoughts were back, piling up in Lazarus’ mind. He looked at himself in the mirror and did not recognize the face staring back at him. A part of him wanted to weep, to cry out and curse God for making him die this way.                  “Are you ready?” Lazarus’ father asked in a low groan.                  “As ready as I’ll ever get,” Lazarus whispered quietly to himself.                  “Soldier! I said are you ready?” His father asked, this time in a clear firm voice.                  “Yes, sir!” Lazarus straightened his back and responded as he had been taught. His training would never be lost as it had become muscle memory. His training taught him how to obey orders and never show weakness. However, there were a thousand tears welling up in Lazarus’ heart as he looked at himself in the mirror. Instead of undamning those tears he beat his chest and followed his father out of the front door.                  The fighting had already started before either Joshua or Lazarus arrived on the battlefield. Lazarus followed his father; he couldn’t understand how he was walking let alone carrying a sword. His heart pounded under that armor, his hands were sweaty, and he could feel his bottom lip quivering with each step toward the battle. They neared the fighting which was on a hill up Boulders Point. Colonel Leon, Lazarus’ father, looked back at his son and with a nod he turned back around and ran straight for the first Scepter he could find. Lazarus froze, for just a moment, he stood there watching men shove spears and axes into each other’s hearts. The moment had passed, and Lazarus ran, he ran toward some brush that lay outside of the fighting. He hid behind the brush laying on his back with his hand on his sword, he began to think of a way out of this suicide mission. He was surrounded by hills, he could just run, take shelter in the hills until he found a town. Lazarus could feel his mind running away from him, he closed his eyes and willed himself to take a deep breath.  Joshua mounted his horse and secured his sword while he looked on at the crowd of people that gathered to see him off. There were a few townspeople, some noble caste people, and of course his father, the High Scepter Shaman. Joshua followed Josue and Josiah, his guardsmen as they rode slowly through the town so that the common folk could see their prince Shaman fighting for his people. This part of the battle was all for show, to show the people that even the king’s son must fight in war. Once they left the towns gates, they still had about a twenty-mile ride to reach Boulders Point. Joshua thought about what the battlefield would look like, how many men would be fighting, and most of all he thought about how it would feel to kill someone. This thought haunted his dreams, it even interrupted pleasant moments throughout his day. Could he kill someone? Joshua’s chest became tight, and his heart pounded under his armor. He could feel his hands slipping on the reigns from the sweat drenching them. Joshua looked up and he could see movement from people that looked like ants from his perspective. There was still time to worry about the future. “I need to run for it.” Lazarus said aloud to himself. He still lay on his back behind the brush. Suddenly, he could see three horses approaching him from his right. Lazarus panicked he no longer had a choice; he would have to make a run for it before they spotted him. Without a second thought Lazarus leapt to his feet and began to run away from the three horsemen. He was too late, Josue spotted Lazarus running and took off after him. Joshua and Josiah followed, all three rushing toward Lazarus. Lazarus was no match against the horses, Josue ordered Lazarus to stop running and drop his sword. Lazarus complied and begged for his life. “Please, sir I’m just a child. I have yet to live, please let me go and I’ll never come back!” Lazarus pleaded with the three horsemen. “Stop your begging! Die with honor.” Josiah unmounted from his horse and pulled his sword. “Wait, let him do it. His father said he just needed three kills, right?” Josue said smiling back at Josiah and pointing at Joshua. “I’ll be happy to do it. They eat their own babies. How many have you eaten? You’ll die for your sins.” Joshua said to Lazarus as he pulled his sword from its sheath. “Please, take me as a prisoner, take me back to your lands and I will work. I will be no trouble.” Lazarus made one last plea for his life. Joshua walked up to Lazarus and placed his sword at his neck. “Let me take him back to my father. You two go get those three kills for me,” Joshua said as he looked back at Josiah and Josue. They gave up a small fight but decided that Lazarus wouldn’t be any trouble for the prince Shaman. Josue and Josiah went on to Boulders Point to join in the fighting while Joshua shackled Lazarus. “You can just let me go; I won’t ever show my face here again.” Lazarus said quietly. “Shut up! You’ll be a nice prize to take back to my father, my people. They’ll have you tried for your sins there.” Joshua replied as he loaded Lazarus on his horse. Lazarus couldn’t think clearly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He always went somewhere after taking these deep breaths somewhere quiet and impartial to the world. Lazarus opened his eyes and knew he must get away from his captor. “I have seven brothers and sisters; my parents work in the wheat fields. I’ve never eaten a baby. I have nieces and nephews.” Lazarus pleaded to Joshua. “I heard it from a Scepters mouth once. One that was sentenced to death pleaded guilty to eating baby heads and picking his teeth with the bones.” Joshua stated plainly. Lazarus was running out of options, he couldn’t plead to this man, this man who denies his humanity for made up stories of cannibals. His last option became his only option. He would jump. Before Lazarus could make up his mind his body flung itself off the horse and tumbling down a hill. Lazarus couldn’t stop his body from rolling, he felt every rock, every mound of dirt. Finally, he stopped, he was sore and scarred but he was thankful to have survived. By the time Lazarus looked up Joshua came crashing into him, both men falling to the ground. Joshua rose quickly and grabbed Lazarus by his shackles, “You’re going to die for this.” Joshua pulled Lazarus closer, and, in that moment, Joshua felt like he could kill. Both remained silent for some time after their skirmish. Lazarus couldn’t believe he was going to be tortured by the Scepters. All the history books spoke of the Scepter camps and the squalor they lived in. Surrounded by sex and murder. Lazarus didn’t dare speak of what he learned in school with his captor, the fear wouldn’t let him. “We don’t eat babies. We care for our children.” Lazarus broke the silence. “That’s not what I hear.” Joshua replied. “Well let’s ride back to my province and I will show you.” Lazarus said hopefully. “No, I will take you to my father and you can stand trial for your crimes.” Joshua replied. “What crime have I committed sir?” Lazarus begged his captor for an answer. “Killing babies and eating them. We sent spies into your province before we came to conquer, and their reports spoke of obscene acts in the streets and rampant violence.” Joshua spoke proudly. “I killed no babies, and I am not a violent man. You found me hiding from combat, that should be proof enough.” Lazarus went on pleading. “Well, if you didn’t kill them then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Joshua would not be swayed. “Just kill me here then, kill me now. I don’t want to be tortured by your people. I don’t want you to eat my body as it decays.” Lazarus cried out. “Eat your body? We would never eat a corpse, who do you take me for?” Joshua replied confused. There was a silence between them. Both men’s minds wandered to their upbringing. Both thought of the stories they had been told as children and the beliefs that formed as adults. Both men were raised to follow in the footsteps of his father. Lazarus thought of his father. He didn’t know if he was alive or dead. He didn’t know if he would ever see his family again. The men reached the gates of the Scepter’s land. Joshua gave a signal and the gates opened. Joshua’s heart beamed with pride as he rode through the village and to the palace. Joshua unloaded Lazarus from the horse and waved at the people as he escorted Lazarus down the stairs to the dungeons. “They love you and hate me. I don’t understand, I haven’t done anything!” The perilousness of the situation gripped Lazarus’ heart as he cried out to Joshua. It didn’t matter, his words didn’t sway Joshua from throwing him in a dungeon and locking the door. Lazarus fell to his knees, his hands shackled, and tears fell on the concrete floor. Joshua walked into his fathers’ quarters with pride spilling from his heart. “Father, I brought a prisoner to stand trial.” Joshua said. “Stand trial? You mean you have brought a lamb for slaughter?” His father responded. “No, you said all men stand trial for their sins.” Joshua spoke carefully. “Trial is for people within these walls, son. Death is the sentence for those outside of them.” His father gave him a pat on the back and walked out. Joshua’s mind began to race, he began to think about the conversations he had with his prisoner. The fear of killing welled up in his heart again, this time it was the fear of having to kill thousands when he is made High Scepter Shaman. For the first time in Joshua’s life, he questioned his father’s decision and he felt powerless to change it. Joshua’s sword was clean, but he sentenced a man to death. Shame filled his heart and doubt gripped his mind. He could never have imagined how anguishing a feeling it was to kill another. A piece of Joshua was lost that fateful day, along with the life of Lazarus.

