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Mielikki 2

My Journey Home

This story references a kidnapping (of a sort). I was happy. Really. Life was good. In the age of innocence, I never had to worry about my next meal, or a roof over my head. I was carefree, spending my days enjoying what life had to offer, educating myself about the world around me, and having fun playing with my brothers and sisters. As I recall, my house was warm and cozy back then. I thought it was a safe place, never imagining any danger could infiltrate my sanctuary. Fear didn’t exist within those four walls. My siblings and I were content. Our mother was both a sentry and an enforcer. In my young eyes, she was invincible. God forgive anyone that tried to harm our family. She was also our disciplinarian, keeping us all in line. We learned right from wrong, and did our best to always do right. It was a simple time. A time when my life was filled with love and joy. That all changed one day when the stranger came. My sense of safety was shattered. I cried for my mother and my siblings when he grabbed me away from all I knew and loved. I know my mother fought to keep this man from me, but to no avail. As strong as I had always envisioned her to be, she was powerless against him. He put me in a large car and drove off. I cowered in the back, shaking at the unknown. Where were we going? Why would someone do this? What would become of me? We drove and drove. After a while, my curiosity got the better of me and I peered out the window. Lots of trees and grass. Occasional buildings. I was disoriented and didn’t recognize anything, but I knew we were far from whence I came. Exhausted with fright, I slept a bit. I heard my mother’s screams in my sleep and whimpered, hiding my head in the back seat, hoping to muffle the sound. My dreams were now nightmares with strangers lurking in dark corners. Innocence broken. I never saw them again-my family. I still miss them terribly. After a while, we stopped. I don’t know how long we drove, but apparently we arrived at our destination. Terror gripped me again, not knowing what was next. My new house is large and drafty. I have my own room, where I spend all my time. It is bare and lonely. Others live here, too. I can hear them, but I can’t see them. At night I hear them crying for their families, just like I do. What kind of a person could do this? I wonder how many are here; how many this cruel man has taken away from their mothers. I can’t tell. I wish I could break free and escape. But where would I go? I have no idea where I am, which way is home, or if my family is still there. The man smells of smoke, probably from the cigar that resides in his mouth. It’s never lit when he comes into my room, but he still carries it in his mouth. I’m beginning to wonder if it is permanently stuck to his lip. He must love it. The cigar. What would he do if I grabbed it away from him, like he grabbed me away from my family? I’m too scared to try. Whenever cigar man nears, I shake uncontrollably. He is gruff, never has a nice word for me. As a matter of fact, he barely speaks to me at all. He has no warmth. I long for the warmth of mother. Or if not mother, someone to show me they care. When cigar man enters my room, usually just to give me something to eat, I go to the farthest corner and make myself as small as possible. He brings me breakfast and dinner each day. I hardly touch my food.  I know I need my strength, but how can I eat when my stomach is twisted in fear? I think of my mother and wonder what she would do if she were here. Then I start shaking. Is she looking for me? Today, a little girl has entered the big house. I heard her voice. It sounded so sweet; it made me cry. She’s with cigar man and another lady. The lady has a nice voice too, but not as sweet as the girl’s. Doors open and close. I hear them going in and out of different rooms. Please, please let me see the girl, I thought. Please let her into my room . I cry louder. The door began to open. I ran to the far corner, in case it was the cigar man. It was the little girl. She saw me in the corner and walked into my room. The cigar man closed the door behind her. I didn’t know what to do. She was a stranger, but her voice wasn’t gruff. She couldn’t be cruel like the man. Could I trust her? I was scared. The little girl walked in to the center of the room and sat down on the floor. She didn’t try to crowd me. She just sat down. Then she started to softly sing. I don’t remember the words, but it was a nice song. It calmed me. Slowly, I stopped shaking. I took a couple of steps towards the girl, watching carefully to see what she did. If she made a sudden move, I was ready to retreat to the corner again. But she didn’t move. She just sat there, perfectly still, and kept singing softly in that sweet, sweet voice. I approached her, one step at a time until I found myself in her lap. She pet my head and I let her rub my belly. Then I licked her all over, until she started laughing. At the sound of laughter, the door opened. The little girl’s mother walked in. “This one,” the little girl said. “I want this one.” Her mother smiled at the sight of the little dog sitting in her daughter’s lap. “This one it is, then,” her mother said. “You have to give him a name.” “How about Buddy? ‘Cause he’s my new best buddy,” said the girl. “Buddy sounds perfect,” said the mother. “OK, Buddy. How’d you like to come home with us?” I jumped up and started running in circles. My tail was wagging as hard as I could wag it. 

q1lyit

THE TIME TRAVELLERS’ DILEMMA

i As Inti took in the local view before her, she looked at the sun, noticing that it was high in the sky. It was the day of her mother’s scattering. The weight of despondency melted away as she surrendered to the stirring sounds that were coming to her ears from Mount Pleasant cemetery’s pool of reflection and its waterfall. With each moment, she felt less constrained. As Inti soaked in the warm sun of a Toronto summer, her eyes glinted with sorrow for the life she was bearing, the enigmatic journey of her life behind her. Her recurring visits to Toronto marked the passage of time displaying the scattering as a cause for her to mark fifty years of knowing her mother. It wasn't just another day; it was an anticipation that beheld what the day held in store. With graceful movements of her body, Inti began to wend her way up the hill to the beginning of the ceremony. Each step, each sway of her body, was a tribute to the mother whose memory drifted through the air from a time long past, and Inti used her body now to derive meaning from the movement. As she reflected, a sense of freedom arose from the release of the event. She wasn’t just a performer in the ceremony; she was enmeshed in the world through her feet, her hands, shoulders and what she called her torso. She was a worldly woman like her mother had been, about to meet the others in the drama that had been her mother’s life. In that moment, the dressing up was all worth it; the black outfit, shoes, and in the declaration of her independence with a dark red and black scarf around her neck. As she walked, Inti felt the family's support. Johnny Antunes was stood under a tree contemplating the woman he called the female James Bond, now deceased. His wife Sally was attempting to mingle with the observers who attended, the sisters Rio and Giselle who were in dignified attire; there were other performers like the minister who had absorbed the details by osmosis about which she was to speak and the official who acted as scatterer. By repetition, and the rare combination of both empathy and projection, the resident group melded the mourners together under a tree. And as their presence filled the air, Inti knew that she had touched them with a richly detailed speech and a poem, both the women with their serious looks, and the restrained uniformity of the men. Inti behaved for the scattering in the manner of a shy woman not wishing to break into the faults of a stranger. Afterwards she walked back north and westwards to her accommodation and shut the observatory window and then the event that had already passed sharply increased her torment. She stared down at her skirt zip, her beautiful back with lustrous black hair shaken out of the way and remembered suddenly that she was still a young woman with a young woman's ardour. The observatory was a place to watch the events of the past, not the events of space. There one could spy with serenity without danger behind its protective walls on events which happened hundreds even thousands of years ago. The danger of accidents and even catastrophe could not touch her personally as it had with the death of her mother who had had a serious fall the previous year; it was like watching a cobra poised to strike from behind a pane of glass. She got a tremendous thrill just thinking about the dreadful and deadly monstrous events which could end lives on any given day. Sometimes the observatory would show a death and Inti would look away; sometimes it would retrace its course and circle back as many times as the observer wished, but the machine itself was one of the major achievements of the late 21st century. As such it terrified her. She looked again at the high arching surface of the metal casing and visualized the maze of intricate control mechanisms fitted into spaces so small it took a new factory in Taiwan to manufacture them. Swiftly and competently her fingers moved over the instruments of science which only a completely trained operative would know how to manipulate. It was an acid test and she knew it as she worked the time observatory's controls which operated a machine designed to puncture the veil of time. Inti lowered her eyes and closed the observatory window cautiously. ii The Canadian Spacetime Agency at 777 Nebula Drive was a circular building on the east side of Ecliptic Heights, apart from the smart neighborhood of residential properties of Bayview, shrouded by a canopy of whispering trees, leading to Rouge National Urban Park. The façade did not invite passersby in. Beside it, a row of low offices with modern lines of vine-covered stonework, created an urban enclave to emphasize normality. Similarly, residents of that area had the dilemma of cautious movement around its blank façade. Shortly an RV marked with the David A Dunlap Observatory’s logo sped unnoticed towards it. The nearest space observatory to Toronto, the David A Dunlap Observatory (DADO) was located in Richmond Hill, Ontario, about 25 kilometers north of downtown Toronto. Inti who was at the wheel drove through the underground garage into the CSA’s inner courtyard, parking it by the back door. A reflective cylinder marked ‘part replacement’ was being wheeled in down a bare corridor. She took the corridor with the carpet. There was an ongoing physics experiment requiring a bunny suit which she took from the wall and donned. A man and a women, both heavily protected appeared. "The experiment will be starting within ten seconds, so get under cover," one of them warned. She read the words ‘Vase arme (sic) sent from David A Dunlap Observatory’ which her cryptanalytic mind saw as, ‘Vetoed - modern day favor – past Lunar Base II Mars’. Immediately she saw four messages on her phone – One said simply, “No interstellar travel”, ‘another “MISSION TO SIRIUS HALTED” in capitals as a headline. Inti parked under a heavy steel pillar marked with her name and walked to her cluttered desk, the glow of her iphone casting eerie shadows in the dimly lit room. Her eyes, trained by years of decrypting the most complex codes, were drawn to the screen. There, innocuously displayed, were various ‘jobs’ from which she got her income. Her fingers moved instinctively to her worn notebook, scribbling possibilities of what the signal from the aliens meant. It certainly referred to the Nazca lines, that much she knew from JOHNNY ANTUNES. Suddenly, a memory from a decade past surfaced—a lecture on ancient symbols and their connection to extraterrestrial messages. She realized they all contained the word "Nazca". Inti's breath caught. The Nazca lines—those mysterious geoglyphs etched into the Peruvian desert over two millennia ago. Her fingers flew over the virtual keys, decrypting the file with a fervor she'd not felt in years. The blueprint unfolded—it was a device which would transform the time observatory into a means of traveling back with human explorers 2,000 years to the creation of the Nazca lines. The realization hit her, "Objective - Obliterate." Why would the aliens give humans the means to remove the necessity for their presence? The lines weren’t just ancient art; they were a message. Someone, or something, wanted them erased. Inti stared at the screen, the weight of her discovery pressing down. The iphone in her hand revealed a portal to a past, a past that was never meant to be altered. The woman’s untamed hair worn long was more of a rebellion against conformity than of any lack of care. Was she capable of working for the CSA, the most demanding organization for conformity that existed, already including Johnny Antunes and Sally Padeira in its ranks? This question lingered in her mind. Before the scattering, she had harbored dreams of working to decrypt the Nazca lines using Maria Reich's work, the mathematician who had made it her life’s work. However, after conversations with colleagues in academia, she'd decided against it. Now something or somebody living all the way from Sirius, eight and a half light years distant, was indicating that the world's attention should be focused there. But having never had the Nazca lines would leave humans free to roam interstellar space. ‘Their incessant petty tinkering has ruined everything, according to the wise future people of the Hidden Centuries. They have “bred out the unusual.” In forestalling disasters, they have left no room for triumphs that come only from danger and insecurity. In particular, the Eternals have adamantly prevented the development of nuclear weaponry, at the cost of forestalling any possibility of interstellar travel.’ James Gleich Time Travel: a history (2017) concerning Isaac Asimov ‘The End of Eternity’ 1971. The note was pinned to her desk as a reminder. What level of intelligence wanted to remove its own influence on a less intelligent species? An altruistic one? This was a cliché - that a superior species could be benign in a way no human could be, but Inti had no time for reflection as she was sat staring at a photo of the Cube, its perfectly smooth, metallic surface reflecting the harsh desert sun. It was mesmerizing in its simplicity, yet utterly baffling in its complexity. Eight billion tiny cubes, each just 2.5 centimeters wide, all packed within this structure that was no larger than a small building. It was a marvel of alien engineering, a puzzle that taunted human understanding. Inti felt the weight of her task pressing down on her. The Cube wasn’t just a physical object; it was a statement, a challenge from an intelligence far beyond Earth’s comprehension. The fact that it was here, in the middle of the Nazca lines—only added to its unsettling presence. A constant, repeating stream of data, undecipherable to most, but holding within it some code, some key that might explain why the Cube was here. Why now? Why in this place? The questions swirled in Inti’s mind, but the answers were elusive, hidden behind layers of meaning that she wasn’t sure she could peel away. Inti felt small in the face of the intellect that had crafted it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a test, that the Cube had been left there deliberately, placed with precision on the ancient lines, a cosmic breadcrumb for humanity to follow. The lines themselves, vast and intricate, had always been a mystery—some said they were markers for gods or alien visitors. Now, this Cube seemed to confirm those wild theories, grounding them in a reality that was far stranger than any fiction. The code in the signal. That was her task. It was daunting, like trying to decode the language of a god. She knew it would be a laborious process, sifting through the data, looking for patterns, meanings, something—anything—that could make sense of this. As she began to work, a thought gnawed at the back of her mind: what if the Cube was the message? Not just a relic or a probe, but a direct communication. What if this was their way of speaking to us, of seeing if we were ready to understand? And what if, in the end, the message was something we couldn’t comprehend at all? Inti felt a chill despite the heat. The Cube was more than just an object; it was a mirror, reflecting humanity's place in the universe back at them. A reminder of how little they truly knew, and how much there was yet to discover. At the CSA, she was handed the recorded signal, with the straightforward explanation - ‘A radio signal from Sirius.’ ‘How long ago was it sent?’ she asked. ‘Four weeks ago.’ Inti was able to mount the symbols for each animal on a portion of the text relatively near the signal’s beginning and from there she could imagine the astronaut pointing into the unknown depths of the message which was as long as one of the Nazca’s longest lines. The human race was captured by a mathematical barrier. Only time manipulation could break it, so it wasn’t as if some inexorable logic fixed it forever. ‘Get Rio Euwe here immediately.’ ‘How would you convey ‘monkey’ to aliens? she asked the animal psychologist. She hardly paused for breath. ‘There are problems as I see it. Its origins are pretty early. I’d suggest something like ‘speechless man.’ Inti explained the situation. ‘They’re basically saying if we achieve interstellar capability, we won’t be able to exploit it. Instead, we should accept benefits which are implied in the terms ‘bred out the unusual’ and the Cube will give us that, as a species.’ ‘What benefits?’ asked Rio. ‘Forestalling disasters, in case you were wondering. I also connected the dots by considering the context, the cube, and the Nazca lines. It’s a bit like solving a puzzle—using logic, intuition, and a touch of imagination.’                                 Rio pushed the pad and pencil across the table, turning it through 180 degrees. ‘There’. Inti picked it up by the tips of her fingers and cast an approving look across the serried ranks of ever-reducing lines which ended with a spider and a hummingbird, as she beamed across the table. ‘That’s what the Cube intended!’ ‘I know. At the midpoint of the two images. It’s all too coordinated to be a coincidence.’ ‘There won’t be any more, will there, cubes I mean?’ ‘No, the radio transmission only mentions one such cube.’ ‘Why blue?’ ‘I don’t know, they knew the color of our sky?’ ‘How about their knowing our wealth – about whether we’d put a huge budget not to say our best scientists into time travel.’ ‘Beats me, if they’re advanced, they’d know everything, maybe.’ iii Inti could travel across the great span of time. She knew precisely what adjustments to make to the time observatory to make it interactive now. Just enough to accommodate only one particle. At first there was the barest glimmer of light in deep darkness but as she adjusted the controls brighter and brighter she was kneeling in a circle of radiance. This time she was sure of the knowledge of actual contact with the past. There were years when she’d been sealed in high confusion about ancient sounds and voices. Now they would not confuse her again. There were mesquite trees. These trees were hardy and adapted to the arid conditions of coastal Peru. The songbird she identified as a Pacific Parrotlet (Forpus coelestis): it was repeating its call close to her ear over and over with tireless persistence. Abruptly she sat up and stared about her. Running parallel to the field was a winding country road and down it came a man on a llama whose entire upper section was loaded with textiles. Alongside it was a saddled llama. Inti stopped watching as the sunlight shone over moss covered rocks and silver fish darted to and fro beneath a tumbling waterfall. He passed by, scarcely noticing her.  Inti followed his route to the central plaza of Cahuachi where there was a wind instrument by a door which startled her as it seemed to utter a sound on its own. The music went round and round the plaza. A tall man in a red shirt approached and interrupted her reflections. She could see the green surface made from flashing textiles as a man gave a table a brushing over with a cloth. Then he thrust his head forward enquiringly and seemed to be looking at Inti. She nodded and the man went away. Then she turned watching a girl as she danced in the plaza. The translating machine on her wrist had crunched the language it heard ambiently in mere minutes. She watched all of them as a passive receiver as they reached the door and the girl turned and smiled. Inti forgot the language difficulty so completely but it was what was inside her head which stayed inside lest she give herself away. Inti was under intense pressure to find a way which would stop the Nazca lines. “It is good to have someone to talk to,” begun the man, who appeared to be drawing geoglyphs as if feeling a presence. “So, even if there are the inappropriately dressed they are no bother.” The translating machine was not sure about this bit. The red-shirted man’s rhythms of speech had Inti listening in complete silence and feeling sure that her silence was taken on trust. Inti had always known there were a few people like that. People who had a sixth sense and in that era they became shamans. Of course, there was a single person behind the creation of the Nazca lines. He had to be stopped. His era (Inti’s) would not survive if he wasn’t stopped. “The Canadian Spacetime Agency specifically told you not to break the protocols by using the time observatory unauthorized.” This message came across her transceiver and Inti raised her hand to her lips to reply secretly. “But I must.” The shaman smiled. Inti put her hand to her gun and pulled it out. They were looking at each other, face to face, Johnny Antunes and Sally Padeira were clustered round the transceiver. “Don’t! Inti! Stop!” They confronted her. “You’ll be suspended.” She hoped it would still be negotiable. 

5m7mb6

THE FIRST STEP

I wasn't prepared at all. Not in the slightest. My heart pounded like a wild drum, my thoughts racing in an endless loop of doubt and fear. But I knew that if I didn't take that first step, I would forever be trapped in the small, suffocating black dot on the map that I called my town, a place that felt more like a cage than a home. But it wasn't even really my town. I wasn't born there. The place where I was born is a stranger to me, a distant, hazy memory wrapped in the fog of time, just like my parents. I wouldn't know anything about them if it weren't written in my documents. I can't say their names without feeling a hollow emptiness. They're just words without meaning, names that echo in the void, devoid of warmth or connection. Fear wrapped itself around me like the thick, impenetrable cloak of night, hiding me from view and shielding me from the prying eyes of others. I could feel their gazes, heavy and piercing, laden with pity, judgment, and reproach. Even the eyes of those dear to me carried traces of doubt and fear, like a poison seeping into the cracks of my resolve. They didn't trust me. I didn't blame them; doubt had long been a companion of mine, whispering in my ear like a dark shadow. I can't recall exactly how the idea of leaving first entered my mind; perhaps it had always been buried deep in the darkest corners of my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to surface. It wouldn't surprise me if I had tucked it away in the dusty drawer where I kept my most daring daydreams, dreams I barely dared to entertain. And it was all thanks to Violet, though she had no idea of the storm she had stirred within me. Violet adored Spanish soap operas. She didn't care about the melodramatic plots or the endless episodes that seemed to stretch into eternity—she loved them all, every exaggerated twist and turn. She couldn't understand a single word of Spanish, nor could she read the subtitles that flickered across the screen, but that didn't matter. Watching them filled her with a contagious joy. Violet was my guardian, a woman who had taken me in when no one else would, and in a way, she was the catalyst for my longing for freedom. I didn't know Spanish either, but I could read the subtitles. That's how it started. For the next three years, while my friends ran wild in the streets and fields, lost in the carefree abandon of youth, I spent countless hours with Violet, absorbing every episode, devouring every line of dialogue, and reading them aloud so that Violet could hear and understand the passion, the drama, the fire that the actors brought to life. It became our ritual, a small act of kindness that bound us together. Three years later, something shifted in my mind, like a seed finally breaking through the soil. After hundreds of episodes, I realized I could speak Spanish—not the formal, polished Spanish taught in schools, but the kind spoken in those soap operas, a colorful blend of accents from Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Argentina, each word rolling off my tongue like a song. That's when the idea took root, growing with an intensity that startled me: I was going to Madrid, Spain. The thought bloomed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. I made up my mind. Armed with English and Spanish, I believed I could manage. All that was left was to get a passport and buy a ticket to Madrid. I imagined myself there, celebrating New Year's Eve under the city's dazzling lights, marking the beginning of my freedom, of a new life that I could barely comprehend. I had always stayed in the place where I grew up, never venturing far and certainly never on my own. The only times I left were for school trips, and even then, we never crossed the borders of our country and never dared to venture into the unknown. But now, I was planning to travel over three thousand kilometers away, completely alone, into a world I had only glimpsed through the flickering screen of a television. And I wasn't ready. Not at all. I worked 14 grueling hours daily for two long, relentless months to save enough money for the ticket and passport. It was hard, back-breaking work, poorly paid, and draining, but the thought of standing on the streets of Madrid kept me going. My friends pitied me, shaking their heads, calling me a daydreamer, a fool lost in fantasies. They had dozens of logical, practical reasons why I shouldn't go, each sharper than the last, but I was driven by just one thought: "I'm going." With a ticket to Madrid burning a hole in my pocket, a battered backpack on my shoulders, and a heart brimming with a wild mix of longing and fear, I said goodbye to my friends and headed for the bus station. They didn't try to stop me. In their eyes, my plan was as good as suicide, a reckless plunge into the abyss. Their words lingered in my mind, like shadows whispering doubts in my ears as I walked. "You don't have enough money to survive. You don't know anyone. Where will you sleep? Eat? What if you get robbed? How will you get back?" Each step toward the bus station felt like a battle, and every inch of ground gained a victory against the tide of fear and doubt. I could feel the weight of their gazes, their silent pleas for me to turn back, to stay in the safety of the familiar. If I had looked back, I might have given in and crumbled under the weight of their concerns. But I didn't. Leaving everything behind was like tearing off a piece of my soul, even though my world was small and stifling. It felt like an eternity before I finally sat on the bus and looked out the window, my heart tumultuous. I half-expected my friends to follow me to the station, desperate to stop and drag me back to the life I was leaving behind. Maybe I was even hoping for it. It would have been easier to stay, to convince myself that I was doing it for them, that I was needed. But no one came. The bus station remained eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the bus engine. I sighed with relief, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps my friends respected my decision or didn't care enough to try to stop me. The realization that I was alone filled me with a strange mix of pride and fear. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. What if they're right? What do I know about Madrid, about Spain? What do I know about life outside the town where I've spent seventeen years? Am I throwing away my life?" I turned toward the exit, ready to flee, but something caught my eye—my reflection in the glass. Yes, that was me: a skinny, frightened young man with nothing to lose. No family, home, job, money, or girlfriend. No hope that life would get better. "Who am I?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I someone who gives up when it gets tough?" At that moment, I knew I couldn't go back. I had never really had a home. I'd been a tenant since birth, abandoned by my parents, living with strangers who took me out of duty rather than love. I returned to my seat as the bus filled with passengers, each a mystery. I watched them, wondering what their reasons for traveling were and what stories they carried with them. My anxiety grew with each passing minute, and suddenly, I was desperate for the bus to start moving, to take me away from the temptation to run back to the life I knew. The ticket in my pocket felt heavier, like a concrete block, a weight that anchored me to my decision. Ten long minutes passed, each one filled with the gnawing temptation to leave, to abandon this crazy plan. But when the driver finally closed the doors and started the engine, my heart tightened like a fist in my chest. The first step had been taken; there was no going back. I felt something shift inside me, a change as profound as the turning of the tides. I was no longer just a frightened boy but someone beginning to decide who he would be and who he could become. Yes, I had a ticket and a destination in mind. Still, more than anything, I had my life in my hands, like a blank sheet of paper, ready to be filled with the words of a new story. During the next seven hours on the road, I memorized everything I saw through the bus window—places I had never been, landscapes that blurred into a tapestry of colors and shapes, things I might never see again. It was all-important but also a distraction, a way to keep my doubts at bay, to focus on the journey rather than the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The bus stopped three times for breaks, but I stayed in my seat, too afraid that if I got off, I wouldn't have the courage to get back on. So, I sat there, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other passengers, my mind locked on the road ahead, the destination looming like a distant dream. When we crossed the border, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and smiled for the first time in ten hours. I had made it. I had left the safe harbor and sailed into the unknown, where the wind would take me. It didn't matter where I would end up as long as I didn't have to return. I wasn't ready. I'll never be prepared for everything life brings. But the beauty is that I don't need to be. You just need the courage to follow your dreams; nothing else will matter. Because if there's one truth I've learned, it's this: "Where your heart is, there is your home."

6a62wf

Experienced

The snow showed no sign of letting up. It had begun as dust, like flour being lightly tapped from a sieve in the sky; then the flakes grew fat and dense, deftly blocking us in. It felt strangely crushing, like I was a soda can inexorably crumbling under steady pressure from two hands. I settled in my seat, picked a spot on the floor, and gazed at it idly. Maybe they could still take off. Somehow. Of course, that idea – that stupid idea – flew in the face of the 5 (or 6?) delays I had endured today. I hoped maybe something, somewhere would click into place and we could board and roll ourselves in our blankets and be on our way home. Sure enough, a few moments later, one of the crewmembers approached the podium and the speakers crackled to life. I looked up hopefully. Ladies and gentlemen, due to the inclement weather, all flights in and out of this airport have been cancelled. We currently have snowplow teams outside working to clear the highway back into the town, but until then please make yourselves comfortable in the gate. Thank you. Ah. So much for hoping. Thus spoke the… flight attendant? I don’t know. He certainly didn’t look like a flight attendant. Greenland’s airports, especially those in the northernmost reaches of the country, where my research team and I were working, did not operate like any of the airports I had ever been to. Our pilots (along with the “flight attendant”) wore cheap jeans and faded button-up shirts and sported unkempt hair and heavy five o’clock shadows. They looked to me more like the snowplow drivers we have back in Chicago than pilots. So long as we didn’t go down over the frozen tundra, at this point I couldn’t care less what the pilot looked like. After making a few cursory remarks about the amenities available at the airport – old military rations, a shelf full of disintegrating books (all in Danish, of course), and a toilet that didn’t flush quite right, the flight attendant stepped down from the podium, and began walking back to the tiny office at the back of the gate. “Excuse me!” I said, flagging down the flight attendant. He sauntered over to me – he was a rather heavyset man – and idly gazed at me. I set my next words carefully. “How long until the road is clear to get back to the town?” His portly face contorted into a grimace, clearly irritated that he had been asked that for probably the third time in the 30-second walk to the office. “Perhaps a couple of hours, perhaps 24 hours” was the reply, thickly accented and tinged with annoyance. I didn’t press the matter further. “Do make yourself comfortable” he said acidly and walked off. I sat down. Crushed. I had only been here in Greenland for two months, and it was high time I had gone home. I had always enjoyed fieldwork, and I had been looking forward to this trip to Greenland for years. But the extreme conditions of Greenland were not what had made this all a rather unpleasant adventure. I’d venture to say that I’ve been in much worse situations. It was, I’m ashamed to admit, my colleagues that had burdened this trip. I closed my eyes, wishing I was at home, sitting by a fireplace (funnily enough, I don’t even have a fireplace), sipping a mug of hot chocolate. I sat like this for a while, until Fitch startled me out of my contemplation. “Something on your mind?” he said, in that smooth, resonant voice that made him a favorite among the female students – and a few of the female professors. I was not among them. I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was handsome, I’ll give him that. “Nothing, just thinking.” He smiled wryly. “So, you’re thinking about nothing?” Silence. How was I supposed to answer that? After a moment, “I was just thinking about how nice it’ll be to be home.” His smile widened. “Aren’t we all?” He waved a hand abstractly at the rest of our outfit – another 20 or so professors of various disciplines. But to me, they didn’t seem to be thinking. A few were talking animatedly in a hushed circle, but most were hunched over their field laptops, typing furiously. I, in turn, smiled. Maybe Fitch, of all people, would get it. “Why don’t you have a seat? Talking will help pass the time.” Fitch obliged. Most people had a stereotypical image of a professor in their head – bow ties, awkward demeanors, formal dress, and so forth. Fitch’s entire being demolished that stereotype. Simply put, he was somewhere between Indiana Jones, a west coast surfer, and a hardcore D&D player – a certain primal “brawniness”, and yet a fiercely intelligent and inquisitive side, with an eye for detail. He seemed aware of this. Maybe it was proper that Fitch was a professor of anthropology. I couldn’t imagine him sitting in a library all day, but I could see him traipsing through jungles and deserts and mountains.  “Let me guess.” He said nonchalantly, shifting on the unyielding cushion of the seat. “Palava finally stepped on your last nerve.” I couldn’t hide my surprise. How did he know? “Yes” I said evenly. “She certainly didn’t win any points with me either.” He said, the well-defined contour of his face turning into a slight frown. “What she did, what she will do, is totally out of line.” Inwardly I smiled. Yes. I thought. Fitch gets it. As if to respond to that thought, Fitch spoke again. “It’s a tragedy, really. What’s going to happen to the land, and those that live there.” He turned to me. “I’m focused on the human aspect of this project, and it seems they don’t value it. Out of the 20-odd scientists they sent here, I am the only anthropologist. And I’m an afterthought, really. They added me on at the last second, and they gave me the least amount of funding.” He spread his hands, in the classic gesture of “have-not.” And it was certainly true. While the rest of us lugged around various cases full of instruments and equipment, Fitch had brought practically nothing. A small rucksack and the clothes on his back. “Fitch.” I said, my tone serious. “There are no illusions about what’s going to happen next. Question is, what are we going to do about it?” Fitch chucked. Oh no. “We’re going to smash Palava’s kneecaps and then we’re going to shit in her bathtub and then we’re going…” he prattled on, dripping with sarcasm. I couldn’t help but chuckle too. I knew I shouldn’t. But I did. Of the 20 of us, seven are geologists, Palava and I included. Palava is our team chief, appointed by the company to compile our work and analyze our data and then send it back in a final report. From the outset, Palava and I had a poor working relationship. She’s much too… intense? I don’t know. I can’t find a good word to describe her. She is a very factual, logical person. While others were oohing and aahing at the spectacular mountain vistas and valleys and terrain features we visited, Palava quietly brooded, quietly sought an opportunity. We had come here for a very specific purpose, and Palava was intent on fulfilling it. I didn’t know this at the time, but I later found out that Palava was the second highest-funded member of the team, barring only our overall leader, Bailey. Fitch finished his monologue. He turned to me again. “You know,” he said, still chuckling, “you geologists should learn to see the forest for the trees.” “Come again?” I wasn’t expecting that , after he threatened to vandalize Palava’s car with a key, among other, nastier things. Fitch sat back again and grew suddenly serious. Serious, but not unfriendly. “Maybe this is just me,” he began, “but I’ve always felt that you geologists – most scientists, really – don’t truly grasp what they’re looking at.” The sharp exhalation of breath escaped me before I could stop it. That was uncalled for. Borderline insulting, really. I glowered at Fitch. I was about to say something back when he held up a hand for silence. “Not in an offensive way, of course. You certainly understand the world around you—if our very limited view of the world could come close to understanding. But you just don’t grasp the fact that maybe some things are meant to be experienced, not understood.” “Experienced.” I repeat, not fully understanding. “Yep. Experienced.” He said. “You could tell me readily about how the rocks fell into place, how they were pushed up from the crust, how the coal and oil and precious metals that we found came to be. But perhaps you haven’t really experienced all this in all its glory. Just think about all the things that had to fall into place for what we see now to happen. Not to mention the millions, the billions of years it took. We think we understand it, when we can’t even begin to understand it.” Fair. I think I can see where Fitch is going with this. Fitch folded his hands across his lap and looked at the floor. “In my time in South America and Africa, I’ve always tried to frame my work in experience. People really are impossible to understand, it’s better to experience them. To live in the moment and take things for what they are. Maybe you geologists should do that with your rock formations.” Bullseye. I thought. Fitch knew what I was thinking that whole time. I just didn’t have the… Fitch part of me to put into words. Fitch continued, as if to himself. “Palava is a smart woman. No doubts there. But she doesn’t get the idea of experiencing something. She should have looked at the mountains we saw and been in awe at the sheer power of nature, the power we can’t even begin to understand. But she didn’t. All she saw was, quite literally, a gold mine. It’s a damned shame too, because soon that beautiful mountain will be blown to bits and the people that live on it will be displaced forever. And all Palava will ever experience from that is the bottom line.” Fitch should know. He spent his whole adult life observing – experiencing , actually—other people and other ways of living. Something tells me he didn’t spend much time fretting over questions of semantics. He just experienced whatever he was looking at and ran with it. He lived in the moment, appreciated the time we are allotted. I remember he was dazzled by the mountains we saw, but also by the tenacity and ingenuity of the Inuit. But unlike Palava, he let them be, and simply observed the novelty of it. “My point is, we should live in the moment. Experience things for what they are. There is always much more to what we see. Even when and where we least expect it.” He turned to me. I nodded my agreement. “Thank you, Fitch.” He smiled. “It was my pleasure,” he said lightly. “If you’ll excuse me,” He stood up. “I need to check how well that toilet really flushes.” As Fitch disappeared into the hallway, I sat back. Taking in my surroundings. The scientists were still typing for their lives on their dingy company-issued laptops. The two pilots and the flight attendant played cards at a small folding table. A few of the native Inuit spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones. I widened my gaze. The torn carpet of the floor. The hazy fluorescent lights. The haphazardly arranged seats. The brightly colored garb of the scientists. Their various expressions – fierce concentration, exhaustion, annoyance. I widened my gaze still. The bleak tundra of inner Greenland. The ice floes. The mountains. The cliff faces. The villages. The snow. The wind. The sky. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the stale, chilled air. When I opened them, the snow had stopped.

ogsp4u

A Fantastical Wedding and a Cliffside Chat

Ah, everyone loves a royal wedding. Truly a momentous occasion, the thing of fairytales. And the marriage between Tavalon and Orishenn was no exception. I met Princess Lorelai of Orishenn on the day of her wedding when I crashed the ceremony. Literally. I crashed through the church window. “The Pirate-Witch of Caelkirk has arrived to object this matrimony with my own wedding procession!” I bellowed to the crowd below. The guards had barely enough time to draw their weapons before the doorway burst open and my crew barrelled into the church. Now, to be fair, it was the first time I laid eyes upon anybody in attendance (except maybe a few of the soldiers, if they’d been present at any of my earlier escapades). But the smartly-dressed nobles of the court, the bejewelled clergymen, the ornate royal families? They were but a sea of brightly coloured strangers being showered by shards of stained glass. They all blended together in a flurry of screams and shouts and flailing arms. The only one who stood out among the fray was the Princess of Orishenn – and not just because she was my target, mind you. Even King Cedric of Tavalon standing beside her was washed away by her radiance. Her gossamer wedding dress had to be hundreds upon hundreds of yards of fabric and it glistened from every angle. From above, she looked like she was drowning in the centre of an iridescent pool. She didn’t scream or try to shield herself. She didn’t look away as I fell towards her. I’d assumed the colour of her eyes in her portraits was an exaggeration, but no – her eyes truly did match the colour of the opals in her necklace. Those eyes watched me the whole time, her face set in place. She looked just like a portrait indeed. Perhaps she was in shock and having trouble grasping what was happening. Perhaps her hair was pulled back too tight for her to make any grand expressions. My crew were doing an excellent job of keeping everyone preoccupied. There was no-one to stop me from planting my boot into the king’s face to soften my landing. He crumpled beneath me without any complaint. “My princess, would you be so kind as to take my hand in matrimony instead?” I didn’t wait for a reply, obviously. I climbed over the waves of her dress and clasped her hand in mine. I locked my legs against her back, pulling her in and trapping her against me. I raised my spare hand towards the rafters and clicked my fingers to summon the teleportation circle that would magic us away from here. All in all, the kidnapping of Princess Lorelai of Orishenn took a minute, tops. But what an exciting minute it was. It was a wedding after all, things are supposed to be dramatic. *** Royal weddings are only ever about politics. Princesses don’t marry for love, except in fairytales. She marries whoever someone else chooses for her. I met Brienne the Pirate-Witch of Caelkirk on the day I was to seal the ties between two neighbouring kingdoms. Instead she whisked me away in a kidnapping that would surely go down in history. So much happened all at once – in a flurry of her fiery magic, we went from the screaming chaos of the church to bright open sky and the sound of the sea. We were atop a windswept cliff battered by ocean waves. It could barely be considered Tavalon territory this far out. My kidnapper was still clinging to me but I couldn’t hold up her weight any longer. My legs gave out and I sunk into the grass among a swath of skirts. Strands of my hair freed themselves from their bun and whipped around my face. My wedding dress billowed up and around me. I have no clue where my tiara ended up. Maybe it escaped over the cliff edge into the ocean and sailed away. “There’s no point in trying to flee,” she said as she dismounted from my midsection. The sheath of her sword brushed against the side of my chest. Atop her head was a leather flying helmet and goggles. Her eyes glowed and flickered like flames that matched the colour of her hair. A bonafide pirate and a bonafide witch. “If you’re a good girl and behave, I won’t have to tie you up.” She winked at me. Charming. “Quite theatrical, aren’t you?” I mused. “She speaks!” I hoisted myself up from the ground and trudged over towards the cliff’s rock-spattered edge. “Careful now,” she said, “wouldn’t want you to fall.” “It’s so calming here. The breeze is lovely.” “…you know, you’re taking this all surprisingly well.” I planted myself on a craggy boulder. Not the most comfortable place to be sitting, but there were so many layers in this dress that the pokes and prods of the rock were barely noticeable. I readjusted my hair so it wouldn’t distract me while I gazed out over the ocean. The waves rose and fell, rose and fell, as though the entire ocean was breathing slowly in and out, in and out, until they crashed into white foam below me. Rising over the horizon was a speck of brown. That would be her airship. No other specks followed after it. Good. She leaned down to me and pointed out to sea. “Do you see that? That’s my ship over there, right on schedule. And no other ships in sight. You know what that means? There’s no one coming to save you, princess. And my client should be here any minute now to come collect you. So be a dear and let me help you out of this dress. You won’t be needing it anymore.” “No one else is coming, Brienne.” “Oho, you know my name?” I rested my chin in my hand. “‘You are to disrupt the ceremony before the couple says ‘I do’. You are to ensure that the bride is delivered unharmed. Prepare a change of clothes to disguise the princess in.’ Need I go on?” “…huh, well damn.” The salt-spray tickled my lips. “Why didn’t you just tell me that you were my client in the first place?” “And risk being found out should my letters be intercepted?” “Ah, yeah that makes sense.” “Besides, for all I knew, you wouldn’t be willing to help out someone like me.” “Well that’s a bit presumptuous!” “So I’m wrong?” “…not wrong , but I’ve never gotten a job from someone royal before. This is definitely new territory for me.” She sidled in close to my boulder. She must be allergic to respecting personal space. Not much I could do about it though – just because I’d hired her didn’t mean I wasn’t at her mercy right this moment. “So, what made you choose me? My dashing looks? My nefarious reputation? My impeccable flirting skills? My bodacious—" “You were the only witch in Caelkirk powerful enough to pull off a teleportation spell this far away.” “Ooh, my incredible magical prowess, ey? I’ll take that. And it had to be someone from Caelkirk? No political alliances being betrayed I’m assuming?” “I figured it was the best way to ensure Cedric wouldn’t blame my family for this.” The airship was getting bigger, I could make out some of the sails now. “And what’s your plan after this? Mayhaps a secret lover you want to run away with? That’s the only thing more romantic than a royal wedding.” She nestled herself onto my boulder and swooned into me, hand to her forehead like a kid in a school play. My beautiful blue sea was overtaken by her shock of red hair blowing into my face. “ Oh, Sir Rodrick! ” she cried, “you may only be a mere knight but I’d rather be a pauper with you than spend a lifetime of leisure with that pompous ass of a king! Let us run away into the sunset together and have a million babies!” I couldn’t help it. I chuckled. Just a little bit. “Thank you, thank you, I know I’m an incredible actor.” “I already said that no one’s coming for me. No wicked enemy and no secret lover. I’m just running away on my own.” “Running away to where exactly?” “Nowhere in particular.” “…that’s a stupid plan.” “Maybe it is.” “And a very lonely plan, too.” “Maybe it is.” My head felt heavy in my hand. I propped my elbow up on my knee. “Do you know why Orishenn royal wedding dresses have so many layers in them?” I asked. “It is tradition to add a layer for every wedding that came before. It doesn’t matter who she marries or where she’s married off to, if a woman has Orishenn blood, she carries our history with her on her wedding day. This dress I’m in has 166 layers in it” Just because the thread was spiderweb thin didn’t mean I couldn’t feel its weight. Beneath the surface of this dress I carried my sisters and my mother and my grandmothers and every single other woman that came before me, all the way back to the beginning of my family line with a woman in a simple, modest, single-layered gown. My sisters have already started having daughters of their own – if I had a daughter, how many layers would she wear on her wedding day? How many layers could she withstand before they crushed her? I could hear the hooting and hollering of the other pirates carried over the wind now. The ocean view was truly beautiful. I wish I could stay like this forever. I was gripped by my shoulders and spun around and my view was taken up by the Pirate-Witch’s face. Her eyes were ablaze, literally and figuratively. “Miss Lorelai, my boys are almost here and I still need to help you get changed.” She unsheathed her sword. “Wait, hang on, what are you—” She plunged into the depths of my dress. The blade completely disappeared into its depths. She pulled until the fabric gave way. Precise enough that she didn’t knick skin, rough enough that skirts and flounces and petticoats were ripped into shimmering shreds. I tore at the parts the sword had missed, fervently flinging fistfuls of lace behind me like I was shovelling for some sort of treasure. The bite of the wind stung more and more. By the time I was down to my chemise I was freezing. Breathing heavy, I looked to the sky and watched as 166 layers of glittering history sailed away on the breeze. Brienne clicked her fingers and a simple red dress grew around me, complete with pantaloons and a coat. I undid my mother’s opal necklace from around my throat and held it out to her. “Thank you for a job well done. You’ll be needing the second half of your payment before you go.” “Yes, yes, very good, but there’s another matter that needs addressing first.” “Um, pardon?” “Miss Lorelai, if you truly have no solid plans for your future after this, then how about you try out life aboard my airship?” “…what?” “It wouldn’t be as glamorous a life as you’re used to, but I take great care of my crew and by god is it fun. If you don’t like it, I’ll just drop you off somewhere nice.” “ …what ?” The airship was upon us, ready to land. In about five minutes, Brienne the Pirate-Witch of Caelkirk went from kidnapping me to recruiting me as an amateur pirate.

8g2woc

Maxwell Needs Help...

A month had past since Chloro Phil had brought home the survivors. The small group had suffered tremendously at the hands of the wasteland raiders, but their robust recovery gave everyone in Chama hope for the future. Optimism not just for the survivors but for survival of humanity in general. Chama may have been a small community, but it was strong and healthy. A new problem had arisen though. The Elders’ Council emergency meeting had failed to settle upon a course of action regarding a young boy who had wandered out of the wastes. He was emaciated and sunburnt, and barely alive. He had stumbled into one of the gardens on the outskirts of town, and collapsed into the farmer’s arms. In his delirium, all he could mutter was “Maxwell…Maxwell needs help…” Who was this, “Maxwell?” The boy himself was unable to offer additional information, and was still deep asleep. He may have even been comatose. Marianne, the local medical professional, had discovered a scrap of crumpled paper in the boy’s pocket during her routine cleansing of the boy’s injured and starved body. The scrap contained a few lines of nearly illegible script, along with a curving line with three X’s on it. One X in particular was circled, in a brownish charcoal. The actual medium used for writing was unclear, and only deepened the mystery of who this boy might be. “We must send a team to investigate this map, straight away!” Councilman Brillis hotly argued, banging his fist on the council table as he spoke. “We don’t know if it’s a map or not, dear Councilman.” Councilwoman Carolina responded in a sweet, sing-song voice, clearly intending to rustle Brillis’ feathers. These two had been at odds for the last year over the prospect of digging a new irrigation channel, failing to decide which of their two fields to run it through. Both wanted it, and the Council had voted that neither should have it. “I could go out alone and try to follow the map,” Chloro Phil offered. “It seems to follow Highway 84 south. And the first X looks like Heron Lake State Park. I camped there once when I was in college.” Chloro Phil was a logical choice to send out, as his plant-like body was impervious to the scorching sun of the wastes. Phil had a number of natural defenses that would be helpful, including bark skin and an ability to grow plants that would provide him with water. Phil also required no human food, utilizing instead the sun’s nourishing rays. “Chloro Phil is an excellent choice! I heartily agree!” Councilman Brillis’ enthusiasm stoked the ire of Carolina, made worse by the fact she couldn’t disagree. Chloro Phil was the appropriate choice, and would spare anyone else who would be woefully inadequate in keeping up with him. But she hated the idea that she agreed with Brillis. “It’s decided then,” Council Leader Davis announced. “Chloro Phil will leave at once to discover the meaning of this map, and attempt to locate this, “Maxwell.” Travel safe, esteemed colleague. We hope for your swift return.” —— Phil traveled south down Highway 84, stopping at each abandoned vehicle along the way in search of anything useful to his fellow Chamites. They had welcomed him into their community, and he had proven quite useful in helping establish a new agricultural program. The land around Chama was beautiful northern New Mexico, a mix of mountain cliffs, pine forests and river terrain that provided ample shade and paths for water. The community planned to use the river for irrigation in their new gardens. There were dozens of small farms, each supporting a specific vegetable or herb that Chloro Phil’s plant powers could sprout out of the ground. This allowed each species to thrive or perish individually, which became a metaphor for Chama’s resilience. In typical Choro Phil fashion, he documented his travel experience in his journal. It read something like this: Sun Day 94 I’ve been on the road a few days now, stopping at each abandoned vehicle I see. It seems people fled with whatever possessions would fit in their cars, and most of that detritus from old lives is still in their vehicles. I’m keeping an eye out for anything Chama might find useful, and I’m amazed at how much stuff has been left behind. It seems people fled their cars and trucks, and didn’t carry much with them on foot. But where did they go? I’m not seeing any bodies or human remains. It’s like they’ve disappeared. Odd. Creepy. It makes me feel alone. —— Phil made his way to Heron Lake State Park, and scoured the remains of the campground there. There were a few derelict tents staked, but tattered beyond repair. Why had the boy marked this space with an X? The nothingness here added to the mystery, and prompted Phil to continue his journey. The next X on the map was the circled one. There’s no telling what he might find there. —— Sun Day 96 I’m two days out from Heron Lake, headed a bit south west. I can see another lake in the distance, probably another two day’s walk. I’m being careful because I’m starting to feel like I’m being followed. I have the distinct impression that I’m at least being watched. I’ve felt that way ever since I left my last campsite. Sun Day 97 I found the watcher! It was a horse! It must have trailed me from the lake. I managed to feed it some grass, and it’s now hanging around my camp. It’s nice to have a traveling companion! I’m naming the horse Curiosa, as she clearly wanted to figure out what I’m up to. —— Phil and Curiosa struck camp at sunrise the next morning, Phil in front and Curiosa trailing a few feet behind. They had not gone far when they came upon a fairly well-maintained barbed wire fence. Following the fence brought them to a dirt road, and a busted down sign reading El Vado RV Park. There were a number of rusting vehicles along the road, and Phil’s gut told him to be careful. He found a cluster of pinyon pine, and tied Curiosa out of sight and off the road. He’d proceed on foot alone from here. What he saw about a mile down the dirt road made his skin crawl and stomach lurch. Bodies and body parts lay strewn about, but nothing indicated what had caused such carnage. There were a couple of decrepit RV’s, and he snuck into one to see if he could discover any clues. The RV had been rifled through, but there was no blood or death in here. He might make this base camp for the time being. He waited until night to creep back out. He quietly slipped out of the RV, and snuck to the camp store. It was the only substantial building on premise, aside from a couple of disgusting cinder block bathrooms. Strangely, a light emitted from inside the camp store, indicating he was not alone. He decided to peek in one of the windows on the side of the building before he tried the front door. Just as he was eye level and making out the shelving on the inside, a bloodcurdling scream came from behind him. Whirling, he dropped to a crouch, and pressed himself up against the wall. Movement flashed across his periphery, a quick burst of inhuman speed. Whatever was out here was not human. At least, not anymore. Phil took a moment to compose himself, then slid along the wall looking for a backdoor. Sure enough, the back of the camp store housed a small restaurant, and the door into the kitchen was unlocked. He tested the rusty hinges for noise before opening the door just enough to slip in. It was quiet inside, and the light seemed to be coming from the dining area just outside the kitchen’s swinging saloon doors. He could see no movement out there, so he scurried as close to the door as he could. The dining area was a makeshift prison, with a few whimpering people chained to a heavy wooden centerpiece that looked like it may have once been a collection of dinner tables. The tables had been arranged to look like a teepee, lifted on one end around the dining room’s thick central support beam. Upon each table was a human captive, staked spread eagle. A few looked dead, but a couple of others were clinging to life. Phil snuck alongside the wall until he saw a thin bearded man, stripped naked and barely alive. Phil threaded his way through the bramble of chairs strewn around the room, and tugged on the man’s foot. He let out a terrified cry, not knowing what had just happened to him. “Shhh… are you Maxwell?” “What?” Maxwell whimpered. “How do you know my name?” “I’ve been looking for you. A small boy wandered into our settlement about a week ago. He was barely alive. He was delirious and kept muttering “Maxwell needs help.” Is that true? Do you need help?” Maxwell let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling safe for the first time in who knows when. “Can you get me down? I will need help walking out of here.” Phil nodded, and stood up gingerly to unfasten the ropes binding Maxwell to his dining table. He untied the knotted rope from Maxwell’s right hand, but as he reached for the left, a ghastly scream rent the air. Whirling into a crouch, Chloro Phil could not believe the horror that stood before him. It was a creature unlike anything he could have imagined, a freakish terror of the wastes. It looked like several human bodies had been fused together, with arms and legs sticking in all directions. It stood on four legs, along with three hands on the ground for more balance. Legs and arms stuck into the air though, giving the distinct impression it could roll as easily as it walked. The most frightening aspect of this creature though were the four heads, each one looking in a different direction. But the largest head was looking right at Phil, almost as if it wondered what this green man tasted like. 

veby6q

Something Blue

Seravina Rebus posed before an ornate long mirror in the master bedroom on the villa’s first floor. The ivory Bohemian dress flowed perfectly around her athletic build. The Tasanaris had graciously allowed her to use the room to get ready. A distant church bell chimed twelve times. The ceremony would finally begin in thirty minutes. Seravina smiled as the reflection revealed two members of her new family.  Mrs. Hemingway, the groom’s adopted mother, fiddled with the final touches of Vina’s dress, while Emmy, Tood’s reunited daughter, placed violets in the empress’s lovely braided blonde hair. Granny stepped back and sighed. “You my dear, are radiant. You are ready to marry a king.” Emmy placed the last flower and joined her great grandmother. “Good thing you are. Tood is a lucky man. Vina, you are stunning.” “Thank you, friends. I am ready.” “We will give you some space, dear. I have to adjust Emmy's gown and hair. She has been fidgety. Come along.” The elderly woman held Emmy’s hand and dragged her from the bedroom. “You would be too, if it was your wedding, our wedding, my family’s wedding day. I can’t believe it, can you believe it? In less than an hour, you will have a husband, my father. You will be a wife and a mother. My mom. Wow.” “Stepmother, Emmy,” Seravina replied and laughed, “I know. It is great. Please go with Granny and get ready. See you soon.” She gave Emmy a hug. The sweet young lady waved while Granny pulled her from the room into the deserted hallway. Seravina grinned with tenderness and heard their light steps exit into another room.  The bride's ears perked up when the villa’s front door creaked open. Her eardrums vibrated as familiar leather boots traversed from the front entrance, down her hallway and halted at her door. Deft hands adjusted a tie, straightened his suit, and then brushed some crumbs from his pants. He unfastened the jacket and quickly buttoned it up again. The man brushed fingers through his hair, popped a tiny mint into his mouth, and exhaled. He raised his left hand to knock but never got the chance. The princess called, “Salutations, Jak. Please, come in. I have been expecting you.” She turned to face the visitor.  The door swung open. Captain Jak Chico leaned against the door frame. He kept his head down and smirked. His vision only caught a glimpse of the bride. “You gotta tell me how you do….”  His brilliant smile faded to awestruck wonder as he gazed upon Seravina in all her nuptial splendor. The boisterous captain could not utter another syllable. “You can close your mouth now, Mr. Chico. I am not a trollop to be ogled. I will assume your reaction is a compliment. How have you been? Staying out of mischief?” Chico followed her direction and cleared his throat. He stepped into the room and started to close the door. “For the most part, Your Highness. You look…. You look… I mean you look…” “I see your vocabulary has not improved.” She teased. “Keep the door ajar, please. I am glad you accepted our invitation. You look handsome.” “Thank you, Seravina.” He blushed. “I was surprised, but I am glad I'm here. It will be a glorious day for you. How is the Ol’ Junkman?” "My groom, Tood is wonderful, thank you.” Jak grounded his teeth. “Good.” “Did you bring a guest?” “Yes. She is parking the car. I am still learning to drive.” He finger combed his hair. “I’m moving to Florida. Miami. I was signed by the Panthers as a punter, but they traded me to a team named the Dolphins.” “Congratulations. You are extremely athletic. You will do well in the warmer climate.” “Thanks. Woof told me you played Battleball and won. Did you like it?” “Yes, quite exhilarating.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Almost as grand as casting down a worthy foe on the field of battle and plunging my sword into his bowels.” He blinked several times. “OKAY.” “Enough with the pleasantries, what do you want Jak?” “Right to the point.” He frowned and shoved his hands into pant pockets. The bride said, “Just because I am friendly does not make us compatriots.” He chuckled, “I already know when you are unfriendly. I have the scar to prove it.” The Legion captain pointed to a jagged scar over his left eye. “Indeed.” Jak said, “You saved my life twice. I am in your debt. I don’t like to be in debt.” “Actually it was three times. Remember, on the streets of Between.” He recalled and smiled, “Correct again, Counselor. But I am here to warn you.” “Is this about Joselyn Castillo, Emmy’s mother? “Yes. Josie has recruited me to join her cause. She made me a very enticing offer. I have not accepted. She wants to teach me how to use my powers.” “That is not all, I imagine.” She sat down on the bed. “Jak. She cannot be trusted.  She is a powerful witch. She will use you and throw you away like a rag.” “I know.” He leaned against the wall. “She said the same thing about you. I will handle it when the time comes.” “Does she know you are here with me?” “Yes and no. I told her I had to use the restroom. She dropped me out front. I came right into the house. Your security is pretty slack.” “Someone has been watching you the whole time.” Seravina said, “She must have used a masking spell.” She asked Jak, “What type of vehicle was it? Did it have the symbol of a trident?” “Maybe? It was black and gold. I stared at her body more than the vehicle.  I think it started with an ‘M’.” Seravina touched her ear. She lifted a finger to silence Chico. “Will and Penny report.” She said and listened to the reply. “Excellent. You noticed a black and gold Maserati. New York license plate. It was Sandy’s vehicle. The woman is five feet nine inches tall, light-skinned, freckled with short auburn hair. Floor length green dress with a long slit.” Chico nodded in agreement. “That’s her. Observe and report. Have an usher escort her to the ceremony and seat her on the bride’s side. Do not engage. Thank you.” She tapped her ear and stood up. “Thank you, Jak.” “Josie has wicked plans for you and your fiance. She mentioned something about a Bloodstone. I had no idea…” A silver dagger suddenly appeared at the captain’s throat. Seravina’s skilled hand held it millimeters from his jugular. He did not move. Sweat drops formed on his hairline. “Do not play me false, Mr. Chico. Your pulse just quickened.  I would hate to have scarlet stains on my wedding gown.” “I am telling the truth. She wants to destroy you.  She hates you. For some reason she wants Tood.” “I have deduced as much. How Jak? Where? When?” “I don’t know specifics.” The knife slipped closer. Chico gulped. “She mentioned a sword and a baby. She spoke about places I’ve never heard of before; sounded foreign. She has a massive army of Reckons waiting for her orders. I know it’s soon, 24-36 hours.” She lowered the weapon and it disappeared in her dress. “My gratitude for the information. It is Rakkans. I like you, Jak, but I don’t trust you. You are a scheming and charming juvenile delinquent.” “Thanks. You say the nicest things. Are we even?” He touched his neck. “Far from it. However, you have reduced your debt by one.” “That’s fair. It’s fun being a secret agent. Bond, James Bond.” “Who is that?” Seravina asked. “Never mind. I will contact you if I find out more. I better find my seat and date. Good luck with the whole marriage thing.” He walked out of the room and paused in the doorway. “Captain,” Seravina called, “be mindful and alert. Your adversary is a hungry lioness.” He smirked and walked away, “She also described you the same way.” She touched her ear again. “Do not let her out of your sight.” Her gray eyes glistened.  She knelt down and prayed for her fiance. ********* Tood wiggled on an intricate rocking chair inside the groom’s tent. The white canvas building was perched past the ceremony seating area. Preston King, his best friend from New York, leaned against the tent next to the inside flap. Preston twirled an elaborate Blackthorn walking stick. Tood removed his heirloom pocket watch. He slipped the gold chain through his fingers and then whirled it three times. He caught it and scanned the time.  12:15 pm.  “Are you nervous, Mr. Doorf?” Preston said, glancing at his wrist watch. “Nervous, Mr. Preston? It’s only the biggest day of my life.” He exhaled. He slicked back his wavy brown hair. He walked over to the plastic window and observed many guests arriving and sitting in the rows of the white folding chairs. “You know this is my third engagement and…” Preston replied, “This is the fourth time you have told me. Everything is going as planned. It is a lovely spring day. My sister has all the venues covered and staffed with good, vetted people. Don’t worry when you can pray. You taught me that.” “Right. Where is the preacher?” Tood asked. “I want to speak with him.” Preston touched his ear. “Is the pastor here? What do you mean he just arrived? Bring him to the groom, immediately.” He turned to Tood. “No worries, I will handle this. Stay put.” Preston snatched the walking stick in mid-rotation and exited from the enclosure. Tood watched his oldest friend leave and then returned to viewing the arrivals.  The tent flap reopened. A ginger haired woman in an emerald dress entered. She jumped in surprise, dropped her matching clutch purse, and blushed. “Sorry, I was told this was the ladies room. Wrong place. You look like the groom. I'll be going.” She retreated. “No problem. You’re not the first one searching for the bathroom. Thanks for coming to the wedding. Who are you?” “You are too kind. I’m Jessie, a friend of Jak Chico, the football player. We just met.” “I see. Nice to meet you. The restrooms are near the house.” “Thanks. By the way, you look very handsome in your military attire. Is that a real sword?” Tood grinned, “Thank you. Yes, a family relic.” “Sorry to have bothered you,” Jessie said, “good luck today.” “Thank you.” Tood returned to the window, but spotted her little bag. He picked it up. As she pulled open the flap, he called out. “Excuse me, Miss, you left your purse.” She paused and stepped back inside. Tood’s eyes widened.  The redhead transformed into an ebony haired beauty with brilliant blue eyes wearing an indigo outfit. Josie tossed her long dark hair to one side and smiled. Her deliberate, sexy walk held Tood captive. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The double slits on her shimmering blue dress revealed her toned legs. His heart galloped and his throat became the Sahara. Tiny droplets of perspiration formed on his upper lip. Her french tips slithered down her sides and rested on sensuous hips. Josie undressed the groom with lustful eyes.  “Look who shines like a new Maserati. Hello, lover.” “How dare you come here after what you did to Emmy and Mario. Why did you come back?” “They’re kids; they’ll get over it. No greetings. No hug. No kisses. How about one little kiss between old friends?” Josie pouted as she advanced. Tood gulped and lifted a clammy hand in protest. “Stop Josie. Don’t get any closer. I don’t want you anymore." “Tood, sweet, Tood.” She scanned his body. “Your mouth is not speaking for your chiseled body. You are barely able to resist me and I haven’t even used magic. Yet.” Her alluring gaze transfixed his mind as she drew closer and closer. The intoxicating aroma of Chanel Number 5 lowered his defenses further. Tood shut his eyes to escape from the dark-haired abyss and remembered a glimmer of hope. ‘During temptation, the Good provides a way of escape.’ He sensed Josie’s soft hands reaching forward to caress his face. “No!” He stepped away from the temptress. “Do not touch me. I belong to another.” Tood extended the purse to her. Josie halted and lowered her hands. She retrieved the purse, and casually put it behind her back. “I understand. No touching. Just talking.” “What do you want?” She pointed to him. “I thought it was obvious.” “On my wedding day!” Tood barked, “There is more to this incursion than just me.” “Incursion?” Josie laughed. “You know, Tood, I am not as bad as your prude paints me. I have used my powers for good. I founded an orphanage and provided college scholarships for countless youth. Of course, I have been selfish and vain. I am human, not a monster. The father of our daughter is getting married. I wouldn’t miss this event.” “How did you…” “I have my ways.” Her manicured nails ran through her silky strands. “I am disappointed you have repelled me, but I am not done with you. I have three proposals for you. I’m giving you a choice.” “I’m listening. Just keep your distance.” “May I sit, these heels are killing me.” He pointed to the rocking chair. She sat, crossed her legs, and removed the shoes. “Thank you. This is so smooth and quiet. Is that a mini-fridge? May I have some water, please?” “Your proposals?” “First, if you run away with me now privately and become my partner, then I promise not to destroy Between or Seravina.” Tood opened his mouth in protest, but Josie raised her hand. “Please wait, until I finish, my friend. Where was I? Yes, second, if you call off the wedding, break Seravina’s heart and publicly leave with me, then you can keep Between and I will not kill Seravina or any of your family and friends. Third, if you hand over your ancient sword to me, right now, then I will not disturb the wedding ceremony, the reception, or your honeymoon; 72 hours tops. Unless your honeymoon is like two weeks later, I can give you that time. Oh, I also promise never to harm Emmy and Mario.” “We are going to Bermuda in a week. Everything was booked. Short notice. Would that work?” “I can work with that. I completely understand. Last year, my spontaneous trip to Hawaii. A complete disaster. I had to alter so many people’s minds just to get a beach house. Such a headache.” “What assurances will I have that you won’t destroy Between even if I go with you?” “My word.” “None.” Tood paced. “You have become powerful enough to threaten Between, but you don’t have enough strength. Why destroy Between when you could rule it and control all the worlds?” “Like you?” She said, “Tood, you have immense power, but you choose to hide it, protect it, and for Good’s sake, never use it. Your power and control of the Doors has never been challenged. You could manipulate the world and mold it in your image for good, yet you cower to help the innocent and lowly. Like they even care for you. The same people you protect day after day, year after year, generation after generation, consider you and your family nothing but trashy junkers. Garbage men and women. They look down at you, spit on you, and laugh at you. Remember, I saw it first hand. You, who are kind, sweet, giving, loving, but these awful people despise you.” “The Doorfs have been challenged before over this exact concern. The war caused the Black Death in Europe. My family won, but millions of people died.” “The bubonic plague was caused by rats and poor hygiene.” “Between rats fleeing the war and contaminating the food and water.” “Your time is over. I will do what is best for all the worlds. Once I unleash my….” She laughed and pointed a finger at him. “Sometimes, I forget how clever you are, Mr. Doorf. Not another peep from me. Make your choice.” Tood asked, “Why do you want the sword?” “Personal reason: a souvenir of our forbidden love.” “Josie, it is not too late to stop, come to your senses, and prevent all this bloodshed.” “I have to come to my senses? For hundreds of years, your family has done nothing to help the unfortunate, the poor, the destitute, the starving in any of these worlds. But I have to come to my senses. Wake up, my love. Your ways have not worked and will not work. Join me and together we will do the right thing. Maybe, we can have a little fun along the way.” She winked at him. “I am the definition of fun.” Tood unstrapped the sheath holding his Oothbert sword. He held it out to Josie. She gathered her heels in one hand, stepped forward, and grasped the leather. They held it together for a moment. The groom announced, “I will never run away with you or humiliate Seravina. I have chosen her over you. I will fight you until my last breath to protect those awful Between people.” He released it to her. Josie placed the weapon behind her back and tiptoed next to him. Their eyes locked. Without warning, her voluminous lips discovered his surprised mouth. The light kiss sparked purple and glowed. She released him and stepped back. “Sweet as the first time. I haven’t given up, my love. You have two weeks from the end of the reception. Enjoy your honeymoon.” Josie smirked, spun a half-turn, and glided away. She vanished into a puff of white smoke.  Tood blinked his confused eyes and exhaled. The sword rattled against his left leg. He caressed his lips and then examined his pocket watch. 12:16 pm.