u8pj4w

Rabbit Games,

"Okay class, I know you are all excited about winter break, but here is one last question before you go," Mr. Miller asks his college students. " If you throw a penny at 15mph out of a car moving at 100mph, how fast would the penny go?" A while goes by after Mr. Miller asks this question "Does anyone have the answer for this question?" Mr. Miller asks his class. Then a student raised their hand. "The penny would go at 115 miles per hour since the energy from the moving car would be transmitted into the penny and if the penny goes at that much speed it could break a wall made of wood," said Ellie. She was a smart kid who didn't have many friends except for her roommate. As the class looked at her as if she was Einstein the school bell rang. "Okay kids that's the bell, have a great new year," said Mr. Miller. "Ellie, can I talk to you for a minute?" "Sure," Ellie responded. "I want you to go have some fun over the break. The last question was supposed to be next the lesson. You're spending too much time studying and not enough having fun. Trust me, it will drive you insane later on. Go take a break," Mr. Miller advised Ellie. "Okay. Sure," Ellie said, not really convinced of her teacher's advice. She headed out to her dorm room to put her stuff away. Then there was her roommate, Mary. Mary was outgoing and empathetic towards Ellie. She has always been by her side and supported her. “Whatcha ya doin Ella?” Mary said as Ellie walked in. “Where are you going for winter break?” She asked. “Staycation,” Ellie responded. “Why should I even bother asking. You always are doing a staycation for every break. You should get out and explore. I overheard you and Mr. Miller talking, he also said to go out and explore,” Mary complained. “I promise you I’ll have fun in staycation,” Ellie tried to defend. “That’s what you say every vacation. And you always stay in your dorm and study,” Mary said. “I said that I’ll have fun, and studying is fun for me. Learning all these new topics,” Ellie said trying to keep on defending. “Well, I want you to have fun of what regular people think, not what you think is fun,” Mary tried to convince Ellie. “I’ll think about it,” Ellie replied. Annoyed Mary said, “Well you better think about it and not just ignore it,” “Okay, fine,” Ellie finally surrendered. “Want to go get dinner, it’s already 8:00?” “Sure,” Mary said. “Let’s go to QDOBA, I heard it’s a good Mexican place,” They both went out to dinner and came back tired with their stomachs full. “I’m going to sleep,” Ellie said drowsy. “Me too,” Mary also said. They both went to bed, but Ellie had a thought stuck in her mind. Would she go anywhere, or not? Had she finally overcome her fear? These thoughts made her mind more tired and finally went to sleep. She woke up. It was eight AM, but she didn’t have a lesson. She got up and realized Mary wasn’t awake yet. She went to the breakfast center and got breakfast for herself and Mary. She came back to the dorm room and found that Mary was awake. “There was this in the mail for you,” Mary said showing Ellie the box. The box read for the mentally strongest of the young blood. “Did it say who sent it?” Ellie asked. “No, it looks like it’s anonymous,” Mary said. “I suggest you open it,” “No, what if it is for someone else?” Ellie denied. “The parcel says, “For Ellie,” it’s probably yours. If it’s not yours then just tweet about the missing parcel and check the neighbors. Just open it,” “Fine, I’ll open it,” Ellie gave in. “Hello Ellie, you have been chosen to participate in our very own personal game room. Solve this last puzzle to prove you’re worthy,” a robotic voice said in a little dome shaped bell from the box. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s for you,” Mary said sarcastically. “This is creepy. What game and what does it mean I’ve been chosen?” Ellie said in shock. “Woah, that’s one cool puzzle,” Mary exclaimed. The puzzle was blue and the shape of a queen that had locks, numbers, and woodblocks that seemed to fit into each other when solved. “You should try to solve it. Mabe you’ll get tickets to Disney World, or Paris,” Mary said. “I’ll get started on it then,” Ellie said. She spent a lot of her afternoon working on the puzzle. The puzzle was going click, clack, click, clack as it was getting solved. Then finally the puzzle broke open. “Mary, come look,” Ellie exclaimed. There was a piece of paper with a hexagon and a rabbit going down it.  Underneath the logo it said, “Rabbit Hole Games,”. “It’s a piece of paper,” Ellie said. “Ooh, does it have a ticket to Disney World or Paris?” Mary asked hopefully. “No, the card says, “Congratulations, you have opened the puzzle. You may now participate in our special event this year. The location and the date are on the bottom of the card,” It says the date is 12/12/24 and the location is on 6 th avenue road in Main Street, building number 666.” Ellie read out. “Isn’t the twelfth tomorrow?” Mary pointed out. “You’re right, it looks like a 15min drive there,” Ellie said. “Can I come with you?” Mary asked. “The card says no,” Ellie answered. She went on with her daily routine and kept thinking about the game room. The next day Ellie woke up and went straight to have breakfast and go to the location. She found out the place was a large building with many floors. She entered the building and found the main counter. “Hi, I’m here for the games,” Ellie said.  “Congratulations on coming here. I’ll be taking your phone,” The man in the front counter said. “Why?” Ellie asked curiously. “Well, we don’t want you spoiling or putting answers for others,” The man replied. “Okay,” Ellie said as she gave him her phone. She walked into an elevator that led her up to what she thought was the waiting room. She sees that there are other people there. There is a boy that seems to be in his mid-20’s. A girl that has a big jacket covering one of her arms. A tall muscular man, a black man, a girl with glasses, and a guy who looks broken and is smoking. “Were all of you invited here by a puzzle?” Ellie said. “Yeah,” said all of them. “I smashed mine up and got the message. Mine was red and the shape of a rook,” said the guy who was smoking. “Names Darren by the way,” said Darren. “I’m Abby, I got a puzzle the shape of bishop. It was pink,” said the other lady. “I got a puzzle piece in the shape of a knight. It was yellow. The name’s Jack,” the muscular man said. “I also got a knight, but it was green. My name’s David,” said the mid 20’s man. “I also got mine the shape of a rook. Mine was grey. Name’s Davey,” said the black man. “I got a bishop, it was purple. My name is Katie,” said the girl with glasses. “I got a queen, it was blue. My names Ellie,” said Ellie. “So, I guess we’re a team. Where did you guys come from?” asked Ellie. “I’m a zoologist. My specialty is reptiles,” said Katie. “I’m a computer business owner. One Republic,” said Davey. “I own a truck repair company, Auto Fixed,” said David. “I’m a boxer,” said Jack. “I am in the army. My team told me to take some time off,” said Abby. “I’m a mechanic. Not very popular company,” said Darren. “Well, I’m coming from a college on physics,” said Ellie. “I’ll be right back,” Ellie headed towards the door. Then the doorknob broke off. Suddenly the whole room started shifting. “Welcome to Rabbit Games. Here you will be competing against each other for a prize of 10’000 dollars. In some you may each other’s help. Remember, you were all chosen to be here for a reason,” said a mysterious voice from the ceiling. “The first competition is Snakes and Ladders. The last 5 th , 6 th and 7 th will be eliminated if there are any. The games have now started. “This is exciting,” said Abby. The room changed into a giant snake and ladder board. They each took turns rolling the die and moving. Then Jack landed on a snake. “Guys, I know I landed on a snake, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be real,” said Jack. There was a real snake in Jack’s square. It was looking at him dangerously. “That’s a very poisonous snake, don’t stare at it or react to it, if launches or hisses at you, pretend you never saw it,” Abby tried to warn. But Jack didn’t listen. The snake went in front of Jack. Then he started punching and kicking the snake. His fate was unchangeable. It took one bite to kill him. The snake bit him on the arm. Then in a matter of seconds, his body began to inflate, he fell to the ground. The group watched in terror as his soul left the body. They knew now that this game wasn’t a normal one. “Everyone be careful and ignore the snakes,” Ellie said to the group. Then she realized it was each man for themselves. Since the 6 th and 5 th place were eliminated, they all ran for the finish line. They kept rolling the dice for a high number and kept running. Katie and Ellie were going to the same square. They both were one square ahead of a snake. Then suddenly, Katie tried to push Ellie into the square with the snake. But Ellie barely dodged, and Katie went into the square with the snake. The snake devoured her alive. She realized how close she was to death. She continued making it first there. Second was Abby. Third came Darren. The last two were David and Davey, both on the edge of finishing. Both on the verge of death. Then on the last square as they both jumped towards the finish, David tripped Davey. Making Davey come last. “Oh no, oh no,” Davey whimpered. Then suddenly two massive metal plates smashed Davey’s head. The whole group stood there in terror. “How could you trip him?” Darren angrily said to David. “It’s called wanting to live idiot. You got to do what you have to do,” David replied. The whole group stared at him in disgust. “Your next challenge is Chess,” The robotic voice said over the ceiling. “You all will be on the same team. You each control the piece or pieces you were given since some members of your group were eliminated. If your piece or pieces are eliminated, you will be eliminated. If you lose the game, your whole group is eliminated. The king will be played by the Rabbit People,” Suddenly the room started shifting again. The question, who are the Rabbit People pondered in everyone’s head. They all started playing. Making their moves one by one. Sacrificing one of their pieces if needed. A bishop from the other team forked Abby’s and David’s pieces. Everyone was telling David to go and sacrifice his piece since Abby had one of her pieces left and David had but. But he didn’t listen. He let Abby get killed. Suddenly a sword cut Abby’s head clean off her body. They finally won the game. They all sighed in relief. Darren and Elli both stared down at David. They both knew he was no good. The ceiling spoke once again.” The last game is the last one standing game. The last one surviving wins. The room is filled with obstacles,” Darren and Ellie both teamed up on David. Killing him by puncturing him into a spike in the wall. “Can we both agree not to hurt each other?” asked Ellie. “Mabe they will stop the games. “It is a big risk, but I’ll do it,” said Darren. They both stood there still not doing anything. Then the place went dark, and a voice said, “so this is how you want to play,” ….

kyyo4g

A Tale of Two Cities

It was the day before the golden city started starving and Kallimn was on duty patrolling Houndstooth. Houndstooth was a huge concrete dam cleaving an unfathomably deep valley in two. On this side was Tkalia, cast into shadow this time of day by the dam. The terraced, marbled city was built in a V up both sides of the sharply sloping valley, the buildings like two frothing waterfalls frozen in a cascade into the waters of the Klatkitch down below. The looming of Houndstooth meant that their glass lamps were already lit, bathing the entire sloping city in gold. The glowing globes were strung between the east and west city cliffs amid dozens of walkways. Kallimn stared blankly at the countless cables of light from his spot at the top of the dam. He’d never left Tkalia. Nor had his parents, or their parents. No-one left Tkalia. Nobody needed to leave. Tkalians had everything they could possibly want in their white-gold city. Everything from spices to medicines, from flour to silk, came through Houndstooth. Unmanned supply transports came along with the serene trickle of the Klatitch that came through Houndstooth. Kallimn checked his watch, taking his eyes from the late-afternoon spectacle of Tkalia to the Klatkich streaming through the dam below him. Right on cue, two sleek, hulking transports rose to the surface and floated toward the magnetic docking bays further downstream on the harbour of Tkalia. The power for their beautiful light came from the mighty power of Houndstooth. Everything else they needed came from upstream. They had never made anything in Tkalia; no food, no clothing, no furniture for their homes. Kallimn counted off two, three, four sub-crates; drawing his coat around him as it continued to get darker, he strode away from the edge toward the tower, and flicked on the signalling globe. Kallimn shivered; there were three more sub-shipments due before he could knock off, so he drew his coat around him and turned his back on his golden city, looking out instead from the top of the dam at the behemoth, stagnant river on the other side of Houndstooth. The walls of the valley could be seen for hundreds of metres upstream, before it sloped away and the river was lost to view. He had spent his life idly wondering what the world was like upstream, where the sub-crates drifted down from and where all of Klatitch’s supplies came from. And perhaps more importantly, he wondered: why? No-one-ever talked about it. The people of Tkestant never sent anything back, as far as he knew. Calum’s fingers were numb. To warm them up, he rubbed his fingers absently up and down the worn, looped tag on the inside of his coat cuff. The tag was printed with three stark words: Made in Tkestant. *** There was no golden light in Tkestant. The city of soot was clouded in factory smoke, choked by toxic tailings and deafening with the industrial grind. Contrasting Tkalia, Tkestant was a sprawling plateau city, constantly leeching out into the forests around it as they cut the trees down for fuel and made squalid homes away from the worst of the pollution. Tkestant was a city that ate, ravenously; ate the trees, guzzled the water from natural springs and reservoirs, ground up minerals from the ground, sucked in the oxygen for its fires. But Ktkestant was never full. Like Tkalia, nobody who lived here had left Tkestant either, but not because they had everything they needed; the Tkestantans only kept a fraction of what they worked to produce, and they had nowhere to go. They had no idea where the fruits of their labour went; all they knew was that their factory supervisors would cut off their rations for 24 hours if they asked any questions. This was life in Tkestant, if you could call it living. That is, until the strike. Meike had been waiting for this day for years and years. She knew they would pull it off if the true believers held their nerve and gave the other workers strength to follow through. She wiped sweat from her brow. The furnace flared in front of her as she held her long dark prong, turning it slowly like there was some roasting beast on the other end. Turning constantly, in her strong calloused fingers. On the other end of the stick was glass. Withdrawing the red-hot globule of glass, she rested it on a huge slate slab and kept spinning; spinning until the globule resolved itself into a globe. Though Meike had spent her whole life making the glass globes, she had never seen them hanging up above Tkalia, filled with the light filaments made by the people down the street. And after today, she would never make another one. Usually, she would dunk the globes in the giant vat of water behind her to cool it and fix it in place. Instead, she raised the globe on the end of her rod and brought it down on top of the furnace. The exploding shatter and the scream of metal on metal was deafening. She brought the rod down on the furnace again. Another metal scream. There was a moment of silence as everyone around her, up and down the production line, dozens of blistered workers stationed at their own glass-bending furnaces, stopped work. “What’s going on?” There was a crack of a whip, and footsteps on a metal gantry above as the whip-wielding Tkalian supervisor came rushing out from his post above. “What’s-” He was cut off as every single furnace became a drum, with one worker after another brought their rods down on their furnace. The noise crescendoed and the noise, rose to a cacophony, so loud it made Meike’s field of vision vibrate. She grinned. Soon, everyone in Tkestant would be laying down their tools. This was the sound of revolution. The sound of change. *** Kallimn was the first to notice that no more food was coming into Tkalia. He was also the first to volunteer to follow the Klatitch upstream in an initial attempt to find out what was wrong. He had an audience before Lord Kehta to officially bless his mission. He was met only with pity at having to leave the golden city, but no-one seemed to share Kallimn’s curiosity for the outside world. Even more strangely, no-one seemed to share his curiosity of where their supplies had actually been coming from. Kallimn was gifted almost more food than he could carry for the journey. After all, they never went hungry in Tkalia. Like everything they consumed, wore and otherwise used, the food was bundled up neatly in cloth and printed in bold dark letters: made in Tkestant. *** Meike was watching as two of her most loyal companions interrogated the Tkalian guards. They were learning as much as they possibly could about the logistics of the golden city for the next phase of their plan. That’s when the gong from the west lookout tower started thrumming. She had been expecting someone from Tkalia to show up at some point. In fact, she’d been expecting an entire army, but they could see only one person now. She hadn’t been expecting him to be quite so haggard, young and so utterly unprepared for the world outside the golden city. When one of her fellow glass-spinners, now a lookout, reported a figure emerging from a rocky outcrop downstream of the Klatitch, she hiked out to the outpost herself and followed the lookout’s line of sight. Meike snorted. “Well he’s much too fragile to be alone.” The glass-spinner turned to face her. “Should I accompany you?” Meike had spent her whole life on the receiving end of orders and she didn’t much like the taste of giving them herself. But this wasn’t about her. “Follow behind, out of sight,” said Meike. “We’ll make use of him, we’ll put on a diplomatic front and get things moving before the Tkalian freeloaders even know what’s happening.” The glass-spinner nodded. She had been central to Meike’s planning from the start. “I’ll get the bag,” she said. Meike went out to meet the scout. “I’m Kallimn, I’m Tkalian.” The hand that wasn’t holding the familiar glass globe was extended eagerly to her. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, and his eyes were wide as he peered out at the grey industrial expanse behind her. He laughed, holding the globe aloft. “Made in Tkestant, yeah? Well this is the place!” He grinned, still breathless from walking and from the huge pack of food on his back. He dumped it on the ground, and bread and cured meat spilled out. “So what’s your-” “My people live in squalor because of you! We work in servitude and destitution under Tkalian oppression and what do we see from that labour? Nothing!” She pointed to the spilled food on the grass. So frivolous, it seemed, to care so little about food; to assume it would always be there, if it’s always been given to you. “That should be ours. ” Kallimn was shocked. He didn’t know what he expected to find after venturing out into the world for the first time, but it wasn’t this. It seemed there was a good reason why his questions had never been answered. He bent down and picked up a loaf of bread. “This is yours, then, I suppose.” He held it out to her. “You look famished.” Meike was too taken aback to do anything but stare, mouth open. It seemed like people really didn’t know what was going on between Tkestant and Tkalia. *** In the end, Kallimn had invited Meike back to the golden city to meet with the lords there. “Slow down!” he wheezed as he trailed on behind her. “You don’t even know the way!” Meike turned around and rolled her eyes. “It’s kind of obvious that I’m going to follow the river downstream if the city’s built on the other side of a dam, and it’s not that hard a walk.” “It was uphill for me, remember? It was harder than this,” whined Kallimn. Meike glared. “Don’t lecture me on hard work. I’ve spent every day since I was a child working and seeing nothing from it.” They walked in silence, slipping and sliding down the rocks slightly as they descended further and further into the valley where Houndstooth lay at the end of the Klatitch. Eventually, Kallimn stopped. “I never knew,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” Meike didn’t have time for this. She found it only sickening that a people could live in such complete ignorance of the exploitation taking place right in front of them. But there was something about Kallimn that made something in her twinge; his sort of tender-heartedness was sharply nipped in the bud if one were to survive in Tkestant. So she just shrugged. Kallimn seemed to steel himself. “And that’s why we’re going to the lords. They’ll sort everything out, I’m sure. Not much further to go now!” He set off in front of her this time. Meike smiled. She had no intention of meeting with the lords. They’ll sort everything out? The fat, self-interested bastards would probably kill her on sight. No, she would settle for nothing less than justice for her people. As Kallimn strode on ahead, Meike looked back, stretching both arms above her head slowly, as a single. The glass-spinner returned the signal in the form of the glinting of a shard of glass in the distance. They were both ready. “Come on,” called Kallimn. “Houndstooth’s coming into view just now! It’s starting to rain but we can make it to the dam before nightfall. “Coming!” Meike hurried after him, and her line of sight widened out to show the looming, ornate dam in the distance. And just beyond that, just behind the dam and sloping up the river-less banks of the Klatitch, lay her first glimmerings of clean white-gold Tkalia. She smiled. The Klatitch was going to be full tonight. *** Kallimn and Meike sought refuge that night at his old outpost hut on top of the walls of Houndstooth. Kallimn would let the lords and sentries know in the morning that he had arrived back with a delegate from Tkestant. As the hours passed, it just kept nagging at him: how much had the lords known before sending him out to find out? Why had they so vehemently suppressed any questioning? Why did Tkalians never leave Tkalia, and why did they never have to make anything of their own? What did the Tkestantians get in return? Nothing, it was now clear. Nothing. Kallimn suddenly sat bolt upright. Had bringing Meike here been a mistake? He liked her, he was intrigued by her, and he didn’t want her to suffer any more than she apparently already had. “Meike.” He roused her awake. “Meike, I- I think you should go. I’m worried about the-” Meike put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. There was something hard, decisive in her eyes. “I’m staying. Right. Here.” “Meike, I- I think the lords already know what you’re going to tell them about Ktestant. I don’t think it’s-” Meike laughed. “Oh, I’m not meeting with your lords. But I do have something else to do. And I cannot let you stop me.” Kallimn blinked. He was suddenly uneasy and backed out of the lookout hut onto the wide concrete rim of the dam. Meike followed him and Kallimn suddenly saw her make eye contact with someone behind him. It was the glass-spinner. She held her long dark rod like a staff and she was standing in the middle of the dam. And in her other hand, she held a small box that Kallimn couldn’t quite make out. Meike knew it was a match. It was a fairly innocuous object, unless you knew what the glass-spinner had spent the night doing. The glass-spinner must have seen Kallimn and thought he would instantly raise the alarm, blowing their night-time cover. She wasn’t missing this opportunity to bring justice to her people. She struck a match, and dropped it, starting the fire trail to the series of high-power explosives she had placed along the dam. Kallimn’s eyes widened. Meike glanced over the dam wall at Tkalia. It really was beautiful. Seeing each of the hundreds of glass globes complete, so many of which she had made, was almost surreal. And it made her angry. Then she ran. The glass-spinner was already running, getting off the dam wall before the explosives started going off. Meike was about halfway across the dam when she realised that he wasn’t following them. “Kallimn!” she screamed. She was about to run back when the glass-spinner caught her risk. “Let him die,” she snarled. “He deserves it.” “Not-not him,” spluttered Meike. But in the distance, meeting Meike’s eyes, Kallimn shook his head. He wasn’t moving. He didn’t say anything in the last few seconds before the explosion went off. As sounds like huge glacial shifts put a giant crack down the centre of Houndstooth. As the roaring of the Klatitch beat up against the weakened, crumbling wall. Kallimn was remaining at his post, as usual. It was where he had always been. He had the best view of the golden city from here. But as the mammoth structure of Houndstooth gave way, he wasn’t looking at the golden lights. He was looking at the two women at the edge of the dam who had just sentenced him and the entire population of the city behind the dam to die. And strangely, he wasn’t mad. Houdstooth groaned, strained and burst. The freed might of the Klatitch was something to behold. It tore through strings of golden glass globes; lifted terraces from cliff walls; took peaceful people from their beds and bore them with its great might through the valley it had been held back from all these years. The two women were in shock. Meike had blinked, and Kallimn was gone. In that blink, Tkalia was gone. And it that same blink, Tkestant was free.