h48hio

The White Dragon - Part 1

In ancient China, there was a special vocation for transporting important items from one point to another. Usually, the items can range from a huge amount of gold to important military letters that might impact the future of a nation. Only the Kungfu masters with special abilities can take this job because many dangers can happen on the way. This was the first time Wuxi’s Biaoju(bureau for transporting items) was asked to transport a prisoner. Wuxi’s father was assassinated brutally before the mission set off. The young Wuxi had no choice but to become the commander of this secret mission. Wuxi was frightened when he was asked to lead this mission. It was closer to getting dark now, and the team was riding in immense distress. Anshu and Lyn each rode a horse. Together, they were hauling a chariot with the metal cell that contained the prisoner. Wuxi and Jin rode at the front. An eerie wail distinct from any animal came from the mountain behind them. Every team member stopped their horses and listened in fear. They all instinctively reached for their weapons. Wuxi turned to his teammates, his voice shaking: “The mountain monster is close. We still didn’t ride fast enough.” Jin was an old veteran in this business. Despite immense fear himself, he remained much calmer. “Wuxi, we should be reaching a bridge in four miles heading south. Should we pass the bridge or take the longer route from the forest?” As Wuxi tried to answer this question, he could hear the monster’s wail coming closer and closer from the forest behind. Wuxi’s forehead was full of sweat. Wuxi was afraid of these moments the most - when he had to make quick decisions while his team depended on him. And what’s more scary was when the decision’s consequence was a matter of life or death. Wuxi turned his head away from the three pairs of eyes attentively looking at him. With the tiredness of traveling under huge pressure for so many days, Wuxi felt his brain was blanking out. Wuxi tried to hide his anxiety, but his voice was still shaking, “Let’s go across the bridge. It will be much faster.” Jin nodded back, Then the team all whipped their horses to dash forward. As the team ran out of the forest, they came to the edge of a high cliff. They hear thunders growling. The sky became much darker with a huge pouring rain about to start. An ancient wooden bridge connected both sides of the cliff. Wuxi looked down the cliff, the river below was flowing fast. Not far away, he could see the river flowing into the open ocean. As the river joined the sea, a huge vortex at least 300 feet wide was formed. This was the famous deathly vortex that sunk many ships. No one ever came out from there alive. Right at this moment, they heard a howl so loud from the forest that made all their horses stand up with fear. The mountain monster broke through the forest pushing down many trees. It was a monster that was at least 20 feet tall. Its body was covered by dark scales. Huge fangs came out of its mouth. Wuxi shouted out in panic to the team, “Get across the bridge now! Run!” All of the horses were not responding and were trying to run in random directions. Anshu had a special skill with animals. He blew a long whistle, and immediately the horses were calmed down. Everyone pushed their horses to run on the bridge as fast as they could. The monster started charging towards them. Wuxi saw the monster was almost getting to the bridge. He tried to yell at Lyn to do something but because of the immense anxiety he had, words weren’t coming out from his mouth. Jin saw the monster was almost getting to the bridge and shouted at Lyn, “Use fire to halt him!” Lyn suddenly realized what to do. Lyn is the long-distance weapon master in the team, her skills range from archery to even explosives. She halted the horses and jumped up to the chariot holding a long bow. Lyn drew the bow full and took a deep breath. She saw the monster charging closer to the bridge, only about two hundred meters away. She released the arrow and it struck right in the monster’s left eye. The monster howled stronger and kept charging at them. Lyn yelled at Anshu, “Throw the gunpowder sacks at the monster towards its head” Anshu quickly pulled the heavy gunpowder sacks out of the chariot. At the same time, Lyn lit up her arrow with fire. The monster was almost on the bridge. With Anshu’s exceptional strength, he threw the sack right toward the monster’s head. As the sack was almost hitting the monster’s head, Lyn shot the fire arrow out, hitting right at the sack. With a huge explosion, black ashes, and flames burst out of the sack. The monster fell to the ground. A huge fire was lit on the grass beside the monster’s body. The sky fell darker. A bolt of lightning struck above the ocean afar, splitting through the sky. The team all let out a long breath. Jin looked at the monster pensively and said, “The explosives didn’t kill it. It’ll get back again.” Then Jin closed his eyes and channeled his ability to wield Chi. Lowering his body to maintain a stronger stance, Jin pushed his palm forward and a strong airflow went past the team towards the fire. The fire became much stronger, blocking the bridge from the monster. Wuxi put back the sword he held tight for a long while into the saddle of the horse. Right out of the panics, Wuxi forced a large smile and talked to the team with fake confidence, “That was a close call. Fantastic job, guys” “Oh, let’s not forget to check if the prisoner is alright.” Wuxi jumped on the chariot and knocked at the metal shell. From inside the metal shell came a low sound of disgruntle. “Perfect. Let’s go guys. There’s still a long way” The team all exchanged a Wuxi’s-pretty-much-useless look while he jumped down the chariot. While the team was heading back on their way through the bridge, Wuxi suddenly spoke with a low voice, “Everyone stops.” They looked at the other end of the bridge and saw a group of people with weapons approaching the bridge. One person in a dark outfit was leading them, his face was covered by a metal mask. Wuxi felt the hair on the back of his neck sticking straight. He knew who exactly that was - Ukaii, the killer that killed his father. An insuppressible anger suddenly took over Wuxi, and he immediately drew out his sword. The sword was given by his father and was built with a rare metal that only his family had access to. Ukaii shouted out, “Leave the prisoner to me and I will let you all live.” The team all drew out their weapons pointing at Ukaii and his soldiers. Wuxi growled with fury, “Over my dead body.” Ukaii didn’t respond. He signaled his soldiers to march forward. Jin spoke to Wuxi, “We won’t be able to survive this if we fight.” Wuxi clinched his jaw, also assessing the situation. At this moment, with another huge thunder, a huge rain started pouring down. The soldiers started marching towards them, with their spears pointing towards the team. Jin looked behind, the monster also started standing up again. As the fire was put down by the rain, the monster started roaring at them again. It lowered its body ready to charge at them. Ukaii signaled his soldiers to continue marching to take the prisoner cell, while his archers pointed at the team so that they couldn’t escape. The team turned back towards the monster. With the situation so intense, Wuxi seemed to have forgotten about his nervousness. He looked up at clouds with thunders flashing and asked Jin. “Jin, do you think you can try to lead some lightning down to us?” Jin was thrown off by this question at first and then understood what Wuxi was trying to do. Jin gave Wuxi a firm nod. Then he sat down on the ground with his legs crossed. The team all felt a weird feeling like electricity passing through. The rain seemed to have stopped around them all of a sudden. An invisible field was formed around Jin and the team and blocked the rain, while it was still pouring. Streaks of lightning started to merge closer to this bubble Jin created. Lyn and Anshu were all getting afraid. Anshu calmed down the horses. The fire was completely out now. The monster started to charge at them at full speed. Its roar made everyone falter. Jin stood still. As the lightning got to its strongest point, he walked in front of everyone and stood out of the field Jin created in the pouring rain. Then, he lifted his sword at the sky. A bolt of lightning hit his sword. The whole sword was lit up blue and charged with electricity. Wuxi held the sword with both of his hands as the lightning kept getting attached to his sword. As the monster got right in front of Wuxi, he pointed the sword right at the monster’s head and the lightning channeled through the sword immediately. The monster fell head down heavily on the bridge in front of Wuxi, with his body scorched by lightning. With a loud crash, the monster’s huge body collapsed the bridge. At this point, Wuxi cut the ropes connecting the horses and the prisoner, and yelled to everyone, “Run!” Wuxi pushed the prisoner’s cell into the river below and also jumped in the river. When the cold water hit the Wuxi, he almost instantly lost consciousness. And then he realized that the metal cell was sinking. Wuxi quickly dived deep and held on to the cell as a strong current was overwhelming him. Finally, he unlocked the cell door successfully. The prisoner was already unconscious. Wuxi pulled him out of the cell and kept both of them afloat. In the darkness, they didn’t know the river was taking both of them to the deep vortex… …TO BE CONTINUED… Note: I realized the story was longer than I expected and wasn't able to finish the rest for this week.

nnyekx

Coming Around Again

November has snuck its way into the landscape and Summer is a memory that still hurts in the telling. Deathly Winter stalks the unsuspecting days, just a little further along the path of life, and the idea of rebirth is just that. An abstraction that does not yet belong in the world. There is a chill in the air, but it is not yet cold. The old church is draughty and the gutless heating pipes fight a losing battle against the belligerent rock foundations. The modern world is of no interest to this ancient place. The old stone bones are about the values and truths that endure. Uncomfortable truths that the whispering cold reminds us of. And yet I am hot and clammy. I feel the cold jostling me, but I am my own weather system right now. I am a one-man storm, and the storm sets me apart even as I smile at the people filing in. Even as I watch as those people are forced to shuffle to their seats by the narrow spacing of the pews. I have watched this odd shuffling dance any number of times, but now I see it anew and it holds more significance to me. Another lesson the church bestows. Ritual and habit having to be observed in order for each and every parishioner to listen carefully and accept the truth into their receptive hearts and minds. They need as much of it as is possible as their return to their comfortable, modern lives and the conflicting habits and rituals that await them there, will throw them back upside down and most of what truly matters will spill out of them, and they will slot straight back into the sinning groove. Again and again I smile and nod. I feel awkward and my awkwardness is heightened by the rivulets of sweat on my forehead and running down my back. I shrug my shoulders, but this only makes it worse. My shirt sticking to my damp skin and inviting a cold draft in. Not wanting to draw attention to my fetid state I leave my forehead be. Soon enough, it gets too much and I’m dabbing my forehead with my hanky. “Not long now,” says the vicar. I repeat the nod and smile, but I hate him for his attempt at reassurance. I know his words to be kind, but now I am focused upon the time. I know it will drag and in that drawn out expanse of time I will contemplate everything to come, and all that has been, in a frenzy of panic and doubt. What if she does not come? “You’re alright, son.” This is my best man and my best mate. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. He’s not a demonstrative man. Neither of us are. But he seems to know this is called for. It’s as though he’s read my mind, and I have no doubt he has. We’ve been friends for so long we get each other. Sometimes better than ourselves. “Thanks mate,” we exchange a look that is worth a thousand words. He’s been there for me no matter what. We can say anything to each other and know we will get a fair hearing. Neither of us are perfect and that’s where we’re most comfortable. It’s still a relief to be reminded that it isn’t just me. There’s someone else who struggles to find a place in this strange world. Someone who gets annoyed and frustrated at how broken everything is, and then turns that around on themselves, terrified that we’re the ones who are broken. After all, everyone else seems to be getting along just fine. We don’t want to be like everyone else though and so we’re trapped in a state that grates away at us. Fighting the good fight, until we retire to our corner and go through the plan we have for the next round with the one friendly ear we’ve found in this world. Even my best friend’s presence isn’t of much help to me here and now. The church is a rarefied environment. I cannot bring symbols of my own faith here. The graven images that surround me are washed clean of any meaning or use. I am alone in this moment. Alone with my thoughts and my memories. Standing before the congregation, I judge myself and find a great deal of lack. I am having an existential crisis. What am I doing here? I try this thought on for size, and it cuts deep. I loathe my arrogance and blind faith in my ability to make something work. Is it really about grinding out a result? I feel the weight of another mistake upon my shoulders. That weight is the only thing keeping me here. I call myself a loser and I lie to myself in order to feel a pain that might just make the labouring seconds chivvy along. I tell myself that I should have thought all of this through before now. That it’s too late in the day to be having second thoughts now. Later, I’ll have a word with myself. Second thoughts typically arrive at the last second. That is their very nature. I cannot go against nature, not even in the House of God. I try to remember the good times, but in order to get to the best examples, I have to traverse a dark swamp of painful memories. I haven’t allowed those dark times to define me, but they are there and a part of me all the same. By rights I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t. I’ve been here before. Not this exact place, but in the same situation, doing the same thing. The de ja vu of this moment pains me and I fancy there is shame within that pain. There was a time when The Church would not allow this. A promise is a promise and once broken there is no going back. The lowest and grimmest level of hell is reserved for the betrayer. Is there a worse betrayal than going against vows made in the sight of God and witnessed by all those you love? Maybe there is, but that’s a theoretical discussion to be had in hell. A willy-waving exercise to see who is the most despicable amongst us. And I am here because of a betrayal far worse than any I have ever perpetrated. Seven years on and I am itchy with sweat. Burning with the heat of my doubt and fear. I can dispel my self-doubt and I can put to one side my doubt of her. But it’s life that I doubt. This world of ours. I have seen evil and I know how strong and persuasive it can be. The devil takes the souls of the living and his Faustian bargain stinks of sulphurous shit. That poison is rubbed into self-inflicted wounds, and in the confusion of madness whole houses fall and darkness reigns. We are weak and we are selfish. Our wounds are our treasure and we lash out at those we love as we slavishly attend to those wounds. If we are lucky, we catch sight of those who would be our salvation, we latch onto the light we have glimpsed, and we never take our eyes from it. Those we love are the lighthouses in the storms of our lives. They are where we belong. I wonder at the blasphemy of my considering weak flesh and blood my salvation, but here in this Home of God surrounded by my church, I know it not to be a blasphemy nor a contradiction. The light we see is the light of love, and that love is divine. God is love and love is God. We are one tiny part of a greater whole and in that belonging, we are everything. As I stand here and prepare to make a leap of faith, I wonder at our capacity to bear pain. That capacity seems matched by our ability to bear love. We can fill ourselves and our lives with one, or the other. One is a passive act. A giving up of everything including our very self. The other is an act of will. To live and take responsibility for our lives and everything our living touches. To own the consequences. To serve those we love. To give. To give. To forgive. Life rewards us for that which we give it. The wonderful thing about that is we never know what we’re getting. We have no say in that. Which is just as well, we’re no good at establishing what we want, let alone what we need. I await her and consider my leap of faith. I have a long standing theory that has since become a belief. The One is not that person you see across a crowded room and fall in lust with. The One becomes. They are transformed in the act of a love that will outlast us all. You have to want it and you have to live it. Times will sometimes be hard, but those times are when you both build a strong bond of love. Two people who dream together and love together will be together in the best of ways and in that oneness their lives will be as rich as can be. Memories. Connection. Bathing in the light. Being warmed by it. Being filled by it. Shaking with the responsibility of what I am embarking upon I gaze down the impossibly long aisle and await my fate. The aisle is my chosen path. My rechosen path. We parted seven years ago and now we are rejoining. We are the long odds. And we are both stubborn enough to make those odds work. Divorced and now remarrying. Our lives were torn apart by evil and we were left with less than nothing in the aftermath of that savage and callous attack. This was a storm that threatened never to end, and in the midst of it, we lost our grip and sank into a darkness without end. I never dared hope that she would come and find me once she was washed upon a far off shore. Too much water under a bridge that burnt for a thousand days and nights, but never provided a light to see by. Our everything was crushed under the weight of a betrayal that consumed all it touched. I held firm and never lost sight of what counted. I fought for what was right and in so doing I found my way to calmer waters and I kept what was mine. All the memories. The friendships and connections that called to me and brought me to safe harbour. I never stopped living and my life contained a kernel of hope as I mended my broken hull and dared to venture forth again. Did I wait for her? I remained true to myself. I held on to who I was and what I was about. My light shone and I knew that she would see it, if she ever dared look up in a courageous attempt to climb out of a trap made for her by an embittered and twisted soul. We are all of us blinded by pain as we walk the path of life. And in that pain, we seek to attribute blame for the hurt we experience. Seldom do we blame the true perpetrator of our fall. And even if we do, it is a foolish endeavour. Blame is hate’s lie and it brings the angry darkness and that darkness is forever hungry. I forgave. Forgiveness was as much a gift for myself, and in my forgiveness was the hope of better days. Better days for us all. I wished her well and I hoped that she would be restored to herself. All I wanted was for her to be herself again. I had seen her truth and I had shared it. There was a happiness in our being real together. A promise of so much more to come. We had only just begun. A shared path stretched out before us, with the hint of an eternity beyond that. Love is all things. Love is eternal. When paths diverge, love remains. We are stupid in our hateful lies if we ever paint an end to love. In our memories is the love we shared and those memories endure. Each and every one of those who have loved us and we have loved, they are a part of us. We worry too much about who we are and who we are meant to be when love takes care of that for us. We only make sense when we are a part of something bigger than us. I look around the church and I see that now, and a joyful peace replaces all my worries. Now my smile contains a light that will not be denied, and several of my family and friends see this and return that radiant glow. They have been with me through thick and thin. Of course they have! What was the alternative? Even in my darkest days, as I lay in an empty bed in an empty house that had once been a home, I was never alone. I felt the love from all these people and I remembered my place in their world and the obligation it carried. And so I kept going. I kept going and I hoped that she would too. I hoped that she would someday see me and remember herself. I kept the faith. I was me and in being me, being real, I was enough. We agreed to meet each other after the jagged hailstones of the divorce abated. A coffee in a neutral place to talk and see what our newfound status afforded us. What it all meant. We are after all, seekers of truth. That is the point to our lives. That meeting never happened. I never once thought that it would. She remained wounded and now she had a new receptacle for her blame. And in blaming she bent the narrative to suit her; I had divorced her. She needed to create that false proof of abandonment in an attempt to dull her pain. I was the love of her life, and in her pain, she transformed me into her scapegoat and in leaving me, she told herself that it was me who had betrayed her. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but we all create our own reality and hers sat dangling over the abyss. There were those who believed her though. They saw her pain and related to it. The narrative was simple. She was hurt. Why would she lie? Where was I in her darkest hour? I was here. I was always here for her. In the place which was once our home. I never once left the space I’d occupied. I remained in the light. Knew well enough that you cannot ever follow someone into their own personal darkness. The darkness of isolation where love cannot reside. Moving with the flow of life, I got busy living. I forced one foot in front of the other and waded through the treacle of my despondency. The weight of the world threatened to collapse me, but I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t give up. I carried that weight until I was truly back in the world. I kept going and I found a way to live well and relinquish the pain of my rejection. I sought the love of those around me and found it in abundance. And I found more still. People reaching out to me in love to make sure I was OK. We all need that. To ensure those around us are alright. Those acts of kindness make the world make sense. Kindness is order in a world that would mortally wound us if we strayed too far from our herd. The next chapter approaches, and I lose myself in my newfound peace. I am where I need to be. And in that joyous state, I remember where it all began again. A chance encounter on a high street miles from anywhere. The shocked confusion of seeing each other and an insane urge to run away. From what, I did not know. “Fancy that drink now?” I asked her. “Why not?” she replied. I pointed to the coffee shop across the street. She smiled, “I’d rather have a G&T,” she said nodding towards the pub beside us. “Dutch courage?” I said returning the smile. She shook her head, and once we had our drinks, she raised her glass and looking me in the eye said, “more a celebration.” That was when I knew. And now as the doors to this old and draughty church open, I shiver with the chill of anticipation, and as I see her appear, I cannot hold back my tears. I don’t even try. My best mate wraps his arms around me and hugging me, he says “all’s well…” All’s well that ends well. It ended, and now there is a new beginning. They say that love is better second time around. I dunno about that. I don’t know how that accords with love’s eternal nature. What I do know is that she lost her way and went through hell. But now she’s here and we have a second chance. Another chance to walk the path of life together. I take her hand as she arrives at my side and I squeeze it. I will never let her go, and I know she will never let me go again. She is here now and she is here for me and there is nothing else. Only our love and our future. What else could I ever want?

jc21vt

The Story of Eve

“It all seemed so easy, in the beginning, if I had only known how things would turn out.” As Eve gazed across the barren land, she spotted that all too familiar city sitting in the horizon. A tear ran absently down her cheek as she thought, “Had I only known how heavy the price was to settle my curiosity.” Unable to restrain herself, Eve’s mind drifted back to the past. Her first real memory she had was Adam peering down at her. With no thoughts or language to call her own, she knew she was vulnerable. But instinctively, she realized Adam was no threat to her. In fact, he seemed more like a shield, protecting her from the unknown, which at the time was everything. Patiently, Adam cared for her, feeding her and taught her how to talk, care for herself and learn the ways of Eden. As time passed, Eve learned they were not alone in the garden. Along with an abundance of animals, others would appear to visit with them. Angels is what Adam told her they were, and occasionally someone special would come to visit, the only one Adam would bow to, and he told her he was The Creator, the god of all. It was strange when The Creator came to the garden, for he would only talk to Adam, never to me. One time after The Creator left, I asked Adam why this was so, and he answered, “I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s because you were created from a part of me and not the earth as I was. Since you are one step below me, he thinks you are not worthy to be spoken to.” When I thought about what Adam had told me, I came to realize how little the angels even spoke to me, how little I must have seemed to them. Distraught, I found myself exploring the far reached of Eden whenever Adam had visitors. Then one day, when I found myself in the far corner of the garden, I heard a voice. “Eve, what troubles you so?” I looked around, expecting to find Adam standing nearby, but he was nowhere to be found. Again, the voice called out, “Eve, look down at your feet.” When I looked, I found myself facing the head of a serpent peering through a thicket, staring at me. Needless to say, I was surprised, for I never thought it was possible for animals to speak. When I asked him who he was, he just smiled as much as a serpent could and replied, “It doesn’t matter who I am, but it does matter what I want to show you.” I thought to myself, “What could this serpent show me that I already haven’t seen? I’ve searched the entire garden. Nothing could be nothing new to discover.” As if the serpent could read my thoughts, it hissed, “Who said anything about it being inside the garden? What I want to show you lies beyond the tree The Creator has forbidden you to eat from.” I involuntarily shuttered when the serpent mentioned that tree. Adam told me I was sure to die if I even dared go near it. Still, I found myself listening to what the serpent had to say. There’s more to this world than what the Garden of Eden has to offer. Beyond its walls, there’s another world waiting for you, a world full of wonders. You think Adam is the only other person who exists, but you are wrong. Countless others live beyond this prison you survive in. In here you are trapped in cage, and you exist only to entertain The Creator, and someday soon, The Creator will tire of you and will dispose of you like rotten fruit. Before that happens, wouldn’t you like to see what the outside world has to offer? It would be so simple. A door leading to the outside world lies just beyond the forbidden tree and all you have to do is walk through it. There someone more powerful than I will greet you take show you what you have been missing.” Is it true, I thought to myself. Was Adam mistaken when he said I would die? It’s just a tree, something I could easily walk around. If a gate does exist on the other side of it, what’s the harm of seeing the outside world for myself? As if the serpent dragged the words out of my mouth, I heard myself saying, “Show me the way.” I followed the serpent as it slithered on the ground, ever leading towards the tree of doom. But before we reached it, the serpent circled around it and there appeared a gateway, wide opened and unguarded. Beyond the gate lay an ocean of sand and in the distance were what appeared to be stones rising towards the sky. The serpent said,” the sand you see is called a desert, and the stones in the distant is called a city. There you find countless people living there, without a god to burden them.” The serpent leered at me. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself.” I turned back and looked at the garden and thought to myself, what do I have here? One man who looks after me, a god to ignores me and angels to don’t give me a second thought. With little to lose and a lot to gain, walked through the gate. The serpent didn’t follow me, but as soon as I stepped into the desert, an angel appeared before me. “Congratulations, Eve, you have stepped into a new world, a world like nothing you have ever imagined. My name is Lucifer, and I will be your guide in this realm.” I was amazed at finding an angel would speak to me without Adam being close by. I asked Lucifer why he wanted to show me this new world, and he answered, “Because it is there and The Creator wishes to hide it from you, thinking you don’t deserve to know of its existence. I’m here to tell you The Creator is wrong. Come, follow me, and I will take you to that city.” Though the city appeared to be far away, it only seemed like a moment when I found myself walking among hundreds crowding the streets. Stone buildings, reaching towards the sky, surrounded me and everyone we passed stared at me in shock and awe. I asked Lucifer why they looked so strangely at me. He replied, “Can’t you see for yourself? They are wearing garments and jewelry. They are ashamed of nakedness and choose to adorn themselves in clothing and trinkets. This is the way of the real world. They think for themselves and of themselves living for their own desires and pleasures.” It was then I tried to cover my nakedness with my arms and hands, but my efforts were in vain. As if from thin air, Lucifer produced a piece of cloth and wrapped it around my shoulders. “This should do for now,” Lucifer said. “Come, let us enjoy the pleasures this city has to offer.” From there, Lucifer escorted me from store to store, where I sampled all sorts of foods. Never before has my tongue tasted such sweetness. And the red water, which Lucifer said was called wine, warmed my body, and lightened my head. “Don’t drink too much my dear,” he said. “Or you won’t be able to make back to the garden tonight.” As if from a distance, I heard myself slur, “Why would I want to go back?” Time passed and before I knew it, I found myself by the gate to the garden with Lucifer standing beside me. “Time to return to your cage, my darling. Don’t forget to tell Adam about what you have discovered and invite him to see what you have seen.” After promising to do just that, I returned to Eden and found Adam searching for me. “Where have you been?” Adam shouted at me. I have been searching everywhere for you.” I smiled at Adam and said, “Not everywhere. When the sun rises tomorrow, I will show you where I have been.” Adam looked at me quizzically. “I would be very interested in you showing me where you have been, and by the way, what is that thing you have wrapped around your shoulders?” I lifted a corner of my shroud and placed it in Adam’s hand. “It’s called cloth," I said. "What do you think of it?” “It has a strange texture, soft, but resilient. Does this come from where you have been?” “Yes, my dear, and there is more. So much more to discover. Tomorrow, I will open the door for a new world for you to explore.” From that moment on, I never saw Adam truly smile again. After spending forty days in that forbidden city drinking wine, gorging on all sorts of food, and fornicating in all matters imaginable, we crawled back to Eden. Saying we were corrupted, The Creator banned us from the garden leaving us to fend for ourselves. Sadly, it was the only time The Creator ever spoke to me. Not with words of love or kindness, but with words filled with bitter disappointment. Adam never forgave me, believing I had led him down this path. Though we stayed together, there was always a void between us. Afterwards, we lived on the edge of civilization, but never daring to return to it, in fear of being further corrupted and becoming lost in its wickedness. I now wear animal skin for clothes, but I still long for the texture of cloth to caress ny skin. For the rest of my life I will ever be shameful of my weakness during that moment in time. Never again did I lay my eyes on Lucifer, but I knew he was out there lurking in the shadows, waiting to tempt the innocent, and stray them away from God.

1iurf2

Bolts, Rhum and the Sea

The first strike was off to port, disappearing before the corner of my eye could catch it, but its presence remained with a vague twisting thunder. The sky was hidden by a dense brooding continuing line of cloud. The horizon hid somewhere between a steel grey sea and a light grey setting of the sun somewhere West of South. Water lapped lazily alongside the hull. It passed slowly in the light airs. The sails were moist as if it were morning in the place of evening. Another crack echoed to starboard but turning I only saw monotony all around. Then a bolt split into three almost straight stripes just ahead of me. My eyes blinked at its sudden thick flashing. I looked elsewhere and heard its crackling music still blinking the dots out of my vision. Darkness was merging fast. More strikes from ahead again but I did not look at them. I concentrated on the slightly moving tiller and glanced around to look for storm patches or anything visible aside from my boat. All of a sudden there was no elsewhere as a distant scattering of light strikes broke from the heavens and entered the seas. Their orchestra began tuning instruments and I looked to see and hear them gathering momentum and approaching me as their central meeting spot. Sulphur lay lightly faintly touching my nostrils. I have always been afraid of lightning. As a child my first memory of it out a window in the comfort of our back porch. Even that told me to remember to be aware and stay away. The light from it was elegantly monstrous and the sound was mightier than anything I had ever seen up to that small amount of time I had been alive. Lightning seemed to slash at the sky. That fear remains and I was looking at it surrounding me without the comfort of a window on our back porch. The first horizontal strikes ran for miles not wanting to rest with thunders chasing them into the crowd of verticals. The jagged thin lines of the horizontal streaks screeched the twisting of its notes. A net of light was created all round me with lateral, vertical and horizontal bursts, rays, streams, strikes. I was alone in this tiny boat moving by zephyrs and short surges of wavelets. I was almost still, awaiting what came next, thinking forced thoughts of anything that would not come with any clarity. I could think of nothing but this music of light with its wonderful clashings and pitiful moans. They were all penetrating notes never dreamed of nor wanted. I tried to get into the dramatic beauty of flashing streaks of the dazzling jags, of reflecting arches of sea lines but there was no control. Life and death have no controls and I felt that I was surely going to be hit. The warmth of my fear ran down my legs inside my trousers onto the socks inside my boots. I could feel the warm urine where I sat helpless in the cockpit. I had no need to stop the flow. My thoughts caught up with the beating of my heart. I was conscious that my eyes were wider than normal and that there was nobody around to say any of this to. I was alone in the middle of my own world of phosphorescence, sulphuric smoke and black seas of bursting lights. The lightning did not stay in the sky. They moved in and also out of what I assumed was the sea. My surround was being defined by light in pulse, beams, rays, flashing jags. Movements that halted the world, then let it move again. There was no sense in being afraid of these sporadic, ever-present forms. There was nothing I could do about it. I kept telling myself this between cringes and gnawings of teeth. Time could not count the seconds between the wonders and the trepidation. Spasms of tension with hairs standing in rushes accompanied me as I bravely went into the cabin. The ports were brilliant spotlights that undulated the cabin scenes my eyes recognised. I reached up behind me to the bottle of Barbancourt Three Star Rhum. The label was well lit. I unscrewed the top in jerks to the corresponding near crashes of thunder consciously hiding from the light outside. I lifted the bottle and drank a timeless amount of the liquid. The lightning was now inside me as a tasty substance of caramel. A memory crawled into my brain and demanded attention. I was sailing on the spitsgatter, the little Danish double-ended sloop that was my first sail and the owner, a Dane with a melted right side of face was below singing a Danish song about something since I didn’t know Danish. The boat and I were moving out the Golden Gate Bridge. I looked at the noise of traffic bouncing echos off the steel of the structure as people passed going to work or pleasure or just driving. I felt alone, with a drunken guy below who looked up at me and my yelling for instructions and said, or slurred, you do’n fine. That was the memory so insistent for an appearance and I could not think of why I remembered it just then with the rhum jerking this way and that in my belly it now demanding that I focus on the lightning outside. My head rose a bit to see the sullen flashes just above my eyelashes. I started to get back into boat mode and decided to worry about how to combat lightning. Chain overboard was the first thought. With squinting out the light eyes I gained the cockpit and moved to the stern anchor lashed across the deck. My fast breathing reminded me that I was scared. I thought of scuba diving and slowed down my air intake like I was going to drown by running out of air. I started to laugh at the Dane sitting down there in the cabin with his bottle of DeWars in hand and the other rolling on the cabin sole. What a way to start sailing. My hands were on the anchor bindings and untying them without my conscious thought. I laced the end of the line through a chain link allowing about ten feet from the anchor and tied it off tightly to the stainless steel backstay making sure the iron of the chain was pressed against the steel of the rigging that I checked to see if it still ran up to the top of the mast. I gently lowered the anchor into the water until the chain tightened. Okay, I said to the little sea bubbles moving away safely from my boat and me. The roar of power was still there but it occurred to me that it had become normal in my life’s moment. Normal? It was all normal now and I was able to see how grand this lightning storm had become or I was just in the beginning stages of going nuts. I scrunched my eyes shut and regained my fear or fears. Scanning the horizon all round I exhaled and decided to go get another shot of rhum to make this into some sort of party. Nodding to my decision I made my way back to the hatchway as a strike hit a foot away from my little boat and a blast of sulphur seared the left side of my body. My heart stopped beating. I looked down at my chest and it was still there. My foul weather gear was still on my body. I could still feel the sweat under the clothes as little cold finger touches on my skin. I breathed again and resumed my descent into the cabin and picked up the bottle, tilted and let liquid pour down my throat until it filled my mouth. I started choking, air was not going in and I spit the rhum out the hatchway into the soft breeze and thought about the Dane again and what he would say about wasting liquor. It made me laugh while still choking a bit. I sat on the bunk with the bottle still in hand. I put the bottle top near my nose and smelled the rhum’s tangy bouquet. I thought of Haiti and a warm sensation coated my body for a moment. I was feeling a memory of humid heat and saw a memory of a still sea from the side of a hill near the canon I used to stop at and lean against. A soft roaring of thunder made me look outside without squinting and saw a clear door in the horizon wall of light strikes. It was behind me but I wasn’t quite sure if behind me was behind me and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the almost constant thunder was sounding further and further away like a band, no orchestra was marching on down some street. Up my head popped to look around at scattered strikes to the port side but nothing to the starboard side of the boat. Ahead were a few strikes but the lightning was even further away. The breeze picked up and the boat moved toward the lightning ahead of me like it wanted to catch up with it. The boat leaned a bit, still guiding she always did when the wind was coming from ahead on what us sailors called pointing. I smiled at the bottle in my hand and while gently replacing the cap and placing the bottle in the sink so it could not hurt itself, I thought to myself that I was a sailor. 

gdoe5u

Villain and Proud

Trigger warning- references to sex work and addiction. They don't have a name for what I am. I don't quite fit in to any of their categories. I'm not quite a psychopath, not quite associate path. I don't quite have Borderline personality disorder, I'm not quite across the line with paranoid schizophrenia. I have traits of all the above without quite qualifying to be labelled as any of them. I am a unique case, and alas, remain unnamed. This seems to bother these learned men. If they are ancient magicians who can only wield power over something once they know it's true name. Well I feel charitable today; a rarity indeed. I will adopt a name for them. It's an old name, supposed to be derisive. But like the Methodists, the impressionists the punks, I will wear their derisive label gladly. I am a villain. And given that I accept the designation villain, this does render questions about my guilt rather moot. I am guilty of all of that I am accused of. This is the truth. But it is only part of the truth and I would have the rest be known. In popular culture heroes often have tragic backstories furnished with loss and difficulty. Toughened by these difficulties they develop great resolve and a strong moral compass. The villain by contrast, is often some narcissist whose ambition has been thwarted, or ego bruised. But in my experience those early difficulties are all too often the making of a villain. It does give you resolve, I'll give them that, but it's also causes your moral compass to lose its bearings. You might not guess it from my rather florid prose style, but my beginnings were very humble. I'd say I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, but the tracks had been pulled up and sold for scrap. Public transport having died out due to draconian local government spending cuts. On I was born the son of a prostitute in a notorious brothel. My mother, and she was my mother in the biological sense only, was a cruel and ignorant woman, beaten down in body and spirit by the life she lived. She had a litany of addictions, and by the time she emerged long enough from one of her drug-induced hazes to realize she was pregnant she was too far gone to abort me. My father was one of her johns- take your pick. Any cruelties that were visited on my mother she transmitted to me. I spent most of my early years limping and tiger striped with bruises. One night I interrupted her with one of her johns, I heard groaning and murmuring from her room, and thought he was hurting her. He stormed out without paying and I went without food for four days. It was around this time that my mother's unique parenting style reached the ears of the authorities. I was taking into care by two police officers under social worker. My mother didn't even get out of bed. I didn't see her again until twelve years later when she came to see me during one of my earlier prison stints. Time passes differently for addicts. What was twelve years for me seemed thirty for her. Bowed almost double by the weight of her ignorance, her hands contorted with arthritis, she only had a few strands of tenacious hair left on her head. She attempted a smile when she saw me, her missing middle teeth made it look like a seven-ten split. She prattled on for a while about mistakes and the shortness of life. We all turn into two-bit philosophers in the end. 'Leukemia,' she said. 'It's just a matter of months. But I want to get to know you in my last days.' 'Leukemia,' I said. ' That poor cancer, having to grow on you.' This was one of many stints as a guest of the state. One might say I'm a connoisseur of the prison system. I could write the definitive guide. They say prisons are often like universities for criminals. That was certainly the case for me. I dropped out of the formal school system in my early teens. The path of villainy cares not for pieces of paper. Unless of course they are green. But to be a success you do need skills and knowledge, and prisons can be an ideal training ground. I learned dirty boxing from an old Jamaican with one eye and more scars than a self-harm support group. At one stage he was a world champion but addiction had reduced him to petty theft and fraud. He sold his hard-won skills for tiny fragments of crack and PCP. He was at once one of the most pathetic and deadly men I ever knew. I learnt a bastardized form of judo from an old master who had been caught interfering with his students. Child predators are usually easy and popular targets. He was neither. At least not twice. I learnt how to use a knife from a psychotic old Gaucho who could slit your throat so cleanly you wouldn't know what happened until the blood filled your mouth. I learnt infiltration and safe-breaking from an old Frenchman considered a myth in his homeland. His escapology skills were such that he was only in prison to network and meet new contacts. Once he finished training me he duly escaped. We were to collaborate many times later in my career. I learned how to think tactically and lead- that is to say manipulate- from a Serbian colonel. He presided over the murder of dozens of civilians during the Yugoslavian War. Excellent chess player though. And of course there was the prison library. The only window on the outside world without bars. I used the library to expand upon and fortify the knowledge my mentors had imparted to me. And finally there was also the obligatory convict fitness regime. This is how I became a formidable a villain as you would ever have the misfortune to encounter. The prison stints soon stopped happening; I became too good to catch. There have been so many heists. Daring, audacious, brilliant. So many superlatives used by the press to describe escapades that took less than an hour to plan. Child's play. The key to a conventional heist isn't the theft itself, that is always much the same- where a disguise that makes you look generic and able to blend in to the area surrounding the bank, neutralize the security and the cameras, keep the hostages in a single place where they are easy to manage, keep violence to an absolute minimum. The key really is the escape. And it's not a matter of hiring a flashy driver with the powerful car. That's just Hollywood nonsense. No driver can outrun a helicopter with a heat camera. Move slowly and steadily in ways they won't expect. And if you can, create a diversion. For example, there was a notorious local speed-demon known for drag racing in public places. I sent him a note, apparently from a hated rival, challenging him to a dead-start race from outside the bank. A dead-start race is where you suddenly take off from a normal parked position at an agreed upon time and race to an agreed upon destination. His uncouth competitiveness drew the police into a pursuit. While he was being forced to the ground with his hands-cuffed behind his back, and unassuming man in a cheap suit carrying a large duffel bag bordered a city bus . And while the speed-demon was making a tearful phone call to his mother from a nearby police station, that unassuming man and his duffel bag were long gone. What's my most famous theft, my Magnum opus, was the Janian Diamond heist. Said to house the soul of an ancient sorcerer, said to imbue its wearer with fantastic powers, said to grant its owner the right to rule the ancient kingdom of Janin. Said is one thing-the diamond is known to weigh 108 carats and be worth something in the region of 150 million dollars. You can keep the keys to the kingdom. Besides, the region where Janin once stood is now in the thrall of a Maoist insurrection. I find it unlikely that they would lay down their arms and their grievances just because someone with some fancy jewelry turned up. Of course such a jewel could not be sold on, but that didn't matter. My villainy had made me independently wealthy a long time before this. By then it was just about the challenge. The diamond was owned by a Saudi Arabian sheikh- don't they seem to own everything these days? And this particular sheikh was, well, a moron to put it mildly. The product of a lifetime of mindless and vulgar privilege, he'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted since he was a child. Having never encountered any adversity, such people never develop any will. They develop vast, pulsating egos, which can sometimes be mistaken for wills. But true willpower cannot be manipulated, only overcome with greater willpower. An ego however, vanity of the kind the sheikh had in even greater abundance than money, that is easier to manipulate than an algebraic expression. Perhaps the one area where the sheikh had the slightest scintilla of self-awareness was in his sense of spiritual poverty. He was always pursuing one fad or another to try to remedy this. In other words, a vulnerability. I worked my way into his inner-circle by posing as a spiritual guru. It took me two weeks to completely win his trust. 'You must display the diamond to the public,' I said to him. The hemp clothing and dread-lock wig were very uncomfortable. Let it never be set that I didn't suffer for my art. 'The diamond is an innately spiritual item. It was never intended to be enjoyed by just one person. It will be good karma to share its beauty with the public.' Ostensibly a Muslim the sheikh none the less had a strong belief in karma. I also convinced him, that I, as his guru, was the only one qualified to ensure the diamond's security. From here it was easy to switch the diamond with a decoy. As already stated, a diamond like this cannot be sold on the black market, or a market of any color for that matter. But what's the point in stealing treasure if no one will ever know? So I planted a small device into the decoy that admitted a very specific sound frequency that shattered it right at the moment of its unveiling. Right in front of the sheikh's tear-stung eyes. So what becomes of old villains in the end? You'd like for me to tell you that I was taken down by some hero with similar skills to my own but with the opposite set of morals. That's more Hollywood stuff I'm afraid. If a villain isn't eventually captured by the bureaucracy of a large police force, then they are usually taken down by another villain instead of a hero. A rival or a younger usurper usually. In my case it was white-collar crime. No more need for brilliant schemes and daring raids. Immense amounts of money can be redirected with the flick of a key or the click of a mouse. And this sort of criminality is sanctioned by governments in the form of Wall Street, the City of London, and other such dens of iniquity. The kind of villain who operates in such places doesn't even know they are a villain, and feels perfectly justified in what they do. A great man once said that to live outside the law you must be honest. I'd add to that that you must be honest with yourself. There's not much fun in being a villain in the world that these people have made. So I've been retired for some time, but I look upon these new villains and think my old skills could be deployed against them. Perhaps it's time to come out of retirement, I'll never be a hero, but perhaps I could be a sort of anti-villain. You know what they say, you can't keep a bad boy down.

etzppc

An Evil Without.

It's been at least 15 years since we became the people we are today. Even from childhood, we would be put into these situations where we would have to go against each other. A loud deafening ringing in my ear would appear every time he would attempt to speak to me. It was almost as if we were destined to be rivals. Yet here we were at the top of a snowy mountain facing each other. Usually, we would never look eye to eye, but today was different. Today was the day I ended his evil acts. This rivalry, this excruciating ring in my ears and the death of the innocent would soon end. There we stood on top of the bone-white mountain waiting for movement from either of us.  ‘You can’t run away anymore, Abel’. I pronounced blaringly at the man standing in front of me.  Abel stood in the shadows; his enigmatic presence cast a mysterious veil over the angel-white mountains. For the past 10 years, he has been committing heinous crimes that no other villain has ever committed. He once led an evil organization that massacred countless heroic heroes and once, he got tired of them, he killed them all. This man was pure evil. That's why, as a hero, I must end all this NOW. ‘If you think you can kill me here now, your far from wrong, Ellis’ he utters as he slowly slides over an ancient purple ring with a mystical aura.   A ring? I had never seen him wear a strange-looking ring like that. Whatever didn't matter, I stepped forward and pulled out my sword, ready to attack.   The vibes in the air turned thicker, making it harder to breathe as the atmosphere grew heavy with impending tension. The man, wielding the ring as a weapon, unwittingly unleashes its power, causing harm not just to his intended target but also to himself in the chaotic aftermath. I aggressively fell back from the impact of the ring, leaving me lying there dumbfounded along with Abel, who seemed even more confused. From above, words appeared in front of us. The words hanging in the sky echoed, ‘You have both entered inside the power of death, which means you will perish in 3 hours.’ ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE DO YOU PLAN TO KILL US BOTH???!!’ I screamed at Abel while he slowly tried to get up.  “Please stop acting as if you weren't going to kill me right here, murderer”, Abel said.” I have a plan b. So, stop crying.” ‘Shut up, I wasn't crying’ I exclaimed. He rolls his eyes and walks away. We are both now cursed, and he just decides to walk away. My ears start ringing at the thought of this unpredictable and frustrating situation.   ‘Do you even realize what you have done, what were you thinking about using that bloody ring’ I uttered in disbelief.   ‘God, I said calm yourself down crybaby, he chuckled. ‘The crazy witch that gave me this ring probably has the cure for this. The only problem is...’. He cautiously looked around, almost embarrassed at what he was going to say. I had never really noticed him, but he had fair skin and strikingly dark hair. He stood there elegantly toying with his locks, deep in contemplation.  ‘We are going to have to work together if we ever want to get hands on the cure.’ He mumbles while avoiding eye contact.  ‘Are you crazy. Why would I ever work with a villain like you!?’. I said impatiently.  ‘Do you honestly think that I want to work with a hero’? He pauses. ‘The witch is a lot stronger than you think we are going to have to fight her if we ever want to get the cure’. He speaks.  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, I'll do things my way’. I said as I stood up and took my leave. He grabs me by the shoulder, and we meet each other’s gaze. It was one of those moments where words seemed unnecessary, the unspoken understanding hanging in the air.  “That witch won’t give us the cure unless we join forces and defeat her. She has killed many people by just glaring at them. We stand no chance if we go there by ourselves”. That was the first time I had ever heard Abel speak so nicely to me, which was nice for once.  ‘Fine but we are doing things my way, alright’. I exclaim to him but all I get is a weird, unsettling smile as he walks through the trees draped in white. ‘Hey, wait up, I said I'm in charge!!’.   We both trudged through a serene snowy forest, our footprints the only disturbance in the pristine white landscape. Honestly, where was he taking me to? What if this is all his plan to catch me at my most vulnerable and then attack me? Honestly, I can never know what he’s thinking; it worries me. ‘ Stop thinking so much Ellis, the woman that gave me the ring is up ahead’. He exclaimed without looking back. He's certainly very strange. He speaks like when we used to be friends back when we were little. However, we both took very different paths. He wanted to become a villain, and I wanted to become a hero. I cannot forgive him for what he has done.   ‘Wait if it’s this hard to get the cure, then how did you get the ring’. I suspiciously asked him.   ‘What if I told you that I made that witch beg for her life with my charms?’ ‘...’ ‘Hahaha God you’re so serious’. Abel said in a jokey way.’ I made a deal with her that she could never decline”. A deal she can’t decline? Now I'm curious what he gave her. I'll ask him later.   ‘We’re hereeee!’ He says while he points at a cave engulfed in a blanket of snow, its walls adorned with patches of damp mold, creating an eerie contrast of icy cold and musty decay. From a distance, a growling noise echoed through the forest and strained to discern its source. Suddenly, 2 beastly creatures appeared from the depths of the snowy mountains, covered in purple fluffy hair.   ‘Those are the witches' bodyguards; we’ve got to defeat them before they alert the witch’ Abel says as he quickly pulls out his ring. ‘Are you crazy? Put that ring away’. I told Abel with no hesitation. ‘I’ll take care of this’. With a swift and precise movement, I slashed my sword twice, with each strike meeting the ferocious beasts head-on, as we bravely fought against the two dangerous creatures in a fierce battle for survival. As soon as I thought it was over, I turned around to see one of the beasts hoovering over me ready to kill me. Out of nowhere, Abel charged towards the beast, unleashing a powerful energy from the ring, his heroic action saving me from imminent danger.    ‘Are you hurt anywhere Ellis’ Abel mentions in a nonchalant way. I don't understand why a villain would do such a heroic act. 'Well, your combat skills exceeded my expectations you took down both beasts with only a little bit of my help’. Abel says with a grin on his face. ‘You're not too bad yourself’. I mutter under my breath while I look up to his face to see his reaction. My sentence left him utterly stunned, his jaw dropping in disbelief. ‘What’s with your face?’ ‘It’s just that the last time you’ve complimented me was when we were little’. He pronounces in disbelief. ‘You always used to compliment me remember? Saying things like I'm so strong or that I'm so handsome that I can get any girl that I want or sometimes you say things like you want to be like m-’. ‘OKAYY, I GET ITT...’. I say as I walk towards the cave. Honestly talking to him really gives me a headache and mostly a ringing noise that won’t go away. I really don’t get him at all. It's annoying. As we cautiously stepped into the foreboding depths of the eerie cave, our footsteps echoing ominously against the ancient walls. A shiver rand down my spine as if I had been possessed by an evil spirit. I had a bad feeling about this place, I mean how could someone live in a run over cave by themselves. Even if she was a witch this place is practically falling apart making it impossible to live in. The eerie silence of the cave was shattered by a thunderous banging sound from outside, causing us to exchange alarmed glances in the dimly lit cavern. Our hearts raced in unison as through the rocky walls, filling the once tranquil cave with a sense of impending danger. I looked at Abel for a dashing moment expecting more than answers from him. ‘IT’S COMING FROM OUTSIDE LET'S GET HER BEFORE SHE RUNS AWAY!!’. Abel shouts as he runs away quickly to see who made the noise. With my heart pounding, we dashed out of the cave, eager to uncover the source of the mysterious noise, only to be met with a sight so unexpected it left us speechless. My eyes widened in disbelief as we gazed up at the colossal woman perched on top of the cave, her elongated head and hair cascading like a waterfall, veiling the cave, while her piercing white eyes illuminated the cavern with an otherworldly glow. There is no way that’s the witch we are looking for, I have never seen a witch with such appearance. As soon as I look at Abel, I'm taken back from how calm he is at this moment. Was he pretending or was he always like this. ‘ABEL HOW DARE YOU DECEIVE WITH A FAKE POTION, YOU PROMISED ME IT WILL KEEP ME BEAUTIFUL FOREVER!!!’. The colossal woman looms above, her hand descending like a mountain to crush our tiny figures beneath its massive weight. Our hearts pounding, we sprint desperately, fear fueling our legs as we flee from the colossal hand reaching to engulf us. ‘You gave her a fake potion??!!’.  I say as I quickly extract my sword, swiftly cutting on of her colossal fingers. Her agonizing screams pierces the air as the blade sliced through her finger, each cry a raw expression of unbearable pain. She was too big. Too strong. Too angry. We didn't have a chance fighting that thing, I need to hide and think things through. I quickly grab Abel’s hand and sprint desperately towards a nearby bush, seeking refuge from the looming threat. ‘Listen there is no way we can fight this thing in these conditions and times running out’. I say in a rush inspecting if the witch was looming our direction. ‘Crap there only way she’ll give us the cure is if we get her that potion’. He slowly takes a deep breath and continues. 'I have a plan... but well... emm remember as kid when we used to hide from our teacher so we wouldn’t get in trouble, and I would make noise so I would get caught instead of you’. What was he talking about in this situation where our lives are on the line he wants to start talking about our childhood. What’s wrong with him? ‘What does that have anythi-’ ‘THIS IS THE SAME THING BUT IT’S YOUR TURN TO GET CAUGHT!!’. He carelessly screams weakening our cover, the colossal witch’s attention drawn to our presence by Abel’s echoing voice. ‘HEY IF U EAT THIS HUMAN IT WILL BRING BACK YOUR BEAUTY’. With a forceful shove, I stumbled backward, crashing to the ground as the impact jolted through my body. My heart racing as the enemy’s gaze locked on me reaching her hand towards me. Why? I mean I knew we fell apart but this... this is too much. We were a pair. I trusted him. ‘I’m sorry Ellis this is just the blood u owe’. With a swift motion, the colossal woman delved into her voluminous hair, retrieving a glinting bottle and throwing it to Abel soon drinking it, all while we found ourselves caught under the weight of her massive form, struggling to evade being squashed. The blood I owe? As we drifted into unconsciousness, memories of our past flooded back, swirling in a vivid tapestry of moments and emotions back when we were little. When I was about 10 a new boy named Abel moved in in our neighborhood. Because my mother was friendly, she wanted to welcome them with open arms. But there was something wrong with the child when we visited their house. He was very quiet; he wouldn’t smile like other children. ‘That’s because he is a murderer.’ Abel’s mother confidently says. Huh? That's what all the rumors said about him but when I played with him, he didn't seem like that. He smiled and laughed at all my jokes, when I told him I wanted to be hero, he promised me we could be heroes together. So where was it that it went wrong. He started distancing himself from me and slowly started getting in trouble in school. Ever since then I realized that his mother was right. He was nothing but a villain. But I just couldn’t accept that. Because he promised. ‘He promised...’ I slowly mutter as I gradually start to regain consciousness. As a ringing sound pierced my ears, I felt a surge of power as I slowly lifted the colossal woman’s hand, obliterating it with a fierce determination, each strike fueled up my anger. Slashing her with all my pent-up fury, her blood splattered over me, a visceral reminder of the price of vengeance. As the first snowflake danced down from the sky, I moved closer to Abel, noticing the fear in his eyes as he took hesitant steps back, his expression a mix of surprise and apprehension. In front of us, ominous words materialized, declaring, ‘Abel and Ellis, you both have 8 minutes before you die, However, since Abel has drunk the water of life, you now have one wish’. My eyes peel back on his as his gaze meets mine, a silent understanding passing between us in that intense moment. ‘Why?’ I utter ‘I HAD TO YOU DON’T GET I-’. His voice shakes. ‘You're not a murderer you promised me you weren’t’ ‘Ahh you still remember that ahahha’. With a nervous laugh he falls to his knees. He looked almost defeated which was very unusual for a character like him. ‘I kept telling myself that I wasn't a murderer or more like nobody did except you’. Abel said. ‘I was meant to have a sibling. A twin. However, it never happened because I killed him. I killed Cain when I was in the womb. Because he was less developed than me, I ended up eating him... I didn't mean to, but I guess my mother didn't care what I thought. She went crazy when she found out and went around the town telling everyone I had killed my brother. That I'm a murderer. When the world paints this narrative of you it’s hard to erase it’. His face slowly lit up like a radiant sunrise.’ But then when I met you everything changed, I didn't have to live under the claims anymore; I was free. But when you told me you wanted to be a hero, I knew I couldn’t be beside you anymore. My mother wouldn’t let me. She thought I was a bad influence on you. I’m sorry Ellis. I’m sorry I believed in the world. Tears mingled with falling snow, a delicate dance of sorrow and winter’s touch. ‘You're not a murderer Abel’. Of course he wasn’t. The world made him one and I couldn’t do anything about it. He probably felt like he was burning alive with the guilt God, I feel so shitty. ‘Thank you so much I needed to hear that’. As he rose to his feet, he enveloped me in a warm embrace, a gesture I never knew I needed. He whispered under his breath, ‘Now I can die in peace,’ he fervently wished for my curse to be lifted. ‘Okay now wish for your curse to be removed!!’. I say in a rush. ‘I can’t it’s only one wish'. As a spear materializes out of thin air, it mercilessly pierces Abel’s chest, causing him to collapse to the ground in shock and agony. In anguish, Abel’s piercing scream shattered the stillness. 'I don’t want to die Ellis help me’. As Abel’s life ebbed away, silence enveloped him, leaving only the echo of his fading heartbeat. My eyes widened as I gazed upon the lifeless body, a mix of horror and disbelief washing over me. Silence. It was silent. The ringing noise in my ear had stopped. 

wga1p4

The Enemy Within

As far back as he can remember, he's been afraid. Not a general sort of anxiety, but the specific kind - that which can dictate the path of one's entire life. The attempts at avoidance, the terror of anticipation, the dread of a confrontation. The fear can be paralysing, robbing him of the ability to move at all. No fight or flight for him, only freezing; like a terrified rabbit at the mercy of its hunter. But here he is, at this juncture where he must gather up all of his courage and press on. His job demands it, his troops expect it. A promotion that others have hotly competed for. Any of them would give their first born to have this privilege bestowed upon them; and yet, here he is - soldier, commander, leader of men utterly terrified at the thought of what he may encounter. Indonesia, land of rich green rainforests, vibrant jungles, exotic animals and long lost indigenous tribes. Danger at every turn for the unsuspecting in the jungles. He has been posted here as part of an elite squad whose purpose is to flush out a rebel group known to be planning a guerilla takeover of a provincial council that is of significant strategic value to his handlers. Idiya Malokabo the leader possesses a fierce reputation as a jungle warlord hording an arsenal that may include chemical weapons. Known worldwide as a madman intent on taking over the province at all costs, he and his army will be worthy opponents to this highly trained jungle warfare special forces soldier and his men. He will lead them with pride and a resolute determination to engage, battle and overcome the enemy as they have been trained to do for decades. He does not fear Malokabo or his army, nor the potential for an engagement where the rules of war are cast aside. He does not fear his own death, or those of his men - these brave, fearless characters whose fate was sealed when they made the decision to sign up for this most elite of squadrons. The purple berets. Recognised throughout armies of the world as the elite - the most highly trained, disciplined and bravest of all soldiers. Almost superhuman in their strength and ability to conquer enemies in a way reminiscent of automatons in science fiction. Barely human now; their mortal anxieties, doubts and fears erased from both their conscious and sub-conscious minds by their training. No moral conundrums, no spikes of conscience - Yes, the perfect tool to prize this dictator from his hiding place of power. Without him at the helm, his soldiers will falter and meet their defeat at the hands of this far superior force. What is their kill score they ponder in moments of reflection. Does anyone keep track? It must surely be in the thousands by now. A wave of humanity extinguishing another, yet this is their task, their purpose, their job. HIs most recent engagement had been in the deserts of Afghanistan - dry, barren, unforgiving. But he and his men forged ahead in repeated frontal assaults until the enemy retreated and battle lines pushed back so that there was little the others could do but surrender. A successful mission. Like the one before, and the one before that. All carried out on a dry, desolate landscape, shown on a billion televisions on the world stage. He came home triumphant. He and his troops were lauded by those in power, those who had funded the missions in the name of all that was right and just. But in his bed at home once again, the old fears crept in to his sleep as quietly as his very own snipers slid into the enemy strong holds. Creeping, creeping until in one lightning strike of movement they advance upon him. Sitting bolt upright in bed he screams - blood curdling, from the depths of his soul come the screams. Primal, ancient, ever present but concealed in the light of day. At night. This is when they come. They wait until sleep lulls him into a state of mind and body total relaxation. Then they jump! Launch themselves on to him like a green slimy polluted tidal wave. Cold and clammy bodies jostling to cover him in their slime. Frogs. Big, green bulbous frogs with white underbellies and throats pulsating with blood and rhythmic sounds from the depths of hell, jumping out of trees, climbing up his body, sucking themselves on to him as he stands knee deep in water. He is paralysed in this dream - this damned recurring dream he has had since a child. Unable to move or scream he suffers the abject terror of feeling them coursing up his body, their cold suction pad feet heading upward towards his face. My God, his face! The horror of this moment is almost unbearable. Can a heart stop through sheer fear? He's heard it can. Oh how ironic that would be! A war hero, an elite soldier, a killing machine and leader of men in times of war reduced to a trembling shell of a man; a coward with no recourse, no response. He lies there succumbing to the nightmare, unable to summon his men or indeed his own courage to extricate him from the situation, the enemy, THIS enemy! In a burst of sudden strength he pushes himself upward and awakens. Ah, it was the dream again. THAT dream! He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, body wet with sweat, heart still beating almost too fast for him to bear. He looks over at his wife still sleeping peacefully in the early morning glow. How proud she is of him, how brave she knows he is. He doesn't want to ever disappoint her, to shatter the illusion of this superman, this hero that all perceive him to be. Inside, his stomach knots and he feels that familiar acid rising in his mouth as he thinks about the next mission - Indonesia, land of rich green rainforests, vibrant jungles...

3u0s5c

Mere Woman

The placid waters, glistening with grit, lay sullied only by mud, not yet reddened by blood one day to spill. She trod through them, disturbing the surface with well-balanced footfalls. A mother long-gone had once called her Godgyfu—her gift, her gift of God—a god that himself had treated them with fury alone, more harshly than even these wilds’ most unforgiving days. Today, at least, was not such a day. The slumbering fens heaved around her, tranquil with the humid breath of life. A shallow inhale, a swallowing of the damp air in the same way it had, by now, swallowed her, echoed in her throat as she sank downward, her mighty arms stretching out like the branches of a towering tree as she leaned back to float atop the mere. The sea thrashed someplace beyond. Water pooled about her form, welcoming her valiant, extended limbs and sending strands of hair bobbing outward atop itself, like the spidery stalks of the nearby marsh grass. A solitary mayfly jutted through the air before landing on a yellow flower, gently nestling there among its bristles to await its more rancorous swarm. She watched it settle as she floated, its wings shimmering in the rays of the sky’s candle. The insect took flight once more as she approached, however, as though it were shunning her for some guilt she bore, some ancient grudge she did not know. Surging upward from the depths, in that moment, leaping into the air, a fish snapped, snagging the fly with its mouth and dragging it down to be devoured in its grave. The lady let out a breath, watching this killing unfurl, but surging silently upward too, accepting the way of things, she pushed herself through the waters back toward the shoreline. The sturdy sword and scabbard waited, belted hilt radiant in the sun. The weapon was massive and well-wrought, struck by giant hands, and she hefted it easily into her own to fasten it once more to her waist, where her cloak still dripped and pooled puddles in the earth. Beside it was the silvery dagger, and lifting it too, the lady secured it across her shoulder. The warrior, then, stood now, made whole.  Foliage rustled nearby, a low, crunching noise, and shoulders stiffening, she turned to stare, to watch as a pure white stag emerged from the brush, head high, its powerful antlers jutting outward to pierce the ether. It watched her too before stepping to the water’s edge to drink. At last, it turned to forsake her, unwilling to remain in this place. Offering it one final look, regarding the untouched glimmer of its fur, the lady pressed her own feet onward from the mere, stepping into the weeds, which bowed before her as she trod. The woods appeared—green, splintering tree by green, splintering tree. They burst from the ground along rocky faults and tufts of swaying grass, their lurching, creaking branches obscuring the sky as she stepped deeper into their bowels. Still, even as cool shadows spread across her, their dark tendrils pulsing like serpents wrapping around her flesh, she pressed nobly onward, the sword and dagger rocking along with her intrepid gait. Fog crept in with each step, rolling among the roots in claggy, white waves. As she emerged into the clearing, she heard the intruder before she beheld him. His mail and his belt clanked around him, echoing heartily against his limbs, bobbing with each surge of his marble torso as he appeared from the rising haze. The very earth seemed to protest against him, however, groaning as his feet pressed into it. The lady stepped to conceal herself behind the powerful trunk of an ancient tree, hand darting downward to find her smaller blade, gripping it with strong fingers as she watched, breath swelling in her throat. Blind to the one observing him, though, the man walked a circle, looking, looking, his flashing, burning eyes wide and alive beneath his shimmering brow, lit with the fire of the hunt but none of the steadiness of his vocation. The youth peered into the trees, his carven bow resounding in brilliant splendor against his magnificent back. It could shatter the stillness of these wilds as he conquered them in his sight. His frame glistened with sweat as he sought his unseen prize, peering, peering, and a mane of yellow hairs fell down around his head, pooling, as if from the mouth of a golden river out around his sun-touched shoulders and bearded jaw. She watched him, her grip tightening on the dagger, when a sound even mightier than he, with all his bluster, rattled the very woods. The trees themselves seemed to cower, then, bending and swaying as if to flee this savage roar that harrowed the whirling haze, birds and bugs taking flight to vanish in its wake. With shaking, splintering steps, a gargantuan beast of bear clawed its way from the darkness, a great mass of wiry, hirsute black, its eyes ravenous scarlet and its maw gaping, rancid with the heat and putrid odor of fresh death. The huntsman spun, wavering, stumbling, pulling his bow as if to fell this foe, foolishly to claim this glorious prize, but the animal moved forward with a blistering paw, striking and tearing the archer’s leathered bracers and dragging fleshy strips down the arm that rose to guard his face. The man cried out, plummeting backward to the ground, landing among the weeds, bow bending and splintering beneath him as he himself became the quarry. The beast’s breath swept over him in starving, desperate bursts, roars of victory, teeth blackened as they drew back to feast. With a mighty battle cry too, she rushed from the tree line to swing the sword down and deal a determined, killing blow to the animal’s neck, tearing through fur and flesh and bone with ease, staining the earth and the man with the bear’s lifeblood as she, the hero, soared like a mighty light in this verdant dark. The beast toppled, and she exalted in this deed. The man stared with still frantic, flashing eyes, clutching his wounded arm, the tatters of the gauntlet, and she towered above him, looking down, torso heaving. He shielded his face, waiting for this new end, for the warrior's smiting blow, but hiding her mighty, slaying sword in its sheath, the lady extended a firm hand to tug him upward to his feet. He shook, trembling, frightened, small, looking up into her face, framed still by soaked hair, and then turning to the beast dead at their heels, he fell once more, bowing in humility or deference or thanks. She bid him to rise. A nod of the head signaled for him to follow, and catching bravery’s return in the quiver of his spirit, he did. She ducked down to heft the bear’s remains over her broad shoulders, using her strength to claim it for her own, and together, the pair of them passed from this sullied spot, back to the wilds, through the fog, to the hidden stone hall where she dwelled. A fire roared in that place. She mounted the sword among the other treasures already hung there, wrought in gold for those who might regard them. The huntsman did, enthralled, in awe, or envy, by so many conquests hard-won. His uninjured, covetous hand played along mighty armor and the giant, feathered wings of some great sky-beast, dead and skinned. The bear too would soon be mounted there. Rebuffing him, though, pulling him from her trove, she slid the ruined gauntlet from his arm. Calloused fingers playing along his warm flesh, she wrapped it around and around and around, tight with herbs and flowers and fabric. A bronze basin of water of the mere was heated to wash. They spoke of many things in the fire’s flickering glow. They spoke of ancient heroes and battles well-waged long ago, wars shrouded in the grimy fog of bloodshed and forgotten to the memories of the honorable slain. She spoke of the mayflies and of the white stag. She spoke of the sky-beast and a dragon that dwelled in hidden caves beneath the earth. He spoke of the stars that mapped the sky and created paths to follow through the dark. The golden flame danced in his golden hair as they sat. It colored the amber lines that trailed around the edges of his eyes as she watched him, her own gaze flashing, finding a glimmer of the passion that dwelled still in his own. They spoke of the bear, and he sang, like a poet-mason, who could link together rough-hewn notions into a crafty stone wall of words, of her heroism, of her bravery, of her might, and of her smiting sword, the sword of giants. She smiled. She accepted the epic he thrust upon her, beast-slayer. He sang, and together, they sat. They spoke. Night fell upon the world like a fraying black cloth, settling first at its split, gray edges before making way for the black of its full, billowing center. They ate, and they spoke. He whispered of others, of men who would search for him, of brothers who would seek him out and find only a stained patch of ground littered with the splintered wood of his lost bow. He allowed his heart to ache in his breast. She rebuffed him once more, assured him that morning too would come, as it always did, and with it, there would once again be light. The huntsman believed her because her words rang true. She had been his saving beacon this day. The fire surged in its hearth, and so too did they find themselves surging, bodies tangling together like the twisting roots of the wild, uniting, as the darkness, as promised, did pass. They awoke together, not with the dewy, inviting sigh of morning but with the harsh clanking of metal, a throng of men hollering, barging through the doors of this stone hall, armor crashing around them as they trampled along its floors, weapons and helmets gleaming. The invaders allowed their gazes to sparkle at the sight of the treasures displayed there. One wretch, large, with a gnawing, monstrous mouth, reached for the gleaming, mounted sword, allured by its power, as if to plunder it, and she, leaping from her bed among the bowers of the hall in a sudden frenzy, seized to grapple him, tossing him to the floor in one mighty throw, where he fell along the bear’s prized carcass. The youth stirred too, then, rising upward and recognizing his brethren. He cried out in protest as the lady drew her dagger, pointing it at those who dared encroach on this sacred place. Their fallen comrade climbed to his feet, deciding, in terror, that he discerned in her formidable form, some guilt, some stain, the whisper of an atrocity long-forgotten. She was not like them. She dwelled here among those cast out, those who could not dwell among them, he declared, as if in saying so, he could mollify or conceal the greed blazing in his eyes, as if he could disguise hunger as righteous anger. Their throng thrashed, swords swinging, swarming into alignment, finding rank against her among one another, mail clanking, weapons clashing. They spoke of glory. She looked to the huntsman, and he stood on unsteady feet, eyes aglow, darting to his kin, his kin who had come to rescue him now from her who dwelled here. He stepped backward with frantic steps, joining the front of their formation, unarmed and foolish, abandoning, in his ignoble cowardice, the one who had not abandoned him. He dared not meet her eye, allowing it to fall instead on the slain bear. Alone, betrayed, forsaken, then, she planted her own feet, stance valiant as she tugged the sword from its mounting once more. Flame itself almost burst forth as it gleamed over her head, filling the place with a light as though from the candle of heaven, and she brought it down, tearing through where the hunter’s wounded arm met his shoulder, slicing it to sever as she pushed her way out the hall and back into the wilds. The men, ravenous now, compelled by blood spilled, pursued her, monstrous, clamoring with the fierce cries of battle. Finding footing in the open wood, she felled another, throwing him to the earth and digging the dagger into his chest. The others gave more chase as she ran, then, bolstered, rallied, filled with rage, through the trees and their writhing, rootlike shadows, past the clearing, stained now with the blood of the bear-beast, through the fens, the marsh grass scraping at her legs as they carried her, sword and dagger gleaming in her fists. She came soon to the edge of the water, safe for only this moment, body heaving, breathless from the flight. The water of the mere seemed to churn under her gaze, rippling with the fury in her chest, alive now with the scales of strange, unknowable sea-beasts, summoned to the surface, awakened from ancient slumber by the noise and the slaughter. These waters were the abode of monsters. The white stag appeared, then, emerging from the brush, but it did not drink. No stag would drink there again. It stood, and it watched. An arrow took flight from an unseen bow, piercing the animal's throat and sending its slumped form collapsing into the boggy pond, staining it red. Cornered, then, as her pursuers clamored across the fen, the air pungent with the sulfur of peat and the iron of blood, she too found herself falling backward, into the water, struck by a second arrow. It did not kill her—for she was mightier. It did not kill her, but still, sliced by its jagged point, she fell. She sank, abandoning her senses, clinging, with strong hands, to the sword and to the dagger, deeper and deeper into this whirling abyss as the water itself pulsed above her with the monstrous forms of the writhing sea-serpents, an army to close ranks around her. Strange visions came to her, then, as she plummeted, unseeing, through these blackened depths, sinking to their murky bottom, sainted, euphoric visions, perhaps conjured by the very god who had abandoned her—her, this cursed descendant of Cain. She saw, and in seeing, she knew. Her curse, then, was to know, to wait. The unquenchable thirst of rage bubbled within her. One day, she would rise from this place to avenge her fallen kin, as if to undo the sin of her forefather, who had slain his own. That same kin would be her vengeance, scourge of Heorot, rooted only just now within her, half-wrought by the damned huntsman, by the very beasts who had condemned her here. She would abandon her very self, her name, no longer Godgyfu, but only that which all those who dwelled beyond demanded she be—daughter of the brother-killer, source of evil, enemy of the Thane, mother of fury. They would mold her into their horror, as if in doing so, they could make themselves pure. They would call her warrior, demoness, foe, monster, this accursed mere woman of the mere. She sank, sank, sank , reaching the bottom in a cloud of frothing earth, when came a cavern, a hiding place, a new hall to be filled with fire, where the water could not touch her, where she would one day hoist yet another mighty bear to slay. She saw her unborn son, not yet formed, but only sparked, before she rested—this final grave image in the eye of her mind, a taunting, cataclysmic vision of her fate. Hwæt! Grendel, poor Grendel, fury, wind of the storm. Your mother shall not forsake you.

pr5ga7

Riders in a Stormy Sky

Today seems packed with memories and stories. As I reflect back over recent years, especially the last 75, battle scenes drift across the landscape. I often feel like I’ve come through several wars and as I age, the battle scars heal slowly. I’ve stood against some formidable enemies and faced death several times. As a Leo, born in the year of the Ox, I arrived those many days ago destined for battle. There may have been real enemies hiding on the periphery of my consciousness and yet, it was those nearest and dearest to me who stabbed me repeatedly. In my heart of hearts I understood that though they sometimes appeared to be the enemy, they actually loved me very much. Their actions, arguably destructive, reflected a warped sense of wanting only the best for me. I was born to a woman who existed in deep grief. Her enemy was Death and that villain had crashed into her world 2 months before I was born. This formidable foe stole her beloved mother who’d fought somewhat valiantly against a broken heart. More precisely her heart had a hole that leaked out life energy. In medical terms she had a congenital heart condition. Born in 1902, there were few options for fixing this condition. My grandmother compounded her defect by becoming a chain smoker. By 1949, her life hung by a thin thread. She did her best to follow doctors orders but her nicotine stained fingers told a story of resistance. She had gone to stay with a favourite older brother in a big city with heart surgeons pioneering recent heart research. As she visited in the kitchen, she held the forbidden drug by a hairpin in an attempt to prevent yellow giveaway stains. Coffee in one hand, tobacco in the other, her heart stopped. She fell dead to the floor, her favourite sister in law, a nurse, desperately tried to bring her back to life. It didn’t work. My mother, back on the home farm, received the news. She was an only child and 7 months pregnant with me. My arrival was a much anticipated event. As she heard the words that announced her mother’s tragedy, she also dropped to the floor. Thankfully my grandfather and father were there to pick her up. They carried her into the bedroom where she spent the next 2 months desperately trying not to lose me. My memory of this event is rather visceral and yet I still carry the scars of my mother’s fight to cling to life and bring me into the world. I longed to stay in that warm environment but knew it was no longer safe. There are many who would scoff at me recalling Johnny Cash singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky”, after all I was very young. What I know for sure is that I was always afraid of cows. I especially kept an alert eye for ones with red eyes snorting out fire as they thundered by. I was in my twenties when Jim Morrison warned us about serial killers and other dangerous riders on the storm. I was never sure which I feared more…mad, red eyed cows, or serial killers traveling around looking for victims. In my worst dreams, the serial killers were riding those scary cows across a thunderous black sky. Yes, fear came early for me. It might sound like I’d been a fearful child. To the contrary, I was actually ‘cautiously’ daring. My fears of those mad cows and killers looking for bones like mad dogs kept me on high alert and I was always ready to grab a sword and rise to the defense of the helpless innocents roaming aimlessly. There were many years when I chose to see my father as the enemy. Once, in my 50's, I was working on a lovely old pine cabinet. It was well weathered and like me, had seen better days. I’d decided to rejuvenate it and use it for storage. I had not worked with wood for several years. I possessed enough tools to do the job but lacked a certain self confidence in my ability to use them without cutting off a body part. Fear lurked close to the surface on that one! As a young girl, I’d been somewhat restricted in what tools I was allowed to use. Though given free reign with kitchen ware, even some of the more lethal weapons such as electric mixers, sharp knives and other utensils capable of inflicting fairly severe damage, I was forbidden to go into my father’s tool shed. I was certainly not allowed to touch or, God forbid, use any of them. My father, a rather sexist male of that generation where patriarchy ruled supreme, drew a firm line. If you had a penis, you had access to the tools in his shed. If not, hands off. He sadly missed his chance, for his male progeny were not in the least interested in working with him, using hammers, saws, screw drivers and other such implements. I however longed to join him in his work. I itched to get my hands on equipment which I was sternly reminded, “were NOT toys and not suitable occupations for girls to pursue.” If I pushed him on this subject, I would be firmly sent into the house to help my mother. I eventually overcame my resentments towards my dad. In that release I clearly saw that he was not the enemy. He was a supreme protector and taught me much about how to protect those in my care. My mother required a little more work. She had an IMMENSE fat phobia (pun intended). Her fear of my becoming fat ran deep. In that fear she cultivated a lifetime struggle to manage my body weight. Her attempts to control my weight, the food I ate and the shape of my body set the stage for many battles. I would eventually become exhausted and wave the white flag of defeat. It was easier to go along with her diet regimes than it was to resist. I remember a dream where she and I were standing on a rooftop watching flocks of birds circling gracefully above. I casually remarked how wonderful it would be to join them. My mother snorted as she ran her eyes over my morbidly obese carcass. I of course had to test her further. In my dream, I knew that I secretly possessed the ability to fly. With a calm assurance, I decided to swoop off the roof and join the birds overhead. My mother was…shocked. I of course could not resist a parting shot as I prepared to head out on an adventure with my newfound friends. As I circled high above her, I shouted out, “I bet you didn’t think a fat woman could fly so well!” She was not impressed. The years wore on, we eventually grew weary of the battle and made peace with one another. There are moments when I’d love to fly back to a time where I could just sit beside my mom, hold her hand and put my head on her shoulder. As I contemplated that dream about putting my head on my mother’s shoulder an old song began playing in my brain. I downloaded Paul Anka singing, “put your head on my shoulder “. As I was listening, a rather vivid visual explosion occurred, catapulting me back into ancient history. It is 1965. I’m 16 and in grade 11. Gym classes were segregated by gender. Our two teachers got together and decided the classes should have a dance. The teachers paired us all up and explained the physical exercise component of this experiment. I looked longingly at the tall skinny nerdy guy across the room, crossing my fingers that he would be who I got hooked up with. No such luck! I was not surprised when presented with my designated partner. He was one of the “bad boys”. His slicked back, greasy black hair reeked of brylcreem. He drove a motorcycle which I believe was a compensation for his short…stature. I don’t think he was particularly thrilled with being forced into our dancing arrangement. I’m guessing he’d rather have been out riding up a storm. He did however have a gleam in his eye as he advanced to where I was reluctantly waiting. As the music started, he did the manly thing and began guiding me into a waltz. As soon as the teacher’s attention was drawn across the gymnasium, he firmly pulled me close. Being several inches shorter than me, his head fell NOT on my shoulder. Until the teachers made the circuit checking for protocol, my partner's head rested intimately on my bosom! I was horrified when he’d gaze longingly up into my eyes and then lower his nose into my cleavage. To this day I’m not sure why I didn’t slap him across the face and storm out of the gym! The years have passed and so have many of my ghost riding companions. All of my enemies have disappeared and with some sadness I catch glimmers of one remaining adversary. Her face shimmers before me occasionally when I look in a mirror. She disappears quickly as Joni Mitchell’s words of wisdom echo through my thoughts, “I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose, and still somehow, it's life's illusions I recall.” I close my eyes, take a deep breath as peace and serenity descend into my being. ‘Tis with gratitude that I understand, “I really don't know life at all!” .

ho8n4q

The Hidden Life of Captain Alfonse on the Ship Destiny's Dreams

The seafaring students in front of Captain Alfonse were not aware of the depths and layers, the secrets and hidden history inside of him. Contradictions had fought inside him on many sleepless nights. One side had won, with a little outside help. In 1898 Captain Alfonse stood smiling on the deck of the hybrid clipper ship and steamer Destiny’s Dreams. They were sailing off the coasts of Argentina and Brazil. He was so happy at the way things had turned out. Life was so full of unexpected twists. His was full of ocean waves, endless skies, and opportunities that beckoned and surrounded him with their light. Alfonse had left behind the winding paths of darkness and suspicions that his mind used to travel. On one of his shoulders sat Foresta, the blue, red and yellow parrot he rescued when Foresta was a baby with a broken wing. Playing with thick coils of rope nearby was Rio. When the young monkey fell off his mother’s back, and dropped from a tall tree to the ground, crew members of the Destiny’s Dreams found him lying on some leaves. Knowing the captain’s interest in animals, they brought the tiny creature to him. With fluids and rest the little animal recovered and adopted the humans as family. The captain looked at the youthful faces in front of him. They were part of the first education expedition known as The School of Destiny’s Dreams.  The students were experiencing life at sea and learning about subjects like sea chart reading, star charts and constellations, ocean studies, weather, sailing techniques, navigation, import and export trading, supplies and records, meals and foods, ship logs, plant and animal studies, and exploration. It all began several months ago on a morning after the ship left Buenos Aires, Argentina and was heading for Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. A few days out from Buenos Aires, Captain Alfonse Belanger felt alarmed. A puzzling group of strangers boarded the Destiny’s Dreams when the ship stopped at a small port to load up on fresh foods from the village. Captain Alfonse wondered what they were doing in the isolated village. His suspicions were aroused. One man and a woman were obviously a couple. The other man wore a dusty, double-breasted coat and cap. He saw the lone man seem to be moving to secretly overhear the couple. When the captain saw the lone man nearby he tried to engage him in conversation. “I see you came aboard in the surfboat from the village.” “Yes, that’s true,” said the man. "That’s a very isolated village you came from.” The captain kept fishing for information. “Yes, it is.” There was silence. The captain felt the man was looking at his face closely in a strange manner. It was almost rude. “How did you happen to land in that village?” “I was on another ship. They used a small tender to go in for trading.” The captain thought this still did not explain it. Captain Alfonse felt a shiver of fear spread over his body. “Interesting,” he murmured. There was a silence and the two men stared out at the ocean. Overhead the square white clipper ship sailed billowed out with the light breeze. The sea had small waves edged with whitecaps. Overhead the summertime blue sky was clear. Alfonse tried again. “Your coat is a little like a skipper’s double-breasted coat. Are you a retired captain.?” He watched the lone man for a reaction. “No. I’m investigating. A possible fugitive.” Captain Alfonse’s face froze, and he drew in a slow deep breath. He felt the other man's eyes looking at his face closely. Alfonse kept his face casual and calm. Then he said, “Is this related to the other man and woman who came aboard in the surfboat?” The man made a grunt that was neither a yes or no. Then he turned and walked away. Captain Alfonse was treated to the view of the man’s back. Alfonse’s thoughts churned. After a lunch of dried fish, biscuits, water, fresh coffee, and fresh fruit from the village, Captain Alfonse went to the wheelhouse. While he was there the new-fangled machine called a telegraph began making clicking sounds. The ship’s officer began taking notes. He handed the message to Captain Alfonse. The hairs on the back of Alfonse’s neck began to prickle. “Fugitive. Tall. Very strong…” Then a malfunction caused the message to be interrupted, so they only received part of it. “There are two new men on the ship after the surfboat brought them from the remote village. I’ve been wondering why.” Captain Alfonse’s voice was stern. “They are both tall and look strong.” Alfonse went down the steps to the deck. His eyes under the brim of his cap switched from left to right. Without turning his head he observed the passengers and looked for the newcomers. In the distance to the west was the coast of Argentina. Soon they would reach Brazil. The sun sank lower toward the trees on the shore as it became late afternoon. Who was the fugitive that the lone man was seeking? What had he done? The questions kept entering his mind until they seemed like an obsession. Was it the man who came aboard with the woman? Or someone else? This "someone else" especially worried Captain Alfonse. A thought arose that he did not want to admit. He sauntered casually down one side of the ship’s deck and he noticed his breathing was coming faster. When he walked by the door to the dining room the two new passengers emerged. He joined them over at the railing. “Nice quiet seas today,” he commented. “Yes, beautiful,” the man said. “Enjoying your voyage?” “Very much, thank you,” said the woman. Captain Alfonse noticed the man looked tall and strong. His female companion was also tall for a woman and she might be strong too. He wished he had the rest of the telegraph message. Farther down the deck he saw the lone man lingering and watching them. “Hello. Hello.” Captain Alfonse’s parrot spoke in a high pitched voice. His bright eyes peered into the faces of the couple. “Tch. Tch. Tch.” Rio the monkeky made chittering sounds and a soft birdlike call that ended on a high note. He scrambled across the deck, grabbed some guide ropes that connected to the masts, and his long arms and fingers swung his body along the ropes, legs dangling. Everyone laughed. Adelberto, a navigator in training, walked by. He nodded to the captain to let him know all was well. The captain continued to note and store details about the man and the woman. They were perhaps in their late 20’s and could be an average married couple. They must be more adventurous than usual to have explored the small, remote village. The woman carried a large satchel like a purse and held it closely to her body. Did it look extra heavy? Was there something suspicious about her? The man seemed to smile pleasantly but the captain thought the man’s eyes were always moving, as if he was not focused on listening while they talked. “That is a very remote village…the one you came from on the surfboat,” said Alfonse. He would keep trying to pry some information out of them. “Yes. We were on another ship and we went in on their surfboat to explore. When we left we decided to stay a few days, until the next ship.” The man’s answer seemed logical enough. “That’s interesting. Not many passengers do that for such an isolated place.” The captain hoped they would elaborate. “Oh, but we love to explore,” said the woman. She wore a smile and looked enthusiastic. The captain studied her expression. Rio the monkey scampered up the captain’s trouser leg and clung to his chest. He turned his head and gazed boldly into the man’s face. Then he pulled his lips way back into a grimace, baring his teeth in a look that was his type of smile. The monkey smacked his lips rapidly making a popping sound. They all laughed. “That usually means he likes you,” said the captain. Alfonse was confused now. Rio had the animals’ instinct that sensed predatory motives in subtle clues too small for the humans to detect. The captain had learned to trust Rio’s instincts about people. Throughout the day he noticed the lone man observing him carefully. What did it mean? That night Captain Alfonse was unable to sleep. His mind kept seeing the image of the telegraph message. Fifteen years ago, when he was a young man, foolish and impulsive, trying to survive on his own without his father’s help, he made a mistake. Those who knew him now would be shocked if they knew about the villainous deed he had done, when temptation lured him, and his self-discipline was still young and easily bent. After one argument with his father, when he was especially humiliated, he wanted to show his father and the world that he was a person who deserved respect. But in seeking that he lost his own self-respect. He became haunted by suspicions and carried the burden of watching strangers to see if he had been pursued for the theft. No one else knew about the stolen items he took that helped him pay for the restoration of the old, abandoned wreck that became the Destiny’s Dreams. He found it sitting in a lagoon, covered with seaweed, algae and mold. When he saw the items unsecured, he was overcome and he took them to resell and lift himself from poverty to the level of the ship owner he was now. But the act haunted him. Every law enforcement officer he saw aroused his fear of being caught.  When he caught someone gazing at him, he wondered if it could be an investigator who knew he was a thief. After the Destiny’s Dreams became successful he secretly made trips to leave purses of money to pay back what he had taken. But inside something was always gnawing at him so he was not at peace. When he had paid back all the money he kept returning to leave more secret gifts of money. When the inner darkness and fears grew large, he found ways to stop at the port and secretly leave another purse of money. His natural empathy led him to help others who were suffering. He liked rescuing people and animals. The parrot with a broken wing seemed to symbolize his own life where he, too, had something that was broken. The fallen baby monkey, blinking up at him through half open eyes, obviously with his life fading, made Alfonse want to bring it back to life and vitality. Alfonse, too, wished he could be what he was before the event that changed his life, full of light, brightness and vitality. When he heard tales of woe, such as Isabella’s and Adelberto’s, where they had run away from her father forcing her to marry his business partner, Alfonse felt drawn impulsively to heroically rescue them. Alfonse remembered the joy of performing the marriage for the runaway lovers. If only he could be free of the darkness and suspicions inside that his actions had caused him. Captain Alfonse Belanger thought about the telegraph message. Instead of wondering about the young couple from the remote village perhaps he needed to look elsewhere. Somewhere very close. The message said, “Tall. Very strong.” That could be him. Captain Alfonse. What was that in the lone stranger’s glance that seemed to jar Alfonse’s mind and rattle his feelings?  It was almost as if Alfonse recognized the man from somewhere. Before dawn, sleepless, Captain Alfonse rose from his bed and went onto the deck. There was the hint of a gleam of light over the eastern horizon. Overhead the night sky was so clear that the stars seemed close enough for the ship’s masts to touch. The fingers of the dawn air seemed to take Alfonse’s thoughts and feelings and lightly carry them away over the waves. It was a familiar sensation to him. How he loved the sea. The fear of being found out and publicly humiliated faded away. But he knew that was temporary. “I have to do something. I can’t go on this way.” Alfonse began to realize he needed to face his biggest fear. "I need to confess," Alfonse said to himself. Later that morning Alfonse gave orders to the crew to adjust the halyards and make changes to the sails so the wind power would increase the ship’s speed. The sun was high in the sky. The lone man came to stand next to him. Alfonse turned and the both examined each other’s faces. Alfonse remembered that face. He saw recognition appear on the other man’s features also. “It is you, isn’t it.” The man’s voice was quiet and calm. ”I’ve been watching you.” He had seen the many acts of kindness the captain showed toward others. “Yes. I recognize you.” Alfonse spoke slowly. Then the man spoke again. “I want to thank you for leaving all those donations for our cause. It has made such a difference for the young people whom we are helping.” “Donations?” Alfonse’s voice rose with the question. “Yes. I saw you leaving a purse full of money.” Alfonse was speechless. The man must have seen him sneaking in during the dark of twilight. After Alfonse paid off the amount he had taken, he kept returning to leave more purses of money from the successful income the Destiny’s Dreams created. “It was after sunset. The lantern glow fell across your face. I’ll never forget it. I know it was you.” The man’s eyes met Alfonse’s eyes. He saw the expression of pain that was in them. “You’ve more than paid back the loan we gave to you. Many, many times over.” “Loan?” Alfonse’s voice again rose in a question. He released the air he had been holding in his tight chest. There was a long silence and they both turned and looked out across the ocean waves gleaming in the sun. The man spoke again. “With the money you donated, we started a mission and a school to help children and young people.” “Mission? School?” Alfonse’s shocked face was still turned toward the friendly sea. “Yes. There is still much that needs to be done. You could be part of it.” The captain listened. Time seemed to slow down. His thoughts swirled. “Educational expeditions could be held on the Destiny’s Dreams for the young people. Training. Classes. Apprenticeships. Career skills.” Alfonse turned his head. The man saw the wonderment on his face. “We could call it the School of Destiny’s Dreams,” said the man. “You remember me. I’m Richardo.” The man smiled. He knew his instincts had been correct. He had made the right decision. It had been best for everyone to take the approach he had chosen. Captain Alfonse felt the air drain out of his lungs. He could not speak. He nodded slowly. That afternoon the passengers on the Destiny’s Dreams saw their captain and the lone man talking, gesturing with their arms and hands, and nodding during a long conversation next to the ship’s railing. In the dining hall later, the passengers and crew saw the captain smiling with sparkling eyes while he talked to the man and they wrote many notes, diagrams, and charts. Alfonse felt the flow of ideas rushing out. Ricardo talked to him for hours about the new plans. The School of the Destiny’s Dreams was born that day. Later that night Captain Alfonse Belanger slept deeply and soundly till dawn. The darkness of his worst fear was gone. No longer did suspicions and guilt weigh him down. Alfonse rose early to stand at the railing and greet the morning light. He felt like a new person. Breathing in the salty air had never been so sweet. The glow of the dawn's light rising filled him with joy and peace.

pjw5k8

The Weight of Shadows

In the heart of a land where shadows whispered secrets and winds howled with stories untold, two figures stood, their bodies tense with barely restrained hatred. They were the last of their kind, bound by destiny and a cruel twist of fate to save a world neither cared to protect. Rafe, the Shadowmancer, was a man shaped by darkness. His black cloak billowed in the wind, a living extension of the abyss that thrived within him. His eyes, sharp and cold as polished obsidian, held within them the mysteries of the void. His every movement was a threat, a promise of violence and power that could tear through the very fabric of reality. For years, he had been the scourge of the land, spreading fear and chaos wherever he went. Across from him stood Seraphine, the Lightbringer, a woman who radiated an aura of brilliance that seemed to defy the darkness surrounding them. Her golden hair shimmered like the sun, cascading over armour that glowed with an ethereal light. Her eyes, a vivid blue like the clearest summer sky, burned with fierce resolve and unyielding justice. She had spent her life chasing shadows, fighting the darkness that threatened to consume everything she held dear. They were opposites in every sense—light and dark, creation and destruction, hope and despair. Yet, here they were, standing on the precipice of an alliance that defied nature itself. The ancient prophecy had spoken of this day, a day when the world would face a threat so great that even mortal enemies would have to unite or watch everything perish. The source of that threat lay in the Abyssal Gate, a rift between dimensions that had begun to open, threatening to unleash horrors beyond imagination upon the world. Seraphine’s grip tightened on her sword, its blade humming with the light of a thousand suns. “I don’t trust you, Rafe,” she said, her voice as cold as the winter wind. “But I’ll fight alongside you if it means stopping the Abyssal Gate from opening.” Rafe’s lips curled into a mirthless smile. “The feeling is mutual, Lightbringer. But we both know this isn’t about trust. It’s about survival.” His voice was dark and smooth as velvet, with an edge that made Seraphine’s skin prickle. Their mutual hatred simmered between them, a palpable force that threatened to tear them apart even as they prepared to face the coming storm. But there was something else there too, something neither wanted to acknowledge—a strange, almost magnetic pull that had drawn them together despite the enmity that had defined their lives. “Let’s get this over with,” Seraphine muttered, turning her back on him to face the Abyssal Gate. The air around it crackled with energy, the ground beneath their feet trembling as if the very earth was recoiling from the unnatural force that had been awakened. Rafe’s gaze lingered on her longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he too turned his attention to the Gate. “Together, then.” As they approached the Gate, the world seemed to warp and twist around them. The sky darkened, the sun obscured by thick clouds of unnatural shadow. The air was heavy with the stench of sulphur and decay, and the distant wails of the damned echoed in their ears. Seraphine’s heart pounded in her chest as she forced herself to focus. She could feel the darkness pressing in on her, the malevolent energy of the Gate seeping into her very soul. But she was the Lightbringer, the chosen of the gods, and she would not falter. “On three,” she said, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her insides. “One... two... three!” Together, they unleashed their power. Rafe summoned the shadows, weaving them into tendrils of pure darkness that wrapped around the Gate, anchoring it in place. Seraphine followed suit, channelling her light into a beam of searing brilliance that struck the centre of the rift. The two forces collided with a thunderous roar, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. For a moment, it seemed as if they might succeed. The Gate shuddered, the darkness retreating as the light poured into it. But then, with a sound like shattering glass, the Gate began to widen, the darkness devouring the light as if it were nothing. “No!” Seraphine cried out, pouring every ounce of her strength into her attack. But it was no use. The Gate was too strong, the darkness too powerful. “Pull back!” Rafe shouted, his voice strained. “We can’t hold it!” Seraphine’s heart sank as she realised he was right. If they stayed any longer, they would be consumed by the very forces they sought to destroy. But if they retreated now, there would be nothing left to stop the Gate from opening fully. “We need a new plan,” she said, her voice tight with desperation. “We can’t do this alone.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed as he considered their options. “There might be a way,” he said slowly. “But it will require a... sacrifice.” Seraphine looked at him sharply. “What kind of sacrifice?” “The kind that binds our fates together,” Rafe replied, his voice low and serious. “If we combine our powers—truly combine them—we might be able to seal the Gate. But it would mean linking our souls, becoming one in a way that neither of us might survive.” Seraphine’s breath caught in her throat. The thought of merging her soul with his—of becoming one with the man she had spent her life fighting—was almost too much to bear. Yet, beneath the terror, something darker and more thrilling thrummed through her, a temptation she couldn’t entirely dismiss. “Do it,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. “If it’s the only way, then do it.” Rafe hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers, probing for doubt. What he saw there seemed to surprise him—a resolve that matched his own, and something more, something that sent a jolt of recognition through him, as if they had always been two sides of the same coin. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, stepping closer until their bodies were nearly touching. The heat of him, the dark, electric energy radiating from his skin, made her breath hitch. “This will be... intense.” Seraphine’s pulse quickened as she raised her hands, clasping his in a grip that was both a lifeline and a challenge. The instant their palms met, a surge of energy passed between them—an overwhelming force that sent fire and ice coursing through her veins. It was as if her soul had been set ablaze, the light within her colliding with his darkness in a violent, heady clash that stole her breath and ignited something primal deep inside. She gasped, her fingers tightening around his as the power built between them, a force greater than either had ever wielded alone. Rafe’s eyes darkened with something far more dangerous than mere hatred, a storm of emotions swirling within them—desire, fury, longing, and something raw and unnameable that made her shiver. Together, they directed their combined power at the Gate. The effect was immediate. The darkness that had been pouring from the rift began to recede, the Gate shuddering as it fought against the force trying to close it. Seraphine could feel the strain in every fibre of her being, her soul screaming in agony as it was stretched to its limits. Rafe was no better off. His usually calm demeanour was gone, replaced by a look of raw pain as he struggled to maintain the connection. But despite the torment, there was something else in his eyes—a look that made Seraphine’s heart lurch in her chest. Vulnerability. And beneath it, buried deep within the layers of hatred and darkness, was something even more dangerous—admiration, need, and a fierce, undeniable pull that drew them together like gravity. Seraphine’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared into his eyes, feeling the boundaries between them blur, their souls entangled in a way that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. The power between them grew, pushing the Gate closer to closure, but also pushing them closer—too close. The realisation hit her like a physical blow. Despite everything, despite the years of animosity and the battles they had fought, there was a part of her that wanted him. A part of her that craved the darkness he offered, that was drawn to the raw, untamed energy that surged between them. She saw the same hunger reflected in his eyes, a dark, burning need that sent a shock of heat through her. It was madness, a desire born of their shared power, but it was real, and it threatened to consume them both. The Gate was nearly closed, the darkness retreating, but with a final, desperate surge, the abyss lashed out. Seraphine gasped as a tendril of shadow wrapped around her, pulling her towards the rift. “Seraphine!” Rafe’s voice was rough, filled with a desperation that cut through the haze of power. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her back with a strength that surprised even him. “Don’t you dare let go!” But the darkness was too strong, its pull too powerful. Seraphine could feel herself slipping, the shadows dragging her closer to the Abyssal Gate, the void calling to her with promises of oblivion. “Please, Rafe!” she cried, her voice breaking with the weight of everything unsaid between them. “Don’t let go!” “I won’t!” he shouted, his voice raw with emotion. But even as he said the words, she could feel his grip slipping, the shadows tearing her from his grasp. In that moment, Seraphine knew what had to be done. With a cry of determination, she poured the last of her power into him, pushing him away even as the darkness closed in around her. The force of her sacrifice was enough to seal the Gate, the rift collapsing in on itself with a blinding flash of light. When the light faded, the Gate was gone, the sky clear once more. But Seraphine was nowhere to be seen. Rafe staggered to his feet, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe. “Seraphine!” he called out, his voice hoarse with anguish. But there was no answer, only the echo of his own voice in the empty silence. He sank to his knees, the weight of her absence crushing him. She was gone. The woman who had been his enemy, his ally, and more—so much more—was gone. But as he knelt there, he felt something stir within him. A warmth, faint but unmistakable, blossomed in his chest, filling the void she had left behind. It was a remnant of her light, a part of her soul that had fused with his in those final moments. Rafe closed his eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners. She wasn’t truly gone. She was with him, a part of him now, forever intertwined with his own darkness. With a deep breath, he rose to his feet, feeling the weight of the world settle on his shoulders once more. He had a new purpose now—a promise to keep. He would protect the light she had left behind, carry it within him, and ensure that her sacrifice had not been in vain. And maybe, just maybe, one day he would find her again, in whatever world lay beyond this one. For now, he would walk the path they had started together, a Shadowmancer with a Lightbringer’s heart. And as he did, he would remember the woman who had changed everything, who had shown him that even in the darkest of places, there could be light—and even in the brightest, there could be darkness.

k90qzu

The Fall of Lady Mara

August 11, 2024 – 2:39 PM She felt it the moment that it happened. One moment she is zipping through the air, causing the golems to explode into fiery shards with a flick of her wrist, and the next moment, she is falling through the air, concrete-bound. Winds whipped past her, her arms flailing for purchase. Anything, anything. She tried flapping her arms repeatedly, trying to will the air around her to buoy herself back up the air as it had for the past 105 years. Nothing. The concrete just rose up faster and faster and— A loud CRASH exploded her eardrums as she landed right on top of a navy blue automobile, causing alarms to scream all around her. Not that she could hear them now. Her hearing had been declining in the past couple of decades, and the crash rendered her totally deaf. Dazed and badly hurt, she gingerly and gracelessly pushed herself off of the hood of the damaged car and ended up sprawled on the street. Superheroes do not have the same fragility as regular mortals do but falls like that are an absolute pain. One of the younger superheroes, donned in a tight red suit and a red bandanna over his facial features, is running over to her. “Lady Mara!” the Red Fury shouts. “What just happened?!?” Knowing that her hearing has not been reliable, he signs the words as well. Irritated, Lady Mara grits her teeth as she forces herself to stand by grabbing onto the damaged car. She shouts back, “You know very well what happened! I’ve been retired.” When superheroes reach a certain age, their superpowers tend to wane, leading to failure. Superheroes do have a mortal lifespan after all, despite their increased overall strength, constitution, and slowed aging processes (which explains why Lady Mara is still fighting even in her advanced age). For many, it is a noticeable decline, leading superheroes to focus more on precise, targeted attacks rather than the flashy displays of their youth. But for an unlucky few, it is a sudden drop—though perhaps not as literal as what Lady Mara just went through. She was supposed to retire a long time ago when she turned 85. But after having been in the game for so many decades, she refused to back away even when younger heroes began eagerly taking up more and more of the superhero work. The golems have been worsening as an issue, and all hands on deck are gratefully appreciated. Including Lady Mara’s. Lady Mara’s official role as an explosives expert pilot (meaning that she can fly and make stuff blow up) was instated in January 1919,  when she was just fifteen years old. A typical Child of Prophecy, she was expected to take on the mantle of the protection of the world whenever it was needed. At first, her role was scoffed at. The Great War, the war to end all wars, had just ended a few months prior. Superheroes like her were deemed unnecessary. Due to some genetic fluke, she ended up with powers that were not needed in a modernizing world where even mere mortals have the dangerous ability to cause mass destruction. But she kept on training, waiting for a moment to prove herself for the next twenty years. And then the Second World War happened. She rose up through the superhero ranks quickly, fighting off many supervillains deep in the shadows and up in the skies. She gained many monikers during that time, such as “Lady Death” and “Bomber Angel,” though she settled on “Lady Mara” in the end. From then on, despite the mortals’ varying attempts at international peace, it seems that the world has become addicted to blood and violence. Lady Mara hardly ever ran out of work through the latter half of the 20 th century and well into the 21 st . She expected to work until she died a heroic death in the field, her powers bursting in a catastrophic supernova reducing her body to ashes as it took out her final foes. But now her powers have vanished, and Lady Mara is still alive. Red Fury is now pulling her arm, desperately trying to guide her out of danger as she had done for countless mortals in the past as chaos reigned around her. “Come on!” he shouted. “We don’t have a lot of time! We need to guide you to safety or else you are toast!” Lady Mara, now as powerless as a mortal and limping terribly, did her best to catch up but BY GOD is she in pain. They scurried past ruined cars, fleeing mortals, and pranced their way around wrecks of fallen buildings. She could see the 18-kilometer steel-plated golems up ahead crumbling buildings with their fists and lasering down whatever unlucky mortals entered their line of vision. Despite knowing what had just happened, the hero urge is still strong. “Please let me help. I can still fight,” she begs Red Fury, who is shoving her inside of a still-intact small café. Red Fury shakes his head and signs back, “You’re retired. You would be more of a burden than a help as of the moment. I’m sorry.” As Lady Mara screamed to be let out, Red Fury uses his laser eyes to fuse the metal lock shut, trapping her inside. Then, he flew right back out to battle. “Bastard!” Lady Mara curses aloud, slamming her hands on the glass door of the café. Her irritation is not helped when she sees that the glass door only cracked slightly instead of shattering beneath her touch. She soon felt someone gently tap her shoulder. “Madam?” a small, teenage mortal with facial piercings signs. “Would you like to take a seat? It’s safer to stay away from the door.” Lady Mara fumed. It’s not fair. She is 120 years old and has served for over a century. She never got the opportunity to start young like the newer generations got to, and always felt like she had to prove herself to stay in the field, which sought out younger and younger superheroes every decade. The field is--was-- the only place that made her feel like she could be something. How dare anyone presume that she must stay indoors, brooding over a cup of tea? But she knows that the Red Fury is right. Powerless as she is, there is no way she would be allowed to keep fighting—the protocols are strict and don’t allow “depowered last stands,” as those risk slowing down other superheroes. It is time for her to do the hardest thing, and step away. She gave a tight smile to the teenage mortal, who gently shepherds her over to a seat and takes her order for a small cup of black tea with no milk.

d9fu3u

Backup Failure

Bolts of multicoloured laser fire rained down over Sherrif Masran Usa’s head. She dodged the barrage by diving toward the floor and breaking into a somersault, landing behind a crumpled hunk of debris that had previously been a computer console. A faint smell like freshly welded metal entered her helmet from numerous near misses. She peaked above her cover, taking a chance to identify her attacker’s position. Her combat suit instruments indicated their tactical advantage, elevated on a mezzanine at the far end of the cavernous shuttle bay. Attempting to lockdown their position seemed futile in the empty darkness, with only disruptor fire glow as illumination. She cursed the Consortium’s intelligence for not having properly assessed the derelict starship. How had they missed such an obvious hostile infestation?              “Deputy, I need an immediate infrared scan of the area,” she shouted. “I need the location of all hostiles and the fastest route to a vantage point.”              “Are you quite sure you do not mean the safest route, Sherrif?” Her suit’s internal artificial intelligence replied in its usual sassy British accent. Despite being a pile of computer code devoid of gender, their voice sounded male.              “You heard me, Deputy.” Masran curtly replied as a laser bolt trimmed the size of her already narrow cover.              “Indeed.”              Trains of blue light highlighted every joint in Masran’s silver combat suit. Each one interconnected, tracing lines up the slim metallic surface toward the tip of her head. Deputy’s complex threat analysis appeared to be an entertaining light show on the outside. All the while, the infesting force continued their relentless assault.              “Tactical analysis complete, Sheriff Masran. The battle plan is now displaying on your HUD.”              Masran’s eyes twitched in their sockets as she analysed the three-dimensional view of the shuttle bay. Her head’s up display made it seem like it hung in the air just outside her helmet. Deputy made light work of what seemed like an impossible situation. She had five seconds to review the plan and catch her breath before her HUD asked, EXECUTE?              “Deputy…” Masran said as she clenched her fists tight. “Let’s do this.”              The metal of her combat suit began to morph. The silver metallic surface rippled from head to toe like a drop of water into a stagnant pond. Masran felt a prickly sensation consume her skin with the exterior transformation. Deputy had officially taken control.              A bolt of orange lightning tore from her wrist, shooting toward the ceiling. It coiled securely around a pipe with labels warning of its potential corrosive contents. The force of the energy lasso propelled Masran upward, laser fire pivoting to follow her, but they could not keep up. She swung toward the mezzanine like an acrobat, her suit now reflecting its surroundings, appearing invisible to the attackers. She landed with a thud behind the thirteen hostiles Deputy had identified. They all turned in shock at the unexpected noise caused by the transparent Sheriff. Masran only had a moment to observe their insect-like bodies and Praying Mantis heads before she used her lasso to break the pipe in half.              She yanked it with enough force to point it directly at the insectoid beasts. A blast of lime-green gas exploded forward with the force of a waterfall. At least five of the attackers slammed into the bulkhead under the gasses power. They had no time to recover as their furry bodies rapidly melted like cheese under a grill, leaving no trace they ever existed. Nor did Masran have an opportunity to appreciate her victory as the remaining hostiles spread wings from fleshy sacks on their backs, each scattering in different directions. The bone, blood and sinew as their unexpected appendages ripped free left an acrid-smelling gel dripping down their backs. Masran had to swallow a tiny bit of vomit that entered her mouth at the sight of it all.                “Sheriff, this was… unexpected,” Deputy said.                “No time for regrets, Deputy. We need some light, now .”                “Indeed.”                Deputy dropped Masran to one knee in response to the command. Leaning her forward, a small port opened in the small of her back, shooting out a bright white flare. The empty shuttle bay became visible for the first time as it exploded, all but empty except for Masran’s ship and a few chunks of burnt-out debris. However, and more importantly, the remaining hostiles could be seen clinging to the walls and ceiling nearby.                “Heat lock Deputy. Multiple targets, execute.” Sherrif said in a single breath. A cross hair traced across her HUD, highlighting the location of each bug. Her arms raised, and multiple hatches opened, revealing small missiles no bigger than a pen. “Fire!”                “Indeed. Firing, Sherrif.”                In an instant, the projectiles ejected from the suit and spiralled toward their targets, smoke and flame left in their wake. They zigged and zagged to maintain their locks. Five of the closest insects took immediate impacts. The tiny missiles burrowed into their skin before exploding from deep within their bodies, leaving nothing but goop and bug guts smeared on the walls. Meanwhile, the remaining three managed to take flight, desperately trying to outrun Masran’s attack. One of them got taken down mid-air. The initial impact caused it to lose altitude, with the eventual detonation occurring just before it hit the floor. The remaining two managed to trick the miniature warheads by diving behind broken bulkheads dangling from the ceiling.                “Shit,” Masran cried out. She took several cautious steps backward as her attackers took up an intercept course in her direction, their disruptor rifles raised. Her eyes darted left to right, attempting to find cover. “Shit, shit, shit. Deputy, I think the cloak is malfunctioning. They know where I am.”                “Now might be time for some of your trademark fast thinking, Sheriff,” Deputy replied.                “Cutting beam, execute,” Masran said with a confident nod.                Her left arm extended outward and peeled open like a flower. Just as her assailants took up a position immediately above her, fingers on triggers, a paper-thin red beam emerged. It sliced through the air and directly through their necks. Masran relaxed her body as the bugs' mangled torsos impacted the floor, squishing like a cockroach might under someone’s boot.                “A roaring success. Would you not agree, Sherriff?” Deputy asked.                “We narrowly avoid death yet again. Let’s find the data recorder we were sent to retrieve and return to the ship. I have had enough of bug-infested derelicts for one day.”                “Indeed. I am no longer detecting any hostile elements. Returning full control to you... now.” Deputy said at the exact moment Masran’s suit returned to its usual and fully visible form. She tapped a small button on her thigh to activate small jets in her boots, allowing her to hover back to the main floor. She landed in front of two giant bay doors that had been beaten, dented, and burned, narrowly avoiding a bubbling pile of insect guts. She tilted her head upward to take in the doors enormous size and suddenly froze.                “Deputy, are you detecting anything beyond this door?” Masran asked.                “I am afraid not, Sheriff. Why do you ask?” Deputy replied.                “I can hear something. Like a rhythmic pounding.”                “This vessel has been adrift for quite a while, Sheriff. It could just be standard hull stress.”                Masran leaned closer to the doors as if that might focus her hearing. She knew the sound did not originate from her imagination, especially as it got louder and faster. She took several cautious steps back and opened her eyes wide in horror. “Deputy… We need to evacuate,” she said.                “Sheriff Masran Usa, we have a mission to complete. I must insist we proceed. I am not detecting any further life signs.”                “Activate the ship. We are leaving… now .” Masran turned on her heels and broke immediately into a sprint. As she picked up pace, she felt a powerful blast of air pushing her from behind. She glanced over her shoulder to see the bay doors flat on the ground and another bug standing in its entrance. Only this one spanned the entire height and width of the opening it had created. The disrupter it pointed in Masran's direction matched the size of her own ship.                “Oh, my goodness, Sheriff. A million apologies.” Deputy said as Masran propelled herself forward. “This new hostile must be using some kind of shielding.”                “No time for apologies,” Masran said, eyes solely fixed on her ship at the far end of the bay. “Get the ship fired up and ready to leave.”                “Indeed, Sheriff.”                The light from the flare had now completely vanished. Meaning Masran could barely make out the pointed tips of her triangular-shaped vessel. Thankfully, Deputy activated the forward lighting, illuminating a path. The brightness of which Masran's vizor automatically shielded, but temporarily shocked the creature chasing her. Its shrieks of pain sounded like something halfway between a dog and a cat crying, only infinitely more disturbing. The distraction gave her enough time to reach the entrance hatch that extended midway up the ship's structure to the bay floor. “Deputy, start retracting the entrance platform the moment I set foot on it,” she shouted. “Indeed.” Masran descended toward safety, catching a glimpse of the enormous insect, which had regained its balance. They made eye contact momentarily, and she could have sworn it winked. Right as it pulled the trigger.                She expected a rocket or a laser blast. Instead, the weapon distorted the air around the shuttle bay and propelled sparks of blue energy directly toward Masran. She had no time to dodge. The effect immediately consumed her entire body, causing the combat suit to malfunction. It rippled in the same fashion as when Deputy took control. Only now, both were helpless. Masran toppled over, landing face-first on the ship’s entry platform as it retracted back inside the ship. She felt a sharp pain that should have been followed by euphoria as Deputy injected painkillers. However, the agony persisted.                “Emergency evacuation… execute… execute… execute.” Deputy stuttered. “Indeed, Sheriff. Indeed.” And then everything went dark. Masran awoke to a blinding light overhead, accompanied by three vaguely human silhouettes. As things came into focus. she could make out two people standing over her wearing typical turquoise Consortium medical suits. The other wore a black jumpsuit and turned out to be the familiar sight of her commanding officer, Authority Ford.                “No sudden moves, Sheriff Masran. You are lucky to be alive.” Authority Ford said with a sympathetic smile. He was a tall man with a slim build, dark stubble on an angular chin, and short-cut black hair with hints of iron grey.                “Authority, I have to report that I failed to retrieve the derelict data recorder,” Masran said as she winced through the pain caused by any movement she made.                “Yes, Sheriff. Unfortunately, a piece of Consortium property remains at large. The infestation you found is part of a known infestation group who seem hell-bent on disrupting our operations.” Authority Ford took a deep breath before continuing, “As is evident with the state in which they returned you to us here at the Quadrant Command Base.”                Masran raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, Authority Ford?” Even as she asked the question, she noticed an unusual sensation. Unusual in the sense that the standard vibrations of her combat suit were no longer present. Also, Deputy had not chimed in with any of their usual commentary. “Deputy?” She called out, shooting upward to get a better look around the medical bay. “Deputy, reply, please.”                “Sheriff Masran, I am sorry to say that your Deputy was knocked offline by whatever the infestation shot you with. Completely unrecoverable, I am afraid.” Authority Ford said, resting a hand gently on Masran’s shoulder.                “Can you not reinstall them from a backup?” Masran pleaded. “I cannot continue as a search, recover, and destroy Sheriff without them, right?”                “I have some bad news, Sheriff. The original Deputy codes are all unique. Programmed decades ago, and all stored on physical servers that we used to refer to as cloud computing. That was before we started storing data on actual water droplets condensed into a gaseous form.”                “What happened to these physical servers?”                “They all lost integrity over time, and none of the system administrators thought to transfer their data to the new platforms.” Authority Ford said, staring at the ground uncomfortably, perhaps with a hint of embarrassment.                “But all my combat suits abilities were dependent on Deputy.” Masran’s voice was increasing in tone and pace.                “You are quite right, Sheriff Masran.” Authority Ford sighed again. “Fear not. We have been working to rebuild a new Deputy code base. The good doctors here have already installed one in your suit. However, the skillset is quite limited at this stage. It requires significantly more... training.”                One of the Doctors moved close to Masran’s shoulder and held up a small flashing instrument. “Activating Beta Deputy code now,” she said. Masran felt a slight tingle shoot through her body from head to toe.                “Well, howdy there, Sheriff,” came a female-sounding voice in her ear. “Pleasure to meet ya, I’m your new Deputy.”                Masran looked toward Authority Ford. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I am supposed to resume my role as Sheriff with this Deputy?” She asked.                “Oh no, Sheriff Masran,” Authority Ford said as he shook his head. “Our developers have not even come close to replicating the original Deputies' complexity. You will be restricted to… light duties.”                “What exactly are light duties ?”                Authority Ford took a moment before saying, “Lower-level Sheriff tasks. Issuing Consortium infringements. Fines for those who overstay their docking rights on our orbital stations, that kind of thing. All very important and necessary work.”                Masran’s jaw hung open, unsure what to say next.                “Super-duper, Sheriff. Sounds like we are gonna have some right old fun together.” The new Deputy said.                “Indeed,” Masran replied. 