1cqywd

A Tale of Two Cities

“Aghhhhh, more blastin’ nothin’!” The troll hurled the crumbling vase across the decaying chamber, shattering upon impact with the old bricks. The young man that sat behind him whipped around as soon as he heard the crash and clatter of the antique. “Delrik, those are ancient artifacts!” He said. “They’re rotten lumps o’ glass, Elias, that’s what they are!” Delrik grumbled, dusting his old tunic off. “You said we would find riches! Instead, we’re diggin’ through garbage!” “No, I said we might find riches,” Elias replied, “but you’ve got to admit that this is just as good as treasure, right?” The troll didn't answer as he grumbled off to another spot in the room, while Elias simply chuckled and shook his head. He almost hated that he was torturing the old grump, but he couldn’t just pass up on this grand opportunity! All across the village, rumors recently began to spread about long-forgotten cities that used to be grand empires, but there were oddly no records of their existence anywhere. All that proved their existence were two names—Ahglos and Irvirahs--and some journal entries about where they supposedly were. Elias' mind was interrupted as he abruptly focused on something he saw out of the corner of his eye. He looked closer at some odd-looking vase, supported by a wide base with an extremely thin funnel for a top. However, when he looked into the funnel, it appeared to be a corner of a stone slab. “Oy! Where’s your head at, lad?” The troll snapped. “I think I found something! Come look at this!” “Oh, finally!” Delrik grunted. Elias raised the vase up, angling it to where the funnel faced the ground, and whacked it against the ground. Nothing. The human tried again, but the vase would not yield. “Oy, weren’t ye tellin’ me to respect these stupid things?” Delrik asked as he trudged over with their lit torch. “There’s something in here, Delrik! But the vase is too narrow, so I’m trying . . .” Delrik snatched the antique out of Elias’ hands and thrust the funneled top down onto the concrete, shattering it in an instant. “Ye have terrible muscle strength,” Delrik dryly chuckled. Elias annoyedly seized it back and dug into the now accessible vase, pulling out a small, stone square. Elias took Delrik's torch and held it close to the stone. It was very faint, but he could tell something was written on it. "This slab speaks of a great war it had with Irvirahs, but it cuts off at the end, here.” “What are ye talkin’ about? I mean, aside from the crumbling mess around us, I don’t remember seein’ weapons, scorch marks, anythin’ that showed killin’.” Delrik was right. Throughout the couple days they’d spent in Ahglos, all they found were what remained of a church, and many other ruins. But there was absolutely no sign of a struggle in or outside of the city, not even a scroll indicating as such. So, what was this war, then? Was it, perhaps, a psychological or religious one? Then why make such an effort to hide it? And how would it even lead to such decay and destruction? “I’ll bet the answers we’re looking for are in Irvirahs, so that's where we're going to go.” Delrik threw his head back and groaned so loud, it echoed throughout the chamber. “Okay, fine!” Elias snapped. “Look, if we go there and don’t find treasure or anything, I promise we’ll go home! Happy?” Delrik turned his head, mumbling to himself and began to pace. Finally, he stopped and said, “Alright, but this is yer last chance!” ——————————————————————————————————————— The buildings of Irvirahs looked just as crumbled and demolished as the ones in Ahglos, but the large foundations and most of the structures were still intact. In the square, they found the remains of another church, with a half-destroyed fountain in front. Elias knelt down and dug through the rubble until he found a symbol carved into one of the bricks, depicting a figure with the body of a man but the head of a gentle bird, who clutched a book in one hand but an olive branch in the other. “This is the same symbol as the church in Ahglos,” Elias muttered out loud. “Great, can we go, now?” Delrik grumbled. Elias ignored the troll’s complaints and continued, “This means that Irvirahs and Ahglos must’ve had the same religion, so it couldn’t have been a war of faith. But before we try to find anything else, though, we should find a spot to make camp. Who knows how long we’ll be here.” Suddenly, both of them whipped their heads to the sound of a thud right beside them, only to find an arrow lodged into the ground in between them. The duo hit the dirt as another arrow struck where Elias’ foot would’ve been a second earlier. Delrik sprung to his feet and yanked Elias off the ground, quickly pulling him toward a half-ruined building as more arrows threatened to get closer with each hit. Once secured behind the safety of the bricks, Delrik screamed, “What madness have ye brought me into this time?” “How was I supposed to know about this? Who in the village would even care enough to come on the same quest as us?” Delrik immediately put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Elias looked up as he strained his ear to listen for whatever Delrik heard, but couldn’t hear anything. No sound of arrows. Not even a yell for surrender. Delrik's eyes widened and his skin turned pale. Elias wondered what was wrong, but then the answer came almost instantly as he felt something cold and sharp press against his cheek. With his heart dropped straight down to his feet, Elias slowly but shakily lifted his hands up. “What are you doing here?” A female voice demanded. “W-W-W-We . . . we were just . . . e-e-exploring! I swear!” Elias stuttered. “The human forced me to come along,” Delrik added. Elias would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t worried about getting stabbed through the face. “Lies!” The woman spat. “I saw you two come from the East! The direction of Ahglos! Why? Unless you’re from there! Has Ahglos finally declared war on us?” Wait, “us?” Was she . . . no, that can’t be possible! “Answer me!” She roared. “Listen, listen,” Elias soothed. “I promise we’re not from Ahglos. We’re from Zharov, it’s a village far away from here. We heard rumors of these cities and have come to explore them, it's the truth.” It got so quiet that Elias could hear his heart thundering each beat into his ears. After what felt like hours, Elias finally felt the sharp object lower away from his cheek. He turned to face the assailant and found that the sharp object was an arrow nocked into a bow, which she placed onto her back. The woman wore a mix of grey and navy-blue clothes that tightly hugged her whole body, as well as a hood and mask that covered all but her orange eyes. She quickly thrust the hood and mask off, revealing her soft skin and short, red hair. “I will cut you both down if I find out you’re lying,” she said coldly. —————————————————————————————————————-- Elias and Delrik couldn’t help but stare across the campfire and at the strange woman as she ferociously dug into a rabbit she caught only a few minutes ago, not even bothering to skin the poor creature. “So, um, what did you say your name was, again?” asked Elias. “Kaida,” she replied, her mouth still full of meat. “Right,” Elias said as he desperately tried to hide his disgust. “So, Kaida, you’re from this city, right?” “Well, sort of," she said. "This story was passed down through my family, but long ago, two of my ancestors were sold by our people into slavery. Supposedly, this was for their protection. But years later, when my parents were on the brink of death, they made me promise that I would escape our master some day and return to our homeland to seek my people out." "So, have you been able to find any clues?" asked Elias. "Any records of your city’s history, or anything?” “No. The books in the archives are all but dust, and any stone tablets have been ground to powder. There’s nothing left of my people’s history.” “We couldn’t find anythin’ in Ahglos, either,” said Delrik. “Just cheap pottery.” “But . . . there has to be something we missed! We couldn’t have come all this way for nothing!” Elias said. “Elias,” Delrik sounded oddly grim, “there’s nothin’ more we can do. I mean, we haven’t even found any evidence of a war. At some point, lad, ye just got to accept . . .” “Wait!” Kaida said, her eyes lighting up with life. “I haven’t been able to scope it out yet, since I’ve spent so long covering this whole city, but I remember my