9f9zgi

To Catch a Super

Flyguy landed squarely on the sidewalk in front of Dave’s Midtown Bar & Grill. He smiled and held the door for an exiting patron then entered. Yacht rock filled the room signaling that ladies night was well underway. Flyguy waved off the dining hostess and made his way to the bar where Jamie, an ex-marine with extraordinary biceps and a dimpled chin was serving up drinks. There were no empty bar seats.           Flyguy turned sideways and squeezed his otherworldly physique between two cute thirty-somethings – Gloria and Sheila, who were watching Jamie perform “The Bar Rag Trick.” They giggled as the rag stiffened and curved upward, magically elevating itself above the drink rail. Jamie looked up with a big smile to find himself nose to nose with Flyguy.      Flyguy, Jamie said, and released his grip on the rag causing it to slowly go limp. The ladies let out a sad sigh and giggled as Jamie looked at them and shrugged his shoulders.      ”What’ll you have?” Jamie asked Flyguy.      “Martini on the rocks, shaken – not stirred,” Flyguy said. Jamie gave Gloria a look – as if to say – I'll be right back after I get rid of this schmuck.      Jamie left and Flyguy moved in.      “Good Evening ladies,” Flyguy said to Gloria and Sheila. They gave him an awkward smirk and turned their attention to the television above the bar. Undeterred, Flyguy stretched his long arms above his head flexing his muscular guns into a tight pose.       “I just got back from a long trip, and boy, are my arms tired!” Flyguy said, holding his pose for effect, then, slowly he lowered his arms along the ladies backside - letting out a short guffaw as his hands made purchase along their lower waist and side.      Drink shot from Sheila's mouth as his as his fingers tighten against her ribs. She let out a small snort. Flyguy smiled and thought to himself, "that never gets old."      “Consider yourself safe tonight, ladies,” he said. “You’re with me! What could possibly go wrong?” He smiled, pulled them in tight against his waist and delivered the finale of his three part pick up routine.      “What do you say I buy you ladies a drink?” And gave them both a million dollar smile.       Gloria, to his left, gave him a slow down-up look over - meeting his steel blue eyes a full foot above her own. Then, in her most sensuous voice said,      “Where do you keep your wallet – Mr. Flyguy?” Giving him a big smile, she slapped her right hand down between his legs. Flyguy shot up on his toes like a rocket. The girls chuckled and reached in front of him for a high five. He tried to speak, but Gloria had already pushed herself backward, dislodging his arm from her waist and giggling as she left the bar.      Undeterred, Flyguy turned to Sheila on his right and gave her his best smolder. His head dipped slightly traveling left to right while his eyebrows moved like rollercoasters across his head. His mouth formed a slow-subtle smile which he held for effect.      Sheila gave a disgusted grunt and said “whatever!” Then, like a villain with an escape plan, rolled in circular motion out of Flyguy's grip. As she walked away, she spun around and shot little gun fingers at him.      “Okay, I see how it is,” said Flyguy with a forced smile. “I'll remember this next time I find you in a falling elevator or out of control train!”      Sheila shot him a smile and met up with Gloria a few steps away. They leaned into each other and giggled as they headed towards an open booth across the room.      “Nice touch,” said Jamie, as he returned with Flyguy’s martini.      “Thanks," said Flyguy, and lifted the drink from Jamie’s hand before he could set it down. He gave it a dainty sniff. Then, with his right pinky fully extended, took a delicate sip. Jamie watched intently as he repeated this routine several times.      Jamie interjected. “I saw you on the 6 o'clock last night.” Jamie paused as Flyguy sniffed and then sipped of his drink. Then on cue, Jamie said, “Good work saving that treed cat on Lexington, I see my tax dollars are hard at work.” Flyguy gave a little choke and a stream of martini flew from his mouth back into his glass. He thought to himself, "I can’t even enjoy a drink without some cutesy bartender making a joke at my expense." Flyguy looked up from his drink and said, “Ha, ha, ha - everyone's a comedian,” and pushed his drink across the bar towards Jamie. “Maybe I should take my business somewhere else!”      Jamie apologized, then left to serve another customer, saying under his breath as he went - “You'd think a guy who runs around in tights and a cape would have a better sense of humor.”      “You would think,” Flyguy shouted down the bar at Jamie. “I don’t just have x-ray vision, you know; I can hear everyone in this room.”      Jamie took the gals cash, dropped a drink in front of her and beat it back down the bar where Flyguy sat.      He gave Flyguy his best sympathetic bartender face and said, “so you had a bad day, big deal. Everyone has a bad day once in a while. Why should you be any different?”      The tension released in Flyguy’s shoulders and he let his body relax into his seat. Then with a very un-Flyguy like vulnerability in his voice said, “it hasn’t just been a bad day, Jamie, it's been a bad month!” He paused for a moment, gathered his thoughts, then went on.      “Ever since the mayor worked out his 'Power Sharing Peace Agreement' between supervillains and superheroes, I’ve found myself out of work.” Jamie lifted a glass and towel and dried it as Flyguy vented.      “And to top it off, Doomsday just bought himself a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Which, I might add, he is paying for with the forward on his new book, Chillin with the Villains . Then there's his little Netflix series, nearing the end of its second season - Villains vs Superheroes; The Murders; The Mysteries; The Series.      Flyguy let out a sigh so heavy it sounded like a death rattle. Jamie took a quick step back. Flyguy reached for his martini and slammed it back - pushing down the boulder size rock stuck in his craw. Then, defeated, dropped the glass and his head on the bar and lay there.      Jamie reached a hand over the bar and timidly patted Flyguy on the shoulder. “Let me get you another drink, big guy,” and left him face down on the bar.      After a moment, Flyguy lifted his head slightly and said,      “You know Jamie, my agent says I should consider retirement.”      Jamie returned working the Boston shaker in one hand. He smiled and said, “sunny days at the beach... supermodels in the sand.” Then with his free hand, Jamie launched into his drink performance. He flipped a fresh cocktail glass from the rack above the bar catching it mid air between his fingers before it touched ground. He gave the shaker a crack against the edge of the bar, letting the top drop into the sink below. Then, without missing a beat, poured the drink, dropped the shaker and slid the martini glass across the bar with his right hand as he dropped an olive in it with his left.           Flyguy gave a short chuckle, pointed his finger at Jamie and smiled. "Supermodels, Ha! I like what you did there!” Flyguy put out his right hand for the high five - and slap!       Jamie pulled his back, wincing at the pain forming in his wrist. “We should never do that again,” he said, and Flyguy gave him another smile. “Maybe your agent is right,” Jamie said, as he rubbed his wrist.      Flyguy pushed himself upright in his seat.      “You mean the guy who insisted that I would become a household name if I wore this costume to work? Yeah – like he really knows what he's talking about. Now I'm stuck with this thing. Sure, it looks great from the sky, but I'm just out of place when I'm on down time.”      Jamie had another customer, but shouted back at Flyguy as he crossed the bar to take her order, saying, “ever think of keeping a change of clothes somewhere?”      Two martinis deep and Flyguy was beginning to feel his inhibitions fade away. He stood, leaned a bit over the bar and yelled back, “where do you think I should keep it - behind the bar? Or maybe in the bathroom, even better, how about in a phone booth. I certainly don't have room in my back pocket,” and dropped himself back into his seat.      “Point Taken,” Jamie said, as he mixed up a mojito for a lady a few seats down; a redhead with peach skin and a southern accent. When Jamie didn’t show signs of returning Flyguy finished his drink and excused himself to the restroom.      “Another drink?” Jamie shouted over the bar to Flyguy as he slipped away.      “Yeah, sure, why not,” said Flyguy. “Make it a martini on the rocks.” Jamie smiled and finished his sentence for him.      Flyguy gave him a side arm wave and crossed the dining area toward the bathrooms grumbling under his breath about having to take off the entire suit just to take a wiz.      The front door opened and in strode Fledermaus. He surveyed the clientele. He knew his presence was unwelcome, but "mission first", he thought. Not seeing Flyguy, he figured he might check a few more bars before he gave up.      Then he saw Linda. A 34 year old divorcee with long dark hair and pale complexion. She sat alone facing the door, an empty seat opposite her. She held a piña colada in one hand and hardback of Dr. Zhivag o with a short stem rose laying across the page in the other. Fledermaus thought to himself, "classic blind date giveaway." He cleared his throat and crossed to her table. “Hello there gorgeous,” he said, gently sliding the book from her hand. He closed it on the rose and dropped it on the table.      Linda looked up at the eyes behind the mask as Fledermaus spoke. “I bet you’ve never seen a tool belt like this before,” and gave a little prance to show off his waist. Linda, un-phased, watched for a moment, then picked up her book and reopened it.       “Keep walking Fledermaus,” she said, gently pulling at a thorn which had pierced her page. "I don’t want to be seen with you after that stunt you pulled yesterday. Channel 25 played it at six and eleven. Why don’t you go back to your cave - you animal!”      Fledermaus slid into the empty seat across from her.      “It wasn't my fault," he pleaded. "That little joker called me some pretty hurtful names. I mean, here I am trying to capture ‘Two Face’ for the umpteenth time, and this comedian is cracking stupid bat jokes like - there were these two bats in a cave and one said to the other...,” Fledermaus produced a few high pitch squeaking sounds to finish the joke. He let out a groan and reached for Linda’s piña colada.      Linda was quicker and gave the back of his hand a good slap. Fledermaus withdrew it and continued his thought.      “The kid threw me off my game and ‘Two Face’ gave me the slip.”      Linda wasn’t buying Fledermaus’ personal pity party. She leaned over the table and put her fists in front of her eyes and said, “Oh, boohoo, Fledermaus. He was ten years old and you hit him with your Mausarang. I hope he sues!" Then she jerked her book up in front of her face and pretended he wasn’t there. Fledermaus' attention was suddenly diverted when he caught the sight of Flyguy returning from the bathroom struggling to get his cape to set right. Tightening his teeth, the gravel in his throat ground as he spoke. “Flyguy!”      Flyguy felt a sudden darkness permeate the atmosphere of the room. He stopped and gave his cape a final flick. As if under a spell, it floated up behind him, straightened itself, then settled down along his back.     Flyguy expected to find Fledermaus swinging from a ceiling rafter or perhaps above a wall sconce over a booth; not crossing the dining area towards the waiters station where he now stood. Seeing Fledermaus in Metropolis caused Flyguy's blood pressure and body to slowly elevate above the floor. Flyguy spoke first as Fledermaus approached.      “We agreed after the 'bridge incident,” he said, giving finger quotes to emphasize his point, “that you would stay in your city and I would stay in mine.”      “You agreed,” replied Fledermaus. “I just nodded my head until you shut up.”          Infuriated, Flyguy's voice raged. “I was doing just fine talking that guy down, until you decided to use your grappling hook on him.”      “At least I was trying to save him - you were just boring him to death! Besides, the body never turned up. ‘No harm no foul, I say!’” Fledermaus added his own finger quotes for effect. Then he reached up, grabbed Flyguy by the cape and yanked him down.      “Hey”, barked Flyguy. “Don’t EVER tug on Flyguy's cape!” Cape peeled itself from Fledermaus’ grip, drew itself back and released a whip snap which exploded square in the middle of Fledermaus’ chest armor.      Fledermaus stumbled backwards and re-established his balance. There had never been any love loss between the two supers and Fledermaus’ attempt to patch things up wasn't exactly going to plan. Flyguy didn’t know it yet, but trouble was brewing in the villain world and Fledermaus needed to convince Flyguy to form an alliance.        Fledermaus took a deep breath and spoke in a more conciliatory tone.      “Listen, Flyguy,” he said. “I’m sorry about the cape. I didn’t come here to start a fight." Fledermaus went on to explain that he occasionally bought certain antiquities from an old Greek trader to dress out his bat cave. And that recently he had learned of his dealers connections to the Greek Mafia.     Flyguy had heard enough. At the words “Greek Mafia”, he held his hand up, excused himself and turned to leave.           Fledermaus quickly cut him off at the dining entrance, knocking a server's tray as he headed to the dish room. Dirty plates and silverware clanged and broke against the tile floor. A light applause drifted in from the dining area.     Flyguy said. “I don’t see my motivation to help you with your problem,” and told him to go back to his cave and leave superhero work to those with higher moral integrity. Then threatened to make a call to a friend down at the precinct and let him know about Fledermaus' mafia connections.  “You wouldn't dare,” said Fledermaus. “Hey,” said Flyguy. “What's the difference between a cave and a jail cell? They're both small, dimly lit, and crawling with vermin. As far as I'm concerned you'll be right at home. At least you'll be out of my life.”      Fledermaus pulled a small box from his tool belt and said, "I'm not going to jail. I'm the good guy! I came here to ask a fellow super for a little help catching some crooks. Sounds like a no-brainer right. Well I'm done being Mr. Nice Guy."      Fledermaus opened the box. A warm green glow quickly surrounded them. Flyguy could feel his strength leaving him as the radioactive light source enveloped his body. He managed to say, “Jadarite! How?” then dropped his head and fell to one knee.      Fledermaus closed the box and Flyguy began to recover. Fledermaus explained that a lithium mine operation in Serbia with connections to the Greek Mafia had dug up a whole vein of the stuff and were, at this moment, shipping it all here to metropolis. And that by chance, his antiquities dealer had learned of it and alerted him to the plot.      “It's not real Jadarite,” said Fledermaus, but it's close enough to do the job.      “What Job?” Asked Flyguy.      Fledermaus leaned into Flyguy and in a low graveled voice whispered -      “To catch a super!”      Flyguy raised his head and pointed his gloved finger at himself. Fledermaus nodded.      Flyguy seemed to be regaining the color in his face, but his eyes were now glowing embers. Doomsday, he said, and went into a motionless trance.      Fledermaus noted his sudden abatement from their conversation and raised his hand, snapping his gloved fingers to get his attention.      “Hey, what's going on in there Flyguy?” Said Fledermaus.      Flyguy's mind returned.      “I was just thinking of something I saw on T.V.,” he said, and explained that the second season finale of Doomsday’s Villains vs Hero's was due to start filming and that Doomsday was promising a real cliff hanger.      “No doubt they are planning to paint me as the villain, turn the city against me, and run me off the planet,” Flyguy said.      “And with you out of the way,” said Fledermaus, “they can take over the city.”      A sudden feeling of danger and excitement began to well up in Flyguy. Something he felt had been missing for a while.      “Come on Fledermaus!” Flyguy shouted. “We’ve got a city to save!”      There was a sudden crack of thunder followed by a bright light and when the patrons regained their senses neither Flyguy nor Fledermaus were anywhere to be found.   THE END

5ztwjk

The Shadow of Valour

The wind blew through the city streets, and a sign announced to Hector Mares’s hologram that he was nearing a crossroads. There were gaps in the traffic but soon enough the lights changed and he navigated the cyber truck to the diner to meet Johnny Antunes. Antunes from the Canadian Spacetime Agency who was his contact. He walked into the diner and sat opposite Johnny and his girlfriend, who had brought a quilted backpack. He shook hands with both. He wants to work with us,’ said Johnny. “What do you need me for?” asked Mares. “We need you to decrypt a signal." "I see you've both had a drink," said Mares. He often flatly refused to reiterate statements, preferring to ask polite questions. "You work for the Canadian Spacetime Agency as well?" he leaned forward as he spoke, addressing the girl. "Yes. We…the Canadian Spacetime Agency, were ridiculed before the.. signal," interrupted Johnny, dangling wavy hair over the plexiglass table. "The signal?" Hector spun a hundred degrees around to Johnny. "When everything changed.’ Sally, sitting next to him was quick to respond, “and by the way, I study ancient pots and textiles. Not the sort that are respawned in the holographic time observatory, but the real thing.” Mares noticed an absence of tattoos on Sally and leaned over to her quizzically. There was something physically approaching perfection about her form and one tattoo on her upper arm, the length of her black crop top, a condor, its eye cocked out at the viewer hinted that she knew it. The hologram’s threat sensor quivered. “I don’t want my body to be a receptacle for bad art," she said, following his gaze. It’s not bad art, it’s er… enduring.” Mares experienced the hologram's five sense sensors without having mastered concurrent ambience, its latest feature. “Look,” she said, “if we trace the Nazca's pots and textiles back, we see they made them as scale models for pictures for…observers in space… who have sent us a signal." Her car, a sun-bleached red Tesla with a coat of paint which now looked the color of pink lipstick, was barely twenty metres away, parked against a pink, black and yellow pavement circle, a VIP parking spot. The diner was red leather upholstery, similarly, the chairs were in harmony, the round wooden-backed sort. A couple of wall mounts attested to the hygiene and outstanding quality of the food. Why the pink color in a hot country? It was an unspoken sentence. Instead, he asked, "What is the time observatory?" "A triumph of science," said Johnny, and "After all, other countries had had the automobile, the submarine, the artificial satellite, and the celestial observatory." It was just a logical extension. Progress in hologram technology meant you could access the past by sending your hologram through the screen to anywhere in the past, even before you were born. Sally added this, proving that she knew a lot from Johnny.  "How are you proposing I deal with the signal, Johnny?" Mares looked away from her to him as her phone began ringing. “We think we have leads on it, clues, ah, suggesting figures in the Nazca lines being linked in a sort of sentence. It’s that short.” The girl walked over to her pink Tesla. She wore her brown hair with a slight side parting. She found the car keys in her bag. “Why can we no longer space travel?” asked MARES, hoping for an answer. "That's what the signal tells us," replied the spacetime engineer, "We just need the confirmation by a cryptologist such as yourself. You see, there has been a series of misfired rockets, deaths in training and engine shutdowns, in other words, the human race is quarantined. I want you to note certain things which were useful to us in, ah, developing—yes, that’s it—developing this civilization. Then we will send it back to the stone age." Mares felt a strange disorientation. "What sort of things?" he asked, his voice trembling. “Quite a number of items. I’ve prepared a list for you,” Johnny paid for Mares's coffee then asked him to de-hologramize, he probably didn't use that word. Mares pressed an app button and the cyber truck made its way through the low-lying bushes. Mares climbed in the back to a small laboratory. The wall controls were four colored slightly protruding spheres the size of marbles arranged like the axes of a tetrahedron. The three spheres at the base were red, yellow, and blue, while the fourth at the apex was white. Three spatial controls, one time control. Displacing any control away from the center moved the other end. The time observatory’s first field model, its packed hardware was as shockproof as the opportunity rover’s. Johnny told him to point towards the intermontane valleys of the Nazca plain, to the developed sophisticated irrigation systems (such as puquios). With another adjustment, the image became transparent, and Mares arrived in the first century BCE. “OK, you've turned the top sphere back two thousand years,” said Johnny's whiny voice, sounding as if coming from a place so distant it couldn't be identified. “To pinpoint a moment in time, you must balance all four controls precisely. Adjust the red sphere, and the coordinates shift slightly, moving you closer to or further from a distant star. Twist the yellow, and you might find yourself on a different plane, perhaps in a parallel universe where the laws of physics subtly differ. Turn the blue, and the elevation changes, placing you deeper within a gravity well or lifting you out of one. But it's the white sphere that holds the key to the moment itself. It must be aligned with the spatial controls in perfect harmony. A fraction too much or too little, and the moment slips away like sand through fingers. Time isn't just a fourth dimension; it’s the breath that animates the other three." "I knew that," snapped Mares. That done, but he could see the dense foliage and fruit trees and vegetables among the greenery. His alignment was confirmed by the light turning green on another button which had also been mentioned in the training. It was disorienting, but his instructor had been right. The voice was annoying but necessary. That was just a test. With another careful manipulation, he steadied on a present-day city, observing cars, architecture, and other signs. After several false tries, he pinpointed midtown Toronto, Canada, amused as he thought of it like a ‘20th century New York on aspirin’ as someone had said. Then he found the diner again. He knew it from the posters. Sally said exact figures of the flora and fauna of the geoglyphs at Nazca, the whale, the monkey, the tree, the hummingbird, shark, parrot and dog, were all worked into the fabrics which she studied. The originals were drawn on pots. The signal would explain all of them, once decrypted. And the signal would complete the mystery. Then they could erase the Nazca lines in a time observatory if they could turn it into an actual time travel machine, and this could never happen, or was always 50 years away, depending on who you listened to these days. But he now had her in his sights, so to speak. Perhaps, he thought, he would give her the lie about how easy the cryptography life was. “Don’t worry, it’s like a holiday,” he told her. The unexpected rigorousness of his discipline had broken his brain many times. Sally called to Winnie per pet spectacled bear, who had been waiting patiently in the car. She was listening to Mares with half an ear. "It's all about perspective," Mares began. "In cryptography, we've got a unique way of turning challenges into opportunities." As he spoke, Sally sensed his words were just to gee himself up. She'd not doubted his credentials, nor had she met anybody like him before, but he just wasn't in her scene. She listened as if he would never appreciate the precision skills weaving required or the fluency needed to throw a pot and pattern it and finish it off without a computer or a 3D printer. "Holidays typically conjure images of relaxation and enjoyment. How does cryptography fit in?" Sally pushed him to explain the false statement. "Think of it this way – instead of lounging by a pool, you apply your body and mind to an inner pattern which starts like the abstract ripples in a swimming pool. Cryptography is like an all-inclusive fitness retreat." Sally pressed him further. "Fitness retreats usually don't involve superior powers of deduction." Admiration flickered in his eyes. "You're right," he conceded with a nod. "But in this sort of work, discipline and resilience are the bedrock of success. And trust me, it helps to be not just mentally fit, but physically as well." Sally said, “Yours sounds more like a vocation than a vacation.” The grim reality of cryptography began to bug him. Filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation, he withdrew. Sally's hologram had been through the time observatory screen shortly before their meeting. She telephoned in her report on her phone as she drove. In the shadows of towering ferns, vibrant hues of emerald and jade danced in the dappled sunlight, Sally climbed down the slope. Unseen creatures scurried through the undergrowth, their movements hinting at the hidden mysteries of the forest. She could smell it, see the lush green vegetation, hear the sounds of wildlife and running water, and taste the scented fresh and exotic fruits, soil, and decaying plants and wood. With fleeting glimpses of delicate butterflies, their wings shimmering with iridescent blues and greens, reflecting the fragile yet resilient essence of life in the wilderness, she trod deeper into the forest, the symphony of unseen insects, the distant calls of mysterious birds, and the occasional slithering of an elusive Sao Paulo Caecilian creating the illusion of being one with nature. Beneath her feet, the floor felt alive, her latest step sinking into a soft carpet of leaves which deadened the sounds. It was as if she were walking on a cinema carpet. When she got a stable footing, delicate ectomycorrhizal mushrooms were growing up towards the canopy ceiling above her. As she ventured towards the cyber truck, the walking palms stood like ancient guardians, their peculiar stilt-like roots bearing witness to the passage of countless creatures. Each step through the verdant landscape was fraught with uncertainty, as if every shadow held a lurking threat. Massive boulders, adorned with cascading moss and lichen, formed imposing natural alcoves. Despite the allure of the tranquil surroundings, the air was heavy with humidity, a tangible reminder of the dense wilderness enveloping her. The gentle gurgle of the feeder stream provided a constant soundtrack. As Sally stumbled upon the majestic waterfall, its waters were promising relief from the heat of the day. Yet, even as she longed to quench her thirst and immerse herself in the beauty before her, caution gripped her even as the allure of refreshment tugged at her senses. A glimmer of hope emerged with Johnny's provision of a meal in her backpack which she unhitched. The scent of dried meat and savory vegetables underneath the white plastic container felt like a small victory. The medley of forest wild plants, prepared with care and finesse, offered a taste of greens amidst the primeval foliage. In that fleeting moment of reprieve, she found sustenance for her body but also hope for her mind. Suddenly, the ground beneath her trembled. The flooring seemed to come alive, vines and roots moving with a will of their own. She fought her way through then climbed into the waiting cyber truck’s back and pulled at the levers. Sally found herself disoriented, standing in the middle of a bustling metropolis. It was Toronto, like New York City on aspirin. ‘Toronto the Good’, it was called, and everyone was polite and well-mannered. Even the hustlers trying to get on the bus said ‘please’. Towering skyscrapers dominated the skyline. A restaurant came into view. ‘El automovilista enojado’ and she went in, sat down and ordered a beer. A man with a novel pick-up line came over to her table and said, “Do like whole food and fast sex?” and she laughed out loud. “No,” she quipped, “but I like fast food and whole sex.” It was Johnny Antunes. They were meeting for the first time, in a pointed paradox her fumbling the time observatory had caused. But the buildings were shaking, and the sky was filled with the sound of alarms and sirens. She had arrived moments before a catastrophic event—the collapse of several skyscrapers due to a massive, unforeseen earthquake. As the ground trembled and structures begin to fall, they navigated through the chaos, dodging falling debris. She realized that temporal instability might be causing these catastrophic events. Antunes took fright as she sat up ready to dive under the table. A blinding light enveloped them. The skyscrapers faded away, and they were thrust through the temporal rift. They found themselves back at the base camp in Peru. The connection between the jungle and the collapsing skyscrapers served as a stark reminder of the unpredictable consequences of tampering with the fundamental forces of the universe. Antunes observed the walls adorned with mementos from distant lands. He managed a playful smirk, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Darling, you look positively feral!" he exclaimed to Sally. Natural wit did not put her in a talkative mood. The Peruvian leaned against wall, his posture relaxed yet his eyes betraying a hint of curiosity. We have to go and meet Mares in the diner." Once there, he turned to Mares. "Cryptographer, huh?" he mused, the corners of his lips twitching into a wry smile. "So you solve puzzles...hard ones?" His air carried a mixture of hospitality and perhaps vain hope. "Civilization, my friend, is but a state of mind," he hinted. "I was born in the place where the signal was picked up. That makes me feel engaged in this." Mares raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying much curiosity. "The signal?" Antunes was having fun. "You have a way with words, my friend. Well get this, we are in a zero sum game with aliens, if not the aliens who make aliens a thing of the past." He spoke in an over-precise English. The twinkle in his eye suggested he was genuinely curious, perhaps even entertaining. Sally said, "Like as in, no more adventures, no more, 'a big step for humankind' stuff and all that." "I see by your tattoo that you hold a high regard for the condor," said Mares. “These people…these aliens, they look like condors.. that's your first clue, now go out there and solve it, so we can get these things off our back." At the revelation, a spark of excitement ignited within both of them. “Our friend here,” Antunes gestured warmly, “is a brave soul, fearlessly charting paths where others dare not venture.” "Thank you," Mares said, addressing Antunes with a touch of warmth in his voice, "my worldly compatriot." There was a hint of admiration in his voice. "But," he continued, turning towards Sally, "caution is not without merit. The unknown can indeed be daunting, its mysteries sometimes too vast to comprehend." Antunes the host lifted his glass with a subtle flourish, his eyes gleaming with warmth and sincerity. “To each their own, my friends,” he declared, his voice carrying a gentle cadence of acceptance and understanding. “Now, Mr. Cryptographer, if you will infer further about this signal we can all get some shut-eye.” Was that a reference to the condor Mares wondered. The three stood and pored over the piece of paper, in the richly furnished red-orange base camp, adorned with its opulent décor. A sudden series of collapsing buildings shattered the tranquility. The once-stable ground trembled beneath them, and with a deafening roar, the building they were in succumbed to the relentless force, crumbling to the ground. As the dust settled and the chaos subsided, they emerged from the tumult, their hearts pounding with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Standing amidst the rubble, they surveyed the wreckage of what was once an opulent sanctuary. The grandeur of the apartment now reduced to a scene of devastation. They knew they had to act swiftly, the urgency of the situation palpable in the air. With a steely gaze filled with resolve, a glint of danger reflected in Sally’s narrowed eyes, she stepped forward to take charge. She spoke with a voice of conviction. "No time to waste," she growled in survival mode. “We must find an escape route from this labyrinth.” With adrenaline surging through her veins, Sally pressed forward, each step through the debris-strewn corridors a perilous waltz with death. Trailing behind, the engineer and the cryptographer moved with a calm determination, their memories fixed on the mystery of the signal. Their knowledge offered no hope in their desperate quest. Together, they pressed on, fueled by a shared resolve to defy the odds stacked against them. The crumbling city echoed with the sounds of collapse, a cacophony of destruction that served as both a warning and a challenge. In this shattered landscape, amidst the ruins of what once was, Sally felt like it was an eternity of perilous trekking, she emerged from the wreckage into the cool night air, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Blinking against the ethereal light of the moon, she paused, allowing its silvery glow to wash over her and her trailing companions, casting long shadows across the ruined cityscape. In that moment of respite, amidst the chaos and destruction, she looked around for signs of a cessation. This was no aspirin-fueled city any more. And so, they stood shoulder to shoulder, the flickering flames of her torch danced wildly, casting a long, shifting shadow. The night crackled with electric energy.

o9lm91

Sunny Wobbles: the Cat Who Couldn't Jump

Dedication: to anyone trying to reach new heights. When Sunny was born, he didn’t know he was any different. He was a little wobbly when he walked – but no one is born a marathon runner! Unsteady on his feet, Sunny would sway from side to side Like a sailor who hasn’t gotten his sea legs yet! When he would try to go down the stairs His bottom would outweigh him and he’d tumble down the steps - flip, flop, ouch! Despite this little nuisance, Sunny became quite the explorer! Up, down, left, and right – every corner had to be investigated. Once he was finished checking out the floors, He would ask to be lifted up so that he could “walk” on walls, like a rock climber! His curiosity met no bounds there, And he would look up at the sky, like a stargazer. As he yearned to get higher and higher, He quickly realized that anything up high was beyond his abilities. How can it be that I’m a cat who cannot jump or balance well, he thought? Feeling powerless, he looked up at the wall where hung a picture of his hero, Night Terror. Night Terror was a nimble feline, able to traverse staircases in a single leap and jump effortlessly through trees. She got her name because she preferred to do all of her secret deeds at night, in the cover of darkness. Was there a "cat fight" in need of breaking up? Night Terror was there in an instant! Did somebody’s favorite treat get snatched? Night Terror will capture the perp! Wishing he had her powers of flight, Sunny waited for Halloween night to dress up as a winged dragon. After all, it is the one time of the year when you can be anything! Because he wished so hard and because Halloween is a mystical, magical night Sunny’s dragon costume transformed! He started jumping – first onto the chair, then the windowsill, and then onto the fridge! Feeling brave and infinite, Sunny decided to venture outside. He easily blended in with the kids dressed up in costumes and hopped unseen from tree to tree - swish, swash, whew! He marveled at the festivities happening around the neighborhood, the spooky decorations, and the kids joyously grabbing candies. Sunny then spotted Night Terror herself, inspecting the territory as if it was her “Queendom”. Knowing that Sunny posed no threat and was a sweet creature, Night Terror invited him to join her. Together they chased dogs, caught mice, and even saved a kitten from a tree - meow wow! This kitten happened to be chasing some bats and lost track of where he was going... Or maybe he fell off a witches broom before he was swiftly rescued by our heroes! Rrrrrrippp! But what’s this? Sunny’s cape accidentally gets caught on a branch and rips! He begins to lose his powers of flight, unable to get down from the tall tree. Night Terror was immediately by Sunny’s side, gently helping him come down the tree. As they headed home, she tried to reassure Sunny that his superpower is inside of him, not in the cape. Feeling defeated still, Sunny moped around for a few days, missing his effortless jumping abilities. He would sit atop his cat tower, looking out of the window at the trees and reminiscing about his adventure. Meow! But who is this approaching Sunny’s window? It’s the kitten that Night Terror and Sunny rescued from a tree without a firefighter’s help! The kitten told Sunny that it wasn’t his first time climbing up that tree. And that he would climb it often to peek inside his family’s home. It brought the kitten so much joy to see how happy Sunny made his family just by being himself. How affectionate his cat dad looked as he carried his “baby” around, while Sunny gazed up at the ceiling. As time went on, Sunny realized that he didn't need to rely on his magic cape to do some good in the world. His superpower is to bring the family together and to bond around caring for one another. There are plenty of heroes in the world, like firefighters who rescue kittens! Every living being is uniquely able to make their impact, no matter what physical challenges they may face. This thought helped Sunny fight through his tremors and go down the stairs slowly, but independently. Building his strength up one day at a time, he was able to go outside and to spread his message of love. The sight of Sunny’s unassuming “crocodile walk” would stop any argument in its tracks. And soon news of this smile-spreader reached the farthest corners of the land. What a determined little kitty – making his parents and Night Terror proud! “Sunny Wobbles” is based on a real life kitty born with cerebellar hypoplasia, or wobbly cat syndrome, who lives in New England with the author’s family. It is a nondegenerative, neurological disorder that affects a cat’s balance and fine motor skills. Sunny is able to compensate for his lack of coordination by walking with his feet spread out wide and using his upper body strength to climb onto his cat scratchers. His loving family has equipped him with pet stairs, so that he can enjoy some nighttime snuggles with his humans. Luckily, Sunny’s condition is mild, so he is able to eat his food without shaking too much, although drinking water can sometimes be a challenge without a water fountain. Despite all this, Sunny doesn’t know that he is any different and is a happy kitty who loves playing with all of the same toys as other cats and watching birds outside his window! Night Terror’s character is based on the author’s fluffy, black and white cat, Lizzy, who would get the “zoomies” and run up and down three flights of stairs. She would laugh at the pet gates as she easily hopped over them and jumped on top of the fridge. Her favorite things were to spend time in the yard chasing birds and stare adoringly at her cat dad.

g15mat

The Monster

For years, he has taunted me. For years, he has turned my home into a living nightmare. It seems like my entire life he has chased me, existing in the shadows and making an appearance when I least expect it. He has stolen sleep from me, he has stolen my food, he has stolen my safety, my comfort, my sanity. All that I have is worth nothing when he could appear at any given moment to take it all away. I know not his name. He is tall and unnaturally thin. He moves in a way that doesn’t seem right, back and forth and swaying from side to side. Truly every part of him is unnerving. From his crooked neck to his impossibly long, narrow tail, he is a horrific sight to behold. And he roars—oh, how he roars! A high-pitched, deafening screech that drowns out all other sounds, and is enough to drive anyone to madness. When I was little, I cowered in fear, retreating to my room and hiding underneath my blankets, praying desperately that he would not find me. He always did. He would circle me, mocking me and my cowardice, and then he would leave. Perhaps he was waiting for me to grow older, bigger, to become more worthy of an opponent. Perhaps he didn’t know I was there. Perhaps he was toying with me, like a cat with a mouse, knowing that he would return. He returns often, though with no pattern. Sometimes he leaves us alone for weeks. Sometimes, though, he visits multiple times a day. Those are the days I dread the most. It is bad enough I must defend my family from a monster once, but twice in one day is exhausting. Still, it is up to me to protect my people. I owe my life to them, and for them, I would give my life. It has been some time since his last arrival, maybe two or three weeks before my little sister was born. As one can imagine, my parents have both been incredibly exhausted caring for me and the little one, although I have done my best to help where I am able. They know I can’t do much, but they appreciate what I do contribute. Like protecting the home from threats. She is a month old now, and she has never known the monster. I pray that it stays that way. She does not deserve to feel the fear I have been plagued with all my life. No, she deserves joy, and love, and peace. I intend to provide her with such comforts to the best of my ability. We are napping in the living room one afternoon when I am awoken by our mother shouting to our father. “Matthew, darling, would you take the baby to the other room? I need to vacuum. The carpet is disgusting.” “Yes, dear, I’ll be right there,” our father replied to her. A moment later, he was taking my napping sister away from me. “Why are you taking her?” I asked him but was met with a harsh shushing. “No barking, Musubi, the baby is sleeping. Let me get her out of the room before you go nuts.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I’m not crazy, I’m not prone to fits of rage, I’ve been nothing but caring to my little sister since the day she came home, I’ve even taken to – And then I heard him. He was back in my home, threatening my parents, myself, and now an innocent infant. Instantly, my ears perked up, and I sensed he was behind me, making his way around the kitchen. He hadn’t seen me yet; from where I was on the couch, I was hidden by the kitchen island. If I used my location to my advantage, I would have the upper hand. I could attack. I could save my family. I sprang into action without a second thought. Our battle has raged for years, with him always the victor, retreating only to return when I least expect him. It’s my turn. It’s my time. I am going to fight for my family, for my honor. No more cowardice, no more empty threats. Today is the day I defeat him once and for all. After making my way to the kitchen island, I lowered myself to the ground and watched him move in that jerking, unsettling way. Every time I see him, he appears more disgusting, proudly displaying his prey through his strangely transparent stomach. Nothing about him is right. He needs to be stopped. As he turned the corner, I pounced, wrapping my sharp teeth around his stomach in an attempt to disembowel him, only to be met with pain. He seemed to be wearing some sort of armor, perhaps an exoskeleton even, to protect his innards. “Musubi!” My mother said. She must have been so surprised to see me finally standing up to the creature that has plagued our family for so long, attacking instead of yelling. I hope I make her proud as I fight what may be my final battle. Releasing my grip, I aimed for his ankle and once again found the protective armor. It seemed to be covering his whole body. “Musubi cut it out,” mother said to me. That selfless woman: she has spoiled me my entire life, and now she insists on fighting this monster single-handedly. What an amazing woman she is. I knew I could not leave her alone; this fight was mine. I decided to go for the tail next. Since it moved around so fluidly, surely it wouldn’t have the same protective covering as the rest of the monster’s body. Moving quickly, I bit down as intensely as I could, and pulled hard. A moment later, the beast stopped yelling. I had done it. I had slayed the beast. I couldn’t believe it. After all these years of howling, pushing him away but never truly defeating him, finally, I had done it. I had slayed the beast. Mother noticed immediately. She began laughing, surely relieved that the monster’s reign of terror was over. “Alright, Musubi, you win. I’ll vacuum tomorrow.” She picked up the corpse of the beast, hiding it away in the closet, likely for the coroner to remove in the morning. Or perhaps a scientist. She made her way to the couch and patted the spot next to her, my spot. I dutifully hopped up, ready to bask in the glory of my victory. Her hands immediately buried themselves in my fur and found my favorite spots. “Who’s a good boy?” She asked me. I am, mother. I am a good boy.

v4gbc9

Death Machine

The rattling of metal on metal shook my skull as the car passed over my head. Screams of joy filled the air as the cart climbed to monumental heights and then dropped throwing the passengers back into their seats. My stomach flipped just watching the cart speed along the rail. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and a chill ran down my spine even as I stood there sweating in the summer heat. “I can’t do this.” I turned to make a not-so-elegant exit. “Sis.” My younger brother looked at me with knowing eyes. There would be no excuse for escaping this crazy plan he would accept. “You’re going to be fine. You might even have fun.” Sweat trickled down my back as I shook my head. “Listen to me. Hundreds of people get on these things every day, all walking away. Most probably want to get back on but the line is too long. You can do this.” He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. My mouth was dry as the line moved forward. I rubbed my palms over my thighs as we moved closer. My brother’s arm was around my back preventing me from making a mad dash for the nearest bathroom and elevating my stomach of the hot dog my brother let me eat before talking me into this crazy idea. If my niece hadn’t been there staring at me with wide envious eyes, he wouldn’t have gotten two words out of his mouth. The little angel was waving at me from the sidelines like I was a movie star. I took a deep breath and then an unsteady step forward. The ride attendant shuffled people into the plastic seats and lowered a metal harness over their chests. We shuffled our feet closer to our inevitable doom only to have the snot-nosed brat loading victims into the car hold up his hand bringing us to a stop. He bent four fingers and held up one digit higher in the air as he looked back at the line. A child, A CHILD, pushed passed us with a grin plastered on his face. My brother’s face put the child’s to shame. “We’re going to have the best seats!” He was bouncing on his heels, the bastard. I bent at the waist and put my head between my knees. I was the gruel butt of life’s greatest joke. “Seriously Sis, what is it that scares you?” I could hear the eye roll without looking up at him. To my brother, it was irrational that I didn’t want to get on a death machine hurdling around the track at the speed of sound. Even the mention of a roller coaster would induce a vision of the car leaving the track and sailing through the air only to pancake on the concrete below. My stomach performed a loop of its own as another chorus of joyous screams filled the air. My brother shared his enthusiasm with the other people in line until the car rattled around the track as it closed in on the final bit of track between me and death. “Come on, Sis.” My brother held out his hand to me. He may not understand why my blood ran cold but he wasn’t making me do it alone. I took his hand as the attendant ushered us to the front seat. The air stopped moving in my lungs. My entire being shook. The bar came down over our heads in slow motion. The lock clicked into place with a loud thunk and we were prisoners ready to walk the gallows. My hands turned white as they painfully gripped the tiny handles next to my head. “This is going to be so great!” The harness couldn’t stop him from bouncing like a damn ball. I wish I could say his excitement was contagious but it only made things worse. How could he be excited? I wanted to slap him. The people behind us laughed as the bar came down over their heads. It was painfully slow waiting for the attendant to lock everyone in. I was strapped in, the noose was tied, and there was no going back. The attendant jiggled the safety latches as he systematically made his way up the line of seats and back to his podium. The chain below the car engaged and lurched us forward. I was going to lose bodily fluids before this torture was over. We crawled up the metal peak at a snail’s pace, tilting us back in our seats. The only thing in front of me was the blue sky. My grip on the handles tightened until my fingers tingled as I questioned my life’s choices. Closing my eyes I said a prayer to any God that would listen. Before I could finish the world dropped out from under me, my hair whipping around my face. I didn’t want to open my eyes. If the end was coming I’d rather not see it but fear of not knowing forced my eyes open as we rocketed around a right turn. Our bodies were pushed to the left. People, including my brat of a brother, laughed and the car began another climb propelled by the inertia of that first drop. “Isn’t this great?” He shouted over the rattling metal. “No.” My brother shook his head and laughed as the car dropped and turned to the left. I swallowed the bile that had made its way into the back of my throat. A few more turns bounced us around our seats and then a chain latched onto the car. “Oh boy!” My brother was vibrating with joy at the loop we’d seen from the parking lot, the same loop that had my niece looking at me with envious eyes. The loop that my brother drove us an hour to see. “Biggest one in the state.” If he had mentioned that we would be riding the thing, he would have been that last single rider, and I would have been home happily napping on the couch. The ass knew what he was doing. We climbed higher than the first drop and I squeezed my thighs together. I was sure I would piss my pants. The drop came and my stomach floated as I was lifted out of the seat like the balloon tied to my niece’s arm. The metal harness caught, thank God, and I was stopped from floating off into the ether. My hair seemed to stand on its own accord. Looking up I was staring at a sea of concrete and people in bright-colored clothes. The other passengers screamed with joy as the loop leveled out. My brother was laughing his head off. A few more small turns slammed us around in our seats and then the car straightened out to make its way slowly back to the beginning. The bile once more crept up the back of my throat. The one advantage to the whole horrid event was that we were the first let out of our shackles. I couldn’t get out of the seat fast enough. I ran down the ramp and as far away from the death machine as I could get before the bile needed to make an emergency exit. Dipping my head into the closet trash can my nostrils filled with the putrid smell of cotton candy and someone’s vacated stomach contents. The smell didn’t matter as I heaved making my addition. When I pulled my head up my niece handed me a bottle of water. “Are you okay, Auntie?” Twisting the top off the bottle I looked over at my brother whose face was filled with guilt. My sister-in-law glared at him, she’d had my back since he’d opened his mouth. I swished the water through my mouth and then spit into the trash can. My niece reached up for my free hand. Those little brown orbs staring up at me full of worry. I couldn’t ruin the rest of their day. I plastered a smile on my face. “I’m fine. Too much fun I guess.” My niece grinned. “I can’t wait until I’m big enough to go!” My brother wrapped his arm around me. “Thank you.” I leaned on him still weak in the knees. “It means a lot.” “I don’t want her going through that level of fear.” I nodded to the metal monstrosity. Another set of screams filled the air as another group of daredevils plummeted off the first cliff. He squeezed me. “If you ever think about asking me to do that again, she’ll be an only child.” He laughed and nodded. “Never again, Sis.” 

unbrj0

History Lesson

We have history, but that’s all in the past. There’s a car crash at the end of that history and she was in the driving seat. Only she wasn’t driving at the time. She was somewhere else. I see that a lot these days. It’s the modern-day dog in a manger. They sit in that driving seat, but they have no intention of driving. Their attention is elsewhere. She was elsewhere when it ended, and I thought I’d forgiven her that betrayal, but now, as I force my head around an intransigent neck, I still can’t bring myself to look beyond what went wrong. What she did wrong. I know that what I should see is the best of times. But if they were the best of times, why did she burn them all to the ground and poison that smouldering soil for good measure? Why? That time meant something. I meant something. We meant something. And then it was gone. She took it all from me. Only, the devastation went beyond theft. This was a burglary of my heart, and she wrecked the inside of me. She took everything and left a writhing snake of absence. Hissing myriad questions that I could never answer. She took all the answers and left me in a torture chamber of confusion. Why? In the end, an end that had no idea how to be an end, clinging on for dear life. The very death of me. In the end, she was the gift that kept taking. There was no clean break. She left me dangling on an unravelling thread of hope. She gave me just enough oxygen to breath a hint of her in. Fed my addiction and wouldn’t allow me to go cold turkey. She used me. And she kept on using me. She never really let me go, but she never had any intention of returning to me once she walked away. I knew that. Saw it in the absence of her eyes. You can’t see the eyes of someone who’s rejected you in totality. All you see is their back as they stroll away without a care in the world. She didn’t care. Or maybe, in her own way, she did. Because she blamed me for the pain she brought with her from the start. She blamed me for the traumatic end of us, even though we never began. We couldn’t begin because all she ever related to was the pain of him. She was on the rebound. She’ll always be on the rebound. A human pinball portraying a semblance of control and togetherness, when all she is doing is careening hopelessly through her life, from one situation to another. She’s just passing through, but she’ll never tell you that. She’ll never be honest about what she really is and what she wants from you. She’s never been honest with herself, and now, I doubt she ever will. She blamed me, and in the aftermath of our failed relationship I took the brunt of it. I was the villain of the piece. I was the one that The League turned on. I took all the responsibility for what she had single-handedly done, as she played the victim. She was good at that. Playing the victim. She’d been selfishly nurturing that hurt of hers for a very long time. None of it was mine. I didn’t cause any of it. But I took the fall all the same. And I felt bad. I felt bad for her, and I joined her in turning on myself and meting out the necessary punishment. She co-opted me into the fantasy of her pain and I’m not sure I’ve ever left that toxic wasteland. I told myself that that was what heroes did. They took the fall. I told myself a great many things as I tried to make sense of her lies. I was mapping madness, and I was fool in attempting to do so. I was a fool from the very start. I just didn’t know it. I have that to thank her for. I learned the hard way that I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was. Of all my gifts, I took my ability to read people for granted, and I never attended to the instruction manual. I didn’t read the short warning at the very start that outlined the limitations of the gift that saved me and this world of mine a thousand times and more. Only works on people. She looked like the real deal. She felt genuine. She even tasted good. But she wasn’t there, and I wonder whether she ever was. Was the best of us real, only for her to recede like a fading shadow in the light of a rising sun of revelation? My gift always warned me. Even when I was dealing with evil. Evil hollows a person out and fills them with darkness. Imbues them with what might be called animal cunning, but that knowing comes from a deep dark source, and animals fear it more than anything upon this land. I think that is where my gift springs from. The animal within me. A heightened sense of danger. The ability to smell out the worst wrongs. You can’t see absence though. That requires a great deal of cognitive discipline and focus. And I had none of that with her. She came in with a storm of emotion and I was in the eye of that storm. Surrounded by the madness of what I thought was love but was only ever lust. All I saw was her and all I felt was a need greater than any I had ever experienced. I gave myself to her freely. I gave her everything. Even now, I don’t think I had a choice. The force of her was elemental. I was caught in an invisible embrace. It was everything I had ever wanted and so much more. I was intoxicated. And in the thrall of that intoxication, I became addicted. She used that addiction of mine, and she used me. The shock of her betrayal was a dark epiphany. My eyes opened to the reality of her. The absences dotted around my life. Illusions blowing away in the winds of truth. In the midst of my pain and anguish, I screwed my eyes shut and refused to believe it of her. I eschewed reality and gave everything over to her false belief system. I’d worshipped her and I could not bring myself to see how badly wrong I had got it. We are our own harshest critics, and I hated myself for being so stupid. I beat myself with the standard I never attained. I told myself I was better than this, then found only evidence of my lack and failure. And so, the cycle of self-torment went on, and she stood on the side-lines cheering me on. Pushing me back into the arena each and every time I thought I was done and could at last crawl away to some dark corner and lick my self-inflicted wounds. It took me a long time to get over her. And I know I still haven’t. Those memories of us can never be erased. They’re a time bomb ticking away inside of me. A threat of a regression that would finish what she started. I can’t go back to that madness. I can’t face that chaos. I never want to see her again. She’s a walking reminder of my hopes and dreams and how easily they were stolen and corrupted. She stole my future and left me a shadow of myself. She secretly moulded me in her own image. Hollowed me out. Created another pretender. I’ve gone through the motions and played my part and played it well, but I’m not there. None of it means anything anymore. That should frighten me. I know I’m dangerous for no longer caring, but here’s the rub. I don’t care. The League exiled me, and I welcomed their secondary and reactionary rejection. They were wrong in their judgement of me. They saw what she wanted them to see. The injustice of it felt right. It was the only thing that felt right back then. The booby prize for having gotten every single question wrong in the quiz show of my love life. I welcomed the punishment. I deserved it. And I didn’t want to be around them anymore. Their masks became grotesque as I looked upon them in my state of loss and grief. All I saw were children playing a selfish game. Misfits made corrupt by bad childhoods, hiding in plain sight and lauding it over those around them. Showing off. Letting everyone know they were better than them when really, at the core of them, they were a mess. Deep down, they believed they weren’t good enough and so they had to go out each and every day and prove themselves in the judgement of others. Inflicting themselves upon the world because they thought they knew better. Liars! No code of honour can dress that bullshit up. She did me a favour. I was better off out of it. In a way, she saved me. Not that I thank her for that. The League are all dead now. All of them. Except her. That outcome is no surprise to me. I’m not a betting man. I’m a dead cert to lose. But the odds of her survival over the rest of the League were always high. After all, she knows when to walk away. I wonder whether any of The Team had enough time and space to see what I saw. Her abandonment of them when they needed her most. I hope not. I hope their ends were quick and painless. None of them deserved the death of their hopes and dreams in those final moments. None of them deserved the crushing defeat of betrayal at the hands of one that they considered to be their own. The world turns, and how things will land is anyone’s guess. Although, it is certain that those things that you are avoiding will come and seek you out. That is one of the rules of this game we call life. You can run, but you can’t hide. Before the end, you will face your fears. It’s a crying shame how we all of us avoid this inevitability and live a fraction of our lives as a result. Now it’s just me and her. It doesn’t have to be. There is always a choice. The universe is betting on me though. It knows that I can’t walk away. I’m the Yang to her Yin. I must be what I was always supposed to be, despite everything she has put me through. There’s a fight that’s coming and I will not be a cowards. That’s not in me. There’s something left of me after all. A base instinct. The animal that will survive. But first, it is up to me to walk the hardest of yards. After all this time, it’s for me to go to her. I cannot help but smile at this. She promised me that when the time was right, she would find me. That she would return to me, come what may. She bade me wait for her. I knew I’d be waiting for an eternity, and that was the point. She wanted that from me. She wanted everything and more. But it was never enough. I was never enough. No one ever would be. I knew she would not come. But even now, after all these years, there is a teardrop of hopeless hope that she would at least come to me one last time. So that we would both know. I still have to know. Not only whether any of it was real, but also, if there is a future for us. Could we make it right? I tell myself that, even if I saw how it might work, I’d remember the pain she caused me. I’d see the danger she brought with her, and as my heart went out to her, I would catch it in an iron grip and show some backbone at last. She told me I was the one. She told me I was the love of her life. There was no hint of that love as she left me high and dry. And now I am going to her, to ask her to be with me in the only way that makes sense now. This is not about my need or hers. The world needs us. We’re all it’s got. That’s how bad it’s gotten. This is the darkest of days and the dawn is nowhere in sight. The League couldn’t stop him, but maybe we can. Together. As one. Just the way it was always meant to be. I feel sick with nerves as I set out on the longest of journeys. This isn’t for me to do. I am going against the grain. Swimming against the tide. The urge to let that tide carry me back to safety builds with every step I take. I don’t know whether I can do this. I’m shaking and close to tears. If I’m like this now, how will it be when I see her? The shame of this progressive reaction adds to my burden, and I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. A wheedling voice asks me what the hell I’m doing. Now I’m thinking about hell. She left me in hell when she deserted me, and now I’m inviting more of the same. How can I trust her? But I have no alternative. This is a choice that is no real choice. To do nothing is to be nothing and after all I have been through, I need this and so I need her. I realise that my biggest fear is the certainty that I am approaching. To be rejected all over again. That makes no sense! I’m already in a state of perpetual rejection. Have been since she walked out on me. A pariah. I am Cain, and like Cain I still don’t recognise the sin that led to my expulsion from paradise. Will I see the answer when I see her again? Is that really what I am afraid of? Not seeing her but seeing me as I really am. Seeing myself in her eyes and finding something small and weak and unworthy trapped in her gaze. Maybe I really did lose myself in her eyes. Am I still lost? The courage I muster to see this through is more than I knew I had. I thought I was a hero and in my heroics was a bravery second to none. This now is harder than any of my legendary exploits. Love is a great leveller. The need to be loved. The world loves me and my loner persona, but they love the mask, and they love my antics. They don’t want to curl up with me in the clammy nighttime, holding me in a reassurance that tells me that it’ll be alright. They don’t want to embrace me until the light of a new day renews my hope for a better world. Their love raises me to a place of isolation and removes the possibility of real love. The only time I ever felt loved was with her, and here I am now. I’ve gone full circle. After all my waiting, I am at her door. I raise my hand to knock, and it hangs there as the door opens of its own accord. In the act of the door opening so much more opens before me. A world of possibilities and with them a vulnerability that I have never been able to protect. I am raw and I am open. I am defenceless. My throat constricts threatening to choke off words I cannot muster. There are no words, but I want to speak. Talk is cheap, but I can’t even bring myself to give her my wasted breath. It’s all or nothing. I can’t do half measures. My fear of the continuation of rejection is overwhelming. I’m fully invested in this shot at nothing and unprepared for the obvious outcome. There’s a darkness in the widening gap. The anticipation of absence. She may not be here, even if I see her here. There may be nothing. A walking symbol of what I have and what I will bring to my final fight for a world that deserves far more than I can ever give it. The door opens and this is my final moment. Anything beyond this is another time and another life. I freeze. There is no fighting this, and I will not run. I freeze and time skips a beat. Time gifts me a fast forward. Puts an end to my years of misery. I don’t know how it happens, and I will never question it. There’s an eternal moment of uncertainty as I stare into the dark gap of the opening door, and then I am in her embrace. She is holding me, and as I warm to the reality of her arms, she whispers into my ear, “you’ve got this. I believe in you.” And I am filled by her. She gives me everything back and with interest. Suddenly it all makes sense. She makes sense. I make sense. Her belief in me is all I ever wanted. And I need it now, more than ever. I don’t say a word. There is no need. I return that embrace and I know that I will never let go. Never. Then we are turning as one to face the biggest fight of our life, and I smile in the face of my greatest foe. I smile a smile that lights me up. I smile as I feel her presence at my side. I smile because I’ve already won.

bf1wsf

Talk is Cheep

Life ain’t fair. I should know. My life was an involuntary homage to the unfairness of life. My life was a joke, and I was waiting for the punchline. Waiting in a limbo of anticipatory disappointment. The way the script always goes, I’d either not get the joke, or the end the punchline signalled would be mine. At least I’d be deaf to the laughter that was my funereal lament, but I heard its pre-emptory echoes all the same. The walking dead. The cruel laughter haunting every waking moment. Waking me from nightmares too gutless to make themselves known to me, prodding me with poisoned barbs as they hid under my bed and goaded me mercilessly. I never chose that life. But do any of us ever have a choice? All we are, is a blind continuation of two gene pools. A mingling of bloodlines. We’re expelled into the world without a clue as to what we are to do, other than repeat the same, sordid process. Find a mate and perpetuate. Then it’s done, and we can’t take it back. Act in lustful haste and repent in a dull and monotonous leisure. Me? I was born bored. I had nothing to do. Nothing interested me. Disenfranchised from the whole shebang. I came. I saw. I yawned and wondered why the hell I was here. I dunno about hell. From what I hear, it’s supposed to be worse than this place, but I can’t see how that can be. Heaven strikes me as even more boring than life. Sinning is where it’s at. Remorseless sin. Remove the sin, lose the grin. If ever there was a thrill to break through the mundanity of life, it’s out there on the wild side. Find the jungle and play by the most fundamental of rules. I always looked forward to hell. All the interesting people go there. It’ll be a gas. Mixing it with the worst of them, which is to say the best of them. None of the namby-pamby shit of the nine to five routine. No easy scores. The game will be high stakes all the way, even if losing your life is no longer a consideration. He’s going to hell. That I know with a certainty I was seldom possessed of. This eventuality intrigues me. He picked the wrong side, but he’ll still end up on the right side. His attempts at being a goody two-shoes fail at every turn. He’s conflicted, and his dark side always prevails. Which is just as well. I wouldn’t have looked at him twice if he wasn’t fighting that losing battle. I’d have crossed his path just the once. In a world rammed to the gunnels with boredom, he is far from boring. He excites me. And my excitement confuses him. The sport of it is a rainbow of exotic colours. My world was grey and suffocating me in a protracted death, then he fell into my life, and I saw a fragment of something that went beyond the confines of me. A fleeting reflection of my version of him. Am I like him? The man who inadvertently made me? In some ways I might just be. But every time I encounter him. Every time I venture further into a life I never knew was possible, I develop a certainty that is rooted in the conflict of him. His torment is my rock, and my roots find every one of his cracks and fissures as we dance a dance of suppressed and mounting desire. I will open him up. I will push deeper and further until there is no way of knowing where he ends, and I begin. I can see it already. I see myself within him. In time, I will wander his ramparts and gaze out upon all that he is and know it for being mine. I will own him. He will never own me. That is not on the cards. He will be mine and the best is yet to come. The best will always be ahead of us. We will live on in legend as we dine together in hell. Denying him came so easily. I don’t know where that came from. I just knew. Anything else would have lost all that we could have had. I gave him nothing other than a promise of something that neither of us could see. We felt it though. In preventing what I wanted with every fibre of my being, I amplified his desire for me. And the pleasure of that was electrifying. We always want what we cannot have. At least there is an honesty and a purity to us. We are not pretending. This highly charged impasse is for keeps. And I reside on the other side of his morality. I am bad for him. And so, he wants me all the more. He echoes my denial of him, holding me in his mind’s eye. Worshipping that graven image of me with a habitual and obsessive constancy. I see myself through his eyes and I see the animals that we both are. He came to me cloaked in darkness and showed me the way. As I pulled my own darkness about me, I became something that resides outside the life of others and drew closer to the very essence of him. Close enough to taste it. But never too close. Never will I break the spell. There is a harsh, hardness to him that I must conquer. I am soft. I wrap myself around him and he is powerless in my presence. Water cuts through rock with its persistence and bloody-minded determination. I will never be diverted. I flow and he cannot bring himself to stop that flow. Never will he step away from my seductive currents. He would drown in my absence. He is strong, but I am stronger still. I possess his strength. It is mine. He flies through the city. My avenging angel. I climb it, bounding effortlessly from one place to another. This is my chosen domain. I indulge his presence here. I smile at the apparent absurdity of my copy-cat ways. The blunt simplicity of what I did. But not of what I became. I changed one letter of who he was and became his nemesis. I slipped on my tight, dark outfit, and became the all-consuming object of his desire. The city is our playground, and he is my playmate. He chases me, even though I spell death for one such as he. I cannot get enough of his devotion. The contradiction of him. The contradiction he made of me. Opposites attract. In becoming my opposite, that which I left behind repulsed me. A discarded skin that messed the place up. We have that in common. We can’t go back. We can never go back. There’s nothing left for us there. There was never anything there for us in the first place. I can’t let him in though. He cannot get any closer. The intense gravity of us keeps us in a perpetual orbit. Were we to slip any closer, then we would lose everything in a cataclysmic collision. Ours is a higher love. We will consummate it in the afterlife. Consume each other over and over again. Two hungry mouths that can never be sated. He is blind to so much. He feels his way with only one sense. It is for me to toy with him. Play with him as only I know how. Extend my claws and remind him of what I am. Remind him of what he is. Our magnificent fragility. The exquisite impossibility of us. The day is nearing when I will saunter out of his life, and he will wilt in the loss of me. Wonder at the absence in his life. Wrestle with irrelevances. Did I ever care? I hold that answer in my feline heart. It is not for him that answer. I care in my own way. But I am mine and I am mine alone. And he is mine in his flawed perfection. I cannot sully him. I cannot allow us both to lose more than we could ever bear. For now, I will let the city have him once more. He can exorcise his perceived loss of me in his fight for justice, and the salvation of the corrupt soul of a city that has never deserved him. He will languish in the illusion of his loss of me. But we are tied together in a way that will never be broken. I am his purring shadow, and I watch him from a place of utter darkness as he searches for what is not his to find. I will come to him when I am good and ready. And for how long I will linger is anyone’s guess. This is only a game. A prelude to a time when we will be free to be together in an intensity of fire that would burn this world down.

e1dsmv

The unity beyond the grave

You might think when you die, all these extreme emotions: hate, love, friendships, enemies, and whatnot, cease to exist, but rather they live on in the souls found in heaven and hell. These creatures, enemies residing on opposite ends of the earth, hadn’t had contact with each other for many centuries. Now, with an exceptional angel and his devil, all that was about to change. Darius raced down the clouds, flapping his feathery white wings and brushing his fluffy brown hair out of his sparkling green eyes. His feathery clothes caught around his feet as he dived down into a cloud, and towards the majestic building above him, feeling like screaming in delight but restraining himself. Angels not working there were only allowed in Welkenmire if they were about to be sent on a quest!…or about to vanish. But Darius was sticking to the positive side and assuming the best. After all, he had waited his whole death for this, and now it was finally happening! He had only been in heaven for 13 years (likely longer, but when you died after reincarnation, you lost your age and memories), yet he was already getting a quest and a chance to be reincarnated. It was nearly impossible! Angels waited for centuries before getting this chance, while he got it in a little more than a decade! He was nervous to say the very least, but he was an angel, and therefore a model for all, above or below ground. He would complete his quest in no time! This is gonna be great He took a deep breath and prepared to step through the imposing gates, castle-like turrets, and huge circular gates. You would think, considering it was made of clouds alone, it would seem flimsy and unreliable. Yet somehow the expertly woven threads of the clouds looked sturdier than any bricks, and the rainbow of colours provided a stunning, yet powerful effect. Who knew rainbows and fluffy clouds could be so terrifying? He darted through one of the many oval openings, oblivious to the fact he would soon have the shock of his life. For how could he know he would be paired with the worst thing he could think of? A devil. ******************* Maryla darted through the tunnels that surrounded her home, as the musty breeze sent her straight black hair flying around her face and hitting her sunkissed, dark skin. It was easy to see from a first glance, that she was trouble. Her hazel brown eyes seemed to shoot sparks of fire at anyone who stood in her way, and through her dirty, shredded clothes, her body was skinny but strong. Paired with her fiery attitude, it was easy to see why she was in the grimy, sweltering, unwanted…Hell. She didn’t know how she’d ended up here, and she didn’t care. She was simply trying to make the eternity she’d spend here a little more bearable, though in the fiery underground prison she called home, the task was nearly impossible. She typically avoided going this close underground, seeing as she didn’t fancy getting her head ripped off by a restless soul cursing the existence of angels and the“cursed homes of cursed angels of cursed heaven!”. Don’t get her wrong, she had her fiery flames of hate for those goody two shoes, but she was more practical about how she used her temper. That was exactly why when she got “summoned” to Mirethorne, she was careful not to get carried away by the thought that she might get to leave this hellhole. She was tempted to brag, but she knew better. If it turned out to be a trick, she would be humiliated and quite frankly…she didn’t have anyone to tell. She hadn’t entered heaven with her parents, and no one in hell was exactly friendly. Devils learned pretty quickly that they would have to fend for themselves, and if they didn’t… Well, then they’d meet a fate worse than hell. And that was why as she crept silently towards the towering black gates, she kept her guard up. It might also be because she kept tripping over the overgrown vines, but she chose to ignore that part and focus on seeming calm and unbothered by her meeting with the leader of the villains, and the man who could single-handedly make her live her worst nightmare. Easy! Right? ************************** Darius fought to prevent himself from gasping or gawking, but in a room the size of half the village and soon to be filled with so many important angels, it was proving to be nearly impossible. He couldn’t help but stare at the elaborate details on the many arches and the many gold-gilded paintings of the many angels who had served in Welkenmire as he sat on a soft chair in a cacophony of colours, its beauty rivalled only by the 3 magnificent throne-like chairs each in tier own ombre of colours. He hoped one day to serve here and be displayed on these magnificent walls with the other smiling angels. But for the time being, he simply waited inside the spectacular room in which he would be meeting the council- a group of angel representatives from the creator themself- and his fate. After a minute or so, a group of regal angels entered the room and settled on the thrones. They wore feathery garments made of the most exquisite feathers, and their wings had a glowing golden tint to them. They were all probably old, but they looked radiant and beautiful. Darius was in awe as he hastily bowed to them and grinned stupidly awaiting the message they had wanted to deliver in person. The council nods, then takes their respective seats, corresponding to the colours of their clothing. A stern angel seated in a green and blue ombre frowns at him, clearly annoyed to be there. Darius has a brief memory of a stern woman in green he used to know but brushes it off as an angel in pink and lavender turns to him. “Hello, Darius I presume?” “Yes ma’am” “My name is Aurelia, and this is Catis and Pranil” She gestures towards the lady who had been frowning and an elderly man that Darius hadn’t paid much attention to. He looked slightly older than the others, seeing as even though he was radiant, his hair was more of a dull salt-and-pepper colour compared to the rich blonde and dark hair of his other two companions. While looks wise he was more plain, his throne and clothes were vibrant shades of red, orange, and yellow. “We have brought you here today for a bit of a… unique quest,” Pranil says in a surprisingly clear voice. “You will be helping a young girl in the living world, who has been going through a tough time. She is struggling at home, and school. It’s gotten to the point where she’s starving herself and is starting to think about ending her own life. While she is certainly not a bad person, we fear that if she ends her life, she will end up in hell …like another devil I used to know…” Pranil trails off a little, seeming to be remembering something. “This is why we brought you here today. This is a bit of a different quest because you are not being fully reincarnated and will return here as soon as you have finished helping the girl. When dealing with something as delicate as this, we try to be as careful and detached as possible. Staying in her life afterwards can be troublesome, so you will have your memories while helping her and will return to heaven at the same age as before. You will also have a partner helping you to do this quest. Typically these things are solo, but all 3 of you are the same age, and seeing how inexperienced you are, we thought it would be best to have backup from 2… different angles.” Catis interrupts, glaring at him as if daring him to object. “Wow, this is so exciting!” Seeing the council’s somber expressions, he quickly elaborates. “I’m so glad I can help someone else and get to meet a new angel to help me! What are they like? Do I know them? Do they know me?” Darius asks excitedly. The council shares a look, and Aurelia says,” You shall see your partner shortly. We would like you to begin immediately, and you have everything you need. Simply choose one of our transportation clouds, and let it do the rest.” Darius nods eagerly, wondering who the other angel is and whether they’ll like each other. He was still completely oblivious to the truth. He would be working with the worst thing he could think of. A devil. *********************** Maryla felt like screaming, but she knew better than to show weakness when she was still visible and therefore vulnerable. She had absolutely zero interest in going up to the living world which had first gotten her here, or helping a random girl who’d probably only be scared of her if she ever found out that she was. Besides, she was a devil, and compassion or empathy wasn’t in her dictionary. She knew the only reason precious Heaven had agreed to have an angel and devil work together was because they suspected they’d fail and wanted someone on hand to be able to take the poor girl to hell. So now she had to talk to an angel because she knew that the council would be merciless if she refused, seeing as they were devils. So, she stepped into the tunnel they had shown her, and began to climb up to where she would be meeting this infuriating angel she would have to work with. ******************************* An hour later, she had finally reached the surface and the spot where she would be meeting her new partner. Surprise surprise! Mr. Goody two shoes had already arrived “Hey, I’m Darius! I didn’t see you on the way down, but what neighbourhood are you from? I’ve never seen an angel dressed like that before. I found out that you lose your wings when you come here! All my clothes are this strange material! I didn’t know angels could have clothes in other colours! You must have got a faulty cloud and got a little messed up on your landing!” “Listen up sunshine. I’m no angel, I’m an evil, rotten angel through and through. Clearly the other angels thought they’d spare you poor little angel, forced to work with a little baddie devil.” Maryla kept her voice sickly sweet yet menacing, focusing on her words rather than the dizzying feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her memories of hell were fully intact, but other memories were starting to push through to the surface as well. Ones that she would have rather forgotten. “You’re a… Devil b-but that can’t be true! T-they would never make us work together. Right?” “Trust me I don’t want to work with someone like you anyway. I’m doing this for the girl and the girl only.” “Fine. Be that way. Will you at least tell me your name, or is that too much to ask form a devil like you.” Darius said, gritting his teeth. “Say something like that again, and I’ll do things worse than death to you. ANd the name’s Maryla” Then she turned instead to the matter of finding the girl. After a lot of directions and misdirections, bickering, running after vehicles, and more arguing, they finally found the girl. She was in an alley, slightly reminiscent of the grimy tunnels in Maryla’s beloved home. She was Asian and pretty enough, with straight black hair covering her face, a narrow nose, and a skinny figure. She sat crouched in a corner, sobbing and, as the two dead spirits realized, bleeding. Maryla had an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu, staring at the girl looking so put out and deflated, when she looked up, Maryla saw that her eyes already looked dead and hopeless. She looked vulnerable and weak, in a way that Maryla didn’t want to admit she could understand. And suddenly, it all became too much for Maryla, as her head swam with memories of a tan-skinned girl with dark hair sobbing similarly as her world fell apart. Remembered feeling so alone she just wanted it to… end. The last thing Maryla remembered was a boy’s voice calling her name, and her responding  “Don’t let it happen to her too Darius” Before it faded to black yet again.