parents mentioning a vast field their people often spoke of. I’ll bet, if there was a war, it would’ve been fought there.” Elias could feel life returning inside his own eyes, and he didn’t even realize he’d already sprung to his feet. “Brilliant! Then that’s where we'll go, first thing in the morning.” ——————————————————————————————————————— After Kaida led the group to the supposed battlefield, which they found was overgrown with weeds and other foliage, they spent half the day searching with no success. “Oy! I found somethin’!” Delrik gleefully shouted. Elias and Kaida popped up from their spots in the tall grass, before they bolted over to where Delrik knelt. In the troll’s grubby hand, he held a massive sword with delicate, almost flower-like patterns carved into the blade. The sword’s handle was also very elegant, inscribed with patterns that made Elias think of vines. “I wonder how much of a pretty price this can fetch,” Delrik grinned as he examined the weapon. “I don’t believe it,” gasped Kaida. “I remember my parents would tell me about a weapon like this! Supposedly, my people would create weapons with these markings in order to draw them closer to nature.” “Wait,” Elias said, kneeling down beside the troll. Upon a closer look, Elias noticed very faint but clear traces of dried blood near the tip of the blade. “Looks like a battle did take place, after all, but we still have a lot of unanswered questions.” “He’s right,” said Kaida. "A few rusted weapons with dried blood doesn’t explain the sad sights of those two cities.” “Well then, let’s get goin’! The sooner we find the answer, the sooner we can get ri—I mean, er, find the truth!” Delrik leaped to his feet and was about to run off, until he almost immediately tripped and fell flat on his face. “‘You okay?” Elias asked. “Ugh! Blasted rock!” Delrik complained, dusting off his tunic as he got back up. Elias walked over to Delrik, but soon found an oddly white color from beneath the grass. Parting the tall plants aside, he noticed that a smooth, curved piece of rock peeked out from the dirt, almost like the slab from the Ahglos vase. Elias quickly dug at the dirt, desperate to unearth whatever lurked beneath. “Delrik! Kaida! Quick, help me clear all this away! I think I found what we’re looking for.” Not needing any further explanation, the two got on their knees and also dug furiously. After about an hour, they finally uncovered a large, circular, white stone with intricate symbols carved into it. However, one symbol appeared to be on a piece of the stone that looked more like it was attached to it, rather than being carved into the rock. “Some of these symbols are in my people’s writing!” Said Kaida. “But, I don’t recognize the others.” Curious, Elias touched it, and surprisingly watched it sink into the rest of the circle. The ground quickly started shaking, prompting the group to run away from the stone. Then the white stone sunk into the ground, before rotating sideways until it disappeared into the side of the hole, revealing a spiraling staircase below. “This could be it!” Elias couldn’t help but laugh excitedly. “We’re finally going to uncover ancient history!” “Let’s get going!” Kaida chimed in. “Wait, let me get a torch ready,” said Delrik. Quickly digging through their bag, Delrik pulled out an unlit torch, which he soon had lit in a few minutes. And with that, Delrik led the trio down into the unknown. “Why would my people make such a structure?” Kaida pondered aloud. “Maybe it’s a vault filled with gold!” Delrik giggled. “Or, maybe they were storing something else down here. Like, a library or maybe even an underground shelter.” “Maybe,” Kaida agreed. “Oy, watch yer step,” Delrik said as he stopped. “We're here." Carefully making their way down, Delrik held up the torch, only to jump back upon the sight of a skeleton sprawled out on the floor. “Looks like we aren’t the first ones down here,” Elias nervously chuckled. “Uh, fellas?” Delrik asked. As Delrik held the torch higher, the room was now fully illuminated to reveal hundreds of skeletons scattered throughout the room. Most of them were piled on top of each other, while only skulls remained in other piles. Bookshelves lined up around the walls of the room, but there oddly were little to no books in any of them. “What in Xi’lor . . .” Kaida gasped. “Okay, now I’m wishin’ there was anythin’ else down here,” said Delrik. Elias could only nod, as he was utterly appalled at the sight of all these bones. He gently gestured for the torch, which Delrik obliged. Moving the torch around, he tried to find something to make this venture worth the grisly horror, until he finally spotted something. “There! At the far end of the room! Can you see it?” A skeleton lay slumped against the wall and, clutched in its hand, was a large scroll. Unlike everything else, this seemed to be the only thing that seemed to stand the test of time. “Indeed!” Said Kaida. “Ah, good job, lad,” said Delrik. “But, um, can we please grab that thing and go back to the surface?” “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Elias affirmed. Elias cautiously stepped over each pile of remains after another, trying not to focus on them as he went. After he finally reached the skeleton with the scroll, he couldn't help but sigh with relief. Careful not to touch any of the bones, he slipped the scroll out of its fingers and quickly backed up. Elias took a deep breath before continuing the journey back, and then following his companions back up the winding stairs. Never had the group felt more at ease than when they reached the top of the stairs, collapsing onto the green grass and allowing the sun to temporarily blind them. “Alright,” said Elias, “hopefully, this will all be worth it.” Elias turned toward Kaida and held out the scroll. “Would you like to do the honors? I mean, this could be your people’s history.” Kaida stared at the parchment for a moment, but accepted it with trembling fingers. Then she slowly opened it and began to read: “All this destruction, all this death, all for a plot of land for our crops? Is this how all wars are started? No goals are worth it anymore, not if they can’t bring back the good men, women, and children that were lost on both sides. That is why I, the Great Scribe of Irvirahs, am relieved that both our people have come to a rather unconventional truce. It’s better we are forgotten. We burned the bodies, all of them. Those of us who remained decided to lock ourselves in this tomb, and both peoples would wait for the sweet embrace of Death.” No one spoke or even breathed. All eyes were fixed on Kaida, hands shaking so much that the scroll eventually but finally clattered to the ground. Kaida sunk to her knees, tightly gripping whatever grass she could feel. Elias knelt beside her to see her teeth clenched so tight they could break, eyes squinted shut as if to prevent tears from bursting forth. Not knowing what else to do, Elias reached a hand onto her shoulder. The moment his fingers made contact, she grasped his arm and pulled him into a tight hug, wailing as she finally allowed herself to cry into his shoulder. Taken aback for a second, Elias soon reciprocated the hug, but had to blink in surprise as Delrik joined in the hug. “I was told my people were strong! Fearless! Indomitable! But they were cowards! All of them!” Kaida sobbed. Elias rubbed her back, unsure at first how to respond. “You’re right,” he finally said. “All of this . . . it was unnecessary. I can’t even begin to understand their intentions. If they can’t live with the guilt, they really are cowards.” “But what can we do?” Kaida cried. “What are we supposed to do with this?” “Be better,” Elias replied. “That’s how we handle this truth. We just . . . be better, and hope for a better tomorrow afterwards.” “Hear, hear,” Delrik gently affirmed. “If we wish to prevent tragedies like this, we inspire the nations to turn out better than these two cities.” “Now, when did you get so wise?” Elias smirked. “Well,” Delrik sighed, “after seein’ these people fightin’ over farmland, I figured . . . this treasure is good enough, eh?” Elias nodded, and Kaida backed up to nod as well. Elias wasn’t sure what to tell everyone back home, but one thing’s for sure, he wouldn’t allow his village to become another Ahglos or Irvirahs. The three of then nodded at each other, making a silent pact that they would all work to prevent such a tragedy from happening again, or die trying.

kpk0rs

CONFIDENTIAL AUDIO LOGS OF SUBJECT #06 - DO NOT DISCLOSE

CONFIDENTIAL PROPERTY OF UNITED GALACTIC MILITARY INTELLIGENCE AGENCY – NONDISCLOSURE ORDER IN EFFECT, LEVEL 2A; PERMANENT SEAL BY JUDICIAL ORDER OF UGMI DISCLOSURE OF FOLLOWING RECORDS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE SUBJECT TO CRIMINAL OFFENSE CHARGE; FELONY OFFENSE LEVEL = DEATH PENALTY CERTAIN INFORMATION HAS BEEN REDACTED FROM OFFICIAL RECORDS IN INTEREST OF PUBLIC INTERSTELLAR SAFETY. REYVANNES, G. AUDIO LOG #01718 [TRANSMISSION DATE: 29-04-3120, 00:12] « Captain’s Log – day one thousand four hundred eighty…three? Huh, amazing its been that long and I still haven’t grown tired of using ‘captain’. Certainly have grown tired of chasing this fucking rock around the galaxy, but enjoying the benefits of captain status hasn’t ceased yet. Guess you have to enjoy the little things while you have them. » « Anyway, the ship remains functional, we remain located in Alpha-4 galaxy. All systems are online with exception to the communications transmission – error reads ‘no signal’. Which makes sense for the error, but none whatsoever exists for me to record this log...[WELLNESS-]wha..? » « Well, BE has just kindly reminded me that my mental health is an important component to mission completion. Seems another malfunction to this artificial intelligence software is the failure to recognize the irony in talking to one’s self as a sign of mental disorder…I mean, come on now, you all knew I was going to be out here for a while – you could have at least programmed her with a few jokes to pass the time with. » « I take that back – BE knows knock-knock jokes. Stupendous. » [[LOG MASTER NOTE: TRANSMISSION TEAM ANALYSIS HAS DETERMINED THE ABOVE STATEMENT IS SARCASM AND NOT ACTUAL PRAISE]] « Rations supply are in full stock – although I loathe the fact the ‘cheesy-mac’ flavored goop is still present, despite my best efforts. Fuel gauges indicate that a hydrogen restock is needed so I am steering BE to the next cloud, which is roughly five to six hours out. We will then head to our destination planet SX-80r. According to my calculations our target [REDACTED] will be passing by SX-80r in 36.5 hours – plenty of time to refuel the ship for the quantum jump to Sigma-X, during which I will take a nap. I can barely withstand hyper-speed – warp speed will surely kill me and would rather not risk being conscious for that… » «Over and out…hehe, that’s still fun too, BE! » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG #01719 RECORD DATE [TRANSMISSION DATE : 30-04-3120, 02 :48] « Captain’s Log – day one thousand four hundred and eighty…four? Oui, yes, eighty-four. Still not tired of being captain yet! Especially not on board of such a capable and attractive vessel…[MANUFACTER NOTICE: ANY ATTEMPTS TO-] » « BE felt it should be known that any technical or physical tampering with FGC systems is strictly prohibited and punishable by galactic law – she’s got a dirty mind, that one… I’ll have you know, BE, that my hand and I remain happily committed to each other, thank you very much … » « …now that I am living with the mortification of my…self-relief habits being transmitted back to FGC, I will continue with what was supposed to be transmitted; hydrogen fuel stores have been replenished and we have safely completed the quantum leap. While I slept like the dead…and only slept, nothing else… » [[LOG MASTER NOTE: QUALITY ASSURANCE DIVISION HAS CONFIRMED TRANSMISSION TEAM REQUEST TO DEEP CLEAN AND SANITIZE RECOVERED VESSEL #2038894]] « We have safely arrived within the confines of Sigma-X, where this [REDACTED] is due to make its passage. As I record this, BE is completing the lifeform scan of the planetary cluster that [REDACTED] will come closest to. When she is finished, I intend to disembark on the target planet SX-80r and will sur…[SYSTEM ERROR-]vey…what?...[COORDINATE-] » « …I am reminded of a time, in this moment, where one of my many mentors had instructed me to find the silver lining in the cloudiest times of life. The only immediate ‘silver-lining’ that comes to mind in this situation is that I get to use another phrase associated with space travel, and that’s…well… Houston, we have a problem… [ID CODE: HOUSTON – NOT RECOGNIZED] » « I swear if BE were a human, I would resign to be a murderer…» « We have a minor hiccup in our plans; somewhere during the quantum leap process, the coordinate positioning software on the ship malfunctioned. BE is unable to identify exactly where we are, just that there are two planets in front of us…and out of those 2 planets, only one of them is habitable to humans…and she can’t seen to tell me which one it is. The only thing BE is certain of is that we are in Sigma-X somewhere… » « I cannot say I didn’t see this coming – we are lightyears away from our solar system, in an area that has not been ravaged by human greed. Forgive me, if I sound a little harsh right now, but I almost seemed to have forgotten that BE’s limitations are also the limitations of PEA-BRAINED- » « …Lost my temper for a moment. I’m fine…getting to my point, there is a way around it although it’s risky. Looking out the viewing window to my right, judging by looks alone, seems to be the planet which is sustainable to human life. As we unfortunately discovered last time, the portal transport from ship to planet has some disarray between drop coordinates, if the planet does not similarly resemble Earth close enough. Never again would I like to experience quicksand so intimately. I do not blame BE or the technology for this, however…just the species that created this problematic oversight… » « It’s a massive risk – but I can force a recalibration of the positioning system by portal-dropping to the planet. From there, I can determine our precise location within Sigma-X and what planet I end up on…if I survive… » « You would think after nearly dying so many times, it gets easier to face the prospect of such risky moves. It doesn’t. I suppose that is just another silver lining – if I still fear death after all this time, I still have a will to live, which means there is hope for me yet after all this is over… » « This may be my last transmission…Before I go, I will set BE to depart after 72 hours of no communication from my summoning device – as contractually obligated by FGC for lawful return of property …because heavens forbid my corpse is accused of theft… » « …If this makes it back, could someone tell – no, no never mind. It does not matter… » « Over and out » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01720 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 30-04-3120, 05 :55] « Gooooooooood morning, Vietnam! This is your Captain Ahab speaking, and we have just found our bloody White Whale! WOO! » « For those in the back that didn’t hear me – we have officially confirmed existence and location of [REDACTED] – and about damn time, too! » « It’s a bit of a long story from where we last left off…but let’s just say I went for a swim, and then on a joy ride. I would love to go into more detail, but we are hopping from the frying pan and into the fire, folks. Phase two of [REDACTED] is now in effect. » « BE is clocking the speed of this monster at 28 kilometers per second, but I am primed and positioned for a landing with [REDACTED] less than 150 miles out from the ship’s position. I am going to fly a few degrees to the