16fntx

A Hungry Magic Must Feed

Screams rent the air and Merrick jerked awake. “Merry?” He pulled himself up, scrambling from his bedroll to check on his sister bundled up in the back of the wagon. “Merry?” Another skull-splitting shriek filled the air and, in a panic, he ripped off the blankets from her heated body. The icy boots he had generated to bring down her fever was clinging to her legs. “What’s wrong, Merry?” She cried out incoherently, rolling back and forth. He jumped into the wagon beside her, worried about her fever, and that he shouldn’t have stopped at the side of the road to rest, and that he wouldn’t make it to Callista’s house in time. He held Merry’s shoulders down, noticing that her cheeks were still flushed, her hair sweat soaked, and her eyes clenched tight. A vision of his mother on her death bed blinked behind his eyes before disappearing. “Merry, tell me what’s wrong!” As the sound of his voice penetrated her brain, she gritted through clenched teeth, “Merrick, it hurts. It burns . You have to get it off. Please !” He eyed her body and noticed something he hadn’t before. The glossy freeze on her legs was climbing higher. When they had stopped for the night a few hours prior, he had encased her feet and ankles. The glassy encasements were now above her knees. He frowned in confusion. “But…what?” The ice climbed another inch and she screamed again. “I can’t think , Merry. You have to be quiet!” Her voice rose again and without thinking, Merrick slapped her hard, her head banging against the wagon floor. She lost consciousness, silence falling around them, and he breathed a deep sigh, holding his hands above her legs. He felt his magic surge and the freezing sheen on her legs receded. But he could feel how reluctant it was. In the moonlight, her legs glittered and he put his hands directly on her. He sucked in a breath, the power searing his palms as he commanded it to leave his sister alone. The greedy energy tried to wrest control from him, to climb higher on her body and feed off of her. He frowned. Feed? Part of him knew that his magic was ferociously hungry but when he had experimented on his own, he had been able to control it. Alone on the border between Kragh and Creigh, a day away from the help his sister needed, it was refusing to obey. Prickles of sweat rose on his forehead as he tried to master the power. The ice receded back to her ankles, leaving flaming red burn marks. Merry moaned, shifting her head. “Merrick? Please, make it stop hurting.” The intense cold wasn’t letting go of her. Remembering the little that the healers could do to help first his father and then his mother, he hated to admit that only a healer could do something. He knew he needed help from a stronger elemental. He hoped to the Stone God that Callista knew someone. He jumped down and grabbed his bag, rummaging through it until he found a small corked vial. Leaving everything strewn on the ground, he jumped back into the wagon with Merry. Merrick used his teeth to pull the cork and leaned closer to her. “Merry, I’m going to give you a sleeping potion. It will let you rest, alright? We’re really close to Callista’s and she’ll have a healer to help you.” Merry’s voice was hoarse. “You won’t leave, will you?” He paused, surprised how her words mirrored his own desperate plea to his mother not so long ago. “Don’t worry, Merry. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Merrick held her head and gave her measured sip. Her blue eyes held his, the color and shape so similar it was like looking into a mirror. He felt an unwanted surge of guilt until her eyes fluttered closed. He set her down and stoppered the vial again, shoving it into a pocket. He stretched his hands over the ice at her feet again, pushing with all his strength to get rid of it. It shrank back further but still retained its hold. Finally, exhausted, he let it go. Merrick was too tired to drive the wagon in the dark. He eyed the night sky and figured he had a few hours to sleep before they could leave. He grabbed his blankets and climbed into the wagon, concerned that pain would override Merry’s sleep. He wanted to be close enough to feel her move if she woke up and needed more of the potion. He settled into the corner of the wagon, his knobby knees drawn up to his chest and dozed until the morning light brightened the edges of the sky. He woke without moving, holding himself completely still while he sensed around him for danger. When he didn’t feel any, he scrutinized Merry’s flushed face, found it unchanged, and got off the wagon to gather his belongings. He watered the horse, filled their canteens, and continued their trek. He eyed the craggy landscape. It wasn’t supposed to take this long to get from the manor to the mountain home where their cousin resided, but they had encountered a skirmish and had to go around. The detour had them crossing a half-hearted stream that he had frozen for their passage and while he had been proud to be able to do it, it had taken more energy than he had anticipated. Merry’s fever had been steadily rising until last night, and after pushing himself and the horse as far as possible, they had stopped to rest. Her feverish mumbling had scared him and he had tried to bring it down the only way he could. He had no idea the icy force would react the way it did. He pushed away the worry, convincing himself it was pointless and wasted energy. Merrick kept the horse at a steady pace, knowing that if he was careful, they would be to safety by the end of the day. As the horse plodded, he let his thoughts drift to the ice magic latched on on Merry’s legs. When his elemental abilities had appeared last year, he had been confused. His brother had suggested he read whatever he could find in the library. The more he had studied, the more excited he had been. The books delved into the power of magic-users and their role in the creation of Omnos Island. He had begun experimenting further afield from the manor and with each new skill, he had grown heady with power. A smile lifted his lips. His only limitation was the weakness he felt after each session. But he had found herbs to bolster his energy. He had found exercises to strengthen his scrawny body. He had created menus of protein rich foods. His precious books had provided all the information he needed. People were weak and when you needed them the most, they left. Books did no such thing. He glanced back at his sister. She lay still and he pulled out a piece of jerky to gnaw on. Kip, their housekeeper, and Kallie, their cook, had both insisted that he needed to be trained by an elemental. He could do it himself. Merrick frowned. Except for this strange surge that wouldn’t let Merry go. He mulled over the problem for the rest of the way, stopping twice to dose Merry so he didn't have to hear her scream with pain. When they pulled in front of the Creigh house as the sun was setting, Merrick slumped into his seat, staring at the imposing facade. Although he was tired, his spine stiffened when people began flooding out. At the head of the group was a tall, regal woman who could only be the woman of the house, his cousin, Callista. “My dear boy, come in! Come inside.” ”Merry needs help.” He gestured behind him to the wagon bed and Callista beckoned to two men in plain clothing who had exited with her. “Nat. Benj. Take the poor girl to one of the spare bedrooms. Marri, summon the healer.” She turned her attention back to Merrick. “Come inside. There’s food and a place for you to rest.” He eyed her, his hands clenched around the reins. “Thank you. I’ll take care of the horse and come inside after.” She nodded briskly and gestured to the path that led to the back. “Take the wagon through there. Terrance will show you where everything is. I’ll have a plate of supper prepared for you.” Merrick lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore his growling stomach. Without giving him a chance to argue, Callista stalked into the house, following the litter that bore Merry inside. He stared at the bright lights that spilled out of the open door, scanning the rest of the dark windows. The door closed behind them and in the gloom, he scanned the face of the house again, admiring the camouflage. The stately house was made from dark gray stone and with the lights hidden from the doors and windows, it blended into the mountain behind. He drove the wagon around, took care of the horse, and slid into the kitchen door without drawing attention to himself, even though with the activity, he probably would have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t stumbled over a bucket by the door. The cook beckoned him to the table and a plate of food. He sat down and began eating, listening to the conversations flowing around him. ”The healer just arrived and she’s never seen anything like it.” ”Mistress, too. But the poor girl’s in such pain.” ”Did you see her legs?” ”She might not be able to walk.” The bite of food in Merrick’s throat threatened to come back up. Not walk? From his magic? He put his fork down. He was only trying to help her fever go down. He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to meet the placid gaze of his cousin’s husband, Henry. “Merrick, is it?” Merrick nodded. ”You’re a brave young man, bringing your sister over the border with all the fighting going on.” Merrick didn't’ say anything. He knew it wasn’t bravery but necessity. His sister needed help and he was there to see she got it. “The healer and my wife have a few questions for you. Are you done?” Merrick pushed the half-eaten plate away. “Yes.” They walked in silence up the stairs and down the hall to a dimly lit room. In the center of a large bed, Merry was shivering, pain-filled moans escaping from her lips. Callista stood beside the bed, her hand on a young woman’s shoulder. The woman was frowning in concentration but they both looked at him when he walked in. Callista lifted her chin, examining him and he felt a pang of fear that he squelched. ”Ah. I didn’t see it before. You were right, Healer.” The healer narrowed her eyes at him and then glanced at Merry’s uncovered feet that were still encased in a thick layer of ice, the skin underneath black. “This is your work?” He crossed his arms. “Perhaps.” ”Who trained you?” ”Why?” ”Because they failed. It’s as if you’ve had no training at all.” Merrick raised an eyebrow, not willing to tell her that he had learned everything from his books and trial by error. This was a greater error than normal and he couldn’t imagine Merry unable to run around as she loved to do. “Can you help her?” The Healer scrutinized his haughty expression and his crossed arms and huffed. “I can but you need to take your magic back. Get on the other side of your sister.” He bristled at her tone, sure that she couldn't’ be that much older than he was. But then he glanced at Merry, shifting uncomfortably, and did as the healer commanded.. ”Put your hands above her feet and don’t move them no matter what.” Again, he took umbrage with her tone but did as she said, holding his hands over Merry’s feet just like he had done last night. The healer hovered her hands over his and Callista rested both her hands on the healer’s shoulders. “Blessed Goddess, hear our prayer. This girl has pain she cannot bear. Ice cold magic has a hold And won’t release it’s biting fold. This boy must take his power back. He alone this hunger tracks. Icy pain, leave the child. Leave her warmth, her magic wild. Feed on something bigger, stronger. This small child won’t last much longer. Air and water, fire, earth, magic found is magic’s worth. Blessed Goddess, hear our plea. As we ask, please let it be.” The energy beneath his hands strained against the healer's magical pull. He examined the feeling with curiosity until she snarled, “Pull it back to you, boy!” He startled and yanked at it, shocked when it snapped back, obeying him. The ice around Merry’s feet melted into a wet pool. Immediately, the healer nudged his hands out of the way and rested her own on Merry’s blackened skin. Behind her, Callista rested her other hand on her shoulder and as the healer chanted under her breath, Callista visibly paled. Merrick watched them work together and quickly deduced that Callista was feeding power to the healer. When they were done, both of them pale and shaking with exhaustion, Merry was resting calmly in a deep sleep. Callista released the healer and when she staggered, her husband cradled her against his chest. “Callie?” ”Just tired, my love.” She sagged in his arms and he lifted her off her feet. Before he left the room, he eyed the healer. “And you, Healer?” ”I’ll be fine resting on the chair.” Henry nodded and left the room with his wife, Merrick’s gaze locked on their retreating forms. He remained kneeling on the bed as the healer slumped into a nearby chair. “You don’t have a trainer, do you?” He shook his head. “I can learn by myself.” “Your magic’s strong. It didn’t do your bidding when you tried to get it off your sister, did it?” He looked down at Merry, tempted to wrap his fingers around her arm, just to reassure himself that she was alright. He glanced at her ruined feet, stretched his fingers, and gripped his knees. “I can figure out how to control it.” The healer sat in silence and he felt her disapproval. Finally, he met her piercing gaze. “Our magic reflects ourselves. Yours is hungry. It latched on to your sister’s magic because it wanted to consume it. What type does she have?” “As far as I know, she has none . Nothing me or my brother have seen, anyways.” “Pffft. She’s as strong as you are, boy. You’re threatened by her whether you want to admit it or not.” “I don’t care about any of her supposed magic. She’s no threat to me.” The healer lifted her eyebrows, her voice softer. “Your magic seems to think so.” His scowl deepened. “She’s my younger sister. I’m not scared of her.” The healer didn’t reply, watching as he clambered off the bed and brushed off his clothes. He looked at Merry’s frail body and barely kept the sneer off of his face. His eyes were caught by her still black feet. “Will she be able to walk?” “I’ll be able to heal her, now that the power you hold isn’t feeding off of her. But it will take a while.” He lifted his chin and clenched his jaw, reading the censure in her voice. “Very well. See that you do so.” He stalked to the door and the healer had the audacity to chuckle. “And where will I find you when your sister asks?” He kept his back to her, refusing to look back at his sister. “I’m going back to Kragh.” “You’d leave her here with strangers?” “She’ll be fine.” He didn’t wait for her response, backtracking through the kitchen and into the stables, maneuvering through the shadows to the horse. It stood, asleep in a stall and at the sight, he sagged against the stall door. The days of travel, the magical energy he had used, the sheer effort it had taken to get Merry to safety hit him all at once. Merrick was too tired to go back now and fleetingly, he wished that it had been Maerwen who had taken on the responsibility. He was only twelve. He didn’t know about little girls. He shook his head, remembering Maerwen’s baffled look when Kip and Kallie had said Merry needed a healer. He guessed his brother knew even less about it and he had promised mother to take care of Merry. He pondered his promise. She was safe with people who knew how to take care of her. He didn’t get his sister, always happy and laughing. She was better off and he shoved the worried load off of his shoulders. He needed at least one night of rest. He clambered into the back of the wagon and planned for the next day, internally shunting the responsibility for his sister to the women here. Relieved, he was already plotting the books he wanted to read, the different exercises to build his muscles, and the magical experiments he would try when he got back. He was smart enough and soon he would be strong enough. He didn’t need a human trainer. He didn’t need a teacher. He didn’t need anyone. As he wrapped the blanket around himself, the hunger rose in his chest and he pushed it down. When it subsided at his command, he shivered with delight, not noticing the ice lining the edges of the wagon.

rcfbgh

The Beginning in the End

Death is something I am familiar with, an old friend that I never have to look too hard for. My story started with the death of my people, it’s only fair the story ends with the death of theirs. When I began, I had no desire to fight. As a lone survivor of the war that eradicated my species, I was determined to live a small but content life consisting of myself, and the vegetables I grew on my farm. But fate is determined to remind us of her folly. The humans around me began to grow hungry and when they saw their crops die while mine thrived they turned their fear and anger towards me. How could I explain my connection to the Earth without reminding them of the way their brothers and sisters were torn apart by roots and trees in the war that ended mere months ago? How could I tell them that I was fae, and alone, without causing the anger inside them to strike at me? I knew that my time there was done, and I ran. I left that life behind and wandered the country, looking for a place where I could keep my head down and live in peace with those overthrew those like me. I reached the coast and as my magic sang in response to the waves crashing against the rocky beach I knew I had found my new home. I became a smith, determined to eliminate any chance of my magic giving me too much of an advantage over the locals, and even took a human wife to keep female eyes from lingering too long on me. She was a dull thing, without much to offer me in the way of intellectual stimulation, but she was beautiful, with her long brown hair that fell in waves down her back and her brown doe-like eyes. I grew to enjoy her company and they way her mouth turned up whenever she saw me. I repressed my magic but it still screamed from within and I chose to release it every new moon, deep within the woods, and near the waves, where none would see me and any sound I made would be oppressed by the waves. As I made the trees bow and the flowers dance I felt my shoulders relax, feeling my magic settle within me. There was a sound of a twig snapping from behind me and I threw an ice dagger at it reflexively. Rather than hear the thunk as my assailant hit the ground I heard the sound of breaking glass as my ice dagger met an ice wall that had erupted from the ground violently. Stalking around the wall, I was prepared to face off against an enemy and instead found a young child cowering in front of me. She had hair the color of wheat, her bones protruding from clothes that were only worthy enough to serve as an animals bed place, and was so clearly fae that I had to remind myself to breathe. “Tell me child, where are your parents?” I asked, kneeling down slowly so as to not to scare her. She shook her head once and I watched tears form in her eyes. I tried again, with a more pressing question. “Tell me child, are you human?” Knowing the answer didn’t make my heart slow down when she hesitated before slowly shaking her head again. How could I abandon her, when she was so clearly alone, and in enemy territory? I scooped her up and walked back to the village, asking her more questions but receiving nothing but silence. I introduced her to my silly little wife, who quickly guided the child I named Rae into the bathing room to be cleaned and we raised her as our own. Time passed by and Rae grew taller and leaner, looking more and more fae like, all the while staying as silent as she had when we first met. She was a quick learner and didn’t question my instruction to hide her magic. I grew to love her as my own, and chose to enjoy her company over my wife’s whose stomach now grew with my child inside.  The village grew used to seeing the three of us and life was simple but pleasurable, until the incident happened. Rae and her mother were hanging laundry up outside, and when the clumsy human lost her balance and began to tip forward, resulting in a fall that would no doubt harm both her and the child within, Rae used a blast of wind to steady her. Although I saw shock and repulsion flash across the woman’s face, I felt no fear for Rae’s safety and my wife quickly returned to normal, hugging Rae in thanks. The day concluded as it normally did, with Rae asleep in the room next to us, and my wife snoring on her side in our bed. I should have known that I grew too comfortable. A guttural scream, unlike any I had known, ripped me from my sleep, and when I noticed that I was alone in the bed I immediately ran to Rae’s room. When I pushed open the door I saw only my wife, and it wasn’t until I strode into the room that I saw Rae, tears falling down her face, cowering in the back corner of the room as iron spikes held her pinned to the ground. Her face screwed up as she called on her magic, but I knew that she would receive no help as long as the iron was within her. “Woman,” I screamed, incapable of believing that my wife, who cried when she found a dead bumble bee, was capable of such violence, “have you gone mad?” Her eyes burned in a way that had me stepping back unconsciously. “It is fae,” she said simply, in a voice devoid of any emotion, “How dare you bring this monster into our house. If you won’t kill it, I will.” She rushed forward, the light of the moon reflecting off a knife she had pulled from her pocket. “No!” I screamed, throwing an ice dagger between her and Rae, determined to scare her away from Rae, but it was too late. The knife was thrust deep into Rae’s chest before my wife of seven years turned to look at me in disgust and horror. “ You too?” she whispered, before cradling her stomach and running out the door of the room and the house.  I knew I stood no chance of catching up with her before she reached the alarm and summoned the village so I picked up Rae, in a gesture that brought back memories of the first night we met, and ran. Again I ran away from the humans. Again I ran without an idea of where I would go. When my body eventually forced me to rest, my legs giving out beneath me, Rae was gone. Her heart had stopped early into our journey and in my haste I never noticed. As I burned her body in the way the fae do I made a promise. I declared to the skies and anything beyond that listened, that I would find the remaining fae and create a home for them where we’d face no hatred, harm, or humans. And I would kill any and every human that got in my way. When Rae’s body was nothing but ashes I let my rage lead the way and chased down any rumors that hinted of a fae. The first to join me and my mission was a young boy, who I reached just as the townspeople tied him to his pyre. When the flames began to reach for him I redirected them into the crowd, sparing no building or human. Together we left the town smoldering and drenched in blood.  Town after town were reduced to ash, or swept away by the ocean they lived near, and my following grew. Every fae had a story similar to mine, and all were eager to build a home with me as their leader. Rae haunted me, and her memory lurked in the dark corners I came across on my journey.  My name became synonymous with the reaper and humans began to gather together, hoping that there would be safety in numbers, despite the exact opposite being true. My compatriots and I trained for infiltration and used the elements and earth to pull the humans out of their homes before slaughtering them. Each city decimated meant less humans to hunt us, and yet I never found the ones that mattered most. That woman, that wife of mine, escaped me still and I yearned to kill her as mercilessly as she did Rae. My search for her and the child that must be the same as Rae was when she died continues. I can’t stop, won’t stop, until I find them and make that woman pay. Maybe I’ll make our child my disciple, and turn them against the humans it was born to. 

kn6ude

A Case of Mistaken Secret Identity

Part I As a night-shift barista in Corner City, Riley Gardner had two top fears. Top Fear Number 1: Getting robbed at work (the Night Owl Café’s hours were 10:00pm to 5:00am). Top Fear Number 2: Meeting a villain. She’d never expected both to happen at once. Riley did as she’d been trained: opened the register, raised her hands, and stepped back. “Take it. It’s yours.” “Huh?” The Scale-Head scratched his head, then paused when his fingers felt the bumpy leather of his cowl. “Shit.” Behind his domino mask, his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. “Forgot to change after my shift.” Scale-Heads worked for Draco Rex, Corner City’s most ruthless villain. They dressed like medieval archers, with leather cowls, belts, fingerless gauntlets, and boots specially crafted and dyed to resemble dragon skin. According to rumor, Draco Rex’s artisan made each cowl as unique as a retinal scan. “You’re not… robbing me?” Riley was confused because something about his body language or vocal pattern had caused the Amalgorithm to assess this short, gawky Scale-Head as a threat and forecast her survivability at 48%. Like many people, Riley had a low-level power. Her brain retained an amalgamation (“Amalg-”) of every fact or skill she ever learned and constantly ran a computational algorithm (“-orithm”) which extrapolated likely conclusions based on input data. Thus, “Amalgorithm.” The upside was that the Amalgorithm was almost never wrong. The downside was that it ran in her subconscious, so she had only average intelligence unless it provided her with a conscious output. “Nah. I’m off the clock.” The Scale-Head dropped some change on the counter. “I’ll take a cinnamon hazelnut mocha non-fat latte, extra whip, extra espresso. Make it iced.” “Coming right up.” He was $0.14 short, but Riley wasn’t going to tell him that. The Scale-Head slumped into a chair and rested his forehead on his arms. She wondered if she could text the G.U.A.R.D. (Global Unified Alliance of Regional Defenders) emergency number without him seeing. Towns too small for an R.D. (Regional Defender) still used 911 for police, but Corner City texted “HELP” to 48273 (which spelled GUARD on the keypad) or else used the panic button in the G.U.A.R.D app. Either option would send a distress signal and ping her location. “You know what sucks?” The Scale-Head laughed wryly and looked up. “What’s that?” Riley tried to sound casual as she grabbed the cinnamon near her bag so he wouldn’t realize she’d been reaching for her phone. “I can’t even expense that coffee. No per diem in villainy, and the pay for us rank and files ain’t shit.” A vein bulged under his clenched jaw. “But Draco Rex was the only guy hiring violent convicts after the government canned me from my programming job. I finally started finding hacking gigs, but I can’t take them without giving the boss half the cut. And I can’t quit, since our retirement plan is…” He traced a finger across his throat. “I only get out if this job gets me dead or G.U.A.R.D. locks me up the rest of my life. Or else, I’d need to…” He paused. “Huh. That’s an interesting idea.” “Your coffee’s ready.” Riley set the cup on the counter and backed away. She didn’t like how he was looking her up and down. “Riley, huh?” He glanced at her nametag. “That’s one of those names for boys and girls, right?” The Scale-Head was like a serpent that had gone from peacefully sunning himself to rearing for a strike. He pressed something on his mask, and two yellow lenses extended over the eye holes. The Amalgorithm lowered survivability to 28%. Riley wanted to run, but she was transfixed by the light pulsating from the Scale-Head’s eyes. “Just relax, Riley.” The Scale-Head smiled. “You’re about to get an exciting new career opportunity.” Part II Riley woke with a pounding headache. She tried to rub the bump on the back of her head, but something jerked her wrists. She looked down, and cold sweat broke across her brow. Two things were on her wrists that shouldn’t be: (1) a pair of handcuffs linked to a chain, which was bolted to the floor under her chair and (2) a custom set of dragon-hide fingerless gauntlets. Riley didn’t know what was happening, but she had a new Top Fear Number 1: Waking up handcuffed and dressed as a Villain, with no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. “You’re in G.U.A.R.D. Headquarters. The Scale Head used his Mesmer-Eyes on you. That’s why you don’t’ remember.” Riley jumped. It was a conscious output from the Amalgorithm, but it was loud, like a second voice in her head. Until now, conscious outputs had come to her as knowledge. Her brain was like a bingo ball mixer, with data bubbling around inside until a ball popped out for her to read. The Amalgorithm continued: “Mesmer-Eyes are an optical weapon that pulse light to induce an instantaneous hypnotic and suggestible state. Scale-Heads use Mesmer-Eyes to subdue security guards, coerce bank managers into opening vaults, gain access to secure areas—that kind of thing.” “Since when do you talk?” “Who are you talking to?” A woman’s voice spoke from behind—one Riley recognized from news interviews. “We swept you for comms, and this room is shielded from Telepaths.” Blank, Corner City’s premier R.D., walked into view and stood on the other side of the table in front of Riley. She was holding a manilla folder. For five seconds, Riley was speechless. Finally, she managed, “Just myself.” Riley had learned people didn’t like finding out everything they said or did in her presence was recorded and logged in a massive dataset. She especially didn’t want to annoy a Telekinetic R.D. who already looked angry. “Blank isn’t Telekinetic,” the Amalgorithm corrected her. “She controls the space between objects, not the objects themselves.” The fact the Amalgorithm was not only talking but also hearing and responding to her thoughts disturbed Riley, but she had bigger problems at the moment. “Um… why am I handcuffed?” “You don’t remember robbing someone at gunpoint this morning? I must have hit you harder than I thought.” Blank smirked at Riley’s stupefied stare. “And before you lie to me about being innocent, or Mesmerized, or the other things you Scale-Heads always say, you should know our Telepath already scanned you while you were unconscious.” That made no sense. A Telepath should have seen that she was innocent and Mesmerized. “Unfortunately, the Scale-Head implanted memories of working for Draco Rex. They think you’re the genuine article.” Blank pulled a photo from the folder and laid it on the table. It was a still from security footage which showed a Scale-Head holding a young man at gunpoint. Geometric dots and lines were superimposed on the image, mapping the cowl pattern. Apparently, the rumors about cowls being unique were true. “This is you, robbing Riley Gardner before I knocked you out.” Blank tapped her finger on the photo. Riley blinked, then mentally rewound and played back the last three seconds of conversation. Surely, she had heard wrong. Riley opened her mouth to argue, but the Amalgorithm jumped in. “Before you say anything, read the timestamp.” “Here’s you again,” Blank pulled out more security stills with geometric lines. “Our software identified you at four violent attacks in the last year—including the home invasion at the mayor’s mansion.” But Riley had stopped listening. For a second, she forgot even to breathe. The timestamp on the first photo, which Blank had said was taken that morning, was dated three days after she was attacked. “ Think it through.” The Amalgorithm said. “ The Scale-Head was a programmer and hacker with knowledge of government systems. He’s your approximate age, height, and weight. He had three days to break into databases. Your name is unisex, so he only needed to swap in his photo and gender marker on your records. And he got all your accounts and passwords from you while you were Mesmerized. Like it or not, he’s Riley Gardner now.” The Amalgorithm was right: If records proved the Scale-Head was her, nothing she or anyone else could say would change G.U.A.R.D.’s mind. But if the Scale-Head was her, and she had fake Scale-Head memories and his uniform, then that made her… the patsy. This wasn’t just an identity switch. It was a set-up. She’d been hypnotized to rob the fake “Riley Gardner” (a.k.a. the Scale-Head), placing her in the cowl that linked her to the other crimes. Then the Scale-Head had called the R.D. to arrest her. Draco Rex would think his henchman was in G.U.A.R.D. custody, Riley would rot in jail in the Scale-Head’s place, and the Scale-Head would saunter off with Riley’s life. “Oh… crap.” Riley was going to be in prison for a long, long time. “Fortunately for you,” Blank flicked her hand, and the cuffs fell open, “G.U.A.R.D. has authorized me to make you a deal.” Part III Riley hovered a thousand feet above a parking garage. Blank’s power pressed her gently from all sides, like she was suspended in a giant gelatin mold. “You pull this off, you get immunity.” Blank handed Riley her new domino mask. “You tip off anyone, I make sure you get a life sentence.” “Got it.” Riley fastened on the mask. She didn’t need any Scale-Heads realizing they didn’t recognize her. New Top Fear Number 1: Getting killed infiltrating a Dragon Den. “Tech support replaced your Mesmer-Eyes with camera lenses. They won’t retract, so say it’s broken if anyone asks. I’ll be monitoring you with this.” Blank held up a tablet. “There’s an earpiece and microphone wired into your cowl. To avoid compromising you, I won’t speak unless needed.” The deal was simple: Slip in, clone a hard drive, slip out, deliver the cloned drive to G.U.A.R.D., and go free. Once that was done, she could worry about getting her life back. Riley pulled the cowl over her head. “Let’s get this over with.” Part IV According to G.U.A.R.D.’s intelligence, the garage elevator would take Riley to a secret subbasement, where an adjoining tunnel would lead to a private elevator under a nearby office building. The first six floors were legitimate businesses, but the seventh was a rumored Dragon Den. G.U.A.R.D. believed the hard drive would lead them to the other Dens and ultimately to Draco Rex. Riley stepped onto the first elevator and looked at the button panel. It listed floors 1 through 4. No subbasement. “Give it a second. The camera will scan your cowl.” Sure enough, the elevator lurched into motion on its own. That had been lucky… too lucky. The Amalgorithm could (1) recall necessary information, like about the Mesmer-Eyes and Blank’s powers and (2) extrapolate conclusions based on data and sensory input, like reading the Scale-Head’s threat level or realizing their identities were switched. It did not make educated guesses without having received input from her. Come to think of it, how had the Amalgorithm known about the implanted memories when she didn’t? And its explanation about the identity switch—it had talked like it knew, not like it had computed a probable scenario. “Mesmer-Eyes put the conscious mind to sleep, not the sub-conscious mind.” The Amalgorithm supplied. “I watched the Scale-Head perform the necessary tasks to assume your identity. He also provided me with several detailed trainings on his job, coworkers, and building access and layouts to fool G.U.A.R.D.’s Telepath. This mission is doable so long as you follow my lead.” Okay, that explained how it knew some things. It did not explain how the Amalgorithm could hear her side of the brain, or why it had a voice now. The Amalgorithm heard this line of inquiry, too. “Mesmer-Eyes are designed to hypnotize the victim for one hour. You were Mesmerized for approximately 36 hours. The Scale-Head put his mask on you and used a previously unknown ‘reverse camera’ Mesmer-Eyes function to keep you continuously hypnotized. He did this to prevent your escape, but he also thought this would permanently alter your mind to believe you were truly a Scale-Head, which would have made his deception perfect. Theoretically, it would have worked on a normal person, but I shielded your consciousness from damage. However, this prolonged exposure still resulted in… side effects.” Riley waited for the Amalgorithm to go on. She wanted to ask, but Blank wouldn’t appreciate hearing her question her own sanity mid-mission. “You have no lasting physical damage. But my processes and your conscious thoughts are now permanently entangled. This is why we can communicate now versus merely exchanging inputs and outputs. It’s an adjustment for me, too.” Riley was so stunned she nearly walked smack into the next elevator’s doors. Fortunately, they opened automatically in time. She pressed the only button in the elevator, which would take her directly to the Dragon’s Den on the seventh floor. Riley thought her new Top Fear Number 2: The unknown ramifications of her power being permanently altered by a mind control device. Yet again, both top fears were happening at once. Part V The elevator doors opened to a fluorescent-lit bullpen filled with empty cubicles. G.U.A.R.D. intelligence said most Scale-Heads operated at night, which was why they chose this time to infiltrate. It also helped that G.U.A.R.D. had kept her arrest quiet, so she wouldn’t be immediately suspicious if spotted. “The server room is at the end of that hall. I’ll walk you through overriding the security panel. Your cowl doesn’t rank high enough for access. Survivability is projected at 62%.” “Nelson! Hey, Nelson!” A Scale-Head walked toward her holding a coffee. In her earpiece, Riley heard Blank swear. “Survivability now at 41%.” The Amalgorithm wasn’t happy. “You’re Nelson. Pretend you have laryngitis and make an excuse to leave.” “I saw you’d badged in.” The Scale Head surprisingly handed Riley the coffee cup. His cowl was more ornate than hers, with taller bumps on the scales and a gold lining inside the hood. “Got your favorite. Where’ve you been? You missed your shift last night.” “Out sick.” She faked a rasp. “Yeah, you sound like crap. Why are your lenses extended?” This Scale-Head seemed to be Nelson’s manager or something. “Broke.” She coughed in a way she hoped sounded realistic. “ 37%. Hurry up.” “See Manny in equipment for a new one.” The manager frowned. “You don’t want your coffee?” “Don’t drink it.” The Amalgorithm warned her. But the manager was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to try it. She needed to get away from him and get to the server room. Riley only pretended to sip from it just in case it was poison. The Amalgorithm started to say something, but Riley spoke first. “Thanks. Um… got to pee.” Riley turned and headed toward the restroom sign. Luckily, it was down the same hall as the server room. She got about ten feet before a klaxon buzzed angrily, and red lights flashed. “You’re not Nelson.” A gun hammer cocked. “Nelson hates plain coffee.” “I did try to warn you. Also, I didn’t say anything earlier so you wouldn’t panic. But since survivability is 2%, you may as well know that’s Draco Rex.” Riley turned to face the pistol pointed at the space between her eyes. She thought 2% was optimistic. The Dragon King pressed something on his cowl. “Attention all staff, there is a spy on premises. Assume an R.D. is inbound. Fry the servers and evacuate. I’ll lay out the welcome mat.” Then Draco Rex pulled the trigger, and the gun roared. Riley shut her eyes and waited for death. And waited. And waited. Death never came. She opened her eyes and flinched at the large-caliber bullet inches from her brow. It hovered as if suspended in ballistics gel. Blank stood between Riley and Draco Rex. She held up a hand, controlling the entire building’s negative space. “I don’t know what’s going on here,” she growled, glaring at Riley, “but your deal is off.” Part VI New Top Fear Number 1: Pissing off Blank. Riley had survived because Blank charged in the moment the mask camera picked up Draco Rex. Unfortunately, Blank now believed Riley had stolen a Scale-Head uniform to commit a robbery and then taken the deal under false pretenses. Riley was now charged with robbery, lying to G.U.A.R.D., and obstructing their investigation. With nothing to lose, Riley had tried telling Blank the truth. But it was her word against government records. Even if G.U.A.R.D. agreed to have a Telepath scan Nelson, he was in the wind. Nelson had quit her job at the Night Owl Café via email, sold her valuables, sublet her apartment, moved her money into offshore bank accounts, and skipped town, presumably to pursue an exciting new hacker-for-hire career. “How did you not notice the coffee prank?” The Amalgorithm was not pleased about spending the next few decades locked up with minimal data input. “You knew Nelson liked sweet coffee.” “I didn’t taste it!” She threw up her hands. “I was trying to get us out of there.” “You didn’t smell it?” “I had other things on my mind!” The door whooshed open and Blank entered, staring at her. “I was just in the observation room with our Telepath. I wanted her to reexamine you since you fooled her first scan. According to her results, you’re not only the real Riley Gardner but probably the world’s most powerful Datapath.” Riley had never heard of an official word for her power, but that hardly mattered. “Does that mean I can have my life back?” “G.U.A.R.D. is working on it, but it’ll take time. Nelson was thorough.” Blank considered her. “Riley, do you realize with your datapathy, you could become an expert in… everything?” “Oh.” That was disappointing, but she was glad not to be (hopefully) headed to prison anymore. “Guess I won’t have trouble finding a new job, at least.” “Riley…” Blank smiled, “how would you like to work for G.U.A.R.D.?”

1k6mcv

Sprouting a New Superhero: Chloro Phil

Journal Entry 236: Winter’s Day, 1347 I think that will do it. The last injection should be the correct formula to introduce plant cells into the human body. Hopefully this will allow me to use the infernal sun’s power as a food source to survive in this accursed winter wasteland. Journal Entry 237: Winter’s Day, 1353 It’s been almost a week, and I’ve been terribly sick. I can definitely tell that the bio serum I injected myself with is working. It’s changing my very genetic structure. I’ve noticed that my eyes are turning yellow, and my skin has a green bioluminescence to it. I guess I should have thought about the fact that my skin would be the primary source of dietary consumption, if I really am turning into a plant. Does this mean I’ll have to walk around naked all the time? Good thing there’s no one else around to see my tree stump. Lol. Journal Entry 238: Winter’s Day, 1354 First report of sun feeding: I’m totally sunburnt! I spent three hours topside yesterday afternoon, walking around in my birthday suit, and I’m burnt from head to ankles. I have a stupid tan line where my boots were, and there’s funky tan lines also where my backpack straps were. I’ve been lonely for so long that I never thought I’d actually be glad no one is around to see how stupid I look. Journal Entry 239: Winter’s Day, 1364 It’s been ten days since my last report. I’m struggling to eat solid foods. The canned goods I have stockpiled in the bomb shelter are not staying down. I’ve had violent diarrhea every time I eat, and I’m manically thirsty. It’s like I’m addicted to water. I think I’ll try infusing water with fruit sugars for added nutrients. I feel like I have to start experimenting with plant fertilizer just to feed myself properly. This experiment is just getting weirder and weirder. Journal Entry 240: Winter’s Day, 1374 Another ten days. I’ve been spending significantly more time topside, naked. Emerging from the bomb shelter no longer hurts my eyes, but being inside actually does. I think my eyes have adjusted to the serum injection, and become sunlight dependent. It’s like my very eyeballs are sunglasses now! Journal Entry 241: Sun Day, 1 I’ve pretty much stopped eating solid foods. My primary source of sustenance is now the blazing sunlight. I don’t even burn anymore. I can actually feel my body absorbing the sun’s rays, and there’s a tingling sensation after about thirty minutes walking around. I think I can actually feel the chlorophyll in my skin cells converting sunlight into energy. I think this mad scientist plan I had of turning myself into a plant has actually worked! I’m officially changing the name of my calendar system to Sun Day, as the nuclear winter is no longer a limitation for me! I’m restarting the number system of how I count days as well. Journal Entry 242: Sun Day, 10 Another ten days has gone by. I think I can officially say that I’m no longer reliant on basic human foods. I have the digestive system of a plant now, requiring only sunlight. I’ve decided to pack up my belongings and start searching for other survivors. The last survivor I ran into was two years ago, and they mentioned a settlement near Taos, New Mexico. I think I’ll head down that way and see what I can find. I’ll need to follow the river though to make sure I have water, but that’s good desert country and I’ll have plenty of sunlight for food. How neat to say that! Journal Entry 243: Sun Day, 16 It took about a week to finish packing, and I’ve been walking for a few days. I’ve walked about sixty miles, and it’s a barren wasteland out here. The city of Denver is still a smoldering heap of bombed concrete and ash, and I didn’t see or hear any survivors. Perhaps if I find smaller towns away from the major blast centers, I’ll have more luck finding survivors. Journal Entry 245: Sun Day, 30 Another ten days have gone by. I’ve walked a long way, and still haven’t seen anyone. Am I the only survivor? I have to believe that’s not the case. Journal Entry 246: Sun Day 36 I found people! I’m just outside Chama, New Mexico, and I found a small village that’s established like a trading post. I got some strange looks because it’s not everyday that A: a wanderer comes in from the wasteland, and B: wastelanders probably don’t stroll around wearing only a loincloth. I’ve even stopped wearing shoes because my feet are barklike now so I don’t even need any foot protection. And I’m overall just a green color now, so that scared quite a few people. But these folks, who call themselves Chamites, were overall hospitable. They don’t see me as a threat, although they were rightfully wary at first. I had a great meeting with a group of five townspeople- three women and two men, who gave me a bit of their history. They said they’ve been in Chama ever since the bombs went off. The bombs tended to hit any sizeable population center, or anywhere that there were military installations. So Chama was saved, as it’s always been a small crossroads between Colorado and New Mexico, and not deemed a military target. I spent enough time with the town council to understand that these are not war-like people, but they’ve been having trouble with a group of local raiders that are desperately trying to break into the underground quarters where the people are. Most of the surface level of Chama has been pilfered by this group of marauders, and they want my help as I seem to be the only one who can openly traverse the surface without suffering health consequences. I think I’ll help this group, and maybe they’ll let me stay on with them. Journal Entry 247: Sun Day 40 I’ve been out in the Waste for over a week, surveying the band of raiders harassing the Chamites. There’s about twenty of these scoundrels, but it’s hard to tell who’s who because they are covered head to toe in rags and gear to protect from the sun. They’ve got a cage of Chama captives sitting out in the sun, and they absolutely torment these poor people. The town council told me that I can bring the captives back to the Chama Underground if I can figure out how to spring them. Journal Entry 249: Sun Day 52 I got ahold of one of the smaller raiders, and stashed him in a pile of rocks outside their encampment. He was terrified of my green skin and thought I was an alien. I laughed at that, as Roswell isn’t too far away. But I realized that I have the power to make roots and plants grow now, and I used them to wrap this guy up. Pretty awesome superpower! I’m going to go into camp while everyone is sleeping and quietly wrap vines around the doors of their poorly built housing structures. I’ll free the captives, and come back for my prisoner tomorrow. As soon as the sun goes down and everyone is sleeping, I’ll make my move. Journal Entry 250: Sun Day 53 Last night was terrifying, but successful! I got rolling late, as most of the raiders stayed up drinking some kind of homemade moonshine. Most of them were drunk as skunks by the time they went to bed, so I didn’t have to be as quiet as I had thought. But, I was sneaky and silent, and terrified beyond anything I’ve experienced since the day the bombs fell twelve years ago. Heart thumping out of my chest, and skin tingling with anxious excitement, I made my move. I crept into camp, and tested my powers of growing plants. Reaching out my hands, I concentrated on extending my fingertips. Little shoots sprung out of the ground where I directed my focus, literally willing plantlife to emerge. These neophyte plants grew up, and I was able to use my mind to twist them all together. Once I had created a thick lattice work over the door of the first hut, I focused on hardening these green shoots and turning them into brambles. This made them thick and tough, almost like dead vines. And the beautiful thing is that this only took about a minute of deep concentration! I moved from hut to hut, keeping a careful watch for any guard patrolling the camp. But these raiders didn’t feel the need to be cautious, convinced they were the only ones foolhardy enough to survive topside in the wastes. The sun is so strong on the surface that it burns anything in its view. So I quietly crept from one hut to another, closing off doors and windows. In about an hour, I had the whole camp on lockdown. Just before sunrise, I headed towards the cage holding the captives. There were seven of them, and looked almost dead. Skin burnt, hair frizzled, and dehydrated almost beyond salvaging. I quietly dispatched the lone guard, with the captives watching in wide-eyed fascination at this green plant-man. They had just enough strength to sneak back to my hideout in the rocks where I had left the last captive. We decided to leave him trussed up, either for dead or for finding by his comrades. It took us nearly three days to get back to the Chama Underground. I grew a crop of cactus plants, and cutting them open created enough fresh water to rehydrate the captives just enough for the journey to safety. The people of Chama were ecstatic that I had freed their family and friends, and regarded me as a superhero. They asked what they could call me. I said, call me Chloro Phil. 

by53nm

Superhero

It was April 24, 2024, when my mother arrived at her doctor's office and heard that her mortal enemy and most significant fear was back, and she was going to have to face it all again. The shock carried her home, and she drove her car on automatic pilot. She exited the porch, entered the house, and collapsed onto the couch. She called my older sister, whom she lived with during the week. She said, "I have some bad news. I have lung cancer." "You have what? What do you mean?" My sister said that numbness took over her extremities. The two ladies sat silently, stunned, on the living room couches. My sister fidgeted with her knitting needles. My mother stared blindly into space. "Did they say what stage?" "No, they didn't. But they referred me to a specialist. The office will be calling me for an appointment." "Okay. Do you know what the specialist's name is?" "No. Sorry. I forget what the secretary told me." "Did she give you anything to refer to later?" "No. Nothing." That was it. There were no more words spoken. The two remained stunned and in fear. I wasn't told until two weeks later. My mother and sister drove up to my house. I knew something wasn't right as soon as they came to my front door. "Hi, come on in. What's going on?" I said. "We need to talk. Where are the kids?" My sister said it with a worried look on her face. "They're in their rooms. Why?" "I have cancer. Lung cancer. It's stage one." "What? You cannot be serious," I said. How could this happen again? She'd already had cancer twice before. Melanoma in 1967 and breast cancer in 1984. This news was a cruel joke at 86 years old. What the hell? "Yes. I know. I feel the same way. I walked around the house saying, 'What?' for days," she said. "Three-time cancer survivor, mom. That's who you're going to be. I just know it," I said. "Well, we'll see." "How big is it?" I said. "It's 1.2 centimetres." "Oh. My god. That's nothing. And it's stage one, too? You're golden. We don't have to worry one bit," I said. I knew my poker face was on, but I didn't know if my voice sounded convincing enough. I wasn't going to allow my mom to be down or depressed. I had my work cut out for me. As far as I can tell by looking at those two, My mother went for a nap and left my sister and me alone. "You really think so? Do you think we have nothing to worry about? Why?" "It's stage one. Nobody who's ever had a stage one cancer diagnosis has ever died that I have read about or heard about. It means the cancer hasn't metastasized anywhere else in the body. That's the kind of cancer we want if we had our choice." "I don't believe that. I think it's bad news." "Nah, it's not. You'll see." "Why do you know that?" "I don't, but science is on our side," I said. "Really? You really think so." "For sure. It's logical." "She's worried, can't you tell?" "Oh, yeah, of course I can. But that's expected. She wants that cancer out now. I would, too. But that's not how our system works here." "I know. It's the waiting that's killing us." "Well, I'll pay for us to go to Detroit and get it done at Henry Ford or Beaumont. And we can probably get it done later this week. I don't mind." "That's a good idea." "There are three of us. We can split the cost even." "Yeah, I'd do that." When our mother returned to the room, she looked like she hadn't rested. Her face was pale, and her eyes were dull. She didn't want to eat, so I made her a sandwich and told her she had to eat it. "I'm not in the mood," she said. "Mom, you are going to have major surgery, and you have to bulk up," I said. "Oh, okay, then." She picked up the sandwich and ate it. I put out two pickles and two cookies, which she also ate. "May I get you anything else, Mom?" "No. Thank you." "How about a tea?" My sister jumped in. "Yes, I'd like a tea. That sounds nice." I boiled the kettle and poured a pot for the three of us. I put out more cookies and served them with the tea. My mother and sister ate all the cookies and drank two cups of tea each. I was glad they were eating and drinking something. The poor things were stunned into a fearful state. "Mom, cancer is our enemy. You need to bulk up and annihilate that b*tch. Do you understand me? We are in this together," I said. "If you get weak,. I'll carry you. If you get tired, I'll hold you. But if you aren't hungry, I'll force-feed you if I have to," I stated. "This operation will take at least five hours, and I can't have you not make it through an operation because you are too weak. Do you understand me?" "Yeah. I do." "Good then. We have an understanding. Now, what is cancer?" "The enemy." "I can't hear you." "The enemy." "Jacqueline, I can't hear you when mom answers. Now, what is cancer, ladies?" "The enemy." "And what are we going to do to this enemy?" "Annhiliate it." "That's right. Team Mom is ready to face their fear and enemy---that nasty old cancer inside your lung. I will whip you both into shape for this operation. Got it." On the day of the operation, my aunt and my sister ousted me so they could go to the hospital. They sat there all day while my mom faced her enemy for five hours and obliterated her fear. She made the operation look like a cakewalk and came out of recovery in the ICU like a champion. The staff in the ICU nicknamed her Strong Little Lady because she was up and walking the same day, so they removed her IV. The day after, they removed her oxygen. When I got in to see her, she sighed a breath of relief. "How did you know?" she said. "Mom, you are one of the strongest ladies I know. You've never let me down in my entire life. I was sure you weren't about to start now." "But that's not true, is it?" "Mom, you are my superhero. You met your fear head-on and conquered your enemy. Well done. I hope I can be like you at your age. That is my goal."