right of [REDACTED] ] and because I know you all just LOVE the drama, I’ll switch on the auto-dictation software – she’s a bit dry but BE is really a songbird when you’ve got nothing else to listen to! » «Less than 70 miles now…let’s see if we can cheat death twice in a day…» [AUTO DICTATION MODE ACTIVATED – ALL SYSTEMS FUNCTIONAL] [WARNING, RADAR SYSTEMS DETECT INCOMING 480-METER OBJECT APPROACHING AT LESS THAN 30 KM/S] [MANUAL THROTTLE INCREASE TO 21 KM/S; PITCH GRADE INCREASE 15 DEGREES] [WARNING, INCOMING OBJECT APPROACHING. CURRENT TRAJECTORY ESTIMATED IMPACT IN 5 KM] [MANUAL THROTTLE INCREASE TO 22 KM/S; PITCH GRADE INCREASE 45 DEGREES] [WARNING, INCOMING OBJECT. CURRENT TRAJECTORY IMPACT IN 2.5 KM] [WARNING, PITCH GRADE INCREASE BEYOND 60 DEGREES. ENGINE STABILIZERS COMPROMISED] [WARNING, INCOMING OBJECT. CURRENT TRAJECTORY IMPACT IN LESS THAN 1 KM] [MANUAL LANDING GEAR DEPLOYMENT. EMERGENCY BRAKING SYSTEM ENGAGED] [WARNING, SYSTEM FAILURE – GRAVITATIONAL STABILIZERS DISABLED] [ENGINE MANUAL OVERRIDE ENGAGED. EMERGENCY BRAKING SYSTEM ENGAGED] [WARNING, INCOMING OBJECT. IMPACT IMMINENT] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] [WARNING] […] [[SYSTEM FORCE-STOP]] [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01721 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 30-04-3120, 10 :34 ] « …ugh… [SCAN COMPLETE-HEAD INJURY SUSTAINED-] …I’m alive? » « Well…as it happens, we have more-or-less successfully landed on [REDACTED] . The success being that I am alive and BE remains in one piece, if not for some wear and tear on us both. The engines remain offline, likely a result of the gravitational stabilizing system remaining disabled – which means we’ll be cruising the [REDACTED]  for some time until I can fix it. Meanwhile, it seems I may be growing a horn out of my forehead – a gift from the control panel that keeps on giving. » « BE is measuring the surface temperature for [REDACTED] as two-point-four Kelvin, a remarkable point three difference from standard space temperature…it’s a miracle that the landing gears stuck to this hunk of ice instead of sliding off… » « I’ll work on the ship system diagnostics for as long as I can – I’ve got a nasty headache and though I am sleepy, nurse BE is here insisting I stay awake lest I have a brain hemorrhage. To keep me occupied, I’ll send out one of the exploration rovers to get a layout of the terrain. » « Commence day one of Project [REDACTED] » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01722 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 01-05-3120, 15 :48 ] « Captain’s Log, day two of Project [REDACTED] . Although I have barely slept, thanks to BE’s constant nettling…at least my headache has subsided a bit… » « We sent out the exploration rover last night to get some more information on [REDACTED] . According to the data it’s sending back, it has already picked up high levels of carbon, mercury, iron, and aluminum, peppered all over this rock – as we expected » « Here’s something unexpected though…well, two things really. The first is that it picked up traces of unknown biological substance. They were small enough amounts that both the rover or BE could not identify what it was. My guess is that [REDACTED] probably obliterated smaller asteroids, moons, or even planets, on its tyrannical warpath through the universe, and those are remnants of the collision. Nevertheless, the rover collected the samples for further analysis when BE and I make our return to Earth » « The second unusual thing – during the rover’s exploration, it appeared to become obstructed by something. The radar suggests it was about five to six meters wide and cylindrical in shape. Since this rover model is without camera function I was not able to see it. But it was cylindrical in shape – likely a high-walled crater from something else smashing into [REDACTED] , but still worth checking out with the other rover… » «…I think I’ll give them names! Wouldn’t that be fun, BE? [ERROR: FUNCTION NOT SUPPORTED]…of course you don’t support fun as a function. All work and no play… » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01723 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 02-05-3120, 08 :01 ] « Captain’s Log, day three – I think – of Project [REDACTED] . Rover one, also known as Molly, has returned from her travels and we are going to send out Dolly soon to take a better look at things on [REDACTED] – that’s Rover two, for all you slow-pokes that have a hard time keeping up. » « On another note, BE has kindly reminded me that I have reached another year in age on Earth and graced me with her rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, along with a count on how many tubes of cake-flavored rations paste we have left. Although I am not sure how accurate her time keeping is, given all the system resets and multitudes of galaxies we have traversed in time. » « But, on the off-chance she is correct, that means on Earth it is the fourteenth of May, year two-thousand and fifty-two…and I am thirty-six years old. » [[LOG MASTER NOTE: TRANSMISSION TEAM ANALYSIS HAS CONCLUDED, WITH CONFISCATED RECORDS, SUBJECT #06 OBSERVATIONS WERE LIKELY CORRECT AT SOME POINT]] « Now, those cake paste rations are nothing to be excited for, but I appreciate the sentiment. The thing to really be excited about are these strange samples that Molly brought back for us. It’s a gelatinous looking cube, silver in color. Impressive that it wasn’t completely frozen over given [REDACTED] ’s habitat. Definitely requires further study…I hope to bring Dolly back to the spot where it was found today so that we can get a better look around. BE’s windows have completely frosted over, cant see a damned thing…like my ex without his glasses…heh » « …I remember my last birthday on Earth. Gerard tried to bake a cake for me that night – he’s a horrible cook, and an even worse baker. He ended up nearly burning down the loft. Poor Gerard was more upset about it than I was…although looking back, I now realize his anguish may have been for different reasons entirely…I wish I could have seen the signs that he wasn’t happy sooner…» « I think I’ll have some of that cake paste now… » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01724 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 02-05-3120, 12 :24 ] « I am done wallowing in self-pity and Dolly has been deployed! At first glance, it’s a lot like looking a the lunar surface of Earth’s moon – the exception being the clouds of frost emitting from within the [REDACTED] . It’s impressive, really – you would think [REDACTED] is made of nothing but ice… » « In fact, I am willing to bet one of these chimney stacks is what Molly was stuck on the other day…its worth getting a closer look…standby for video-data collection… » «…» «…my god, is that?...no, it can’t be… » [END TRANSMISSION] REYVANNES G. AUDIO LOG RECORD #01725 [TRANSMISSION DATE : 03-05-3120, 16 :48 ] « …you all lied. [REDACTED] is not a comet – its [REDACTED]  » «…and now they’ve found me… » [END TRANSMISSION] [[FINAL AUDIO LOG RECEIVED FROM SUBJECT#06, ALIAS G. REYVANNES, TO ‘FRENCH GALACTIC CONSULATE’, ALIAS FGC (STATUS: DISBANDED)]] [[RECOVERED VESSEL #2038894 - IDENTIFIED AS ‘FGC SPACECRAFT #128', ALIASES ‘BONNE ETOILE’ AND/OR ‘BE’, QUARANTINED FOR INSPECTION]] [[SUBJECT #06 WHEREABOUTS: UNKNOWN]] [[REDACTED SUBJECT WHEREABOUTS: UNKNOWN]] [[END RECORDS]]

u7vq6i

A Tale of Two Cities

In the ancient city of Embercrest, nestled amidst towering spires and shimmering citadels, twin princesses of celestial lineage dwelled—Lyra and Kara. Born of a union between a mortal king and the ethereal Ember, whom the people revered as a god, the sisters embodied a rare blend of human strength and celestial grace. Embercrest was named to honor their mother, the divine being whose luminous presence illuminated the city. The people of Embercrest lived in awe of Ember, their deity, and held her offspring in the highest regard. However, fate took a sinister turn one fateful night. Kara was found lifeless within the grand church dedicated to Ember. Her body bore the brutal marks of violence, shocking the city to its core. Rumors quickly spread like wildfire through the streets—whispers of jealousy and betrayal. The people, grieving and seeking solace in anguish, pointed accusing fingers at Lyra, Kara's twin. They speculated that jealousy had driven Lyra to commit the unthinkable—to murder her own flesh and blood. Lyra, stricken with grief and disbelief, vehemently denied the accusations, her cries echoing through the empty halls of the once-vibrant palace. But amidst the chaos and sorrow, Ember's wrath erupted like a tempest. Blinded by grief and fury, she cast her daughter out from Embercrest, condemning Lyra to exile in a distant, unknown land. Heartbroken and filled with a seething resolve, Lyra sought refuge in her grief. With unwavering determination, she gathered those who believed in her innocence and shared her grief—forming a band of loyal followers who rallied around her cause. In the shadow of her sister's untimely demise, Lyra embarked on a solemn quest. She resolved to honor Kara's memory by creating a new realm—a city forged in dedication to her beloved twin. With sweat, tears, and unyielding determination, Lyra and her followers toiled tirelessly, giving rise to a new city named Karanara—symbolizing the eternal bond between the sisters. Yet, unbeknownst to Lyra, Ember's anguish had twisted into an all-consuming rage. With her celestial powers unleashed in a storm of grief-fueled fury, Ember wrought devastation upon Karanara. The very earth quaked, and the skies darkened as the city crumbled under the weight of Ember's wrath. The impact of Ember's wrath was not confined to Karanara alone. As her celestial energies reverberated across the land, Embercrest—once a beacon of celestial grace—lay in ruins, reduced to ash and rubble. In the aftermath, as the dust settled and the echoes of destruction faded, the truth remained shrouded in mystery. As Lyra embarked on her journey of redemption and seeking justice, she traversed through lands scarred by the remnants of her shattered world. The ruins of Karanara lay behind her, a testament to the cost of her mother's wrath. Yet, driven by an unyielding resolve and fueled by the memory of her beloved sister Kara, Lyra pressed onward. In her travels, Lyra encountered scattered remnants of Kara's followers—those who still believed in the innocence of the fallen princess. United in their grief and shared purpose, they joined Lyra in her quest for answers. As they ventured deeper into the heart of darkness that had consumed Embercrest, whispers of a chilling truth began to surface. Tales of a dark ritual—wherein a celestial being could harness unparalleled power by absorbing the life force of a half-human—seeped through the shadows. Lyra's heart clenched with dread as she pieced together the fragments of this grim revelation. Could her own mother, Ember, have been responsible for Kara's untimely demise? The thought was almost inconceivable, yet the evidence whispered its sinister truth. Driven by a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions—anger, sorrow, and a thirst for vengeance—Lyra poured her soul into rebuilding amidst the ruins of Karanara. The new city, now known as Echo's Vale, stood as a testament to her resilience and unwavering determination. With the unwavering support of Kara's followers, Echo's Vale blossomed into a beacon of hope and unity amidst a fractured world. Yet, even as Lyra found solace in the sanctuary she had forged, the shadows of her mother's treachery loomed large. News of Ember's resurgence, in the form of the rebuilt city named Blazehaven, sent shockwaves through the land. The contradiction between Echo's Vale and Blazehaven displayed a physical divide and a clash of ideologies and aspirations. Ember, consumed by her thirst for power and dominance, sought to wield her celestial abilities without restraint. Blazehaven became a bastion of strength and authority, a stark contrast to the humble resilience of Echo's Vale. The rivalry between mother and daughter escalated into a fierce contest for dominion over the fractured realm. Lyra, now a warrior princess leading her people, was consumed by her quest for revenge. In the depths of Echo's Vale, she convened with Kara's loyal followers—a network of spies and warriors dedicated to uncovering the truth behind Kara's murder. One moonlit evening, beneath the ancient boughs of the Whispering Grove, Lyra received an unsettling revelation. A hooded figure emerged from the shadows, bearing a cryptic message. This clue would unravel the mystery of Kara's demise. The figure whispered of forbidden rituals and stolen souls, hinting at a treacherous secret harbored by none other than Ember herself. Fuelled by rage and a thirst for justice, Lyra vowed to confront Ember. With each passing day, Echo's Vale prepared for war, forging weapons of celestial steel and rallying allies from distant lands who shared their thirst for freedom. On the eve of battle, as the sky crackled with energy and the air thickened with tension, Lyra stood at the edge of Echo's Vale, gazing upon the distant silhouette of Blazehaven. Her heart pounded like the war drums that echoed in the night. The following dawn marked the clash of the Titans. Echo's Vale and Blazehaven met on the battlefield, the clash of swords mingling with the roars of celestial beasts summoned by Ember's magic. Lyra, wielding a blade forged from the tears of fallen stars, led the charge. Amidst the chaos, Lyra faced Ember in a cataclysmic duel. The skies above erupted in a whirlwind of celestial energy, each blow resonating with the weight of a thousand years of sorrow and betrayal. As Lyra's blade clashed with Ember's, the truth was laid bare. Ember, driven by an insatiable hunger for power, had sacrificed Kara to siphon her celestial essence—a heinous act to claim dominion over mortal hearts. In a final, desperate struggle, Lyra unleashed her inner strength, drawing upon the legacy of her celestial bloodline. With a flash of blinding light, Ember was vanquished, her form dissolving like mist in the morning sun. Echo's Vale emerged victorious, but victory came at a cost. As the dust settled, Lyra stood amidst the ruins, her heart heavy with the weight of her actions. With Ember's demise, the veil of darkness that had shrouded their world began to lift, revealing the promise of a new dawn. In the aftermath, Lyra knelt before the memory of Kara, the sister she had lost and the beacon of hope that had guided her through the storm. Echo's Vale stood as a testament to their resilience—a sanctuary for those who dared to dream of a future free from the shadows of the past. As whispers of peace and renewal echoed through the land, Lyra gazed upon the horizon with renewed hope, knowing that the spirit of Echo's Vale would endure—a legacy forged from the ashes of tragedy, bound by the unbreakable bond of sisterhood.

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