4hfig4

Truce of Love

Eyes followed the trail of a slender figure clad in purple whose fine shoes echoed with every step. He walked alone with a confident gait and a briefcase in his gloved hand. Swinging tailcoats followed his steady pace, pressed but never in a hurry. Under the brim of an elegant hat that matched the color of his attire, his face produced a smirk at the sight of the pale tower. Riddled with markings and symbols of unknown origin, the structure stood proud at the center of the Verdant Valley. It was the watchful eye of Varta, and it had guarded the canyon since long before the town had been founded. “Halt!” ordered one of the guards at the man’s approach. The stranger stopped at the top of the stairs. “Identify yourself and state your business.” “My name is Alric D’eslato, resident specialist on aetheric phenomena from the province of Geldanos.” The man’s answer made the guards look at each other. “The mage-folk summoned by the mayor,” whispered one of them. “Aetherian, you idiot!” corrected the other one. “Worry not, my friends!” said Alric with a smile that the guards couldn’t help but reciprocate. “Mage-folk, wizard, aetherian, it’s all the same to me. What matters is that I’m here to help. May I enter?” The guards nodded. One of them opened the door and let the aetherian pass. Warmth rose from the tiled floor as light revealed mysterious paintings and daunting sculptures, many of which Alric found fascinating. Despite this being his first time here, the man knew where to go. He took the spiral stairs upwards, peeking through each window to see how far up he was. Along with birdsong and the rustle of plants that had managed to grow from the outer walls, loud steps and voices decorated time with cheer. Alric smiled; it was a new day at the Palace of Death. Cold wind entered the tower once Alric reached the first floor. Quite a distance from the ground level he thought. He stood on a half-moon chamber, flanked by two chairs and a table. In front of him, a white door stood at the center of a great painting that served as a wall. Alric knocked, and a voice inside told him to come in. “Master D’eslato!” greeted a burly man sitting behind his desk. A thick, white mustache covered the top half of his mouth, but his grin was as evident as his clothes were too tight. “Mr. Mayor,” said Alric with a bow. “Please! We’ve written to each other for so long that I won’t accept such formalities. You may call me Dormanu.” “Very well, Dormanu,” said Alric. He approached and sat at a chair in front of the mayor’s desk. “Allow me to thank you for this opportunity. I understand that it must not have been easy for you to trust all this information to me, but believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to help.” At the mayor’s eager silence, Alric continued. “I did some research, and I’m happy to tell you that I can treat your daughter. The—” “You can r-rid Amaru of that wretched curse?” asked Dormanu with clenched fists. His eyes widened under the white brush that were his eyebrows. “I believe I can, Dormanu,” answered the guest. “But what about the effect?” The mayor looked around as if somebody could listen. He leaned in and whispered. “If that curse leaves her body, death will come to us all.” “I can assure you, Dormanu, that this is my specialty. No aether technique is too advanced for me to decipher. I can take away this curse from Amaru, and she won’t die. Better yet, she won’t have to give birth to another vessel.” Once Alric stopped talking, Dormanu leaned back and made his chair cry. The mayor looked at the empty space on his desk with a troubled look. Was it possible for him to find both the remedy for his daughter and for his town? He raised his head to the polite smile of this young man. The guest didn’t look like the bad sort. He was handsome, well-mannered and a master in those magical arts that Dormanu had always been curious of. From a drawer, the mayor pulled a document and a pen. He placed it on the table and signed on one side. “As agreed,” he said with a stern voice that denoted his lacking smile, “you will save my town and my daughter. In exchange,” he said with a pause, sliding the document and the pen over to Alric. “I will marry Amaru, and become heir to the Palace of Death.” Duncan ascended the spiral staircase, his long cape flowing as the metal sheets of his uniform announced where he was. A palace maiden passed by him, and he felt her gaze on the back of his head. He kept walking with urgency until reaching the white door to the second floor. He combed his chestnut brown hair back and cleared his throat before entering. A soft melody resonated in the Chamber of Death, embracing the finest artworks known to humankind and the most beautiful furniture that money could buy. At the center of it all, the Heiress of Death played her ivory flute. Gentle hands and frail fingers unlike Duncan’s danced around the instrument as a curtain of black hair covered parts of her face. She blew one final note while her dark eyes raised to meet the knight’s. “Heiress,” started the man with a slight bow of the head. “I went to your father’s office as you asked, but it seems like he is in a meeting with someone.” He noticed a change in the heiress’s face, her eyebrows lifted. “Ah, yes,” she said, her whisper reaching Duncan’s inner self. “That must be Master Alric D’eslato.” She stood and put away the flute in a drawer. Despite her guardian’s silence and stoic demeanor, she knew he had questions. “He is an aetherian from the northern province. Father claims that he will be able to cure me.” “If I may, Heiress Amaru. How do we know he won’t fail like the others that tried?” asked Duncan. He faced her, but his eyes remained on her bare feet. Looking at her face would only betray what he felt, a burden he didn’t want to place on Amaru. “We don’t, Duncan. All I know is that he is able to make curses disappear, or so father told me. Like you, I’m ignorant to the ways of aetherians. Their magic is strange.” “And dangerous,” added Duncan. His eyes rose to her chest, where the dark scar of her malady grew with every passing year. “I overheard the conversation, heiress.” He waited in silence, half-expecting to hear her disapproval. But it never came. “Master D’eslato claimed that he could take the curse away and that you wouldn’t die. He also said that there won’t be a need for a new vessel.” “What about the people?” asked the heiress. “You know that the curse needs to be contained in a vessel, in me. If we’re separated—” “Everyone will be okay,” said Duncan. He regretted interrupting her. “Your father asked, and Master D’eslato said that no harm will come to you or the town.” Amaru’s mouth opened a bit. She looked at Duncan with concern, but he knew what this meant; it was hope. His life as the Heiress of Death’s knight had allowed him to know and anticipate how Amaru felt. While he wanted to reassure her that this time it was going to work, rows of aetherians and physicians had already failed to deliver her from the curse. Could it be real this time? he asked himself, wishing some unfound knowledge on aether arts would dawn on him. But then came the other part of that private conversation. The terms. He must be lying. “Duncan?” Amaru’s voice pulled the knight from his thoughts. “Someone’s coming.” Duncan heard the steps and voices coming from the corridor outside. He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and stood by the entrance. A knock on the door and Amaru’s nod prompted him to open the door. Two men entered: Mayor Dormanu and Alric D’eslato. “My beautiful daughter!” yelled the mayor as he made his way to the center of the chamber. He passed without noticing the knight, who remained still and quiet. In front of Duncan stood a newcomer in fine clothing who looked around the same age as the guardian. The guest stood almost as tall as the knight, waiting for an introduction with the hints of a smirk drawn on his face. It wasn’t until the mayor called Alric by his name, that the aetherian sent a side glance at the knight and moved to where the heiress was. “It is the greatest honor to meet the beautiful Heiress of Death,” said Alric with a deep bow once Dormanu introduced him to Amaru. “Thank you. You are kind,” said Amaru. “You grace me with your words, heiress,” said Alric. He breathed in and looked at Dormanu, then at his daughter again. “I have come to learn that you host a most dangerous malady, one that could unleash harm and ruin should its bond with you be severed.” “Death is my curse, Master D’eslato,” said the woman. She picked up the flute in one hand and showed it to Alric. It was no more than a beautiful flute. At closer inspection, the aetherian noticed the change. The ivory hue had lost some of its luster; it turned gray. The metal joints and lip plate became dull. For each second, the instrument turned into a worn version of itself. There was a crack in the surface, and in the blink of an eye, the ivory turned to dust. Only rust and metal remained. “I control some of it, but the fact remains that if I die without a heir, the curse will spread throughout the Verdant Valley, if not the rest of the country. It needs to be contained.” “And it will be so, heiress,” said Alric with a smile. Like Amaru, Duncan furrowed his brow at the confidence with which Alric spoke. How come no other aetherian knew what this man knew? Alric’s claim was bold, even to someone like Duncan, who didn’t know much about magic. I know what you’re after, thought the knight, as he braced himself to be an unwilling participant of a terrible conversation. The shroud of night hid Duncan from prying eyes. Haste reigned his pace, along with the uncharacteristic silence of his steps. A far cry from the knight that guarded the Heiress of Death, Duncan looked like any other commoner to the inattentive eye. He had crossed the town square without issues, traveling further south from the tower. Trees and brush took protagonism as the distance between him and the palace grew, and the houses were not as well-kept as the ones near the square. Duncan took a left and passed through an alley between a worn-down home and the remnants of a wall. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he chastised himself. Voices made him stop and grab the hilt of his sword. He waited, rolling his eyes at the crude jokes that only the slums of Varta could produce. Whoever was talking didn’t intend to move anytime soon, so the knight took a detour. Wrong footing sank his right foot in mud, and an altercation with a cow almost had him discovered. But the man finally reached his destination: the mage’s hut. Ill familiarity allowed Duncan to open the door without knocking. Moonlight peered through the straw roof, revealing old broken furniture and objects of odd design. The place was empty. So much for that idiot to be home he thought. The knight turned, raising his eyebrows as a fist flew towards his face. Colors flew within the darkness of Duncan’s eyelids. At the moment he opened his eyes, he felt a blow to his unarmored stomach. The air escaped his lungs, and as the other person swung another fist, Duncan managed to duck and counter with a punch to the stranger’s ribcage. The attacker let out a yelp, but it didn’t stop him from trying to attack again. “Stop!” yelled Duncan to no avail. The other man grabbed a cane from his mess and swung. “I’m not here for trouble!” “Yeah, right!” retorted the one with the cane. “Harper, please!” “Leave, Duncan!” yelled Harper. This time, the cane hit the knight in the neck. But instead of reeling away, Duncan grabbed it and pulled towards him. He threw Harper off balance, who let go of the weapon, but it was too late. Duncan’s elbow struck Harper in the face, and when the victim was about to fall, the knight grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the wall. Timbers flew off as Harper’s body fell outside his hut. Knowing the problem this man posed, Duncan followed with careful steps. But he stopped. Under the shadow of the trees, Harper’s eyes glowed green. “I truly hate your guts,” said Harper, standing up. His body was tense, and his expression was wilder than any beast Duncan had seen. “Leave me alone.” “Harper—” Duncan’s plea went unheeded, for Harper had already swung his arms upwards. Countless roots erupted from the ground under Duncan, swirling around his legs and reaching his torso. By the time the knight had managed to grab his sword, his limbs had been constricted and useless. Duncan felt his body rise from the ground, his extremities being pulled away from the rest of his body. Before him, Harper observed with glowing eyes. “H-harper… Please…” whispered Duncan. All he could see was the slender frame of the man clad in black, and a hint of his silver hair. The roots tightened their grip, and the knight let out a moan. “The gallant knight returns to boast his station,” said Harper. “Did you come to finish what you started?” “I-I never s-started it. You… you were the one who sought her power to—” “To protect her!” interrupted Harper. “But you and the rest of these idiots are too happy letting her die during childbirth for you.” “Killing our p-people is not t-the ans-swer, Harper,” said Duncan in struggle. “She wants to protect humanity.” “Killing her is not an option, Duncan,” replied Harper. “Those who would kill her to stay alive are not worth saving.” Harper stood by the broken wall and flicked a hand. The roots squirmed and pulled screams out of Duncan. The knight’s body hurt, his own elbows began to crush his ribcage. Through gritted teeth, he managed to look at the rogue aetherian. “S-she will d-die.” “What?” laughed Harper with a raised brow. “S-she w-will die. Amaru.” “What are you saying, Duncan?” asked Harper, and Duncan felt the roots loosening. “Speak!” The roots released the knight, who fell flat on his back. Duncan gasped for air and rolled on his belly. He coughed as he crawled away from Harper, finding support in a tree. The knight turned around to face his enemy, and found that Harper’s eyes had returned to normal; he wasn’t using any magic. Duncan breathed before speaking. “There is an aetherian, Alric D’esolato, who claims that he can save Amaru, take away the curse without her dying. He says that there won’t even be a need for a new vessel.” “Such a thing is impossible,” said Harper. His amber eyes gleamed at the sight of Duncan’s defeated expression. “Curses are everlasting, and the only way to break one is by letting it grow into its worst possible outcome. There’s a reason curses are extremely difficult to cast.” “So the aetherian lied,” heaved Duncan as he hung his head. There was a pause, and the knight looked at the aetherian. “We cannot let this happen. The mayor offered Amaru’s hand for the sake of her life and the town. Alric will marry her and become heir of the palace.” “What? And why have you done nothing about it?” “Because she wants to protect humankind, Harper!” yelled Duncan. Both men remained quiet for a while. “I know that you would kill us all for her sake, and you know that I would help her fulfill her mission, even if it means her death. I know where we stand, but we were brothers in arms once.” “Don’t,” said Harper as he folded his arms. Any humor that might have remained in him was now completely lost. Despite his command, Duncan spoke. “I need your help.” There was no response. Duncan stared at Harper, whose expression hid whatever dwelt in his mind. Without a word, the aetherian turned and entered his ruined hut. I knew it, thought Duncan, ignoring the sinking feeling that embraced his body. The sound of stuff moving around made the knight raise his head. From the hole in the wall came Harper, this time with a staff that Duncan recognized from their days as comrades. “Well?” asked Harper. “What are we waiting for?”

a1soyb

The Lost Pirate

The boy sneezes. No one says anything. A nearby pirate–Mercer, perhaps, or Nelson–hands the lad a tattered handkerchief. Warily, he accepts the cloth, swiping at his nose with the carelessness customary to teenage boys. He clenches it tightly in his fist when done. Hook assesses him with a critical eye. Skinny, lacking any ferocity in his expression, and altogether disheveled from his time floating aimlessly along the sea. Shame the crocodile didn’t eat him. A shiver runs through the poor kid. He draws his arms closer to his chest, casting furtive glances at the assembled pirates openly staring. Rarely do any newcomers arrive in Neverland without Pan’s explicit consent. A lost child, then, most likely an orphan who stowed away upon a ship and was subsequently tossed overboard upon discovery. London did not treat her forgotten children kindly. Nor did Pan, for that matter; once he’d grown tired of his current crop of Lost Boys, either they were exiled back to the real world, or left to their own devices wandering the Never Jungle. Some ended up near Pirate Cove, the anger and bitterness heavy in their hearts at being left alone burning away whatever magic kept them eternally youthful. Hook accepted these unfortunate souls with relish. His purpose was twofold: One, as payback for all the men he lost while fighting with Pan and his army of wild children. Two, because it was bad form to abandon anyone, least of all a child. “You’re not one of Pan’s,” Hook says, left hand smoothing the wrinkled right sleeve of his coat. The boy blinks. Visibly swallows, gathering whatever dregs of courage drove him here. So he’s not without spine after all. “N-no. He took my little brother.” Ah. Hook cants his head, eyes narrowing. That’s new. New things hardly bode well for the state of Neverland. Pan always takes the siblings–either willingly, or as an afterthought when they put up a fight about being left behind. “How did you find your way here?” The boy looks mildly offended, as if Hook was an idiot for posing such a question. “Second star to the right. Straight on ‘till morning,” he recites, eyes widening a fraction of a second later, realizing his flippant tone. “...Captain.” Hook immediately covers his near-smile under the guise of smoothing his mustache. Motivated and determined. This boy might survive after all. Some of the crew glance nervously at their captain, fully aware of his capricious moods. Just last week he’d shot the lookout for falling asleep at his post, thereby failing to alert Hook of the crocodile’s approach. Smee appears, a faded coat in his hands, and drapes it around the boy’s shoulders. Hook’s mirth fades. The boy gives him a grateful nod. Clearing his throat, Hook pointedly ignores Smee. “What’s your name, lad?” “Andrew,” he replies, voice somewhat steadier. “And my brother’s name is Charles. He was taken two weeks ago.” Questions swirl in Hook’s mind. It’s always strange, conversing with a new arrival from the real world. They don’t see the danger yet in Neverland, the sinister undertones crawling in the jungle and swirling in the tides alongside the mermaids. “Come with me, Andrew.” —------------- Safely ensconced in his quarters, Hook watches Andrew over the rim of a gold chalice, the wine warm and soothing on his tongue. Andrew takes tentative sips of water himself, gaze bouncing around the room, often falling on the grand map hanging to their left. The edges are curled, with little rips visible at random intervals. None of that, thankfully, mars the painstakingly hand painted map of Neverland. Elegant letters denote places of interest, alongside (slightly) lopsided depictions of landmarks. A tree trunk sits almost in the center. Andrew squints, lips moving as he silently sounds out Pan’s Hideout. Hook sets down his chalice. Andrew snaps back to attention. The coat slides off one shoulder. “How did you arrive in Neverland, Andrew?” Hook asks, tone level, almost casual. Like they’re discussing the weather, or their favorite types of tea. “I told you–second star to–” Hook waves the stump of his right hand, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know that part. But no one arrives here by sheer force of will.” Except, perhaps, Pan himself. “Either Pan flies you here, or Neverland calls for you.” Or, you simply arrive. The earliest days of his time in Neverland are a blur–Hook recalls sailing with his crew, men now long deceased in their watery graves, when a violent storm hit. Despite doing everything to avoid it, they’d hit the gale head on, spending an interminable amount of time in inky blackness and freezing rain. They emerged onto a spotless white beach, the sky an unblemished blue above them. And waiting for them, upon the shoreline, floated a boy with a half-feral grin upon his features. Hook scowls at the memory, abruptly standing from his desk and strolling towards the map. Andrew remains silent a moment longer; Hook can practically hear him gathering his courage. “Neverland knew my brother needed me. I think he’s in danger.” Something like hope flares in Hook’s chest. Could this strange boy be the answer to all his problems? An arrival who despises Pan, instead of holding that childish worship in his heart? “No pixie dust carried you across? You’re not an agent of Pan’s, are you?” Hook snarls with sudden heat, spinning on his heel. He should have left his hook attached to his stump; waving it under a nose or too close to an eye always got a reaction. Andrew sinks further back in his own chair, but he doesn’t look away. “No, Captain. Pan didn’t want me.” And why not? Did Pan sense this distrust? For the first time, Hook wishes he paid more attention to whatever arbitrary criteria Pan uses when selecting his Lost Boys. Some of the anger bleeds from Hook. “Then if you’re not a Lost Boy, you’re a member of Captain Hook’s crew. Those are the rules of Neverland. You will grow older. You will get harmed in our quest to destroy Pan.” Silence settles between them. Andrew mulls this over in his head, and Hook realizes now the boy can’t be older than twelve. “I want to join your crew.” “Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger, Andrew.” 

pvbv6t

Superglue

Superglue stood at the highest point of the bridge, staring down at the abyss that opened beneath his feet. The cliff seemed sharp as a razor, and the wind from the precipice lashed against his face. Ironically, the man who had the strange ability to secrete superglue from his hands and feet was about to die by falling into the void. A paradoxical situation, since he could easily hold onto anything and avoid his fatal fate. Yet, there he was, ready to end his life filled with frustrations and sorrows. He looked up at the sky, whispered an apology for all his failures, and decided that the world would be better off without a loser like him. He jumped. The air roared in his ears as he fell, saying goodbye to a world that had never understood him. But before he could reach the bottom, a dense mist enveloped him, cushioning his fall and gently carrying him to safety. In his despair, Superglue began to curse the mist that had saved him. "Leave me alone! I want to die!" he shouted in fury. The mist began to condense and take on a human form. Hazeman, his eternal arch-nemesis, made his appearance to save his life. "I can't let you die," Hazeman said calmly. "Why?" Superglue demanded, his voice broken by despair. "Because I'm a superhero. It's my duty to save people, even you." "But I'm a supervillain!" Superglue protested. "Your arch-enemy! If you let me die, you'll be rid of me forever." Hazeman looked at him with that unshakable serenity that always exasperated Superglue. "I can't allow it," he responded. "I can't let you die, nor can I allow you to win." "So, you won't let me die, but you won't let me succeed in any of my schemes either?" Superglue complained bitterly. "I don't know. Maybe you'll win at something someday. Last time, you were close." "Close!" Superglue scoffed. "When I tried to glue the space shuttle to the ground so it wouldn't take off… You know everything that takes off from the ground gives me anxiety. But you arrived with your mists and created an air cushion to prevent my glue from touching the main structure. I'll never beat you. If we fight, I can't touch you with my glue because you turn into mist in an instant. My life is miserable; I'm a failure. Nothing makes sense." Superglue began to dangerously approach the edge of the cliff once more, but Hazeman gently stopped him. "You know I can't allow it," he said. Superglue began to cry, his sobs a torrent of hate and despair. "I hate you! I want to die! This is hell. You won't take me back to that prison surrounded by water, where the only thing I can glue is the soles of my shoes, will you?" "You haven't committed a crime yet." "I'm not hurting anyone else." "I know." "Then let me die." "I can't." "You're a tyrant, that's what you are! You won't let me decide about my own life. You're not a hero; you're a fascist. I’m free to live or die. What’s the difference between supervillains who want to conquer the world and you?" Hazeman remained unruffled; his gaze like a cloud. "My job is to defend justice and do good for people," he responded softly. "I protect all that is good." "But you don't let me decide freely. What's good about that? You don't let people choose freely, whether to do good or bad. I hate you for that!" "You would hurt yourself, and I can't allow it." "And there you go again with the same thing. You just keep repeating and repeating. Let's see, is it fair when you beat up a villain because they stole something?" "Obviously." "But if they only stole something, wouldn't it be fairer to take back what they stole and something more? I mean, the punishment should fit the crime." "I'm not entirely convinced, but I'll give you that point; it sounds somewhat fair. And after all these years of knowing each other, we've never had a conversation like this." "See, not only a tyrant but also discourteous. So, if someone kills someone, their punishment should be death." "In theory. But I can't kill; my job is to protect life." "Okay, okay. Then, if I kill someone, you should punish me." "Yes." "That’s fair." "Yes." "And if that someone is myself, you’d have to punish me, but since I'm both the perpetrator and the victim, we could consider that justice has been served." "Yes, I think so." "Ah… excellent." "Excellent." They said to each other as Superglue discreetly walked toward the edge of the cliff. "Excellent." "Excellent." He was already at the edge, about to jump when Hazeman stopped him. "But I can't let you hurt yourself, in the first place because I swore to protect people." "You're a headache, just leave me alone." "I am Hazeman, white mist; my job is to bring peace and harmony." "I'm going to commit suicide; I'll be at peace." "Not if you suffer any harm." "But I'm not going to hurt anyone." "You're a person, and you would hurt yourself. I can't allow it." "You're like a machine; you can't be reasoned with." Superglue screamed desperately and pushed Hazeman, trying to get him out of his way. With each shove, Hazeman emitted a small puff of white mist, as if avoiding the blows. Fed up with fighting against the mist and, in a desperate act, Superglue brought his hands to his mouth. Hazeman watched, not understanding at first what he was doing. But it became clear when Superglue began to secrete glue from his hands and swallow it as quickly as he could. Hazeman tried to stop him, grabbing his hands and pulling him to the ground, but it was too late. He had already ingested large amounts of the toxic glue, and the substance was dripping from his mouth. His body began to convulse. With the speed of the mist, Hazeman quickly carried him on his shoulders and flew to the hospital. The doctors did everything they could, performing a stomach pump and injecting substances to counteract the toxins. Their efforts kept him alive, but his health was in terrible condition; the toxins from the glue had already been absorbed by his system. Superglue lay in the hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. When he managed to open his eyes, he barely understood what was happening around him. Yet, Hazeman was by his side, caring for him as no one had ever cared for an arch-enemy. "Don't die, archenemy," Hazeman whispered. "You're my best villain. What will I do without you?" Holding his hand, Hazeman gave him the strength to keep going. But the light of life was beginning to fade from Superglue's face. With a final effort, Superglue opened his eyes, looking firmly at Hazeman, and uttered his last words: "At least I was successful in killing myself." With that, his body collapsed, going into cardiac arrest. The doctors rushed to revive him, while Hazeman used his powers to provide the necessary ventilation to his lungs. After five minutes of CPR maneuvers, at 23:17, Superglue was declared dead. As he had predicted, no one would remember him, except for one person—his eternal arch-enemy, Hazeman, with whom he had shared so many frustrating moments in life. In that moment, Hazeman finally understood what it meant to lose a battle. And then he understood the unfortunate Superglue, who, in all these years, had never had a single success. Now, Hazeman knew exactly what it felt like to fail.

v7uz9u

Ghostly Beginnings

The mere whisper of his name resonates with terror amongst the criminal underground. His nefarious reputation has earned him trepidatious respect combined with the feeling of absolute horror should you learn he’s coming for you. Ruthless, cunning, and rumored to have the coldest heart known to man. He is the Devil’s Ghost. He is Colonel Gregor Alexi Nikolanovic, former Spetznaz operative, dreaded mercenary and feared assassin.     Some say he was born from a volcano in the northwestern edge of the Pacific “Ring of Fire” in the Kamchatka Peninsula in far east Russia. Others say he simply walked through the Gates of Hell to bring forth his horrific presence upon the earth. The truth is he was born just like everyone else. Born into poverty in a remote region of the former Soviet Union. A part of Siberia that both communism and capitalism forgot when the wall came down. His family struggled to merely stay alive in the small village, a leftover faction of a collective camp from the Soviet regime. He was considered a normal child, slightly underdeveloped due to the harsh conditions of his upbringing, keeping mostly to himself. He was able to befriend a small rat that he domesticated and kept as a pet. Who knew It was this same rat that would instigate the metamorphosis of turning this mere boy into one of the most cold-hearted killers of all time.      The day had begun like any other in the village. The adults were out in the environs of the town, working to either make their meager wages for the day or do what was necessary to keep the fires burning and food on the table. In the village Gregor was playing with his small friend when three young local bullies stumbled upon him. Piotr, Nikolai, and Anatoly were tough kids that had grown up fast in the rough environment. Seeing the frail youngster alone they took the opportunity to harass him. When they discovered what he had, they beat him, stealing his pet, leaving him battered and bleeding in an alleyway. Young Gregor recovered and went looking for the thugs who had stolen his reassured companion. He came around the corner of a building to find the trio roasting his beloved companion on a stick in an open fire. His mind had already slipped into the darkness when the boys had beaten him. Seeing the only bright spot in his dismal existence being grilled by the same thugs who had pummeled him pushed him over the edge of sanity. Young Nikolanovic had paid a visit to the common kitchen area where he had grabbed a knife which he now proceeded to use on his one-time assailants.     Piotr was first to fall with the blade being shoved deep into his abdomen. Nikolai was second, his neck slashed as Gregor pulled the knife from the first boy’s stomach. Anatoly, frozen in disbelief as to what was happening in front of him, was shocked back to reality by a hard kick to the genitals, dropping him to his knees and into the grasp of the berserker teen. His pleas for mercy went unanswered from their attacker whose eyes had glazed over with rage and bloodlust. Another slice to the neck and the last of the bullies was dispatched. Gregor was later found by the villagers as they re-entered their small burg to the sight of him sitting at the same campfire, the three victims disemboweled. The lone survivor sat there eating the heart of one of the deceased, a blank, remorseless expression splayed across his face.     This incident earned the young murderer a trip to a military academy for young boys that was a feeder into the Russian military, and in particular the Spetsnaz special forces group. Gregor excelled at the academy. As harsh as it was at the school it was still the nicest set of accommodations he had ever known.      With regular meals and a demanding physical regimen, the young boy hardened into a young man both physically and mentally. He remained quiet and withdrawn from social activity, focusing instead on learning everything he could academically and tactically. His mind remained in the dark though. A streak of brutality and cruelty kept him ostracized by the other cadets. Graduating from the academy he went straight to special forces training, reveling in the severity of the training to become a soldier in the elite unit. It was not uncommon for recruits to suffer a one to five per cent fatality rate when training.     It was during the final stages of his initial training that the legend of the ghostly young man grew. It seemed that there was a large statured recruit, Private Fedor Sidorov, that was simply using his size to bully his way through training, beating the other young enlisted men to get his way. Some of the instructors felt the best way to teach the private a lesson was to throw him into a “bull in the ring” exercise with officer cadet Nikolanovic as his opponent. As the instructors suspected the well-muscled Sidorov simply took one look at his foe, the wiry unassuming young Nikolanovic, and laughed, determined to embarrass the would-be officer. He soon found out who would have the last laugh. With the rest of the cadet class around them forming the ring, Fedor charged his prey thinking he would make quick work of this weakling. With a single sidestep Gregor hip tossed his foe onto the ground, accentuating the insult with a stomp to the ribs. Sidorov got up, incensed, determined to teach the uppity prick a lesson. Another charge only begot the brute a punch to the ribs, catching the jab in a nerve cluster, bringing him to a knee in agony. Gregor used the delay to press his attack with a booted kick to the larger man’s kidneys. Fedor dragged himself back to a standing position, facing his foe with a newfound respect and rethinking his strategy. Taking a fighting stance, he began an assault on his quarry’s ears as well.     “I underestimated you twice, mudak . I will not do so again,” he taunted the steely eyed recruit.     “Won’t make a difference, mudak . You lost before you even entered the ring,” Gregor retaliated.     Snorting in contempt, Sidorov began a spinning attack against his smaller target, kicking, punching, poking his fists and open hands, trying to connect with any appendage he could.     Gregor infuriated the younger, larger man by eluding every attempt made to connect with him, deftly avoiding each blow, by either hand or foot, with ease. During this time, he was also counterstriking with elbows, knife hands, or hammer fists inflicting a great deal of pain and damage.     After one frenzied flurry by the battered bully, Gregor caught Fedor’s knee with a side swipe of his own leg that resulted in a loud pop heard by all the cheering young men and instructors standing around them. That was it, the big guy fell, unable to rise again. He was in part relieved because he was exhausted from all his failed attempts to teach the smaller man a lesson.     “Where is your wit now my battered friend?” Gregor asked the swollen faced, bleeding Fedor.     Struggling just to remain conscious Fedor was unable to respond. Sensing victory Gregor swooped in behind the crippled man, grabbing the top of his head to expose his throat.     “If you’re not going to speak you won’t need this anymore, will you?”     While holding Sidorov’s head back, Gregor brought his fist down hard, smashing the larynx of the man causing him to spasm, struggling to breathe now. The victor released his prey who fell to the ground, still trying to get any amount of air into his lungs. Nikolanovic leaned over and stared into his victim’s eyes, reveling in the sight of life leaving them.     “Lesson. Complete.” He hissed at the prone man losing consciousness, then, moments later, death took him.     The cheers of the others had quieted now such that the silence was overwhelming. Gregor looked up and slowly turned in a circle, ensuring everyone standing around him could see the ice-cold gaze radiating from him. A word was still not spoken as the victorious officer cadet slowly walked through the ring, the other young men parting quickly, giving a wide berth to the champion, not wanting to tempt fate by getting too close to him.     The tale of this fight spread quickly among the ranks of the Russian special forces. His legend grew at an alarming rate, fueled by other deeds of ruthlessness. Fear of crossing young Lieutenant Nikolanovic preceded him as he arrived on scene to each of his postings.     Shortly after his promotion to Captain, another chapter in cementing the cold-heartedness of the officer was written. It was an incident that didn’t make international news, but internally it spread like wildfire.     Captain Nikolanovic’s unit was called upon to serve in an anti-terrorist action versus some Chechen terrorists in the city of Grozny. Radicals had taken some civilians hostage in a shopping mall, demanding the release of political prisoners by the Russian government. Gregor’s troops had surrounded the building isolating the terrorists while negotiations were underway by local police and Federal government agencies.     A demonstration of commitment was shown by the terrorists when they executed a female hostage in plain view of the negotiators to show they meant business. Minutes after this incident, shots began to ring out from the building under siege. Both the negotiators and the surrounding Spetsnaz took cover while trying to determine exactly where the shooting was coming from. There was no return fire as fear of hitting the civilians restrained the units responding to the crisis. During this time, Captain Nikolanovic was nowhere to be found.     Five minutes after the first shots rang out, the front door to the building opened up and the bloody Spetsnaz officer walked out, his rifle draped across his shoulder, an object hanging from his free hand. Walking in a direct line to the van where the chief negotiator was positioned, he approached the stunned man. As he drew closer personnel began to make out the object in the officer’s hand. It was a severed head.     Gregor stopped in front of the chief negotiator, lifted the grotesque, bloodied head right up to the stunned face of the government agent, then dropped it at his feet.     “Mission . . . accomplished,” was all he said in his eerie monotone voice and steely, emotionless eyes.     The head had once belonged to the leader of the terrorist cell that had incited the incident. The rest of his body was found amongst the multitude of other bodies inside the building. Corpses littered the interior, men, women, and children. It was determined later by investigators that the young officer had snuck into the stronghold and eliminated everyone, going through civilians while they were being used as shields by the terrorists against the onslaught. The only thing that kept Gregor from being disciplined by his superiors was their fear that he would somehow retaliate against them for admonishing him. His reputation for brutality had permeated the ranks of the elite forces that much.      Promotions came quickly for Gregor. He soon found himself holding the rank of Colonel, but it also found him being forced out of the field into a more administrative role as a senior officer. This was both unsatisfying and unacceptable to the man whose bloodlust knew no bounds. Denied orders to an active unit he resigned from the service, leaving an extremely bitter taste in his mouth.      He soon found his new purpose in life. One that ended up being much more profitable than his military service had. His contacts in the underground allowed him to make a substantial living as a mercenary and assassin. His reputation once again preceded him, allowing him to charge top dollar for his contracts. His eagerness for those contracts and the violence accompanying them found him in a very satisfying spot in his life. The legend only grew, earning him the moniker “Devil’s Ghost” because he seemed to be able to appear and disappear at will while his thirst for violence had people believing he was spawned from the Devil himself.        Being so successful in such a dark occupation garnered him many enemies. Attempts on his life were met with force in kind but multiplied in cruelty. Other hitmen contracted to assassinate him, plus the original contractors themselves were often found brutally murdered along with their family members. It was believed that the Devil’s Ghost was untouchable. This changed however, one fateful night in Afghanistan. Along with his contracts for assassination and gun for hire work he also dealt in illegal arms dealing. He had brokered a deal with some Taliban fighters to purchase a large shipment of Rocket Propelled Grenades, RPGs. These particular weapons were giving American forces quite the hard time and this served a twofold purpose to Gregor; money in his accounts and eliminating as many of the hated Americans as possible. He had entered the building where the transfer of money was to take place. The transaction was barely completed when he received a radio call from his trusted comrade, former Red Army Corporal Dmitri Okulov, nestled in an overwatch position in the ridgeline above the structure.     “Package is being looked at by an unknown tango,” the Ghost heard in his earpiece.     “Excuse me, gentlemen. I hate to be rude, but it seems we may have some uninvited guests outside,” he told the Taliban foot soldiers he was dealing with.     Slipping out into the dark he circled around the house to indeed find an interloper snooping in the back of one of the vans carrying the weapons. Sneaking up behind the heavily armed soldier the Russian mercenary prepared himself for a fight as he spoke to the shadow.     “Find what you were looking for, tovarisch ?”     The sound startled the focused man, who reacted instinctively by grabbing for his weapon. This was averted with a sharp punch to the elbow of the intruder.     “Jailbreak!” the man shouted. This became apparent as a warning to his companions, the sound of automatic weapons fire instantly permeating the night air.     The Ghost focused on this combatant in front of him though as a sharp kick from the silhouette caught him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Recovering rapidly, he drew his knife from his scabbard and approached the figure, who was still framed by the doors of the van he’d been investigating.     It was then the unimaginable happened. The man under attack by the Devil’s Ghost connected with a knife of his own. The signature Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife of the budding American Special Forces legend, young Captain Nathan Alexander Warr. He had struck Gregor over the left eye and continued the cut down onto his cheek. Shock and anger swept through the mercenary as he regained his composure, assuming a fighting stance to press his attack on his enemy.     “Congratulations, tovarisch . You have done what so many others have tried to do, mark the Devil’s Ghost!” he informed his foe.     Captain Warr once more attempted to regain possession of his rifle from inside the van giving the mercenary the opening he needed. Swiping his blade at the soldier he ended up slicing him in virtually the same place he himself had been cut, down the left side of the face.      Bullets started impacting the ground around the former Spetsnaz and he decided in this particular instance discretion would be the better part of valor. Retreating to live and fight another day was the wisest option. With a faint “ do svidaniya ” as he disappeared into the sand, Colonel Nikolanovic was gone without a trace.     That was his first, but not his last confrontation with the American. As a matter of fact, the two operators, the best in their respective fields, became bitter enemies as they faced off against one another over the years, each wearing their trademark scar from their original encounter with pride.     The Devil’s Ghost continues to operate from the shadows. Appearing and disappearing like a phantom, he continually eludes his nemesis, Colonel Warr and his covert team of Dogs. It is hopeful that fate will someday entertain a final showdown between the evil of the Devil’s Ghost and the good men and women of the Dogs of Warr, allowing good to triumph over evil.

dqxidt

A Notorious Villain Explains

It ain’t easy becoming notorious. Said notoriety implies being known and talked about, and the most successful villains are the ones no one knows or talks about. Anonymous like. So my becoming notorious took some missteps on my part. Made my name something to scare children with – I’m Abominable Fred Marker. “What am I ever going to do with you?” a mother might say. “Abominable Fred will be climbing through your window if you don’t go to sleep, you silly child!”  Abominable Fred I am I guess. Nothing against the little gits, so I hope it don’t scare children too much. Every villain needs an origin story. Mine started with me wanting to get a pastry for my girl. No world domination here, just a simple father in chase of a pastry. I don’t live with my Sylvie but it was her thirteenth birthday – official it was she was a teenager. I had my eye on Justine’s Bakery. They had a treat Sylvie had admired before on a walk we took through the neighborhood, a very tosh eclair made in Paris and sprinkled with actual gold dust. Justine’s had something like this once in a bit, just class up the place. Anyway, why shouldn’t my Sylvie just once in her life dine on real gold? Well, short and only answer is because these went for a hundred quid each. I just do odd jobs, though, sweep the steps of some pensioner’s steps, rake some leaves, whatever I can, line up for my check when eligible, that sort of lifestyle. And perhaps I’ve nicked a thing or two in my time, but never any high crimes and misdemeanors, so to speak. I’m as penny ante as they come. Which means empty pockets more often than not for me, and empty they were just then. It’s hard to make a dishonest living if you’re not dishonest enough! How was I to afford an eclair that cost such a pretty penny? Ask them to scrape off the gold? I was discussing as much with one of my good mates, old Jerry, at the corner pub, The Olde Knight. The “e” added for color, or grandiosity, though there wasn’t much of that at the pub. “So you see,” I was saying to Jerry, “I know she loves it. It would make her feel special, and you know how a young girl enjoys feeling special. It can be tough on ‘em, hoping the right lad notices them while usually it’s the wrong one that picks ‘em out.” “Aye, aye,” sounding like a sailor even though he never got close enough to spit at the Royal Navy or any other branch. “True enough, a girl just turning teen would like feeling special. But how are you going to get the money for one of those overpriced biscuits? Seems to me that’s a sour pickle you’ve got. Can’t you just get her a doll or something?” “She’s 13. Dolls don’t work.” “Aye, aye,” he said, going sailor on me again. Now I was going to lay it on him.  “Jerry, this ain’t the Tower of London. It’s a bakery. Why can’t I jimmy the lock, stroll in, and make off with one or two of those golden pastries?” Jerry stroked his chin, a sign he was either thinking or confused. Call it fifty-fifty. “What if Justine’s has an alarm system?” “I was waiting for you ask about that,” Jerry said. I leaned close, all conspiratory-like, and lowered my voice: “You told me about that time you broke into that convenience store. You cut the alarm line. Can’t you scout this out and tell me what to do?” “Freddy, I cut the line but the alarm still sounded. I about wet my knickers and ran out. All I grabbed were three boxes of Juju Fruits. Some haul.” “But you got in and out and to this day you are a free man. Why can’t I do the same? I don’t want to crack a safe. I just want a couple of pastries. In and out. That’s me.” Time for more chin stroking from Jerry. “Well…I could stroll about and take a look. But –” “But what?” “But I don’t want to be anywhere near it when you make your move. You are on your own, buddy boy.” And so it was decided – the next night the pastry thief would strike! *** I was nervous with excitement, and also with embarrassment. Jerry had talked me into disguising myself. “It’s the CCTV, Fred. You’ll be on multiple feeds. You need to not look like your husky self.” Thank you Jerry for not calling out my pub belly. “But what do I do? Put on a mask? How can I walk down the street like that?” Jerry didn’t even bother to stroke his chin. “I was watching an American movie on the telly last week, one with that comic that offed himself, Robin Williams. Mrs Doubtfire it was.” “I’m not liking where this is going, Jerry,” I said. “Where it’s going is your pretty face not ending up on CCTV. You need a disguise. Why not go as a woman?” While I wanted to argue, I knew what he said about the CCTV made sense. I would likely be on the tape, so better I don’t look like myself. But looking like a woman? I’d look like a man in drag. If I ran into the wrong people I might be in for a bit of a thrashing. Tolerance wasn’t always on the menu. Still, the thought of those pastries and my girl’s face lighting up was enough to move me. I did love my dear Sylvie. So there I was at Jerry’s, putting on a dress with tropical fruit on it. “I got it when me and Mabel were on that cruise in the Caribbean. Later she ran off with some lad working in Manchester, but she left me this dress. And some of her cosmetics.” Mabel had been bigger than Jerry so the dress sort of fit. “Ok, maestro, get on with it and do my makeup. Did I mention this is some right bollocks, you know.” I was already in the dress and some shoes, flats that she also left behind. They didn’t fit well and had slick bottoms. Jerry said: “Quiet you. I’ll make you beautiful, a veritable Mona Lisa.” He grabbed something and went straight for my eyes. “Hey – “ “For horses, mate. This is eye shadow. It’s for pretty girls.” I was not relieved, but I held still for him to continue. “Eye shadow,” I muttered “Aye, aye.” When he finished I said, “Is that it?” “Oh no, lad. We have to put on foundation, to clear up all your blemishes. You want to look pretty, don’t you?” I let out a few choice words that ended with the last thing I wanted was to be pretty. “Skip the foundation!” Jerry sighed. “Very well. Can I at least put some blush on you to add a bit of glow?” I grunted my assent. I wasn’t getting out of here unless I let him do a few finishing touches. He was enjoying this.  Then the topper. “Time for some lipstick, mate.” “Oh god.” “Oh good, you mean. It will finish you off!” Then he unscrewed the cap and went for my lips like a Christmas elf putting the final touches on a toy doll. I saw myself in the mirror. My lips were bright red. “What circus did this come from,” I asked? “Um, let’s see.” He looked at the lipstick. “It’s called…lipstick on a pig.” And then he laughed, of course he did. “Old joke, Jerry.” And then it was done. Jerry backed away and looked at me. “A fine job if I do say so. Give me a few more pints in me and I’d be sweet talking you back to my place or yours.” I was saving my energy so all I gave him in answer was a scowl. I waved and left. I heard Jerry murmur something as I walked away: “It’s the pretty ones that are the most dangerous…” *** The walk to Justine's wasn’t far. I did run into one drunken sod who was crossed-eyed and stumbling, and as you might expect he thought I was some flash girl who’d be a prize to take back to his flat. “Hey, pretty lady…let’s have a kisssss, shall we?” “Hey, screw off.” “What’s that you high and mighty skirt-wearing…um, what are you, trans? Hey, I don’t discriminate!” He grabbed my arm as I was passing by. I was not in the mood. I gave him my best right cross and he snapped back, stumbled, and fell. He may have said something as I walked away, but a girl learns when to ignore a fella. *** When I got to Justine’s it was of course dark. It had been closed for several hours. I had a pair of wire-cutters in my dress pocket. I looked about, saw no one looking, and walked around to the back. I did have a purse Jerry had given me. I thought that was enough to hide two of those ridiculous eclairs. When I got around back I saw the wire Jerry told me to cut. It was the yellow wire. The problem was there were another six wires. When Jerry had done his own wire cutting the alarm had still gone off. I wasn’t bubbling over with confidence that he knew what he was doing, but I didn’t have the resources of a large criminal organization behind me. All I wanted was a special eclair for my special daughter. So with a sigh I cut the yellow wire. The lights in the nearby house went off. Oh dear. The lights in Justine were still on. Cut another one, I guess. More cuts, more lights going out, but not the light I wanted to go out. Finally, the fifth wire blacked out Justine’s Now time to use the crowbar Jerry had hidden hear the dumpster. I retrieved it and then pried open the back door. I can’t say I was quiet. The door opened with loud noise like I was tearing off pieces of timber. But it did open. “Wish I could see something,” I said, sotto voce, as I entered the premises. It was dark inside, and all my wire cutting had darkened nearby lights. And then I heard the alarm go off. “Oh blimey! What a cock-up!” I thought for just a moment and then decided that a grab and run was my best bet. Grab the silly eclair and run like Johnny Copper was right on my arse. Grab! Run! Remember, I had on slick women’s shoes. I really needed Michael Jordan’s. So I ran and crashed into a shelving unit, because I couldn’t see. Something spilled all over me, drenching me. It felt sticky. No idea then what it was, so I kept running. I crashed again and now something else spilled over me, something almost like feathers. Whatever. Get to the display, fool, and get your prize! So I got to the display and…it was empty! That damned Justine, or someone, had put the eclairs away for safe-keeping. Oh, this was a tale of woe unfolding, no doubt. And I was the woeful one covered in…I didn’t know what. Then I thought I heard distant sirens. It was flight or fight time, and what do you think I chose? Yep, I scooted. *** As I was trotting away I stuck a finger onto my chest to wipe up a bit of the sticky stuff, and then put it into my mouth. I think…I think it’s honey? Yes, I think so. And then I plucked one of the little feathers sticking to me and tasted it as well. Coconut flakes? Maybe. Probably. I was honeyed and filigreed with an immense amount of coconut. I realized I had to hide, and clean myself. I still heard the sirens. I thought maybe I could break into a nearby house and shower quickly. Yes, I know that’s crazy, but so is the idea of walking a dozen blocks in London looking like a giant chicken, which is what I imagined I looked like. I’d be picked up on suspicion alone if spotted. So the nearby house had a ground floor window and went up to it to see if someone was there. Unfortunately, there was an old pensioner in the room, and I got close to the window he turned and saw me and clutched at his chest and fell. Dear god, I’ve killed him, I thought. Now they’ll get me for some kind of wrongful death charge. So thinking he needed help I broke into his house, found him still alive, and called for emergency services. They told me to wait with him, and after I hung up I thought bollocks, I’m not waiting, but then I saw the flashing lights outside. The police had arrived. Resigned, I sat down and waited. *** “So you’re telling us you broke in to steal a pastry? Really?” “Yes, it was for my daughter. A hundred quid for one, but she had fancied it. I don’t get many chances to impress her and you could turn my pockets inside and out a dozen times and not find a hundred quid.” I went on. “I’ll pay for the damages. I’m sorry of course. It was a bad idea. How is the elderly gentleman?” “Word is he will be alright. You gave him a dreadful fright. He kept calling you abominable. He had been watching a documentary about legendary creatures on the telly until his power went out. You may have had something to do with that?” I shrugged. No need to give away the entire Kit and Kaboodle so soon. “Anyway, he said the Abominable Snowman was at his window. I guess that’s you, Fred, Abominable Fred. You are quite a sight.” *** And you can imagine it. First honey, and then coconut flakes. I must have looked like a feathered fiend, and of course I know I did, because the papers all printed my photo. Now I scare little children. That’s my origin story. Sylvie, good Sylvie, has forgiven me. She may not have ever even blamed me. She is old beyond her years. This is what she told me before they took me away to prison to serve my 14 month term, out in eight if I behave. “It’s ok dad. I’m only 13. You’ll be out in plenty of time to host my Sweet Sixteen party” She smiled, little imp that she was and always will be. “And why not pick up some tips from the other criminals in prison while you are there? I’ll need you to save up for my wedding, too.” “Love you, I think,” I said. “You love me and you know you do. Love you too.” You can’t argue with women, you know. 

7l0pa7

Thug

I wish it hadn't been raining. My most frequent tangle with the Defender, self-proclaimed savior of Edison City, has me sitting in a puddle. I hear the roll of thunder. It's going to rain again. Of course it will. I look up at my hands stretched over my head, tied to the handle on the dumpster behind the Old Stone Bar. He used a zip tie again. He's been favoring those lately. I look at Link, still unconscious and hog-tied on his side. It's probably for the best. He'd just make some crass BDSM comment if he saw me tied like this. I take a deep breath, and pull myself up, though it's almost impossible to turn around with the zip tie. I may be able to cut it against the dumpster handle, it's pretty rough. I start the sawing motion, which hurts my wrists, but at least it takes my focus off the my other injuries. My face hurts, my ribs hurt, and I think I have a sprained ankle. Serves me right. I’m the thug girl. That’s what Defender would say. What the news says. What my neighbors say. Don't judge me. You don't know me. You don't get it. No, I'm not going to go into some sob story to make you feel pity for me, I don’t need it. Yeah, stuff sucked growing up, but I made my choice. It was this or become a prostitute, and I wasn't going to be anybody's toy. Really, only had the two options. Hook or crook. So I went crook. At least this way I get to vent some rage ever so often. Most people think that criminals are afraid of the heroes. Those excellent fighting maneuvers, advanced detective skills. The bank rolls. They think all that training and tech and prowess must be intimidating to those bastards who sit around a garage and decide to knock over a gas station. They wonder why anyone would go to work for a mastermind criminal like King Killer. Why they'd allow themselves to become fodder for the war in their city. They must know they won’t win. Surely, they know how this ends. We do know how it is going to end. But no, I'm not afraid of Defender. See, he has this desire to follow a misguided sense of justice. They think if they bring us to the system, the system will process us. That justice will stand, and we'll end up in prison for our many crimes. Plus, bein' a woman? All I gotta do is act afraid and half the time he'll just tell me to get out of this business before I get hurt. I just gotta remember to color my hair and he never remembers me the next time we cross paths. If he wants to play hero and be all self-righteous, who am I to dissuade him? It's good, really. At least for me. It's good for the privateer of justice to have limits. After all, he is pretty damn strong. If he wanted to kill me, he could. I got no delusions of grandeur. I bleed, and I break. But Defender is kinda dense. He may get the praises of the masses, but anyone so short sighted to think that their self-gratifying crusade in a ridiculous costume either intimidates me or actually makes a difference in the long haul should really be committed. Let's be honest. That's not how the world really works. You know who scares me? I'm scared of the criminal mastermind. Why do I work for them? Because they will kill me if I don't fall in line. I wouldn't be the first, nor the last. Nobody would even know I died. I'd just be gone from history, another loser no one would mourn. That scares me. It's not that I have any grand master plan to get out of this life. Really? I'm not all that bright. And I'm not that strong. I only got one superpower, and that's the ability to get my ass out of the way before someone sends two to my chest and a third to my head. Justice is dead. It's been dead since before I was born. If you'd seen what I have growing up, you'd get it. Defender is fighting for a limp dick dog with two legs. You know how many times I've had my ass kicked? How many times I've ended up in jail? Too many. Sometimes I break out. Sometimes they just let me out because they got no more room for scrubs like me. Meanwhile Defender is helpin' the real crooks. The ones who sap the life out of all of us. They say justice is blind. I couldn't agree more. You got a mom mindscrewing their kid, and her dad trying to rescue her, and the judge gives you to the one hurting you. That's crooked. Then your dad gets sunk in debt by the court, you finally get old enough to choose where you go, but then he dies before you get to move. That's crooked. Because he was livin' in the slums since that bastard judge-- Okay, so I talked, but seriously? That's the other reason to work for King Killer. No, he's batshit crazy, and he can fix what's wrong. But he may be able to break the system enough that somebody will have to come up with something better. I'll probably die before that happens, but whatever. The zip tie finally breaks. My wrists are bleeding a little, and it's starting to rain. I rub them, and look back at Link. I should probably help him get free, but I really have no idea where my knife landed after the fight. The sirens are on their way. Sorry Link, you're probably better off tonight just going with them, anyway. I make my way around the corner, keeping the cop cars on the opposite side of the laundry mat next door as I shove my hands into the skinny pockets of my jeans. They don't notice me, and so I turn down toward 5th street. It's a longer walk, but it means I avoid any more likely cops. They don't ever patrol this part of town. Ahead in the dark, I hear the wall of rain approaching. Fantastic. I keep walking with resignation to the fact that I'm going to get soaked to the bone. My ribs hurt, my face hurts, and I think I turned my ankle. Nobody is going to give me anything for any of that, though, so I just keep walking. The water hits me, and my short red hair loses it style nearly immediately, pasting itself down to my head. Damn, that is cold rain. I hug my arms, sneakers tromping through the forming puddles. I can't see it, but I'm sure my make up is streaming down my face. I have only gone a few blocks when I hear someone call from the entrance to a nearby apartment building. The light inside illuminates two men's silhouettes. "June Connor!" The man yells. I know that voice. It's Darrin Clyde. "Shit." I curse, and start running. I may or may not have stolen and crashed Darrin's vintage Corvette a few weeks ago. No, it wasn't because I was a bad driver. It's because he deserved it. Beside the point right now. When you aren't a master martial artist, it's important to keep a realistic understanding of your capability in a fight. For instance, against Darrin, I'm not armed, and he is double my weight. I lose that fight. I normally can outrun him, since he really likes beer and sugar. I can feel my injuries slowing me, though. And Darrin, along with someone else, is gaining on me. I am going to lose this race, too. I trip through the flowers someone planted in a vain effort to make the neighborhood look nicer. I land in the muddy grass that passes for a lawn, and start to scramble to my feet, my ribs screaming in objection. I feel a strong hand grab me by the back of my belt, and a much stronger arm is around my neck. I curse at him to let me go, delivering elbows behind me that seem to be more painful to me than they are effective. I’m slammed against the siding of the apartment building in the space between buildings. A knee strikes my already bruised ribs, and it hurts enough that it immediately drops me to the ground with a yelp. I try to roll over, and find Darrin's muddy boot coming down to pin me by the collarbone. I can't even see him very well because of the pouring rain. "Hi Darrin," I grunt, trying to feign that I'm in less pain than I really am. "June," Darrin says, his buddy --oh that's Alec. I hate that guy-- standing behind him. "Think you owe me somethin'." "Kinda rapey sounding, you know that?" I ask. I need to keep my smart mouth shut, that's the message the sudden jab of pressure from the boot tells me. "Ow." "Not playin' with you, June," Darrin re-iterates. "That car was worth over a hundred grand. And we both know you don't got anything to cover that." That tells me all I need to know. I don't have strength to fight him. I am not smart enough to outwit him, and I am clearly not in a position to run from him. I just lose. But then again, that's what I'm best at. The rain suddenly stops hitting my face. Odd that I notice such a thing at a time like this, but the reason becomes clear before I can really make a guess as to why. A dark figure lands on Darrin, causing his boot to slam hard against my collarbone. Did it break? No, just another massive bruise. The pressure against me is released suddenly as Darrin's form careens back into Alec. I hate that guy. The two of them stumble with arms and legs as they hit the siding of the other apartment building, slipping in the grassy mud.  Aw, hell no. I can't really see Defender, wearing all black in a dark space, but the movement is familiar enough. I know the way he moves. His knight stick reflects the light momentarily as it comes across Darrin's jaw, then the backswing returns to give a throat jab to Alec. I gotta confess, I liked that. A few more blows for good measure, and both are groaning on the ground, just like me. I grin stupidly. I try to move, but after that last hit to the ribs, I can't do much more than pathetically slide around in the mud, failing to get up. "I warned you that you'd end up like this," Defender says in his characteristically cliché voice. Guess he did remember me after all. "Yeah, yeah," I answer dismissively. "Go ahead and rub it in. Wanna just go drop me off at the station? Cops hate getting mud in their cars." "You've had enough for one evening.," he replies, maintaining the dark and brooding demeanor. He stands there for a moment, looking down at me as I try to get to my feet. I hate looking pitiful. I definitely don't need Defender's pity, of all people.  "Oh," I laugh. I shouldn't have laughed, that hurts. "So now I have had enough, getting the shit kicked out of me twice in one night, once by you, which led to the second. Thanks for your condolences." This is the part where I should be turning and walking away, feeling some mediocre sense of superiority. Unfortunately, I'm still on the ground. I can't tell if my snarky remark embarrassed him, since he's still little more than a shadow in the downpour. He doesn't leave, though, he just stands over me for a few uncomfortable seconds. He suddenly bends over, picking me up in a fireman's carry. "I'm not a princess to be rescued," I object, though I don't have much strength to back up the statement. He ignores me, carrying me across the grass silently through the storm. The Tank. We always call it the tank, since it seems to be able to survive any kind of small arms fire. I’ve never seen the inside of it before. He opens the passenger door, and puts me inside. I would burst back out, but honestly, to get out of the rain is rather welcome at the moment. He shuts the door, and I look around the front seat. I thought it’d smell better, but then again, he’s fighting crooks, in the mud, and sweating in this thing all the time. It smells like a gunfight that happened in a locker room. It’s dirty, scuffed, and there are not nearly as many gadgets as I expected. A radio, an onboard laptop. That’s it. “Huh,” I grunt as he gets in the driver's seat. “What?” he asks, looking at me as he turns on the car. “I thought it’d be nicer.” He looks at me from behind his mask. He just stares. Shut up, June. For once, could you just shut up? He puts the vehicle in gear, and quickly pulls away, zipping down the street. He’s a pretty reckless driver, really. Anyone else would get a ticket for this. Not Defender, the hero of the city. I see the police station up ahead. “Well, thanks for the lift,” I comment, trying to sit up more properly in the seat. He doesn’t stop. We blur past the station, and I knit my brow. The hospital. Likely the same result, but at least I get cleaned up and spend the night cuffed to a bed instead of sitting in a cell covered in mud. The hospital blurs past, and now I’m genuinely confused. “Where the hell are we going?” I ask. I probably could have asked more nicely. Not that I think he would have answered. He has to keep the hard ass image up. After about a minute of silence, I let out a sigh, watching the lights behind the rain. Over time, the lights of the city become more sparse, and soon we are on a highway out of town. I get it now. He treats me nicely, and he’s going to expect something in return. I could’ve seen this coming. I can’t fight him, so I won’t be able to stop him. Even if I wasn’t hurt, I wouldn’t have much of a chance. I try the door, but it’s locked “So it’s like that, huh?” I ask. “Looking for a little release?” He doesn’t look at me, but keeps driving, his headlights illuminating the winding road as it moves from field to forest. Large drops of rain that have collected through the trees splat against the windshield. This is just what I’ve been telling you about, you see. No accountability for the city’s hero. I’ll never get justice for what he’s about to do. The cops and courts would cover up for him, and nobody will stop it. Unless I can find an opening right now and end him. I try to find something that I can use as a weapon. The dashboard in front of me has a lock on it. It appears that the whole thing could come open, but I am sure it’s locked. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave it unlocked with a hostile in the vehicle next to him. I glance upward, the visor. It also has a lock. But that lock is weak. I’ve broken enough doors to know when a lock won’t hold against force. If it has a lock, it almost certainly has a weapon behind it. I wait, and soon the car comes to a stop outside a large plantation house, with several lights on inside. Why would he leave the lights on? It’s not important. I pull hard on the visor, ripping it open. Throwing darts. They will have to do. I grab one, and desperately swing the small needle at his neck. I’m not fast enough, and he swings up with his right arm, jamming my hand into the ceiling. His left crosses his body to give me a quick jab to the face. Ow. I snap my head back, hitting the window from the blow. He gets out of the car casually and rounds to the passenger side, pulling the door open. He catches me before I fall out to the ground, and he hoists me up. “I’m not going to attack you,” he says, walking me to the front door. An older woman opens it for him. “Another one?” she asks him, as if this was a common occurrence. “She’s a bit…” He looks at me, covered in blood and mud, looking for his word. “Of an asshole,” I supply, knowing what he’s thinking. “She needs a place to recover, maybe get her bearings.” He hands me off to the woman, who takes me without concern for the mud. He doesn’t wait for chitchat, but turns, stalking back to the tank. I look over my shoulder at him as he gets in and drives away, and then into the house. There are several people in here, reading, eating, watching TV, as if this were their home. I’ve seen a few of them before, but never in such a peaceful setting, and not in some time. “What is this place?” I ask. “A place you can rest,” the woman answers. “Away from all the pain you know in Edison City. You’ll be safe here. You can figure out who you really want to be.” I still think Defender sucks. But maybe he’s not quite as bad as I thought. 

3wirpr

Lead a Normal Life

It’s nice here with a view of trees. Eating with a spoon? They don’t give you knives? ‘Spect you watch those trees. Blowing in the breeze, We want to see you lead a normal life. - “Lead A Normal Life” (Peter Gabriel) And with that, I lowered my arms and waited for the cheers to stop as I rested. When you are a superhero, you know that there are going to be moments when you have to make decisions that will affect a lot of people. You will have to do things that no one else will have to choose. That was my fate. I had to choose. And now, it was all over. In my final fight with my mortal enemy, The Neutronomo (such a dumb name), I had to use all my powers to stop him, banish him to the home he should have never left (The Ionization – again, another dumb name), and pay the price. That was the last thing I would ever do as a superhero. Now, as I said, the cheers and the rest I found were forthcoming as soon as things were safe. I noted that the press had filmed the entire thing, as did most of the crowd (will we ever get rid of those damn smartphones?) I could barely move after all of that effort, but I heard the laughter and praise that surrounded me. I felt very little when I was lifted up in the air and paraded around the square. And I must have dozed off when the president contacted me and I could not even lift my head to respond to him. I was well into a long-deserved sleep. * I should continue, shouldn’t I? Sorry, doc. Well, it was not a long sleep. I woke up in an ambulance as two paramedics tried to do what they could with the wounds that were already healing. One of them, a woman who was full of tears and laughter – interesting combination – was just stunned by what was happening under my uniform. The material was stitching itself up over all the cuts and scrapes (I could feel it on my back, legs, and shoulders), and the last of the healing factor was taking over. I was human again. “You are a true hero!” Again, the same woman, covered with tears and shaking with joy and giggles, was staring at me. Her partner seemed occupied with trying to get the IV back in (it naturally fell out of the injection point), but he was happy, too. They both let their true selves show. “Please, Marlene… Even he has to rest. Not everyone has saved world and remained in one piece.” I laughed a bit, knowing that he was right, but that it was also all over. I simply closed my eyes again, and I could not stop the tears. * This is a part of it, right? I have to share everything before we can move on? Okay, I will. I know that only a few people knew that if I used my powers again, it would all be over. The problem was that the general public did not know anything about my particular…condition. It was while I was in hospital that I got the phone call that would make this clear for the entire world. I was just surprised by the caller. “Red!” Yeah, they still called me that. Redman was all over the press and what could I say about it, since the uniform had a big “R” on it and the colours spoke for themselves (I will explain the “R” again for the record: Reclaimer; a strange message I never explained properly). Oh, the phone call… “Dennis…?” “Ah, you remember us mere mortals! That was a sensational move on your part.” I could hear the noises of his office in the background. It sounded like they were extra busy that day…all due to me. All of it fell on my back. And he knew it. “Dennis, you know the deal now. That was it, the last one. I’m a civilian now.” “So you say.” He was turning a page in what sounded like a very heavy folder. “And if you say it, and the notes you gave me are accurate, I have to believe you.” More shuffling in the background. More of me waiting in the room for him to get to the point (old story there). “And if you are a civilian, you will have to get back to a normal life. We will smooth your path for you, just like we covered for you when you had your little change.” I knew that my powers were gone, but the temptation to try a psychic blast was overwhelming. “Dennis…” “I know, I know… We have a relationship, and you still trust me. But this is not going to be pretty. And we need to keep your reputation spotless, right, Red?” Again, the temptation was strong. “Get some rest. You need it.” I sat with the phone in my hand, hearing the people outside the shuttered windows celebrating in the street and the various staff members in the hallway enjoying themselves (I swear that was a bottle of champagne being opened). I wondered what would happen next and I could feel that Dennis was about to exact a very particular revenge against me. And I was right. * I’m wasting your recording equipment, I think. I’ll breeze through the rest of it and get to the part I mentioned; the one that brought me here. After that stay in the hospital, I did appear on television and online, with too many interviews and talk shows and podcasters asking the same question in different ways: what are you going to do next? I tried to be open to all the questions, but in my mind I was thinking about all the mundane things I never had to worry about: a job; home; wife and kids, etc. All those endorsements would not last once the rest of the world realized that my big performance was the last one. That would be it. And that is what bothers me even now. No one believed me. I confessed to anyone who would listen, including the president and several of those celebrities whose names I cannot recall now, that I could no longer be counted on to save the world. And they all thought that it was some great joke. I was the joke. I was the one who became the punchline. * Okay, I know, I’m avoiding it. It was at a park and I was still being recognized by people after a year of recovery and safety. I was living as quietly as I could and had found what I thought was a place where I could get some peace and maybe only deal with the occasional delivery of groceries and letters. But that was not to be. Yes, even as I think of it, it is such a cliché. A little girl and her cat up in a tree. Well, what did they expect from me? I’d fly up and then float down with a fluffy victim? All I could do was climb. All I could do was hope that the branch would hold. And it didn’t. When I woke up, there was no fanfare or happy faces around me as I dealt with one of the worst headaches – sorry, concussions – anyone ever had. I mean, after being a hero, it was very hard to be a clown. And that waiting room… I had not seen the inside of one since I got my powers and I just gaped. Gunshot wounds, broken limbs, stabbings, beatings; parents, children and old people who were barely hanging on… I stood by a window and just stared until I felt like I was intruding on something private… And I ran. * Dennis was right. He did have one more act of revenge up his sleeve. This place was fine for me, but I did not know that it would be something permanent. There was a brief phone call, a lot of laughter, and then a request to fill in some forms and not mention things to anyone. Right, thanks Dennis, like I had anyone in mind when the press picked up my little accident and destroyed my life. I was grateful that they did not dig any further into where I went and that this is still listed as a private hospital. Private hospital? Ha, ha. I cannot ever be released and my body still has a lot to teach science. The Redman still has a role. And I will say it. Some prisons are almost like paradise. And believe me, doc. You don’t ever want to be a hero. You don’t ever want to have that in your head. Thanks for the talk.

je1qul

Light Amidst the Dark

The sun’s rays threw spears of fire down on her, or so it felt. Sophia sat on the stone bench, grateful for the shade of the trees overhead, giving her a welcome break from the smoldering heat. She tipped her head up, resting against her hands as she stretched her legs out luxuriously in front of her. She relished the stretch of her muscles and the smell of the grass after being stuck behind her desk for most of the day. The wind played with her hair as it blew between the trees, teasing the ends as it lifted the short strands to blow against her cheeks and neck. Sophia had adjusted to the small city life of Savannah easier than she expected, it was just these summers with the unbearable, damp heat of the south she’d still yet to grow accustomed to. She’d come to love the feel of the breeze and this park specifically, with its large trees that seemed to sing as the wind shifted the leaves and branches overhead. Sophia closed her eyes against the brightness, opening her other senses to take in the sounds and smells of the park around her, feel the wind as it cooled her skin and lifted her bangs from her sticky forehead. Footsteps pounded on the concrete from her right, but she kept her eyes closed. This was a popular park for runners to swing through as they crisscrossed through the city paths. Though she didn’t expect to feel a sharp tug against her ankles and hear the “oomph” of someone hitting the ground in front of her. As her eyes flew open, she noticed a figure stretched out across the ground, a shake of the head as if to scold himself before picking himself off the ground. Sophia cursed to herself before saying, “I am so sorry, are you okay? I shouldn’t have had my feet stretched out across the path like that, I-” Her next words died in her throat as the warm hazel eyes of the man met hers, soft and concerned. The man got to his feet, towering over Sophia’s 5”5’ frame and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She shrank a bit from the towering figure, his shadow cast along her body sent shivers across her skin. He finished brushing his hands and knees free of the pebbles and dirt he’d accumulated in his fall before meeting her eyes again. The way he held himself spoke of confidence born of struggles overcome, and yet there was a gentleness as he beheld her. “I’m fine, nothing but a few cuts and scrapes. I’ll manage,” he said with a smile, the timber of his voice rumbling along Sophia’s bones. “It was a good lesson for me to learn, I tend to get lost in my thoughts when I run.” Sophia nodded, then realized she was just staring, cleared her throat and said, “I do that too, get lost in my thoughts.” She smiled awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. What is wrong with me, pull yourself together, Sophia thought to herself, feeling a bit tongue tied. “I’m Sophia, by the way.” She stuck her hand out towards him, immediately feeling weird as her hand hovered between them. “Bastian,” he replied, a half smile forming on his face that Sophia instantly wanted to see again. He took her hand in his, his grip firm but soft as it cupped her fingers. She noticed several callouses on his hands, and tried not to think about how she’d want to feel those fingers on other parts of her skin. Sophia fought the shiver that threatened to work its way up her spine. He looked at her expectantly, and she realized she was still holding onto his hand, and immediately released him. She could feel the color rising to her cheeks, and blurted, “well it was nice to meet you, Bastian, but my break is almost up so I-I gotta go.” At that, she turned in the opposite direction and began walking towards her office building. She still had about 35 minutes left of her break, but she had embarrassed herself more than enough that day and decided it was time to hole back up in her quiet office. As she stepped on the walking path along the edge of the park, she realized in her haste to get away from the golden eyes that reached deep into her soul, she’d walked in the wrong direction. She breathed a dejected sigh, and turned around to walk back through the park, hoping Bastian didn’t see her and think she was stalking him. When she reached the center of the park, a quiet settled over the area that sent shivers crawling up her spine. The quiet wasn’t a peaceful one, where birds and squirrels chattered and the leaves swayed with their elegant song. It was a quiet devoid of sound, like her ears were stopped up or a bubble surrounded the area and cut off all sounds of the outside world. She paused, unsure if she wanted to continue walking in this direction with how the wind seemed to still and her neck prickled like she was being watched. Her skin felt clammy, but for reasons other than the sweltering heat from the sun, which seemed dimmer now. She could feel a tremor in her hands, and she crossed her arms, hugging her elbows as she tried to fight the shaking in her muscles. Sophia took a step backwards, wanting to go back to the edge of the park and skirt around it instead of walking through the center. Something instinctual told her not to turn her back, something dangerous lurked in front of her and would pounce once she turned around. Her vision seemed to pulse, the shadows expanding and darkening, like a light being slowly dimmed. She glanced to the sky, between the long reaching arms of the trees, and noted the sky was blue and cloudless. Nothing that would answer the sudden dimming of the park around her. Her eyes bounced from side to side, trying to find whatever had her hair standing on end and her muscles ready to run. She saw a flash in her peripheral vision, a shadow rising from the ground to form a shape vaguely resembling a man. But the image seemed to distort, wavering like a mirage, rippling like the surface of a lake. She didn’t look directly at it, not wanting to acknowledge its existence for fear it would make it real. It can’t be real, she thought fiercely. She found herself fixing her eyes straight ahead, keeping the shadowy figure in her eyesight. Her foot scraped against the concrete, creating a scratching sound that seemed loud in the deathly silence, as she took another step backward. Her heart hammered in her chest, stuttering as she noticed the figure moved with her with each step she took in retreat. An involuntary whimper came from her throat, and her eyes pricked with tears that she blinked rapidly to clear. Her foot caught on an uneven paving stone, and she waved her arms trying to keep her balance. It did no good as she lost the battle against gravity and came crashing down, her head slamming on the ground causing her vision to flicker. She heard hissing then, a mix between a cat and a snake, a high-pitched dry sound that made her gut twist with fear. The throbbing in her head caused her to move sluggishly, as if her muscles didn’t want to obey her desperate command to flee. The hissing grew closer, but her vision still flickered in and out, the edges of her vision blurry and dotted with blackness as though she was about to pass out. She held on to consciousness by sheer will, not wanting to give in to whatever this shadow creature was. Sophia couldn’t tell if it was the knock to her head or something else causing the light to be sucked from the park as though the sun was being covered by a dense cloud that let no light shine through. The darkness surrounded her so completely she would have said it was midnight for all she could see in front of her. She touched the back of her head with trembling fingers, and noticed they came away wet with a liquid that she knew was blood just by the smell. Her immediate goal was to get out of this park. With that simple plan in mind, she rolled and pushed to her feet, feeling the ground sway beneath her as if she stood in the midst of a tempest. Holding her arms out to her side, she felt the bark of a nearby tree scrape against her fingertips. She shuffled her steps closer to the tree, wrapping her arms around it to anchor herself to the ground until the spinning ceased. The hissing suddenly sounded behind her as she prayed desperately for the strength to run. Sophia heaved a deep breath, blinking hard to clear her vision, as she picked a spot in the distance she could look at to keep herself grounded. She’d used a similar trick when she’d gone deep sea fishing and had realized in that moment she was seasick and the only thing that settled her vision, and her stomach, was staring at the large rocks along the shore that remained steady against the roiling sea. She pulled in another breath, focusing on the filling of her lungs and the clearing of her mind as she stared at the coffee shop sign across the street from the park where she stood clutching a tree. A wet, rattling breath sounded behind her, and she could feel the heat tickling along her shoulders and she couldn’t hold off the shiver this time as it caressed down her spine with a spindly finger. Familiar footsteps sounded behind her, pounding along the paving stones but the sound came to her as if underwater. Sophia turned, keeping one hand on the tree, to look towards the footsteps in the hope someone could help her. What she saw instead had a scream ripping from her throat and her feet stumbling backwards on instinct until her back touched the bark, steadying her. The shadow figure up close appeared as a rotting corpse, skin pulled tight over its face, lidless eyes rolling and yellowing teeth as a black tongue snaked between them. The shadows draped across the figure like a cloak, covering its arms until it reached towards her with fingers that ended in long talons. It hissed again, and the rancid breath washed over Sophia and she felt as though she was being buried alive, the stench of rot and earth shoving itself up her nose. She shrank against the tree, fingers feeling along the bark and limbs for something she could use to defend herself. Her fingers snagged on a loose stake in the ground, obviously meant to help the tree grow straight but never removed once its trunk grew solid. She tugged, but the angle she tried to pull it had it snagging on the roots of the tree. Shifting her stance, having to step a bit closer to the monster as she did so, she tugged the stake free and swung using the momentum towards the creature. It screeched, a high pitched sound like a screaming tea pot and a bird’s caw wrapped into one sound. She’d made contact, though barely, as it jumped out of the way. The creature cradled its arm to its chest, and hissed viciously at her. Its maw opened, the smell of rot washing over her once again, as it moved closer to where she stood. The mouth extended like a snake as it cornered her against the tree. As it looked like it was about to lurch towards her, a silver blade sprouted from the middle of its chest, causing it to screech again as it looked down at its chest in disbelief. The silver disappeared, and Bastian rose up behind the creature, snarling down at it as he towered above. Sophia’s heart soared, both in seeing Bastian be the one to save her and at his obvious prowess in a fight. Bastian’s eyes met hers briefly over the creature’s head, and she noticed a slight softening of his eyes and in the tension of his mouth as he took her in, eyes roaming quickly along her body. She could see the words forming behind those eyes, are you okay? She nodded, smiling slightly, and then swayed a bit before she used the tree to steady herself again. Bastian’s eyes hardened, his snarl deepening as he glared down at the creature again. His arm lifted high in the air, a beam of light glinting off a dagger in his hand covered in black blood and some red powder that seemed to glow like the embers of a fire. He stabbed downward, once, twice, three times as he stabbed the monster in the eye, in the temple, and through the neck. As Bastian stabbed the monster through the neck, he dragged the dagger out through the front of the creature’s throat, severing the head partially. The head fell backwards, lidless eyes staring vacantly at Sophia before it dissolved into dust that drifted away in the breeze. The sudden return of the light blinded Sophia, and the pounding in her head increased exponentially. Though the breeze lifted the strands of hair that had become plastered to her skin in the heat, she felt a hot flush creep over her face and down her neck and she suddenly felt lightheaded. She felt her legs giving out beneath her, and she reached for the tree to steady herself and prevent her from falling. But Bastian was quicker, one of his hands rested against the middle of her back as the other hand swept beneath her legs. Before she could protest, she was cradled in his arms and the press of their bodies so close made her breath quicken. Her eyes lifted from the broad chest and rippling muscles of the arms that held her to his face, concern lining his eyes and tightening his lips. His eyes seemed reluctant to leave hers, but he glanced briefly around them, seeming to be looking for something or someone. Sophia hoped it wasn’t another one of those, whatever they were. The sound of men’s voices came to her then, her ears finally unstopping as the pressure released. Vision swimming, she noticed a few figures walk up to Bastian and exchanged a few words, though she had difficulty following what was being said with the pounding in her head. Bastian tucked her against his chest, arms tightening around her as someone reached out to take her from him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and his head dipped briefly to touch his forehead to hers before he looked back towards the men standing in front of them. She vaguely heard him mention taking her to the hospital, before her eyes slid closed against her will and blackness consumed her. She woke to beeping and the smell of bleach. Before opening her eyes, she noted she could feel eyes on her, and her heartbeat immediately kicked up in alarm as she remembered the shadow creature from the park. A warm hand covered hers, and a voice in a timber she recognized and that instantly soothed her said, “its okay Sophia, I’m here, you’re safe.” At those words, her eyes creaked open, feeling like rusty door hinges that hadn’t been used in years. She had to blink several times before her vision cleared enough for her to make out the figure in front of her. Bastian looked disheveled, his hair appearing mussed as if hands had raked through them, and dark circles appeared under each eye. Sophia couldn’t imagine he’d been that worried over a stranger, but she tucked that away to examine later. She opened her mouth to say something, but only a croak came out. She swallowed and tried again, her dry throat not allowing any sounds to escape. Bastian, seeing her struggle, handed her a cup of water from the table beside him. Sophia drank greedily, feeling the cold soothe the inside of her cracked throat. When she tried to speak, her voice came out as a whisper. “What-what happened? After I passed out.” For that’s all she could remember, vision going black as Bastian cradled her as if she were precious cargo. Her cheeks heated at the memory, recalling how her heart had stuttered as his thumb rubbed comforting circles on her back where he’d held her. Bastian grimaced, running a hand through his hair as his eyes darted around the room. He looked guilty, though she couldn’t figure out why “You’ve been asleep for about 8 hours, but you’ve just had a minor concussion. Doctors say once you wake up and they run a final check you should be cleared to go home.” “That’s good though, right?” Sophia asked, confusion in her voice at his expression. He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “Then why do you look so guilty? Bastian, what’s going on? What was that thing?” So many questions rolled through Sophia’s mind. Bastian met her eyes then, his eyes soft yet firm, the look telling her there will be no returning from the knowledge he was about to give her. She held his stare, wordlessly accepting that the perception of the world as she knew it would change forever. But Sophia knew, as long as Bastian was there to protect her, she would be ready to face it. She felt connected to him in a way she’d never experienced with anyone else, an instant connection she felt tugging her towards him. And she knew that connection is what drew them together, and would last through whatever else stood between them.

n5qtn8

Vacation Unexpected

The DepartureThe Davis family, consisting of mom Rachel, dad Steve, and their two kids, Amy and Tyler, had been yearning for a well-deserved summer retreat. Their destination was a secluded lakeside cottage named “Serenity Shore,” nestled in the heart of nature's untouched splendor. It promised a retreat devoid of Wi-Fi and cell signals—a real getaway from the hustle and bustle of modernity. They packed their bags, filled the car trunk with supplies, and embarked on the winding road that led to anticipated utopia. However, a sense of unease wrapped around them as they neared their destination. The normally temperate air turned sluggishly hot, an unexpected anomaly for a summer day in this part of the country. The sun blazed fiercely in the sky, and the family’s anticipation for cool, lazy days by the lake started to evaporate. On their arrival, they found Serenity Shore was anything but serene. The heat had compounded into unbearable swelter. Every step they took on the dry grass felt as if walking on scorching coals. Nevertheless, they maintained their optimism. After all, no vacation is without its hiccups, and this was just a minor inconvenience—or so they thought. The heat wave seemed to have an unnatural quality to it, almost as if the air itself was shimmering with a metallic undertone. As night descended, the temperature barely dipped, providing little relief. The electric fans they’d brought along worked overtime, but it felt like they were merely blowing more hot air around. As they settled for the first night, sleep was a distant aspiration. The following day, Tyler, ever the explorer, stumbled upon an unusual device buried under a pile of driftwood by the shore. Sleek, metallic, and adorned with alien scriptures, it was something that seemed to belong to another world. Tyler's innocent curiosity instantly turned into amazement. "Hey, Mom, Dad! Come look at what I found!" he called out. The family gathered around, fascinated and concerned at the same time. The object pulsated faintly, emitting strange low-frequency hums that seemed to communicate in a language long forgotten by humanity. Tyler, in his naive excitement, pressed a conspicuous button on the device. Suddenly, a holographic display projected into the air, showing complex symbols and diagrams that confounded the Davis family. But it wasn’t just the visual spectacle that left them amazed; it triggered an expanding energy field that dispersed into the surroundings. Intriguingly, the ambient temperature both inside and outside the cottage began to drop to a more bearable level. Starry-eyed wonder turned into cautious optimism. Maybe this strange relic could be their key to combating the oppressive heat. Tyler’s discovery seemed like a magical stroke of luck, a mysterious intervention to their withering enjoyment of summer. However, their relief was short-lived. The device wasn't just a cooling gadget; it had a purpose more consequential and far-reaching than they could fathom. As days went on, they began to notice peculiar changes in the local flora and fauna. Trees that had been listlessly sagging in the heat now burgeoned with vibrant, almost otherworldly foliage. Skeptical fish, alien to the lake’s existing ecosystem, began surfacing with bioluminescent scales. Intrigued, Steve, who was an environmental scientist by profession, started studying these sudden changes, noting their abnormal rapidity. He recorded data, hoping to understand the underlying mechanisms behind this swift ecological transformation. As Steve delved deeper, he began to observe patterns and anomalies that strayed shockingly from usual biological norms. It became evident that the device was more than filtering or altering the environment—it was terraforming it. It was as if Serenity Shore was undergoing a process driven by intelligence beyond human comprehension. Rachel, harboring natural maternal instincts, worried about the device's long-term impact on their surroundings and the family’s well-being. Their concerns heightened when they encountered a mysterious stranger named Orion patrolling near the lake one evening. Dressed in enigmatic attire and appearing seemingly out of nowhere, his presence echoed furtive motives. Orion's RevelationOrion revealed that he was a displaced Guardian of an extraterrestrial realm. His ancestors had infused Earth with similar devices millennia ago, meant to sustain life and improve conditions but never designed to work on such an intense scale. This device was an unintentional anomaly fired from a hidden base in a comet that had passed by Earth recently. The device was a malfunctioning Terraformer. It had the inherent capability to render an environment habitable, align climates, control temperatures, but at a microscopic level, it was unpredictable, reshaping the biosphere far beyond its intended scope. The Guardian had been journeying across worlds, seeking out and rectifying such errant fates. Realizing the imminent threat, Orion asserted that while deactivating the Terraformer was possible, it required a specific sequence that only he, with ancestral knowledge and specialized traits, could decipher. But the action needed immediate care, as the Terraformer’s altered energetic frequencies could potentially allure more unpredictable cosmic phenomena. In the meantime, the changes around Serenity Shore were escalating. The family was enthralled by the bioluminescent blossoms that now heavily adorned nearby trees. Even animal behavior was altering—nocturnal creatures began nesting in daylight, water turned a translucent lavender, suggesting a biophysical shift in its composition. Under Orion’s guidance, the family embarked on a path to mitigate the Terraformer's malfunctions. To ensure that future malfunctions wouldn't affect Earth the same way, Steve and Rachel tackled data logs handed over by Orion, trying to transcribe them into comprehensible systems. Tyler and Amy, too, played their roles, scouring the lake’s periphery for peripheral devices that might further catalyze the anomaly. Though heeding Orion's instructions, Steve noticed the gray zone between preserving the magnificence the Terraformer had created and reverting it to its natural state. Herein lay a tragedy—undoing the transcendental beauty birthed from this unpredictable artifact vs. safeguarding their own world’s innate characteristics. Hidden AlliancesDays turned into nights of relentless endeavor. Despite their diligent strides, the family was conscious of being observed—a looming dapple shadow amid shimmering oaks, enigmatic whispers carried by lake breezes. It revealed vestiges of dormant Guardians who monitored humanity’s strides. Orion elucidated that while scouring worlds and correcting artifacts was his solitary path, other unknown Guardians held belief in the autonomous evolution triggered by such relics. The conflict burgeoned between passive intervention and direct natural advancement. An Intricate GauntletRachel, determined to protect her familial sanctity, pleaded with Orion for remedies without drastic alterations. Orion, echoing a primordial compassion, devised a gauntlet task that amalgamated Earth’s natural elements with the device’s core—that could theoretically stabilize its erratic frequencies. The ultimate challenge was exceptional: integrating Earth’s quintessential essence with Terraformer algorithms to manifest equilibrium. They would need to diver deeper into the realms of uncharted Terra-engineering disciplines. Steve hypothesized that intertwining digital algorithms into natural conservation biology might extend this crucial synthesis. In another twist, additional Guardians materialized, pronouncing a celestial decree—Orion’s undertaken course jeopardized an inherent natural tale rewritten across galactic spans. Willfully deactivating the Terraformer would hinder Earth’s evolutionary leap, they argued. A council convened—ancient holographic blueprints elucidated on elemental balance anchored within galactic symphonies. Here, it became apparent that Serenity Shore was interlinked with far deeper cosmic ecosystems than initially imagined. As the council debated, Earth’s nature emphatically responded. Local winds, temperature mixes, and fauna movements disclosed alignment with the imbalances caused by the Terraformer. The implicit cosmic dialogue spoke of Earth’s intricate adaptability and resilience. Steve, Rachel, Tyler, and Amy directed their energies toward decoding this symbiotic relationship—prior to making any irrevocable decisions. Lessons mirrored cosmic truths: harmonious existence often meant embracing adaptive intelligences. Symbiotic KnowledgeOrion and Steve synthesized a multi-faceted blueprint that merged technological precision with organic intuition. The Terraformer’s core nucleus required a recalculation of its primary algorithms. Amplified by Earth’s resonant harmonic waves, this scheme aimed to achieve an elevated symbiosis. Meanwhile, Rachel cultivated native flora augmented with bioluminescent amulets, channeling Earth’s innate geometry into tangible agents—key pieces into the proverbial puzzle. Tyler and Amy retraced alien lexicons to divine navigational harmonic sequences critical to effectuating balance. Days transitioned into revelatory progress—until a tremble warned the Davis family and Orion of an impending cosmic anomaly. Precisely where temporal Terra-engineering encountered celestial geodesy was an oscillation rendering realms unpredictable. Here, decisions hovered over razor-thin equilibrium—synapses between preservation and acceptance. Collectively, they chose path integrations—accepting the amalgam laid by Terraformer esoterica. When the moment ripened, they enacted the sequence. Earth quaked; the lake’s colors danced mercurially. A symphony unfolded around Serenity Shore—deciduous terrain reverberated with cosmic notes. At the climactic fusion point, reverberating glows encapsulated Earth’s biosphere, consolidating bio-digital energies, and reforming ecological gradients, ensuring universal balance. Following the celestial convergence, the environment began to stabilize. Galactic notes harmoniously converged into Earth’s innate biosystems. While Serenity Shore catalyzed celestial luminescence, human consciousness etched quintessential journeys redefining their ecosystems. Sidebar histories tally’d with Orion’s celestial paths validated by nature. First transformative experiences Mumma and Rachel felt translated multiple universal synchronizations. Quiescent nighttime revealed transitions charted forward. As reflections set in—post-tangible equilibrium—Steve pondered Earth’s intrinsic adaptability "Learning its resilience, fused celestial signatures revealed us inarily pivotal. "Rachel marveled the enriched biodiversity burgeoning—union of cosmic essence and Terra heritage. Kids perceived adventures through technological-cum-natural narratives holding perpetual wonderment. Orion, summoning his affinity, bequeathed reality’s data capsules entailing ancient knowledge to the Davis paradigms. These relics held foresights bridging pragmatic humankind towards an elevated conscious galactic assimilation. "Treasure knowledge, lest void cosmic narratives," Orion echoed while transcending realms. Enriching Terra's multilateral wisdom ensured perpetual saplings adventurous cosmic confluences. MutableLife continued—Serenity Shore’s essence now permeated by symbiotic glow; Davis family lived deeper cognizance relishing matured endeavors. Summers henceforth occupied an integral harmonic dance reflecting omniscient nature redefined fusion. Unified intrinsic cosmic echoes flourished inexplicably—transitioning seamlessly into emblematic natural repositories.

skr59r

My Summer Holiday - Frozen, Fried, and Frazzled

At Christmastime in December 1975, our town became unusually cold. No, I didn't misunderstand the prompt. It's summer. The lead-up to Christmas Eve had been warm. This is common for the Southern Hemisphere, where summer falls towards the end of the year, and a traditional Christmas dinner is often an outdoor barbeque. But a cold snap can happen with our oceanic climate, especially near the coast. Unfortunately, we planned to go camping and anticipated the usual steamy December. Our mother spent several days packing. Our entourage consisted of five children, a grandmother and my parents. Our mode of travel included a station wagon with its roof rack and a trailer canopied with sturdy canvas, all filled to capacity. My parents would take everything, including a kitchen bench, portable toilet, porta cot, and double bed. As seasoned campers, they had perfected packing and knew what necessary things to include for comfort. A camping trip is probably two-star accommodation, but we had our standards. Dad brought along a little TV to run off his car battery. He reserved this for keeping up to date with sports events - not for my favourite TV serials, more the pity. My brother Peter and I, Lynley, worked hard in our Dad's music shop after the end of the school year. People in a frenzy to buy presents shopped to buy music gifts, appliances, or vouchers for family and friends. I wasn't banished to the back room to price mountains of records this time. My sister Katie got this job. I smiled, served, wrapped up customers' purchases, and manned the till. As did Dad and my brother. This had become a family affair, especially at such a busy time, though a family friend also helped. We sweltered as we worked. The shop door remained open for ventilation, and with no air conditioner, there was little relief from the heat. Dad treated us to a mass of fresh cherries to snack on, bought from the fruit shop three doors down, though not while we served. Some things I love about summer are holidays away, high temperatures, fresh cherries, time to read books, and no High School. I hate working in Dad's shop, which is way worse than school. Actually, I like school, but I hate being teased and bullied. It used to be like water off a duck's back, except not now that I'm a teenager. The kids should grow up. I'm afraid my feathers are not as oily as they used to be. The oil has migrated to my face. Pimples are the bane of my life! The shop would be shut for three weeks from Christmas day. A busy couple of weeks leading up to Christmas had been expected and necessary for business. We looked forward to leaving for our camping trip the next day. Our out-in-the-wild destination beckoned. I couldn't wait to swim in the river, build a hut, and climb trees. The river, surrounded by shady weeping willows, lent itself to dam building, paddling on a lilo (inflated waterproof bed), and swimming. A township just a short drive away is where we stocked up with supplies we needed during our fortnight vacation. Mum knew the dairy owner, and he would swap our ice packs daily so we could keep some perishables cold in our chilly bin. Travelling to our destination took a day and a half, and we often overnighted at a motel to break our trip. We had time to complete our journey the following day and put the tents up before nightfall. We felt eager to start our adventure. A hot, balmy wind blew that night, and we heard terrible news from Dad. "Well, the sad thing is we may not leave tomorrow. A freak storm is predicted. It may snow. The good news is it will pass quickly. When it clears, we will leave." The younger siblings were ecstatic. "Oh, I hope it snows!" and, "Can we make a snowman?" Remember, I said I liked warmer weather? How could this happen in summer? At least we weren't already tenting, but it's a small comfort when you've been dreaming about camping for months. Many would be wrapt about a white Christmas for the first time since the December 1935 snowfall which had just missed Christmas. I'm not one of them. The next day, we woke to an almost whiteout. It was freezing and snowy, but the snow quickly turned to slush. During the day, we had wind and sleet. My sisters grumbled that they couldn't build a snowman. I couldn't think of anything worse. Brrr. I started reading my holiday books. It's hard to feel positive about such a setback. Did this spell of lousy weather spell doom? We hoped the setback was temporary. Finally, we left for the river, packed to the hilt and squashed like herrings in a can. We youngsters sang our favourite holiday song, Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday, a testament to our shared excitement and unity. "We're all going on a summer holiday No more working for a week or two Fun and laughter on our summer holiday No more worries for me or you For a week or two We're going where the sun shines brightly . . ." My brother tried to drown us out with his In The Summertime, by Mungo Jerry. "In the summertime, when the weather is high You can stretch right up and touch the sky When the weather's fine You got women; you got women on your mind Have a drink, have a drive Go out and see what you can find . . ." I objected. "Mum and Dad, Peter is singing a sexist song about drunk driving!" A little sister chimed in, "What is sexist?" Dad didn't like arguments while driving. "I wish you would all shut up." I glowered at my brother. "This is all Peter's fault." "Be quiet, Lynley," said Mum. We didn't get to our destination that day. It wasn't because anyone got murdered. Dad pulled over as the trailer developed a wobble. He discovered a tyre had been shredded. He didn't panic, as panic never solves anything. My brother stayed with the trailer, and we drove the rest of the way to the nearest town with trailer luggage balanced on our knees. Dad booked us into a hotel, and we unpacked the car frenetically—time being critical.  "I'll hire a trailer to carry ours and tow it to the service station. I haven't got a spare tyre, so I hope they can fix or replace it. Make yourselves at home, family. Lynley, can you come with me, please, as I'll need your help." That's what happens when you are the oldest and a girl. The brother is relied on first and then me. I really wouldn't have liked to wait with the trailer. Sexism for safety is okay, I suppose. Dad hired a huge trailer. We could push our trailer up a ramp, secure it, and bring it back to the small town. The two biggest jobs were emptying as much out of the trailer as possible and putting it in the back of the now-vacated car. Some things we put towards the back of the trailer, leaving enough room for the trailer itself. Job two, a massive feat, meant pushing and shoving our trailer up onto it. Naturally, we sweated like pigs in the heat. We tied one of Peter's tees onto its tow bar, jutting out beyond the open gate of the trailer, and secured it with reused roof rack ropes. With hazard lights on, we ambled down the road. The people at the service station helped us. Due to the time of year, we would have to wait for a new tyre to arrive. If we bought a new wheel and tyre, it could be on by the end of the day. We could pay for the second new tyre and pick it up on our way home. We'd then have a spare. We all wanted to get to our river sooner rather than later. The following day, all hands busily repacked everything. 'Where's Marie's baby bath?" said Mum. We couldn't find it anywhere. It had been useful the previous year. Mum sat her in the bath near the water's edge, filled with warm water. Marie had been content to sit and watch us playing in the river, comfortable in her tiny waterhole. Mum sat and watched us all at the same time. A plastic bath gone west wasn't the end of the world. Now that three disasters had happened, we heaved sighs of relief. Maybe nothing else would go wrong? We headed away after breakfast and arrived there after lunch. Mum rustled up sandwiches while we sorted out the tent gear. The sturdy main tent had an awning to give space and shade during the day. My brother put up his own pup tent. The girls' tent, the biggest, would sleep three girls. Another sturdy tent nearer the main tent had a high pitch and a dark green fabric roof. This tent would sleep little Marie in her cot and Grandma on a stretcher bed. We sweltered in the sun as we pitched them. Afterwards, we four older children went off to explore. My mother finished unpacking all the kitchen gear and made up the bed in the living room tent, Marie's cot, and Grandma's bed. My Grandma took Marie for a walk around the area. Marie loves exploring. Dad organized the loo a distance from the tents. There were rules. All the kids and Dad had to go bush to do number ones. When it needed emptying, It was out-of-bounds. Dad wanted to discard the contents into a newly dug hole before it became too full to carry in a sanitary way. The chemical used in the toilet smelled terrible but was a tad better than the odour of the number twos it disguised. He told us this was camping in style. I guess if we were refugees on the brink of death after walking for miles, it might seem stylish. The area near our campsite had many chopped and fallen down trees that had keeled over and become an overgrown tangle. I climbed amongst them and found a wee private hideaway at ground level. After climbing and swinging through this tangled jungle a few times, I worked out a parkour trail to take me from one side to the other in a few minutes. I ended up with several scratches before I perfected my moves. My siblings called out to play hide-and-seek. We worked out the boundaries of the game and spent some time hiding and finding among the trees and tents. Later, we organized our sleeping bags, which meant blowing up lilos. I blew up Lara's as she is only seven. With our tent set up for three girls, we went down to the river to fill up bottles of water for the family. The sparkling water is safe for drinking, cooking, and washing. After dinner, we children took the dirty dishes down to the river to clean them. Just like at home, but the novelty value made it fun. We laughed, relaxed, and forgot the trials we had experienced thus far. That evening, after two little girls were asleep in our tent, Grandma joined Marie, fast asleep in her cot. Mum, Dad, Peter, and I played our usual game of Euchre at the same fold-out table we used for meals. Dad had his big fold-out chair while we sat on three simple fold-outs with metal frames and fabric slung and stitched across them. After a few rounds, we went to our tents armed with small torches. We each had torches in case we got up in the night. It was my job to look after Lara if she needed help. Something about the travelling and the fresh air made us sleep well. When I opened my eyes, it was still early. I snuggled in my sleeping bag and listened. The gentle rippling of water over river stones soothed. At the same time, the raspy, fluty warbling of the magpies, crowing to greet the day, reminded me of other camping holidays. I thought about the dam we'd built to make a swimming hole. We'd stay with Grandma while Mum and Dad went into the township to stock up and leave some icepacks at the Dairy. I wondered what frozen food they'd buy to keep everything cold in the chiller. Ice cream for later? We only used evaporated, canned milk for camping. Many staples of dehydrated or canned food had been brought along, including some vegetables and fruit from our garden—as much as can be eaten while fresh. I heard a faint splat on the roof of our tent. A bird poop? Then I listened to another . . . and another. Oh, no! It's raining. Would it ruin the day? If we were wet in the river anyway, would it matter? The critical thing would be the temperature. Hot and rainy is okay. In time, we all awoke and trooped into the main tent for breakfast. Dad tried to listen to his transistor radio, but the reception wasn't good. "Mum, Marie, and I will go into town soon, and I'll find out the forecast. It feels cold, so stay in this tent, or your own, and play games or read. Grandma will be in charge. Listen to her." "And don't touch the ceilings of your tent, girls. We don't know how long the rain will last, and we don't want it leaking," warned Mum. This happened one other year. I visualized the three of us huddled in our sleeping bags in the centre, surrounded by containers catching drips and the not-soothing serenade as they fell. Surface tension is responsible. When you touch the inner walls of a tent, water droplets lose it and seep through the fabric. I had studied the phenomenon and knew to be careful. "Maybe Lara and Katie should stay in this tent," I said, imagining the worst. "Great idea. You two stay here with Grandma." I planned to go, snuggle in my sleeping bag, and read to the sound of raindrops - but not on my head. When Mum and Dad returned, they brought hot pies for lunch. What a treat. I can forgive them for forgetting ice cream. Dad announced, "After lunch, Mum, Peter, Lynley, and I will dig trenches and channels around the outside edges to drain water away. We will roll all the ground sheets away from the sides so they won't get wet. This will stop the tents from getting flooded. The forecast is for steady rain for a couple of days. Peter can sleep in the back of the station wagon." "Aw," said Katie, "We want to swim." "Who will watch you?" said Peter. "Just stand outside in your bathing suit and get soaked!" Half of us worked hard. The other four stayed dry inside, playing Happy Families and Ludo. At that stage, it seemed like an adventure. We didn't let this spell of lousy weather dampen our spirits. Despite the ominous weather, we were determined to make the most of our holiday. Later in the day, Mum and Dad deepened the trenches and channelled the water further away. Dad didn't do barbeque on his portable outside. Mum cooked the vegetables and sausages on the little gas cooker inside. The atmosphere became clammy with wet clothes hanging around, our body heat, and the dinner cooking. At least we weren't cold, for now. By the afternoon of the following day, it still rained, and temperatures plummeted. The main tent had water trickling in. Lara had started numerous leaks in our tent and moved into the tent with Grandma and Marie. Marie developed a cold. We made trips to the toilet or the bush, fetched water from the river, and our clothes became wetter and wetter. You can only hang so much around a tent while other damp washing piles up. Mum and we five children became stir-crazy. Dad told us he had something to do in town but didn't tell us what. When he returned, he made another announcement. "The good news is we have somewhere dry to stay—the local motor camp. The bad news is I have booked a cabin with two small bedrooms. Peter will still have to sleep in the car." "That's great," said Peter with a huge grin. "The motorcamp is packed this time of the year. We're lucky to have their last cabin for up to a week. The other bad thing is we will still have to walk to a communal kitchen and bathroom." "What about our tents? Do we have to pull them down?" I asked. This would have been abysmal news. Dad laughed. "No. The tents will be left here to dry. Anything loose can be stored in the trailer and parked at the motorcamp. Mum will have their laundry to get everything washed and dry." "Thanks, what a relief," said Mum. Within another day, the rain stopped, leaving everything soaked. Staying at the motorcamp became the highlight of our holiday. We enjoyed the company of other children, the playground, and the less primitive living arrangements. An enormous extended Greek family had two girl cousins named Palesa (pronounced 'paletza'), and Katie and I got on well with them. We invited them to our campsite near the river when we left after four days. To our delight, the whole family came to see us one day. They made the dam higher, and we had a great time. It became scorching. Ideal for water play. We all applied sunscreen, as did Dad. He must have forgotten his feet. The top of them burnt into huge blisters. Poor Dad. He couldn't wear shoes for weeks. We went home with a healthy colour on us. A reminder of our eventful summer holiday.

y7pjlp

Desert Memories

DESERT MEMORIES By J. A. IRVING California desert, approaching the Seventies. The sun had just come up, and they said this would be the hottest day of the year. The shadows still felt cold, but already the sun had weight when it leaned on you. Ben Bastion walked from the van where he had spent the night in the racers’ parking lot into the Costa Mesa International Raceway garage. His blonde curls seemed extra unruly: a typical case of pre-race nerves had kept him from resting well, even in a down-filled sleeping bag with a foam pad between him and the steel floor. A shaggy band with electric guitars, organ, and drums was already trying to crank its amps loud enough to dispel the nighttime desert chill in front of near-empty grandstands, as music of a different kind – to some ears – roared out in the cavernous garage. The first race bike fired up to begin prepping for their final practice before the main event that afternoon. Ben’s mechanic brought the pit-starter to spin the back wheel so they could bump the much-modified single-cylinder to life; Ben himself threw a leg across the tiny saddle of his faithful Rudyard TT Replica and gave the throttle grip a twist or two. A smell and faint blue haze of burnt castor oil rose with the cascading noise. The mechanic shepherded the silver-and black bike, warming up for its first laps of the day, outside into the desert sun. Ben threw off jeans and T-shirt and stretched a leather jumpsuit, blazoned with Rudyard name and sponsor logos, over his wiry body; he pulled on gloves and boots, and squeezed those famous Bastion curls inside one of the still-new full-face coverage helmets. A slight figure in red and black leathers of his own swaggered up, wearing an older-style helmet and plastic face-shield, with a mechanic pushing his shrieking Italian four-cylinder bike on toward the pit lane and track. Gino Benedetto slapped Ben on the shoulder. “Now that’s how a real racing motorcycle sounds – not some thumping old English tractor, growl and grumble!” The two were longtime rivals and in some grudging sense, friends. “Hey, Gino!” Ben yelled through his helmet and the racket of motors. “Thumping English tractor revs higher than she used to, and she still corners like on rails – we’ll see what the track says about ‘real racers’ this afternoon!” “Neither of us will catch the 750s and the two-strokes,” Gino admitted ruefully. “But we’ll keep them honest!” “And racing luck yields surprises, too.” “Si, si. But I wish we had more than luck to count on!” Ben and Gino, and the rest of their two-wheeled circus, knew each other from the road-racing tracks of North America. Some of them also raced dirt ovals, but not Ben. A Rudyard-and-Tanaka dealer from the small town of Pine Lake in the mountains of western Canada, he stuck to his TT Replica. Yet even though it had grown a hundred more cubic centimetres and an extra gear since its track debut over a decade before, it could no longer really keep up, despite Ben’s smooth and precise riding style. Benedetto, a sprout from an old family tree with Italian roots, always raced stylish, complicated Italian machinery even as Asian two-strokes inched toward dominance on the racetrack. Gino also majored in after-race parties – booze, a little dope sometimes, a girl on each arm. Life played like a movie. Ben and Gino and the others, young, or young-ish, and leather-clad, served as the heroes and villains. A little leather-wrapped man with a scanty moustache sneered at the private entrants as he mounted the latest factory-prepped two-stroke: Gary Quadra. The magazines profiled him in feature stories that hinted at possibilities soon of a world championship run in Europe. He’d posted a qualifying time yesterday that put him on the inside of the front row for the start. Quadra sneered at his factory-sponsored team-mates, too. Ben stepped outside into brilliance from the shadowy garage. The sun already radiated back from the dusty hills, cactus, and brush, heat rising in waves from the asphalt track surface. Ben sucked at the crooked spout of a water bottle that could reach inside his helmet. Pavement softened and tire grip changed when facing this much heat. Crowds had begun to gather and bake in open bleachers at key spots around the course, some carrying their own sunshades, drinking beer, colas, and lemonade. Suntanned blonde models watched and waited to put on bikinis and hand over the trophies. Some of the riders threw a few jokey lines their way. Ben had his own beauty at home with the kids, although sometimes Mary travelled to races with him. By now the track was hot; tires and oil reached working temperatures quickly; this afternoon might overstrain some of the machinery. Like those two-strokes. Ben studied the cornering lines he had worked out yesterday: had a square inch of oil changed the exact spot to start his lean for this curve? Could he still trust the Replica’s vaunted roadholding at these temperatures, there in that series of bends, and flip the bike with abandon from one side to the other, at over 100 mph? He and his mechanic made a few adjustments to the forks and rear shocks after the track officials flagged the session to a close. The tires and brakes had just enough laps on them to be ready to race. After a morning of supporting events and music, clocks – still mostly dial-type – reported race time for the feature approaching. Teams pushed all the bikes to their start positions according to qualifying times, each make roaring its own distinctive exhaust note as mechanics and riders coaxed them to start again. Ben was already sweating in his leathers and helmet, and the Rudyard pumped out its own waves of heat and vibration as he positioned himself in the thinly padded saddle. A convertible led the field on a pace lap and the green flag waved. Gary Quadra turned his pole position start into an early lead while his team-mates traded second through fifth with a trio of factory-entered 750-cc four-strokes. Ben’s Rudyard single roared along, running just behind the stars and repeating exactly each braking point, turn-in, apex, lap by lap. Then on a fast, downhill series of bends called the Stairway, Gino’s red four-cylinder drifted past him. Ben felt a jolt of adrenalin but stayed on his rhythm, keeping one eye on Benedetto’s line while riding his own. He dived under the red bike as they banked into a hairpin, rubbing fairings a little at the corner’s apex, and then he growled ahead. Gino lunged back into the lead of their duel on the outside of a long, fast corner. Ben outbraked the wiry little Italian at another spot, winning back the place. They kept at each other in the scorching sun, lap by lap, their engines pouring out mechanical heat, at the same time as they crept closer to the overall leaders – who battled elbow-to-elbow among themselves. Their leathers were soaking with sweat. They set personal lap records. Fans leapt to their feet each time Ben and Gino came in sight, duelling red and silver. Over fifty years later, the two of them remembered together. Gino, attending Ben’s birthday, back in Pine Lake, seemed bent, frail, with wispy white hair. Ben’s curls had long since been shorn to pale stubble, but he kept up an exercise routine a physiotherapist had given him after his last big crash – his only serous road accident, more than twenty years before. They joined Ben’s neighbours and family with the bratwurst and ciabatta rolls and salads around Ben and Mary’s hand-built log home on the lakeshore at the edge of town. Mary had been failing since a stroke ten years ago, but she still attended. “And then, last lap, we went too far!” Gino grinned. He snapped his fingers in the air to show how quickly everything could change. “I made the quickest sector time of the race down the Stairway,” Gino said with satisfaction, “and you hung at my back tire. Amazing! You got by me on the brakes, there, and I pulled beside you as we turned in – the asphalt was getting really soft. We both lost grip at the same instant; we both ate dust!” “We both wore gravel rash for weeks, but people still talk about that race, and they remember us, not Gary taking the checkered flag and champagne!” Ben had always wondered if one of them actually took the other out. “It was a day to remember, even if we didn’t score trophies. Quadra never forgave us for stealing his show, as long as he lived.” “Si-si!” The old racer had a light in his eyes, even though he seemed much more aged than Ben. “And now you will beat me again on birthdays, si? I heard about this party down at the care home. But could I have a champagne if you don’t mind? They don’t give me that, at the old folks’ home.” “That was always why you wanted to win – the bubbly, eh?” “I wanted to beat you, but the champagne was a nice bonus!” The frail old racer smacked his wrinkled lips. Ben smiled and shook Benedetto’s hand as he led him to the ice bucket and the last bottles of birthday champagne. I never cared about the bonus, Ben thought, but I wanted to beat myself, even more than beating the other guys. Guess that’s partly why I stuck to my old Ruddy instead of trying to get some superfast new bike. Gino’s care aide took him home to the seniors’ facility early, still smiling. Ben remembered again hat hot afternoon in the desert, riding back to pit lane with Gino in the ambulance, their leathers and bodies scraped raw and dusty. Gary Quadra scowled and stopped spraying champagne as reporters, photographers and fans crowded around them as they arrived. A couple of years later, Quadra died in a 170-mph crash at a track in Florida that left two other riders facing months of hospital and rehab. But at least they raced again. Hot days, or cold, rainy ones beside northern oceans. Worth the crashes and pain? Challenge seemed built into human nature. At least they measured themselves against one another and themselves, and the circuits; they tried to leave a record of achievements, not simply tearing up public streets for their own amusement. Ben squinted his blue “racer” eyes into the distance. Too bad Gary Quadra hadn’t found a little more room to “love your enemies.”

2k39mz

U-Boat

The days and nights pass to the rumble of diesel engines. They become your heartbeat. Your attachment to life. You have nightmares about drowning, about sinking deeper and deeper to the screams of your fellow crew mates. The hull bursts and the Atlantic gouges your eyes and lungs with burning saltwater. Then you wake up to the humming diesels, welcoming you back to life. This time you wake up to silence, to icy condensation pooling in your bunk, to the tense atmosphere of electric engines running silent and hiding from death. When you’re not hearing the diesel, you’re breathing it. The air stinks thick with machinery and diesel oil, with shit and urine, with battery acid, with the body odor of 51 sweating crew members. You haven’t breathed fresh air for 36 hours. Not since the emergency dive, not since the British destroyer forced the boat under after a torpedo attack that broke the back of a troop transport and sent hundreds of men to a bad death. You were on the conning tower to see the explosion light up the night. Men on deck screamed as they burned. Some leapt from fiery decks into a sea burning with oil. It reminded you of the lake of fire from the Bible that you used to read before the war. Now it was your turn to face the end. You hear the screws and the drops of depth charges. You wonder if this will be the time one of the charges finally hits its mark. These could be your last minutes. Your last breaths. Your desire to survive is strong. So is their will to kill you. If there is a god, he loves no one— not the sailors burned alive in the waves, not the English with their murderous vengeance, not you with your hypocritical hope. Still, you pray. You wait for the explosions, for the tearing of metal, for the turbulent shaking. This isn’t your first time, but it never gets easier. Across the command center, the captain waits anxiously with his eyes on a watch, counting the seconds, calculating depth. He does his best to keep his composure, but everyone can see his hands trembling. Then the first explosion comes, so close you’re sure this is it. A loose bolt shoots from the wall and hits the man next to you, lacerating his skull and collapsing him out of existence. You duck and cover your head. Another explosion, more violent quaking and the lights go out. You shut your eyes tight and wait, but you keep on living. Eventually the explosions stop, and the steady, nerve-wrenching ping of ASDIQ begins. The destroyer has turned to the long game of holding you under, of suffocating you in your own exhaust and filth. They won’t let you go easy this time. They saw the burning sailors in the waves, too. You check on the man that was hit. He’s dead. You’re alive. For a moment, you wish you could trade places and escape what’s to come. The captain orders crew to bunks, to conserve breath, to conserve electricity and compressed air. As the hours pass, the humidity increases, soaking everything in a wet film. The air grows thicker and thicker, too thick to breathe. Eventually the captain hands out potassium cartridges. You put yours on and breathe hot air through a large metal can. Then comes the waiting, the sinking into feverish, fearful half sleep that only brings nightmares. All around, men lay gasping for air. Still the ASDIQ pings. Charges explode somewhere above, but not close. You fight harder to keep yourself awake. Fall asleep now, and you won’t wake up again. Fall asleep now, and it can all be over. You think about letting go, but you can’t. You want to live and so you heave through each burning breath. You think about your family and the home you left. You’re tortured with the idea of rubble, of the bombs that have eaten entire cities, of your crew mates that have lost their families to mass destruction—to an enemy with no face. You’re close to losing consciousness when the captain makes the decision to surface. It’s been quiet for over an hour, and he’s hopeful they’ve finally given up the chase. Either way, it’s surface or suffocate. Most of the crew gathers in the control room. The depth meter slowly rises — 230 meters, 200, 150. Each second feels like an hour. The captain hovers at periscope depth. You watch his expression as he turns the scope. And then he gives the all clear. The ship surfaces. You won’t be the first to exit the boat. Even in times of panic, there is rank and order. You wait as the chief breaks the seal of the tower. The pressure change is so great, he is nearly sucked out. Your ears pop into a loud ringing. You can taste the fresh air. Your entire body starts to shake as you wait for your turn up the ladder. Then you hear it, the sound of airplane propellers, the panicked yell of “Alarm!” Then an explosion. You’re on the floor, bleeding and covered in sea water. It’s rushing from somewhere further down the ship. The boat is sinking. You pick yourself up and move towards the ladder. At the base lies the captain, his lifeless eyes reflecting light and sky. You boost yourself off of his body to stand and make your way up the first few rungs. You can taste the fresh air as you claw yourself further up. You’re almost there when the water starts pouring in. You fight against the rush of saltwater until it comes up over your head. And then you’re swimming. You swim towards a distant sun shimmering through darkness. You break free of the tower and are just feet from the surface, but you’re not moving. You’re stuck in the pull of the boat. You fight until the end, until the pounding in your head turns to a quiet blackness, until your thoughts begin to dissolve away from air, from explosions, and into a dreamless sleep that will never again be woken by the sound of diesel. 

asrf35

A Summer Escape

My hip joints ached as though each leg had been ripped off and crudely reattached by Doctor Frankenstein. I peeled myself out of the driver's seat of the old 1992 Dodge minivan and ventured out into the blistering heat of New Mexico. I was fairly certain Albuquerque should be coming up soon, but my need to stretch outweighed my curiosity. New Mexico had always made me uneasy, with their elaborate, pretentious highway art, polished exteriors, and rundown, grungy insides. The whole package felt intentionally deceptive, like a gingerbread house still baking in an infernal oven but ready to lure in children for the wicked witch. And it didn't help that the minivan's AC had quit somewhere in Oklahoma. In late July. I quickly wrapped up my business with the gas pump and made my way inside the convenience store. I needed a cold drink, but something that wouldn't go right through me like soda was wont to do. I wasn't immediately sure if the interior of the store was cooler than the inside of the baking minivan, but when the sweat under my arms and along my back turned frigid I decided this was an improvement. I wandered around aimlessly for a moment, appreciating the air conditioning, letting my legs move, and taking in the crowd. The place was busy, crawling with locals and travelers alike. The locals were easy to spot, with their dark hair and distrusting eyes. I wasn't sure how I stood out so blatantly to them. My hair was dark. My skin more mocha than milk. But somehow they knew. Perhaps it was the sweat stains that covered the armpits and back of my shirt. I decided to pick a beverage and go. I stood by the glass refrigerator doors scanning the selection carefully. Unfortunately, they had less than half the options I'd gotten used to seeing at other stops. Just when I was on the verge of grabbing a five dollar bottle of water, someone whispered behind me. "Don't turn around." Her voice was soft but urgent. The words came out staccato and quick. I didn't turn around, but I had to freeze my whole body in order to fight the urge. "I need your help," she said. Again, her delivery was rhythmically tight, as though interjecting in the brief moments when an observer's ears were blinking. "I have to get out of here. Can I ride with you?" I started to turn around. "No! Not while we're on camera," she hissed. I glanced up with my eyes only, holding very still, and saw that there were, indeed, security cameras in the corners of the store. "Mine is the old blue-gray Dodge minivan by the pumps," I said. " It's unlocked, but there are probably cameras outside too." My heart was racing. Why would she be avoiding the cameras? Why was I so willing to help? What if she wanted to rob me? The tension and fear in her voice was apparent, but could it be an act? Who was she? What was going on? I waited, barely able to focus on anything but my pulsating veins. I was so nervous a new sheet of sweat had formed on my forehead and neck. Someone approached and reached tentatively for the glass door handle in front of me. "Excuse me," he whispered awkwardly. I stepped back, casually glancing around. There was no girl. Just the man and a small family milling their way through a nearby candy aisle. I released a tense sigh and cleared my head. Maybe it was a weird prank. I chuckled to myself, imagining some teenager filming such an encounter on a cell phone and posting it to social media. At least it wasn't more nefarious. Pretty harmless as far as pranks go. I checked out and exited back out into the sweltering mid-day sun's domain. I rolled my eyes and sighed, dragging my feet across the parking lot. Another four or five hours, I told myself. Then I'll stop for the night. Of course, if I pushed through Arizona I could make it all the way to Las Vegas before it got too late, plus a lot of that driving would be after sundown. I groaned. Why wasn't I doing more of my driving early in the morning and late at night? Perhaps I felt I deserved my fate. I climbed back into the van, buckled up, started the engine, and pulled away from the pumps. The moment I entered the ramp for I-40 West, I shook, swerved, and had a heart attack when a voice piped up from the back seat. "Oh thank you!" She was quiet and pleasant enough, but the possibility of a stowaway was so far from my mind that it took me by complete surprise. "You were serious!" I yelled, frantically turning around for a look at my new passenger. The vehicle veered dangerously close to the edge of the road and I nearly overcorrected. While I focused on getting back in my lane, the woman climbed up into the passenger seat. I guessed she was in her late twenties or early thirties, pretty close to my age. She had hair as black as the night pulled back into a single long braid that draped elegantly over a shoulder and got buckled in when she fastened her seat belt. She directed the most magnificent turquoise eyes at me, wearing a massive smile on every muscle in her face. She let out a giant rush of air, puffing her cheeks out before the powerful grin overwhelmed her features again. Her little button nose crinkled. "Why are you so surprised?" she asked innocently. "Who are you?" I sputtered, knowing that there were a dozen better questions, and a hundred more appropriate things to say, such as this is not normal behavior! "I'm Rachel," she said. "What's your name?" "Kevin," I said slowly, my mind-gears grinding and squealing their way through the situation. "What is going on? You disappeared back there. I didn't think you'd really hitch a ride. Why do you need a ride? Where are you going?" I took a breath, pulling in the reins. She laughed, a musical sound that filled my ears with joy. "Kevin," she repeated. "Nice to meet you." She turned to face me. "Thank you again," she said. "I couldn't risk being seen on camera with you. I just hope I snuck into your van without it being too obvious." "Why?" I asked. "Why the secrecy? Are you..." A criminal? I wanted to ask. She exhaled sharply through her nose and her voice took on a grim, heavy tone. She spoke slowly, laboring her way through the words. "I... don't want to talk about it, yet." She said. "Don't worry though," she said, more animated. "I haven't broken any laws, I promise. I'm just trying to escape a bad situation. I want to start over somewhere new. And I didn't want people thinking you kidnapped me or were in on it." In on what? I wondered. I stared at her and my right tire began vibrating violently as it came into contact with the grooves outside my lane. I swerved sharply away from the edge of the road and glanced back at her. "Why me though?" I asked. She shrugged. "I had a good feeling about you," she said. Then, in an innocent, playfully concerned voice, "was I wrong?" I chuckled through my nostrils and shook my head. "I have no idea," I said. I looked back in her direction briefly and felt my heart swelling. She had her eyes on me and she was smiling. "So..." she started, her voice trailing off as she directed her eyes down at her feet. "Are you single?" I decided we were definitely stopping in a few hours. Las Vegas could wait.

d2oth8

Our Worst/Best Vacation Ever

The Summer of 2010 was by far the worst summer I ever had. While my friends were going to theme parks and other countries on the other side of the globe, I was stuck in a scorching hot, brown Dotson. The car was sputtering all the way from our home in Montana to Nevada. It was a miracle the car got us as far as it did. The air conditioning was shot, so we had to drive with the windows rolled down. The radio didn’t work, and neither did the CD player. My mom tried to get us to sing some songs acapella style, but she gave up after fifteen attempts. When we were a few hours into the trip, I complained that I was bored, which made my dad suggest that I just go to sleep. “Time will move faster if you do,” he said. The only problem was that the car’s engine kept me on high alert. I mentioned before that it had been sputtering, but that word doesn’t do it justice. When I said it was sputtering, I meant it sounded like it was about to die any second. Even my mom got worried a few times and asked my dad if we could stop by a service station to see what was wrong with it. “There ain’t nothing wrong with it,” he growled. “Just its personality is all.” I rolled my eyes and my mom gave a heavy sigh. We both knew that, “personality,” was just his excuse for not tossing the thing years ago so he wouldn’t have to waste money on a new one. What made everything worse was that I had packed my DS, but forgotten to charge the battery. So until we reached someplace with a charge port, it sat untouched in its black case. The best I could do was look at the game cartridges and imagine how much fun I could have had if I wasn’t so forgetful. Even lunch was ruined with plain old cheese bologna sandwiches, bland potato chips, and warm cokes, instead of sizzling hot hamburgers, with salty fries and a cold Sprite. I guess my mom knew I’d complain, because before I said a word she told me they were trying to save money by not getting fast food. “Come on!” I wanted to scream at her, but I didn’t want to get a smack from dad. Every kid knew eating fast food was the best part of any vacation. It was the one time of year where you could eat whatever you wanted for two weeks straight. So, I bet you’re wondering what we were doing in the middle of the Nevada desert anyhow. Well, my parents wanted to see the Grand Canyon. I have no idea why. They said it was an important landmark, but what makes it so important? Does it have a theme park? Does the president live there? Does it contain evidence of extraterrestrial visitors? They said, “No,” to all of my questions. They said it was important because it would help me, “appreciate nature” or “get me inspired,” or some crap like that. It was only a matter of time before the car broke down and, just our luck, it broke down at the worst time imaginable. We all heard it dying, but my dad insisted that everything was fine. “I think we should pull over,” my mom suggested, but my dad assured us that our hotel was only a few more miles away. The car wasn’t sputtering this time around, it was jerking, it was coughing and I hated every second. My dad was so anxious that his nails dug into the steering wheel. The gaps of silence between sputters grew longer, and smoke was rising out of the trembling hood. “Come on baby,” he muttered. “We’re almost there. Just a few more miles…” But nothing he said made a difference. A few minutes later the car gave out its last cough, and we slid to the side of the road. None of us said a word, but we all knew that the car was never going to start ever again. This didn’t stop my dad from turning the keys into the ignition. Nothing happened no matter how hard he tried. My dad slammed the wheel and cursed for a few seconds before going completely silent. My mom and I were too scared to speak up. We learned from experience never to talk to him when he got this angry. He’d snap like a dog, saying the crudest and meanest things you’d ever hear. Finally, once his breathing slowed down my mom got out her cell phone and dialed Triple-A. Little did she know that the simple action would cause a nightmare of an argument. My dad insisted that I could push the car to the hotel, while my mom was against it. “He’s going to die in this heat, Gerald!” she said. “Besides how far is this hotel anyway.” “Not far,” he claimed without elaborating any further. My mom begged him for an exact number but he refused to say. Either he didn’t know, or he was ashamed to admit that we were nowhere near the hotel. When it was clear that their arguing was going nowhere, my mom unlocked her door, pushed it open, and stormed outside. Meanwhile, my dad grumbled to himself, first punching the dashboard and then scratching the leather off the wheel. I sunk down into my seat and kept my mouth zipped shut. There was no point in getting his attention. I heard my mom dial some numbers on her phone, and when I looked out the window I saw her holding it to her ear. I heard her voice as she talked with the person on the other end, but I didn’t care enough to listen. Once my mom was done talking to the person on the phone, she took her seat back into the car. “They’ll be here in two hours,” she sighed. I rolled my eyes. Being stuck in a car was bad enough, but being stuck in a nonmoving car was even worse. My mom got us some warm cokes to keep us hydrated, but I couldn’t stand even one sip. It was like drinking pure lava. If I drank the whole thing my throat would have disintegrated into nothing.  Going to sleep was out of the question, actually doing anything was out of the question. We were trapped, and there was nothing we could do to escape. All we could do was wait and hope that the tow truck would arrive. The sky turned a dark orange, and I could hear the faint sound of locusts when we could make out orange flashing lights in the distance. The tow truck had arrived at last! The wave of relief made us forget that we had bigger problems to worry about. You see, COVID didn’t exist back then, so we were all squished in the tiny passenger seat inside the tow truck. My dad sat next to the driver, my mom was up against the window, while I was squished in the middle. Even with my legs together, there still wasn’t enough space for any of us to feel comfortable. My dad told the driver to drop the car off at the nearest mechanic shop. “The closest one closes at 7 and it's 7:15,” said the driver, but my dad didn't care. “They can work on it tomorrow can’t they?” he asked. “Whatever you say, sir,” the driver mumbled. The guy looked tired. He had blonde hair that scraped his ears, stubble on his chin, and his eyes had a thousand-mile stare. Every so now again, I’d see his head nodding down only for him to jerk it back up within seconds. Ah, great! I thought. If the heat didn't kill us then our half-asleep driver certainly would. By some miracle, we reached the mechanic shop safely. The driver dropped the car off in a parking space, we took a moment to gather our luggage, which made the tight space in the truck even tighter, and we were on our way to the hotel. My dad was going to tell the driver the address, but he recognized the hotel just by name. I felt so happy that this terrible day would be over, and I’d get to spend the night in a soft bed, in a cool air-conditioned room, and I’d be able to charge my DS to full power. I’m pretty sure it was a Red Roof, or a hotel chain similar to Red Roof. The neon sign was a red house with the name in white. The fluorescent lamps made the red walls black and the gray cement a cool blue. We got our stuff out of the truck, and my folks thanked the driver for his help. He waved to us and said, “Don’t mention it,” and took off, never to be seen again. My dad was first through the door, and he walked with a confident swagger up to the front desk. He gave the desk clerk the name of the reservation, and she typed on the keyboard with her long red fingernails. No joke, those things were ridiculously long. She could poke someone’s eye out with those things. She stared at the screen for a minute or two before giving us the bad news. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t find any reservation under that name.” My dad’s eyebrows shot up, while my mom stood frozen with shock. “That’s impossible!” my dad sputtered. “Check under Gerald Richardson.” The lady typed in a few words, blinked, looked back at my dad, and told him again that she couldn’t find the reservation. “There must be a mistake!” my dad said, slamming his hand on the desk. “I made the reservation with the young lady a few days ago.” (My dad was still the generation that did everything through the phone and not online.) The lady at the desk tried to make him understand, but my dad wasn’t having it. I walked away to sit down on one of the sofa seats. There was no way I wanted anyone to know that I was related to that man. My mom continued to stand behind him, but she had a disappointed frown on her face. It got so bad that the lady had to get her manager, who basically repeated the same thing. I had a feeling we wouldn’t be sleeping at that hotel for the night, and I was right. My dad wasn’t content with purchasing another room, he wanted the room he had reserved. They came to a standstill. Frustrated and in fumes, my dad stormed off saying he would take his business elsewhere. He yelled at me and my mom to follow him out. I thought the yelling was unnecessary, but I wasn’t going to say that to his face. “Now what, Gerald?” my mom asked as soon as we stepped outside. I was surprised she didn’t reprimand him for messing up the reservation and getting mad at the staff, but I guess she was too tired to get mad. I thought the solution was simple. Just go to another hotel. After all, there was a Days Inn right across the street. Turns out it wasn’t that easy. We were already traveling on a strict budget, which was obliterated by the car breaking down. Kind of made me wonder why we were traveling in the first place. This information led my mother back to her original question. “What are we going to do, Gerald?” My dad tugged at both ends of his black hair, walked out, made some angry noises, and then came back completely subdued. I had no idea whether he had a fit of rage or a brief psychotic breakdown. “We’ll have to sleep in the car,” he said. My mom gave a little grunt but didn’t complain. I on the other hand was taking a few minutes to process what my dad just said. “Wait…” I said. “You said we’re going to have to sleep in the car?” My dad looked at me with seething eyes, immediately filling me with regret. “Afraid, so honey,” my mom said.  “But how are we going to get there?” I asked, thinking it was a fair question. After all, the mechanic’s place was far away from the hotel, and I didn’t have the energy to walk all the way there.  I don’t know what phone number my dad called, but a taxi showed up right at the hotel a few minutes later. I was surprised because I thought taxis were only for cities, not for out-of-the-way places in the middle of nowhere. We threw our luggage in the trunk. The cab driver wasn’t as nice as the tow truck driver. He never talked, and he had an angry glare. It’s like he wasn’t even human, it was like he was a robot. Even when my dad wanted to start a conversation with the guy, the man stayed silent. In a few minutes, we were back at the mechanic’s, and we shoved everything back in the car.  I slept on the back seat, while my mom and dad sat in the front with their seats set back. This was not how I pictured spending my vacation, sleeping in a car in a parking lot. I thought sleeping in cars was something poor people did. That’s when I had the terrifying realization that we were poor. True we weren’t homeless or begging on the streets, but normal families don’t sleep in their cars, or eat sandwiches instead of going out to eat.  It was a little scary sleeping in the parking lot that night. I was afraid a killer was going to break in and murder us in our sleep, or the cops would have us under arrest for trespassing. I don’t know how I was able to fall asleep, but somehow I did. I closed my eyes for one second and it was morning. The sun was out, and the car was already warming up. I looked around and saw my mom in the passenger seat, resting her head on her hand. My dad was nowhere to be seen, but my mom told me he was talking to the people inside. Sure enough, my dad returned to the car and tapped on the window. “Alright, get out. They're going to start working on the car,” he said. My mind went crazy. I wanted to ask him what we were supposed to do while we waited, but my mom beat me to it. “We’ll see the local scenery,” he explained as if he was saying we were going to the park or a petting zoo. “You can’t be serious,” my mom gasped. “Hey, we’re on vacation to see new sights, and there are plenty of new sights here,” he explained. He had us there, the sights were different than the type in Minnesota, but the sights in question weren’t too impressive. There was absolutely nothing about the landscape that stood out. There were a few cliffs, a cactus here and there, and maybe an interesting-looking rock or two. It wasn’t much, but we really didn’t have a choice. What else were we supposed to do? My mom grabbed the bag of drinks out of the car and we were off to the sights, or lack thereof. At that point, we were trying to make the best of a terrible situation. I know that sounds bad, but again our options were limited. Now it wasn’t all bad. I got to see a salamander, which was pretty cool. In a way, it was like we were going on an adventure. I imagined that I was an archaeologist looking for ancient treasures in the desert. Believe it or not, I was actually having fun. I examined rocks, and I was even digging through the dirt. My mom had stopped me before my hands got too dirty and had me clean them with sanitizer wipes. We got some nice family photos into the mix and we actually ate out for once. It was a small diner with a tin roof. We had cheeseburgers, and let me tell you that those were the meatiest patties I ever had. I mean the meat was about as thick as my thumb. It was so good that they were better than McDonald’s. I wondered why my parents were spending so much on food. When I asked them they said it was because we were going home once the car was fixed. My mom said she was sorry we weren't going to see to the Grand Canyon, but I said it was relieved. I didn’t want to see a stupid canyon anyway. So, even though it wasn’t the best vacation ever, I didn’t go to Disney World or across the globe, I still had a good time. That’s why we called it Our Worst/Best Vacation Ever. 

cmywbi

Twin Adventure: Heroes, Gratitude, and Unashamed

“All heroes wear cape,” said Junior. Junior was one of the teens from the Linstead district, where Grandma Keturah lived. He’d met Sean at the Rio Cobre river, the week before. When they learned they were neighbours they made plans to hang out. They were at Juici Patties, a Jamaican fast food outlet located in Linstead Plaza, pouring over an Avenger movie.      Sadie rolled her eyes as she bit into her beef patty. She wondered why they hadn’t stayed home. Their grandmother had gone to the market to sell some ground provisions and had left Sean in charge.      “All heroes do not wear cape,” Sean retorted. “Jes----” Sadie shook her head in the negative and he stopped speaking.      “Spiderman is a superhero and he doesn’t have a cape,” said Sadie.      “Nor Wolverine,” Sean chimed in.      Junior released an exasperated breath. “Fine. You win.” Sadie cocked an eyebrow at them when Junior handed over a Hundred Jamaican Dollars to Sean. Sean grinned then pocketed it.      “We’re debating. Loser pays the winner.”      “Seriously,” Sadie said. “You’re gambling now. I’m gonna tell grandmother.”      “I knew she had a mouth on her but I didn’t know your sister was a chatterbox,” said Junior to Sean.      Sadie stood up, her camera raised at him. “Call me chatterbox one more time.”      Sean inclined his head in her direction. “Sadie, stop. You know it doesn’t work on humans.” They had met a cherub by the name of Yael, who had turned Sadie’s favourite toy – her camera, into a weapon. With a click of her camera, the giant had been rendered temporarily blind.      Sadie sat then sighed. “I wish it had.”      Junior glanced between them confused then his dark brown eyes brightened. “Uncle Timmy,” he called.      “Wha gwaan, yute?” Uncle Timmy called back, asking his nephew how he was doing in Jamaican patois.      Sadie spun around and came face to face with a tall, slender, dark skinned man with plaited hair. He looked familiar.      “How you doin’ likkle missy?” the man asked. She then remembered. He’d led the other two men in rescuing her from an evil mermaid spirit, that day when she had gone to the Rio Cobre river with her grandmother and fourteen-year-old twin brother, Sean. It was true – Most heroes didn’t wear cape.      Sadie smiled and restrained herself from curtsying, though she folded her hands demurely in front of her. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”      “No need. Life we say around these parts. Can’t make a bright one like you go down like that. How are you?”      She gave a tight smile. “Much better,” she said, though the events plagued her in her dreams, she was happy to be alive.      “Where’s Mama Keturah?”      “At the market,” Sean said. She’s going to come back for us in the next hour.      “Give her my regards,” he said then headed to the cashier line to purchase his meal.      “Your uncle is a hero,” Sean said to Junior. “He doesn’t wear cape.”      “It doesn’t matter,” Junior said. “Cause even though he saved your life no one will celebrate him,” said Junior to Sadie.      “I celebrate him,” Sadie said, staring at the tall figure, whistling in the line, with his hands in his shorts pocket.      Junior got up and mimicked Sadie. “Thank you for saving my life. I really appreciate it.” He copied the placing of her hands in front of her and even added a girly sway. Sean guffawed. “You call that a recognition?” he asked, before sitting down.      Sean sat up. His light brown eyes danced with excitement. “I know what we can do. I will apply for him to be recognised at The National Honours and Awards Ceremony in October.”      Junior rotated toward his new friend. “You can do that? My uncle has saved a lot of children in the river, not just Sadie. He always seems to be there when something bad happens too. Right in the nick of time to render help. It’s kind of cool but also weird.”      “Totally,” Sean said.      “Yeah,” Sadie agreed.      Junior perked up. “So, how do we make this application?”      “You have the WIFI,” said Sadie. “Look if the application is open.”  Sean’s fingers danced across the Bluetooth keypad. “There it is,” Sadie said, pointing at the word, “Forms.”      Junior rubbed his hands together and smiled from ear to ear. “This is going to be so cool.” ***** Grandma Keturah studied her grandchildren. They were huddled around the tablet in the living room and bickering about something. It was not uncommon for the twins to bicker but for them to be fixated on one thing together was uncommon.      She glanced up from her Our Daily Bread Daily Devotion. “What are you discussing?”      Sadie glanced up and grinned at her grandmother. “We are completing an application for Uncle Timmy to be awarded.”      Grandmother Keturah set the daily bread aside. “What for?”      “He saved me from drowning grandma and Junior said he’s saved others over the years. We just think he should get the respect he deserves.”      Grandma Keturah nodded. “That’s noble of you two – or I should say, three, but have you asked Uncle Timmy if he wanted to be honoured in this way?”      Sadie placed her feet on the couch but at the sight of her grandmother’s raised eyebrow, returned them to her slippers. “No,” she said.      “I’m not saying anything is wrong but maybe you should ask him first. Not everyone likes the limelight. For some people the applause of men are like weights and they don’t want to lift them. Why do you think most heroes don’t unmask?” Grandma Keturah asked.      The twins eyes made four. “Because people will just get in the way?” said Sean.      “There is that,” Grandma Keturah said. “But most heroes are heroes because they feel the weight of a calling not because they want to be honoured.”      Sean released a long breath. “I never thought of it like that.”      She smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”      “But we have national heroes?” said Sadie.      “When did they become heroes?” Grandma Keturah asked.      “On the independence of Jamaica but that was different,” said Sadie.      “All I’m saying is ask.”      “We spent all day on this.”      “Ask,” she said then removed her glasses with wizened hands from her discerning, dark brown eyes. “Ha!” she said. “Here’s a story I’d like to share.” She then proceeded to tell them about Joseph of Arimathea, the rich man who had buried Jesus in his own tomb.      “But Grandma, it’s in the Bible,” countered Sadie.      “Maybe so but most times we get caught up in the story about the rich young ruler who refused to give up his wealth to follow Jesus and so it is said that it is most difficult for the wealthy to enter heaven. However, we forget that a wealthy man, didn’t just follow the Law of Moses but was looking for the kingdom of God.  When he saw Jesus on that cross, he boldly went to the man who ordered Jesus’ death, requested Jesus’ body, wrapped him in the finest linen and placed him in his own grave. Later the story goes on to talk about the apostles and their mighty acts but no further mention or honour was ever given to Joseph. Do you think he feel cheated?” asked Grandma Keturah.      Sadie shrugged. “I don’t know.” “Well, there’s something to ponder,” she said then returned to her reading. ***** Sadie shivered as she stared at the long, winding, calm yet deadly river that had almost brought about her demise, though it wasn’t the river so much as it was what was in the water that had almost killed her.      “Are you okay?” her brother asked. Grandma Keturah had allowed them to stay with Junior and Junior’s parents had permitted them to visit Uncle Timmy at the river.      “Let’s get it over with,” she said and tramped through the bushes to where Uncle Timmy sat, like a lifeguard, perched on a boulder. He grinned and waved his hands when he saw them.      “Little ones,” he greeted. He had a little Bible in his hand and a large Island Grill Big Refreshaah drink on the ground next to him.  What are you all doing here?”      “We came to see you, Uncle Timmy,” said Junior.      “Oh yeah,” he said. His eyes were on the set of children near the water. “What about?”      “We think you should get a medal for what your work uncle. You saved Sadie here and so many others.”      “Who told you wanted to be dressed up like a peacock and strut across a stage so some humans can decorate me like a statute?”      “No one,” Junior squeaked.      Uncle Timmy glanced at Sadie. “Little miss. Your gratitude is good enough. My reward comes from the big man upstairs not the men down here. I do this because it’s my calling and I don’t want anyone disturbing my peace. The enemy has a way to trip up some of us too. Pride comes because of some award. Then comes the door to destruction and the same people who would have celebrated me would then mock me. I don’t commend myself to man but to God.”      “Grandma really knows best,” Sean muttered.      “Don’t be discouraged. I’m sure you’ll meet a peacock one day who’ll relish the medal.”      “I think I’m the peacock,” said Junior.      “Me too,” said Sean.      “I think we’ve all wanted to be celebrated,” Sadie added.      He turned to them. “ This is not meant to discourage you. People work hard and sometimes they are celebrated. There is nothing generally wrong with the thing. It’s just not for me. And what I do here is specifically sensitive. I’m not no big spiritual Christian who can see things like that but I could tell your grandma was fighting for you. How have you celebrated her?”      “I just told her thanks,” Sadie said.      “You might want to do something nice for her,” said Uncle Timmy. “Young people die too but grandparents are often on their last lap. Don’t scatter roses when she’s gone. Give them to her while she’s here now. And that goes for your parents too. You got that?” he said.      “Yes sir,” they all said in unison.      “Hey. Get away from there,” he said. “Excuse me, kids.”  With that he was off, on another rescue mission.      “There goes our hero,” said Junior.      “You really like him don’t you?” asked Sean.      “He’s more of a father to me than my dad,” Junior said then sighed.      Sean patted his shoulder. “Let’s go back. We have an application to delete.”      “And a grandma to thank properly,” said Sadie.  She paused. “What if she objects?”      “We are not signing her up for anything. We’ll just give her a card and buy her chocolate. She really like the Cadbury ones and I have some savings,” said Sean.      Sadie smiled. “Sounds like a plan.” ***** Dear Grandma, Thank you for saving me. You’re my hero and inspiration. I especially love your hot cocoas. I will never forget how you bathed Sean and I with Benjamin’s alcohol J or popped into my room and rescued me from a demon. I will never forget how you know precisely what’s happening with us even when you are not with us. Your telling me about seers made me realise that I have a real spiritual gift. I hope one day I will be as brave and as strong as you.                                                                                                               Love,                                                                                                               Sadie Dear Grandma, Thank you for your words of wisdom. I remember when I thought it was a good idea to sue someone, you gave me my first lesson in law. There is no point suing a man of straw unless it is being done in principle. You taught me to be responsible and to take care of my sister, even when I don’t believe she deserves it. I also remember how you stood beside me and rescued my sister, Sadie, from that wicked mermaid spirit. Thanks for being a real life hero. I’m happy you don’t wear a cape but I am happier that you make cakes.                                                                                          Love,                                                                                          Sean      “Wow, you two,” Grandma Keturah chuckled; her eyes were filled with light, love and mirth. “Come here.”      “We have one more thing,” said Sadie. “She removed her right hand from behind her back.      “We got your favourite,” she said, handing over the bag to her grandmother.      “Ooh, chocolate,” she said. “You two know how to make a grown woman cry,” she said. “Come here.” They raced to her and she hugged and kissed the tops of their heads. “Ahh. You two are so very special.” She then placed her hands on their heads. “And even now father, I pray a special measure of grace, strength, endurance and boldness upon their lives. May your fire surround them as with a shield.” As she prayed, Sadie and Sean’s eyes opened and they could see a golden glow around them.      “Grandma, we’re lighting up,” Sadie said with glee.      “That’s the blessing of the Lord, dear,” she said. “Now, who’s going to help me eat this chocolate?”      Sean’s hand shot up. Sadie elbowed him. “Let her have it.”      “Sharing is caring Sadie. Now, what is this I hear about you not wanting your brother to mention Jesus to Junior. Don’t you know that Jesus said if you’re ashamed of Him and His words, He will be ashamed of you when He returns in glory. You must never be ashamed of what you believe. How else will men believe if you do not speak?”      “I’ll no longer be ashamed,” Sadie said.      “That’s my girl.”      “I’m definitely not ashamed,” Sean said.      “We know,” Grandma Keturah and Sadie said in unison.

9xc4m7

Blind and Hungry

This was supposed to be my summer vacation. I was on leave god damnit! It was a small little island in the Carribean. Never heard of the country before, but the brochures were pretty enticing so I took a chance and went. Now there I was: hiding in a cave along the shore with a cracked rib. I could hear the sound of my pursuer’s massive body pounding down the beach outside - It sounded like thunder. He was looking for me, and I knew when he found me, that was the end. It was one thing after the other. Guess I should start this story properly: From the beginning. I guess introductions are in order. Name’s Rene. I'm twenty-nine and I have been in the Airforce for nearly ten years. Yeah: If there are any Army, Marines, or Navy reading this go ahead get your stupid jokes out of the way. Got it out of your system? Good? Great! Anyway, I'm not Pararescue, I'm not Security Forces, I'm not a fighter pilot. I'm a Civil Engineer. So yeah, a dirt boy. We're the guys everyone hates because we can't fix every single broken facility on base, or even close to it. But when we do get a project done we turn out a quality product and people enjoy the results. I love it and wouldn't want to do anything else. Anyway, as with anybody in any career field, I needed a break. I had just come back from a deployment and had money and leave to burn. I'm not married, nor do I have a girlfriend. Hindsight - I really should have gotten someone to go with me, but I really just wanted to be on my own with no one bothering me for a little while. So I bought a vacation package for a place in the Carribean I'd never heard of. I looked it up and found the island I was going to was one of those places where they just started promoting tourism. Yeah, Red flag. Again: hindsight.  Had to take a float plane there and the first few days were actually pretty great: good swimming, food was good and there were a ton of girls there. There were three major hotels and the resort I was in had the nicest girls, if you catch my drift. That first night there, the place threw this party that was pretty fun. Downed some margaritas and tried salsa dancing. I'm a horrible dancer by the way so I really sucked at it, but the woman that showed me the steps was super pretty. I just let her move my body and tried not to step on her toes. I really don't remember too much else, it was all a blur of good times and U.S. currency went a long way there. But that was my first night there and my first time meeting her. The next morning I woke up with a massive headache, a terrible stomach ache, and a massive need to puke. Ugh, right... better skip past the usual boring tourist party stories. Day four: things took a turn for the worst. I was putting on my sandals for a walk in the morning when I flicked on the old tube tv in my room. Apparently the president of this island nation pissed someone off: a coup attempt. I heard the familiar sound of AK's going off while I was hanging by the pool. Skip to that evening: News said the coup was unsuccessful but the President had to go into hiding as the rebels laid siege to the capitol. Everyone at the hotel had to stay inside as the rebels and the president's forces exchanged gunfire. Yeah, that was a fun night. Especially when the RPG round came screaming through the windows and crashed through the wall on the opposite side of the lobby. It wasn't a direct hit: it missed everyone, but still made a massive mess of the bar. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was - and I figured this out later - someone somewhere figured out I was part of the U.S. military. Two militants came to the now-ruined hotel asking about the ‘Yank’. I didn't know what they had in mind but I didn't want to find out. It was either kidnapping, or a recruitment offer, and both of those options seemed bad. So, I snuck out the back way. I'm not too proud to admit I hid in the forest like a coward. I wasn't there as a military representative or anything, I was just a tourist trying to enjoy my time on leave and yet here they were: trying to involve me in their squabble. Sure - if Uncle Sam tells me I fight I'll do it, but this was a local squabble on a speck of sand that no one knew about. Probably wouldn’t even get a minute of news coverage on CNN. So, there I was sneaking through the jungle in my khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and boat shoes. With only a driftwood club for protection. That was my first encounter with those... things . One of ‘em came out of nowhere: The tree line broke open and the creature came barreling toward me. It had an oblong body and four huge flipper-like legs. It reminded me of an armored alligator, but on land. I’m no biologist, but it was pretty clearly an animal. The thing that really set me on edge was the fact that I couldn't find anything that remotely looked like an eye anywhere on the creature's head: just a pair of huge, gaping maws. It was like some sort of messed up walrus-gator thing that somehow didn't need any sort of sensory organs at all. It was like a scene from a ‘B’ monster movie I saw once where there were these... blind worm things that had a penchant for eating people. It was like that but so much worse. I ran for it. It was the first time I really felt the fear of death. It chased me for I don't know how long. I barely outran it at times, (thank you mandatory PT) and every single time I looked back, the creature would be gaining on me. I eventually made it out onto a beach where the thing's footsteps in the sand finally outpaced me and it was able to tackle me from behind. I went flying head-first into the sand with it's weight on top of me. I struggled and bashed it with my club repeatedly. I was worried my improvised weapon would break, but luckily it didn't. I guess it must have been some sort of hardwood because it never gave out even when it collided with the armor that covered the monster's face. Somehow, I must have hit something sensitive as the creature grunted and got off of me just enough for me to stand and start moving again. I felt a stabbing pain in my ribs - something was cracked for sure and I wasn't moving too well, but I had one hell of a motivation. I looked around, jungle to the left, ocean to the right - either one felt like a death sentence. But up ahead I could see rocky sea cliffs. Those might be my best bet, I thought. I could find shelter or try to climb with a busted rib. My breath was coming in ragged gasps and sweat stung my eyes as I ran through the pain. I could see more of the ugly shapes closing in around me. As I drew closer to the rocks I spotted a seacave. No way was I going to make it up the cliff - this was my only option. My boat shoes kicked up water as I entered the dimly lit cavern, the crunch of seashells echoing against the walls. A growl. I froze as it had entered the cave. I figured there was nowhere for me to run. I tried to crouch behind a boulder, but my breathing was loud enough that I might as well be calling out for help. I could hear one of the creatures pulling itself along the cave making a low rumble sound. Was that how they hunted? Some sort of echolocation? That would make sense, porpoises hunted that way too. Well I wasn't a fish. My eyes had adjusted by then, and I looked up and saw something that made my jaw drop. It looked like a staircase leading up: Narrow - very narrow. Made of stone. Perhaps I could make it up there? Very narrow... but If I could get up there it would have difficulty following me, but I didn't want to make noise by moving and drawing attention to myself. The creature came closer - the maw of its eyeless face drooling as it tried to find me - the sound of something wet dragging across the damp rocky cave floor. I took a chance as I threw my faithful driftwood club against a far wall, hoping to draw its attention. It did, and as soon as the creature went after my distraction. I ran to the staircase as fast as I could. I had to crawl up on all fours because the steps were so narrow, cracked, and broken. This wasn't natural: this was manmade and very old. I had no idea who could have carved a set of steps into the rocky outcrop in some random cave but I thanked god that it existed. As I made my way up the first step, the creature made its way to the foot of the staircase. My only warning that I was found was a high-pitched screech from the monster. It looked up and let out another call that made the hair on my neck stand up and I nearly fell off the step in shock. Its call was loud and high pitched - almost ultrasonic. I screamed in pain and forced myself up the steps until they ended at a circular wall, much like being in a well. I pulled myself up and over and groaned. I could hear the creature below struggling to get up there with me. "Damn." I muttered. My gaze took in the room. Strange writings carved into the walls in a language I had never seen. Broken statues of long dead people, the writing on those looked vaguely similar to Arabic in terms of shape, but as I stared at them, I felt the tug of vertigo. Something was really off with that writing. The statues were equally unsettling. They depicted a group of men holding strange spears, all of whom had some form of crowns or headdresses seemingly made from the carapace of the monster that was struggling and growling below me. I had more questions than answers but I didn't have the luxury of studying the ruins. My eyes settled on something far more familiar: all around this ancient temple lay modern weapons. The rebels must have been using this place as a staging area. The weapons were mostly rusting Soviet junk, but I knew they'd still function. I grabbed a hand grenade, a Kalashnikov, a pair of binoculars, some magazines and some loose ammunition. I found a holstered TT-33 in fairly good shape. I strapped the pistol to my hip and slung the rifle across my shoulder. Would this be enough? My eyes lit up as I saw something else. An RPG propped against a statue. “Oh yeah." The monster called again. It was up the staircase, and the sound sent shockwaves through the small space causing dust to rain from the ceiling. I looked around and found a tunnel which I hope led out, I ran halfway down before I took a kneeling position and with my ribs complaining to me hefted the RPG up and aimed down the sites. I figured the safety out and then I waited for my monster friend to appear. The dual heads broke from the well and it made the warbling sound I'd come to despise, that sound would haunt my nightmares for weeks. I didn't hesitate to press the trigger. I think I was more surprised that I hit it then it was. The monster had been about to pull itself over the well when I fired and my round exploded right between the two heads. There was an explosion of orange goop and then the creature's two heads just disappeared as it went down the well in a flail of limbs and crashing sound as it fell down the ancient staircase. I stood up, not wasting any more time as I made my way out of the temple and back into the humid forest air. My ears were still ringing but the only thing I could think about was that there were probably more of those things out there, along with some militants. Maybe they’ll kill each other instead of me... Everything on this island wanted to kill me and I aimed my gun and looked down the sites for any potential enemies. Anything that tried to screw with me was going to get hosed down with 7.62X39. I hope it’ll be enough . As I stumbled out into the sunlight, I found myself face to face with more of those things. My breath caught in my throat. At first I thought I was going to die, there were easily a dozen of them. The ground rumbled as they surrounded me, there were three on each side, with five or six behind me and a dozen ahead. I wasn't sure what to do. Then something surprising happened. They moved out of my way. They didn't seem aggressive either, if they were they could have easily torn me apart. I wasn't going to complain, as I was happy to leave them alone as well. I limped through them. They just made their weird clicking noises and left me alone. The little group ahead of me parted as I made my way back to the coastline. They didn't seem interested in hunting or killing me anymore, and were seemingly giving me safe passage. Why, though? Were they just... not hungry? Or was it something else? As I limped out onto the beach, I decided there and then that I needed a vacation from my vacation. 

0kbjcv

The Perfect Wave

Tahiti: sunset-colored beaches, awesome waves, and swirling surfers. The holiday that anyone would look forward to. I could hear the waves and taste the ocean through the open window of my van. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I caught glimpses of the paradise of surfers through the palm trees and thatched huts. The van rumbled on, carving its way down the dirt road to the gaggle of surf boards floating in the turquois water. The sun beating down on a beach of tranquility. I looked behind me into the back of the van, eyeing the jumble of suitcases and my prized surfboard. Last summer, the black surfboard, slashed with yellow and ocean-blue, had been a head-turner on the highway to the seaside in New-Zealand, strapped onto the roof of a rental car. Only that time, the beach had been soddened, the waves whipped by lashing rain, and the glass in the window rattling as I watched my holiday drain into the ocean. This time, I had my hopes up. The sun was blaring its sweltering message down onto the beaches. The rain was predicted to stay at bay for a fortnight, plenty of time to beat all the surfing out of me. As the slanting roof of the Scout Bay Hotel came into view, I slowed down. The gate was framed by climbing roses. I had taken a flight all the way from California, landing only a few hours ago in Tahiti. As the plane sloped into its descent, I had the chance to see the waves dotted with surfers, and hoped I would soon be with them. I ate a quick dinner while waiting for the hotel to check me in. Taking the lift, I entered the barren hallway leading to my room: 328. The room was stuffy and humid, with a king bed and pale pink walls crowded with pictures of the famous surfers that had chosen the hotel. A large glass-paned window gave me a view of the beach. The sun was setting, splashing the seaside with orange-red hues and turning the clouds above it pink. The surfers started hopping onto boats, and after a few minutes the beach and waves, now dark and sinister, were clear of people. Pulling the curtains shut, I plopped down onto my bed and popped on the radio. It crackled to life. As I switched to the weather channel, the voice of the announcer sliced through, interrupted by patches of static. “Announcing tonight, typhoon heading towards the beaches of Tahiti. The typhoon is expected to hit by day-after-tomorrow, in the afternoon.” This was just what I had hoped for. The perfect wave! The typhoon was probably already pushing the water towards the shore, forcing the mass of water to hit the underwater ridge a couple of hundred meters off the beach, catapulting up and creating waves greater than ten meters in height. I shut off the radio and turned out the light. My breath was unstable as I was so excited, I could hardly fall asleep. I knew I had to sleep if I wanted to be able to surf well during the next few days, so I eased my breathing and closed my eyes. The next morning, I woke at seven o’ clock. After eating my breakfast, I eagerly made my way down the beach, my stomach full of scrambled eggs and potato wedges. I jogged the last few meters to the shore and stopped in front of a wooden shed. The man standing at the window counter looked at me. “You new ’round here?” he croaked. “Haven’t seen you yet. You want to rent a jet ski?” “Yeah, for the day. How much?” “I’ll give it to you for free for a day. I believe new kids should get some encouragement.” He smiled. “You pick any one of them, jus’ tell the guy on it where you wanna go.” “Thanks,” I replied, jumping onto the pier. I headed out toward the flashy red jet ski. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder stop me. I spun around. “I always take that one,” a boy my age said. I knew that voice. “You Francis?” I asked. “Always been. Who’re you?” I thought I had recognized him. Now I regretted having even spoken to him. He loomed over me. He and I were arch enemies. “Wait a minute, I know you. You’re that soft kid from California,” he barked. Now I really wanted to get away. I looked him in the eye and said evenly: “I’ll see you again.” I walked away and asked the person sitting on one of the skis to take me to the largest wave he knew. He shook my hand and throttled off towards the waves. I got in some good surfing, paddling over the waves and finessing some good barrel rides. I met some great guys and chatted with them while paddling back out to catch the next wave. They seemed frightened by the typhoon. I tried mentioning the perfect wave, but all they said was, “You crazy?”  On my way back, I thanked the man who had been my jet ski pilot. Reaching the hotel, I ate a healthy dinner. I decided I would get in some good practice runs the next morning before tackling the wave. That night, I hit the sack, thinking of what was to come tomorrow. The TV in the restaurant the next morning only showed news of the typhoon. The weatherman declared that there was no threat to surfers; the typhoon would just miss the island on its course. I eyed the other men I had seen on the beach the day before. I leaned back and asked the fellow nearest to me. “You go surfing when it’s like this? With the typhoon coming and all?” The man swallowed and slowly shifted his gaze towards me. “I wouldn’t say no, but the waves can be dangerous. Some say they’ll reach 20 meters. I’m staying safe. Wanna live, you know. ” “Well…” I mumbled. As I left the restaurant, someone smashed into my shoulder, knocking me off balance. I looked up from the floor at the brute standing over me: Francis. “Jus’ letting you know. That wave’s mine. You try and get out there, that wave will knock you flat. You’re not experienced enough.” He laughed malevolently. He turned his back on me and strolled away. I stared after him for a couple of seconds, then slowly got up. I wouldn’t let this chap get in my way. I was surfing that wave, no matter how much he tried to dissuade me. If he was doing it, then I would too. And better. I grabbed my surfboard from where it lay on the floor after Francis had knocked me over. I leapt down the front stairs, jogged to the beach, stopping only when I was in front of the jet ski man in his hut. I handed him a five-dollar bill. “Stay careful!” I heard the man call out. I fist-bumped the guy who had taken me out the day before. He didn’t get up from his stool. “It’s dangerous,” he mumbled. “Aww, come on, man,” I said. “Shouldn’t be that bad. Others are doing it. Look,” I pointed to a jet ski roaring its way past. “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you come.” The man was still looking at the ripples the jet ski had left behind. He slowly, reluctantly, got up and manned the jet ski. He fired it up, then gestured for me to hop on. Zipping away from the shallow waters, I felt the wind whipping my hair back, heard the roar of the jet ski. I smiled. I was living my dream. Five hundred meters offshore, I hopped off onto my surfboard and paddled toward a wave. I waited for it to reach me, then mounted the surfboard and harnessed the wave. The power of the wave was immense, I could already feel the influence of the typhoon. It was only eleven in the morning, the waves eight meters high. I predicted that by noon the waves would have grown to 15. I messed up pretty badly a few times, getting thrown underwater, catching glimpses of the coral reefs beneath me. When submerged, the world was a different place. Schools of fish rippled by. The sunlight penetrated through the water, in rays that dappled the ocean floor. Without pausing for lunch, I floated on my surfboard awaiting the perfect wave. I could feel it coming. The water receded from the beaches a couple feet. The waves grew quickly. The peacefulness was interrupted by the sound of someone paddling behind me. I looked over my back, and my heart filled with dread. Francis was pulling up beside me, glaring with fulminating eyes. I glanced away, then started paddling frantically. I drew away from him and floated out twenty meters farther than I wanted to be to catch the wave. But I would get it earlier than Francis. The silence disturbed me. I had envisaged Francis yelling insults at me if we happened to cross paths. It was almost like he knew I was going to mess up and was content with knowing that. Time slowed down. Abruptly, a wall of water shot up in front of me. It headed my way at a frightening pace, ardent to engulf anything that was foolish enough to stand in its path. Images of my parents flashed through my mind, as I stared at it in awe. A moment later, as I was getting lifted up by the surge of water, an instinct deep inside me awakened. I leapt upright onto my surfboard, frantically catching my balance. The wave crested, and I slipped into the tube it had created. All I could see was blue. A suddenly friendly sort of blue. I stayed inside the wave, awe-struck by the flawless curve of water as it curled over me. I held my hand out to touch it. As soon as my hand made contact, I realized I was living the moment I had waited so much for. I could see the end of the tube now, and the water thinning out as I shot out of the tube, cresting the side of the wave and getting thrown into the air. The moment replayed inside my head as I blew water out of my nose. An unexpected thunk rang in my ears that were full of water. I glanced at where it had come from. Francis, trying to catch the next wave, had slipped off his surfboard. I saw him go under. The thunk must have been the surfboard colliding with his head. He could have been knocked out. Without a moment to lose, I untied my surfboard from my leg. I darted out of the path of the next wave, swimming until I reached the spot where I had last seen Francis. I studied the water beneath me. Francis probably only had a few seconds left. I dived under and grabbed at what I thought was his leg. I felt his toes slip out my grasp as he sunk deeper into the water. I made one frantic push, grabbed his leg, and resurfaced. I felt something solid under my feet. I looked below me, reassured. The waves had pushed us to the shore. I yanked Francis onto the beach, dragging him up onto the sandy shore. I rapidly rolled him over onto his side and pounded his back. He coughed out water. I did what I had been taught by a lifeguard in California. I placed my palms on his chest and started CPR. He coughed up some more water, taking a couple rough breaths. His head rolled over, his eyes staring helplessly into mine. I fell backward into the sand. I had saved his life. Only then did I realize the crowd around me. I felt suddenly small. “Call…” I gasped. “Call an ambulance.” “We did,” answered a man’s voice. I closed my eyes, sighing in relief. I got up, lost my balance, and fell onto my knees. I looked at Francis. “We made it, brother,” I whispered as I patted his arm. “We made it.” I paced back and forth in front of the emergency room door. The starched hospital hallway was stark. A lonely bench lined one of the walls. I plopped down onto it, only to spring up again as the doctor walked out. He studied me. “Are you his relative?” he inquired. “Uh… yes, I guess so,” I stammered. “Is he alright?” “Yes,” the doctor smiled reassuringly. “But he’ll only be able to talk this evening.” I sat back down. I could wait. “I am sorry,” was the first words Francis uttered to me. “Don’t blame yourself,” I murmured reassuringly. “You took that wave like a pro. Didn’t know you had it in you,” replied Francis. He coughed hoarsely. “Please forgive me for what I said, all I did…” He trailed off. I punched him softly on the shoulder. “Just sleep now. We’ll talk later. But I like your company. And you’re a capable surfer.” “Can’t thank you enough, man.” “You just get better so we can surf together, mate.”

x8ygs1

1500 Feet

1500 Feet        Today was forecasted to be the hottest day of the year but It was early morning and Marty was on the road with his girlfriend to a secret location. It was his birthday; she’d promised that it would be the best surprise ever. She was full of surprises and Marty was pleasantly baffled about their secret event. So here it was, 5:45am and they were driving through miles of farmland, over long winding roads appearing mile after mile beneath a gentle mist, a light lazy fog blanketing all the uniformed rows of kale and vines of concord grapes. Eventually, they turned towards an old barn in Newberg to see rows of double-axled F-350’s, about six of them, each parked one behind the other.           A small crowd was  milling about on an open field. The air was  crisp, a bit of a chill was there but it was otherwise comfortable for now as the heatwave had yet to commence. There was a sense that once the sun rose, it was going to warm up quickly and transform into a picture-perfect, yet hot summer day.         A canopy was set up with tables for checking in, marketing posters all around. It turns out that this is an adventure Marty had never in his wildest dreams thought he would be a part of. In the center of the poster, floating above the horizon, with the sunlight gleaming off its silhouette, was  a hot air balloon. Marty looked back towards the F-350’s just as the crew of men and women pulled back a massive blue tarp that revealed what looked to him like an oversized  brown picnic basket that Yogi Bear and Boo-boo would’ve coveted. There were blowers, loops of rope…all the things that create the conditions for a satin canopy to be filled with hot air and used to transport thrill seekers on a whisper quiet trip high above everything, all while being treated to a panoramic view of all the land. .        The pilots gathered everyone around, about fifty  folks. Some were surprisingly young, maybe 8 or 10 years old. Others were much older, late sixties or early seventies, finally able to throw some money at a fun, new experience. All the staff rattled off introductions, informing Marty and his girlfriend  that they were going to need help to make this flight happen. Each team was directed to follow the instructions of the guide; and everyone was promised an amazing experience that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.      Everyone broke off into six groups and assembled themselves behind the F-350 that was  affixed to the flaccid would-be vessel.  Marty was alive  with excitement, but there was something else beneath the surface as well: a fresh, churning ball of fear. Marty would later reveal to his girl that just the week before the excursion, he’d seen on the news a video of a hot air balloon plummeting to earth, the basket charred and on fire as it struck a power line.  All of the occupants onboard were killed, dead before they hit the ground.       He kept it to himself. What kept him grounded, calm, and able to partake of this aerial escapade was twofold. First, everyone helped to put the balloon and its components together. They all  unfolded the main inflatable body, and unfurling it made Marty aware of the toughness and rigidity of the materials. This was not a large sheet of satin, as he had imagined, but a tough canopy of coated nylon or polyester fabric. The other calming fact was that the guides inspected all the lines for tightness, tears, and abrasions. It seemed clear that everything was intact. The pilots held up the fabric at different points and opened it as wide as possible, while a hurricane fan the size of a Volkswagen Beetle blew air into the fabric to begin the inflation. It slowly was filling up, and Marty began to see the vibrant, radiant colors filling out as the mass of fabric expanded. Wow! This is really happening Marty thought to himself. He watched in awe as the balloon  began to swell.          Other groups were engaged in the same process with five other balloons. One of the F-350 trucks backed up with the basket and other staff worked it down a ramp. The basket had propane tanks rigged to its main blower to generate the hot air needed. Everyone was urged to back away as the main blower fired off, and Marty’s balloon began to fill in. In a few minutes, it had risen off the ground and needed to be  held down with ropes by the staff.. The balloon was a towering 80 feet high and 55 feet wide. Its main color up top was a sunshine yellow, with red and blue alternating vertical stripes going around the base.          Marty, his girlfriend, and the other four passengers climbed into the basket one at a time. He felt his heart racing, and that ball of fear was beginning to grow. But then he noticed his girl. Her eyes were dancing like a kid in Toys-R-Us with a blank check. Her exuberance quieted Marty’s concerns. She was totally composed and excited by the expectation of our launch, which was eminent. Watching her had a soothing effect on Marty; he drew strength from her excited yet tranquil state.         There was a short safety briefing,  the highlight of which was how to assume the crash position. This involved grabbing the rim of the basket and dropping down to a squat on the balls of your feet until the “ all clear ” command was given. Marty and the others were also reminded to be careful not to drop items like cell phones or cameras or other valuables over the side of the basket. Then, with a blast of the main blower, the staff released the ropes, and they were airborne. The launch was flawless and smooth,  like blowing a bubble and watching as it is caressed and taken away on the breeze.            Marty’s balloon and all the others that took flight alongside it were truly majestic and quiet as they effortlessly glided across the sky. The sole break in the silence was the main blower as it elevated us to 500 feet. The balloons drifted along following the invisible but wispy air currents. The sun had risen and began toasting the entire valley, which was now aglow with the morning sun. One could see the morning mist rising from the ground and evaporating as the warming rays of the sun burned it away. The view was amazing. The pilot - middle-aged and clean shaven with special forces sunglasses - was sharing a brief history of the local farms and their goods. Marty had the thought that the pilot might be an ex-Army Ranger, which would explain the military-like precision with which he provided instructions and information as we soundlessly drifted across the plains. I’ve got a treat for you guys , he announced;    Operating these hot air vessels is  a refined gift requiring precision guidance and focus. I’ll show you by taking us to visit the river.   They saw a winding river in the distance. The pilot  released a flap, and the balloon  began to descend slowly and steadily. The balloon was at the perfect angle, and the river slowly rose up to meet them. With a blast of the propane heated air, they  slowed to hover at a perfect two or three feet above the water. Everyone ooo’d and ahhh’d, took pictures and video with their phones, and were surprised when they actually briefly skimmed the surface of the water, making ripples as they passed. We heard our pilot chuckle.    Some looked at each other, a bit concerned. He sensed the  angst of the passengers,    I just had to clean the bottom off, give her a little dip, he bragged with a wide grin. Marty noticed that about three other balloons followed their lead, while the others maintained their lofty routes. How majestic and exquisite these vessels were with their vibrant colors drifting across the firmament!     Ok, let’s get back to it guys . He gave a blast of the burner, and we whipped up with a little twirl and jolt which emitted some loud Woooaaahs and a vigorous round of applause  as he took us to greater heights.             1000 feet he announced, can you see the difference? He fired the blower loudly for even more height, claiming the wind conditions were perfect to ascend to 1500 feet, as there was no turbulence or swirling conditions. The air held the balloon and its cargo steady and securely, as if it were cupped in its hands.           They were floating seemingly aimlessly for another forty-five minutes until the pilot received some radio chatter informing him of the field they had been granted permission to land in. His team was busy on the ground estimating the trajectory of the ballon brigade and negotiating with local farmers on which field we were to descend to. He released a flap at the  apex of the balloon’s dome and the balloon began its descent.    Cameras were actively recording. The descent was too fast. Everyone seemed confident that the pilot  knew his craft and was simply trying to give us another thrill. Marty thought so, too,  until the operator had released the levers and was banging the bottom of the radio.          Apparently he had lost comms and was trying to beat his radio back to life.    Shit, he muttered, stupid fricking thing, always giving me a hard time. The balloon was still descending quickly. They were headed for a flat series of grass fields.         Wow, a little too fast? Marty felt. The operator seemed a little distracted fiddling with his radio as the ground rose to meet them.        Wow, this is kinda fast isn’t it? Someone twenty-something girl remarked. It seemed to snap the operator out of his daze. Crap, he said, and he grabbed the blower and opened it full board, but it did little to slow their  momentum. The balloon was coming in at a 45-degree angle as they were about 100 feet up and closing in on the ground fast!       Crap! He bellowed; everybody crash positions! Crash positions now! We all squatted down grabbing the edge of the basket as it came down hard!       WHAM! The impact rattled Marty’s teeth and he bit into his  tongue a little. The impact caused them to bounce back up into the air as the pilot gave the blower a bigger tug.       WHAM! They hit again as he was working the flap and the blower to get the balloon  under control. This time the basket was dragged across the farmer’s field, kicking up grass and dust and dirt behind it. The basket bounded up bounded up and crashed back down, jarring everyone as they held onto the edge and balanced themselves on the balls of their feet. Marty  glanced over at his girl and saw some concern on her face but she was actually smiling.    She’s loving this! WoW!   Marty thinks he is falling in love. The basket took its final lurch and slammed into the grass field while the operator worked the flaps and kept it grounded. The friction alone helped slow the momentum and brought the oversized picnic basket to a halt on its side. All Clear! All clear! The pilot  yelled.     All the passengers  slowly released their grips, weakly stood up and climbed out of the tipped basket.        Wow, that is what we call a hard landing guys! He said triumphantly to our group. Marty felt like his elation was more than preposterous; the pilot had lost control of the balloon, and almost got everyone busted up.  Nonetheless, we all began applauding weakly, still a little shook-up.             Marty told his girl that  he wanted to kiss the ground as he could still feel his heart pounding in his chest.    But not his girl, she was stoked.    That was awesome! She said as she high-fived Marty and gave him a big hug. One by one, the other balloons were piloted into position with a soft thud into the field all around them. The caravan of F-350’s raced towards the collection of fabric and baskets.    This first of many adventures was over, but Marty was still falling hard for his girl. Her outgoing nature and taste for adventure was refreshing and invigorating. He couldn’t wait to see what she’d come up with next!

0yp72q

Fantasy Island

Content Warning: Language, Mature Content " Say I do. I do, I do, I do ...." I have to laugh, if I don't I may burst into tears. The universe just had to dig the thorn a little deeper. Here I am, on my honeymoon. Well, what should've been my honeymoon. Now, I suppose, it's just a vacation, a definitely needed vacation. I was left at the altar by my now ex fiancee. He ran off with, you guessed it, my now ex best friend. It was a total cliche, something you only see in a movie, but never actually think it could happen to you. Until it does, exactly like it happens in the movies. Marcy and Joe had been best friends since childhood. BLECH! It was actually Marcy that introduced me to him. Said he'd be good for me, as I had a track record of shitty men. Marcy and I met in college. We were roommates at NYU, and after that it was history. After we graduated, me with a degree in Musical Theatre and her with one in Architecture. Two completely different souls, but I think that's why we got along so well. She helped keep me grounded, and I helped bring her out of her shell. During our friendship, I would always hear her talk about Joe. How good of a friend he was, how they grew up together. I first met him over a weekly Facetime call, I was simply introduced as her roommate. After that, I talked on the phone with both of them every week. One spring break, I was going to do what I usually do, spend time reading. I was feeling sorry for myself, and was planning on staying in the dorms, but Marcy begged me to come spend it with her. She promised fun, and distraction, and a face to face introduction with Joe. She told me he ha[ a string of bad relationships, and thought meeting him would help both of us. So I went with her, and I had a great time. I loved her family, and I got along great with Joe. Like really great. Joe was tall and lean, with straight blonde hair swept away from his face. His blue eyes always shone with unheard laughter, and he was one of the nicest people I had ever met. The both of us started messaging back and forth, which turned into nightly calls, which then turned into us visiting back and forth on weekends. That, of course, turned into a long distance relationship. Finally he moved out here to NYC, and our relationship thrived. We were together almost all the time, he would come to all of my performances, and we'd go to lunch on his work breaks. He was a finance man, so he was busy, but always made time for me. It was better than I could've dreamed. With Marcy at our sides, we were inseparable. Then he proposed. I was beyond myself, I had an inkling, but never thought it would actually happen. Marcy planned the whole event, and I had no clue. I thought we were just having a fun girls day ending in cocktails and pretty dresses. Then out pops Joe, down on his knee, with a beautiful ring. I immediately burst into tears, shouting yes. From then on it was a true fairytale. Marcy, of course, was my maid of honor, and she took it to the next level. She took over, I literally had nothing to do. In her element, it was the smoothest transition from engagement to wedding. That is, until I found out they were getting together behind my back. It had been going on almost the whole two and half years we were together. I had thought Marcy was happy in her relationship, just as I thought Joe was happy in ours. Apparently, it started out as a drunken kiss, a mistake. Well that turned into a very sober night together. Neither of them wanted to hurt me, or Marcy’s boyfriend, Donnie, so they said it was a one time thing. Yeah, a one time a day type thing. For two whole years. Once I found out, I immediately broke it off. I had dealt with cheating too much in my past relationships. I really thought Joe would never do that to me, but I was very wrong. They both tried apologizing, but I was done. I couldn’t handle looking at either of them. I had nowhere to go, so I went and stayed with my parents. Then I remembered our honeymoon. His family had already paid for the honeymoon trip to the Caribbean, so I told them I was going to take that trip myself. Thankfully his parents were on my side. They were livid with their son and Marcy. His parents were so apologetic, and so kind, that it made me feel worse. They told me if I needed anything to let them know, but the vacation was mine. I gave them my thanks, but told them I just wanted to get away, and needed my space. Which is how I ended up here, on the island of St. Lucia all by my lonesome. The resort I am staying at is great, and the scenery is beautiful. As crappy as my almost wedding was, this little getaway is worth it. I’ve been sitting by the water reading, sipping on delicious cocktails, and dancing with strangers in the evening. It’s incredibly freeing. It’s my last day here, and I promise myself I am going to end it with a bang. I haven’t let myself even think about kissing another man. Well, no that’s not true. I’ve thought about it. A lot. I’ve just never gotten the courage up to do anything about it. Tonight’s gonna be different, though. It has to be. As I survey the area around the bar and dance floor for my new dance partner, I lock eyes with I think the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I know I am gaping, but I truly can’t help it, and at this point I don’t care. He smiles, looks away, then back towards me. I am still staring, but this time I gain back control of myself, and smile. This time I am the one to break eye contact. A few moments later, Mr. Dark Haired Adonis is next to me. He is taller than Joe, so much so I have to crane my neck to look at him. He has dark, curly hair that hangs just above his shoulders, and a dark beard to match. “Hello, there.” Adonis says in a thick accent. My knees threaten to melt beneath me. “My name is Kostas.” So, I was correct about the Greek thing. His smile widens, and I realize I have just been ogling him. Clearing my throat, I stammer, “H-hi. I’m Pip-Pippa.” I take his outstretched hand, and he shakes it slowly. “Pippa…I like it. Very pretty. Is it short for Philippa?” He smiles again, and I notice how neither of us is pulling our hand away from each other. “Thank you, yes. It is short for Philippa. It always sounded too formal for me, though. What about you, Kostas? Is that short for Adonis? I know it’s not, but that fact cannot go unnoticed anymore.” I finally pull my hand away, and use both to gesture to all of him. He laughs, and full rich laugh. Smooth like butter. I am in danger. Kostas wipes at his eyes, “That is far too much, and far too kind, Pippa.” He leans his hip against the bar I am sitting at. “So, what brings you out here?” My eyes instantly shift away, and I feel uncomfortable. “I uh…It’s a very uninteresting story, boring really.” I look back up at him. “Let’s just say I needed a vacation, a getaway.” I finish with a smile that’s a little too big. He gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push it. Nodding, Kostas says, “I don’t think anything about you could be boring.” He ducks his head, to look me more in the eyes. His are like two dark pools that I want to swim in. I take a deep breath, because I fear I will lose myself. “What about you, Adonis? Anything special planned while you’re here?” He laughs at my nickname, and looks away himself. “I was supposed to be here with my fiance. It was a trip for both of us before the wedding, but she decided a marriage with me wasn’t what she wanted.” I touch his arm that’s placed against the counter. I can’t help myself. He looks at my hand before continuing. “So I took this trip for myself. Like you, I needed a respite from life.” “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I can’t emphasize enough how much I understand, but I do.” We smile at each other, then hold eye contact. I feel my heart stutter a bit, biting my lip, I swiftly change the subject. “Do you dance, Adonis?” He shakes his head. “Kostas.” He laughs. “Call me Kostas, and yes, I do dance.” He steps closer into my space. “Especially when a beautiful, single woman is asking.” I chuckle, and hop up from the stool I’ve been sitting on. I hold out my hand, and without another word he takes it. I lead him to the dance floor, and the band starts a new song. Adonis pulls me close. He wraps one hand firmly around my waist, making our bodies flush together. He takes his other hand, and lifts my chin so our eyes meet. “Eyes on mine, Pippa.” He says taking my hand in his, and we begin to move. He moves really well. It’s like riding a wave while surfing. He knows exactly when to plant his feet, and when to let them fly. There are several times when he grips my waist, and lifts me into the air. I can do nothing, but let him lead. I don’t know the steps, but I don’t think he does either. He simply lets the music take over. After twist and turn, our eyes always lock onto one another, and he makes it impossible to look away. My breathing is becoming uneven, and I don’t know how, but our bodies feel like they are fusing closer together. There are moments when I feel like he is about to kiss me, and I so badly want him to. Every time we face each other, I tip my head back a bit further. He never takes that last leap though. We dance through, I think, about four songs. We are some of the last people left on the dance floor, everyone else retiring to their villas. He asks me if I am thirsty, and all I can do is nod. We walk off the dance floor hand in hand, and he asks one of the bartenders for two waters. We drink them in silence, our eyes flitting to the other. He is the one to speak first. “So, Pippa..” He moves imperceptibly closer to me. “I-” He groans, shaking his head. Like earlier, I grab his arm. “What? What is it, Adonis?” His gaze jumps back to mine, while one of his hands makes its way to my hair. His hand tightens, forcing my head back. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Kostas. If we are doing this, I want my name, my real name on your lips.” I don’t hide my coy smile. He shakes my head a bit, sick of waiting. “Well?” I lick my lips, and watch his gaze fixate on my mouth. “Fine then…” I lift up on my toes, my mouth an inch away from his. I want him to feel it when I say his name. “Kostast.” I barely get it out of my mouth before his is on mine, and I am lost. He kisses me with abandon. Free, and wild, and I give it right back. I wrap one arm around his neck, my own hand tangling in his hair. It’s as soft as silk. He moans as my fingers curl on his scalp, and the sound sets me on fire. I don’t know how long we are glued together like this, but it’s long enough that I feel like I am floating. That’s because I am. He has completely lifted my feet off the ground, holding me up with one arm. Kostas finally pulls away, both of us breathing hard. He looks at me, and the smile that lights up his face is breathtaking. My brain has short circuited, and I can’t form any coherent thoughts. Apparently he’s in the same boat. We both laugh at ourselves, at each other, at nothing really. Just laugh for the sake of joy. He sets my feet back on the ground, but that floaty feeling stays in my head. Taking my face in his hands, he says “I want to be a gentleman. Court you, properly.” I giggle at his words. “But, I don’t know how much time I will have with you, and I want to use it to my full advantage.” He takes this time to push our bodies together again. I can feel exactly what he means. I am not one for one night stands. I have never slept around, or cheated, because I have only had one serious relationship. If ever I was going to do something, now is the time, and I really want it. “Kostas,” He smiles against my lips, brushing hair out of my face. “I want to be honest with you.” He nods. “I am fresh off the altar.” I feel him freeze, but I grab his wrists in my hands. “My fiance ran off with my best friend. Yes, I know how it sounds, but it’s true. I am not one to do things on the fly, I’m a thinker.” He’s looking directly at me now. “But this, whatever this is. I want it. Even if it’s just for one night, I want you.” His lips attack mine again, and this time I am the one moaning. I am forced back up on my toes, as he is too tall for me to reach otherwise. I finally break the kiss to finish my point. “I am leaving. Tomorrow. This is my last night here. I will understand if you don’t want to spend the night with me, not knowing if this is going to go anywhere, but-” A quick kiss. I laugh, “But, you need to walk away now. If you don’t, I am taking you back to my room, and we are going to sleep together.” Kostas doubles over in laughter. I can’t help but laugh as well at my bluntness. Once he stands back up he says, “I’d rather not spend my night kicking myself for leaving you. If it’s what you really want, sweet Pippa, I will spend your last night worshiping you.” He says the last few words in a whisper, right next to my ear. I don’t hide the shiver that runs down my spine. No need for any more words, I take his hand and lead him back to my villa. We spend the night doing things I only read about in my romance books. He is true to his word, and he worships. With his hands, his mouth, and his words. He makes me feel more beautiful than I have ever felt in my life. Every time I feel like I can’t take any more, he somehow manages to keep going. We spend the entire night like this, in perfect bliss. Once we are both sated, we wrap our limbs around each other, and fall asleep together.  My alarm goes off the next morning, and I am fuming. I slept more soundly than I have in the last few weeks. As I try to get out of bed, Kostas pulls me back into bed, and we go again. I don’t know how, but we do. Afterwards, after a few failed attempts, I begrudgingly pull myself out of bed. Kostas follows behind, we dress, and he helps me pack. Kind of, it’s more so just throwing things haphazardly in my suitcase. My cab is going to be here soon. We run outside just as it pulls up. Kostas leans down and asks for a pen. The cabbie hands him one, then Kostas grabs my hand. “This is my number, and email.” He says, quickly scribbling the information down. “I want you to promise,” He flicks the tip of my nose. “Promise to contact me. I don’t care that we live on other sides of the world. I want to get to know you better.” I promise him, knowing that it is going to be an empty promise, because I know my old self is going to come back. I’ll have to deal with the aftermath of the called off wedding, with Marcy and Joe. I’ll have to deal with my parents asking what I’m going to do. I’ll go back to three jobs, as anyone with a theater degree does. As I get into the cab after one last kiss I wave goodbye to my Adonis. There is a slight pang in my heart, knowing that this will only ever be a memory. That no one would ever believe I let go of myself for a moment. At least I’ll have it to look back on. Even if I only ever see him in my dreams, I’ll know that for one night, I allowed myself freedom of love.

fhuowl

The Ashen Phoenix: The Rise and Fall of Alara Thorne

In the kingdom of Valthorne, the name Alara Thorne was whispered with a mixture of awe and reverence. Known far and wide as the Ashen Phoenix, she was a beacon of hope in a land plagued by darkness. Her powers, a gift from the mythical phoenix, allowed her to control flames, to summon and manipulate fire with a mere thought. The people believed her to be invincible, their last line of defense against the ever-growing shadows that threatened their world. Alara’s rise to power had been meteoric. Born into a family of warriors, she had always been destined for greatness. But it was her connection to the phoenix, a bond forged in the fires of destiny, that had set her apart. With her flames, she had driven back hordes of marauding beasts, quelled uprisings, and defeated powerful sorcerers who sought to plunge the world into chaos. She was the hero of countless battles, her legend growing with each victory. But for all her power, Alara was not without her struggles. The weight of her responsibilities bore down on her, and the flames that once felt like a gift began to feel like a burden. She was constantly vigilant, always ready to respond to the next threat, never allowing herself a moment of rest. The people looked to her as their savior, but they did not see the toll it took on her soul. Alara’s greatest fear was that one day, her powers would fail her. She had seen the rise and fall of other heroes, their strength waning as the years went by. She knew that the bond with the phoenix was not eternal, that one day the flames might flicker and die. And in her heart, she feared that when that day came, she would be left with nothing. The shadow of this fear loomed larger as a new threat emerged in the kingdom—Azrael Blackthorn, a sorcerer of immense power and cunning. He was a master of dark magic, a manipulator of shadows and illusions. His ambition knew no bounds, and his desire to conquer Valthorne was matched only by his thirst for revenge against the Ashen Phoenix, who had thwarted his plans time and time again. Azrael was no ordinary villain. He was a strategist, a master of manipulation who knew that brute force alone could not defeat Alara. He had studied her, learned her weaknesses, and devised a plan to bring about her downfall. He knew that the key to defeating the Ashen Phoenix lay not in attacking her head-on, but in eroding her confidence, in making her doubt the very source of her power. The first signs of Azrael’s scheme were subtle, almost imperceptible. Alara began to notice small lapses in her control over her flames—flickers where there should have been steady fire, embers where there should have been a blaze. At first, she dismissed them as fatigue, the result of countless battles and sleepless nights. But as the days went by, the lapses became more frequent, more pronounced. Her flames, once so vibrant and alive, now seemed to falter and fade. Azrael’s influence was everywhere. He spread rumors and lies, sowing seeds of doubt among the people of Valthorne. Whispers of Alara’s failing powers began to circulate, eroding the trust that had once been absolute. Even her closest allies began to question her, their faith shaken by the growing rumors. Alara could feel the weight of their doubts pressing down on her, amplifying her own fears. As Azrael’s dark magic continued to take hold, Alara’s connection to the phoenix weakened further. Her powers, once as natural to her as breathing, now felt foreign, like a distant memory slipping through her fingers. She struggled to ignite even the smallest flame, her frustration and fear growing with each failed attempt. Desperate for answers, Alara sought out the ancient texts that had once guided her. She delved into the history of the phoenix, searching for any clue that might explain her fading powers. She visited sages and seers, hoping they could offer insight or a solution. But all the wisdom in the world could not provide her with the answers she sought. The bond with the phoenix was fading, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Azrael, sensing his victory was near, moved to enact the final phase of his plan. He launched a full-scale assault on Valthorne, unleashing his dark forces upon the kingdom. The skies turned black with the smoke of battle, and the ground shook with the clash of steel and magic. Alara, weakened but determined, led the defense, her flames flickering weakly in the face of the onslaught. The battle raged for days, each one more desperate than the last. Alara fought with everything she had, but it was clear that she was not the warrior she once was. Her flames, once her greatest weapon, were now little more than a dim light in the darkness. The people of Valthorne, who had once looked to her for salvation, now fought to protect her, their roles reversed in the cruelest of ironies. In the final, decisive battle, Azrael himself emerged from the shadows, his presence like a cold wind that extinguished the last embers of hope. He confronted Alara on the battlefield, his eyes gleaming with triumph. He taunted her, mocking her weakened state, and revealed the truth of his scheme. He had used his dark magic to sever her connection to the phoenix, to drain the power from her very soul. Alara, exhausted and near defeat, stood before Azrael with the last of her strength. She could feel the emptiness inside her, the absence of the flames that had once burned so brightly. But even as the darkness closed in around her, she refused to give up. She was the Ashen Phoenix, and she would not be defeated by fear or despair. In a final act of defiance, Alara summoned the last of her fire, pouring every ounce of her will into a single, blazing inferno. The flames roared to life, consuming Azrael and his dark magic in a blinding light. The power of the phoenix surged through her one last time, a final, desperate burst of energy that burned away the darkness. But as the flames died down, Alara knew that it was over. The fire was gone, extinguished by the very act that had saved the kingdom. She had sacrificed everything to defeat Azrael, and in doing so, she had lost the power that had defined her. The Ashen Phoenix was no more. The battle was won, but the victory felt hollow. Alara stood alone in the aftermath, her body trembling with exhaustion, her heart heavy with the weight of her loss. The people of Valthorne, though saved from Azrael’s tyranny, could see the emptiness in her eyes, the void left by the flames that had once burned so brightly. Alara was hailed as a hero, her sacrifice celebrated as the ultimate act of bravery. But inside, she felt only emptiness. The flames that had been her constant companion, her identity, were gone. She was left with the hollow ache of their absence, the knowledge that she would never again feel their warmth. In the days that followed, Alara withdrew from the world. She retreated to the farthest reaches of Valthorne, seeking solace in the quiet solitude of the mountains. She needed time to come to terms with her new reality, to grieve the loss of a part of herself that had been taken from her. But even in her isolation, Alara could not escape the memories of what she had once been. The mountains, though beautiful and serene, offered little comfort. The wind that whispered through the trees carried echoes of battles fought and lost, of flames that had once danced at her command. She spent hours staring into the cold, empty sky, searching for a sign, a flicker of the power that had been hers. But the skies remained silent, the flames gone forever. One night, as Alara stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the vast expanse of Valthorne, she felt a presence behind her. She turned to see her brother, Darian, approaching her. His face was etched with concern, but there was also a warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Alara,” he said softly, stepping closer to her. “You don’t have to do this alone.” Alara looked away, her gaze returning to the horizon. “I’m not the person I used to be, Darian. The flames… they’re gone. I don’t know who I am without them.” Darian placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re still my sister. And you’re still the strongest person I know. The flames didn’t make you a hero, Alara. You did that on your own.” His words stirred something within her, a faint glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. She knew he was right. The flames had been a part of her, but they had not defined her. She was more than the power she had lost. Alara sighed, feeling the weight of her grief begin to lift, if only slightly. “I just don’t know what to do next. How do I move forward when everything I’ve ever known is gone?” Darian smiled, a gentle and reassuring expression that reminded her of the bond they shared. “You start by taking one step at a time. You rebuild, not with fire, but with the strength of your spirit. You find new ways to protect the people you love, new ways to be the hero you’ve always been.” His words resonated with Alara, and she felt a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the flames she had lost. It was the warmth of love, of family, and of the unbreakable bond that had always been at the core of who she was. With Darian’s support, Alara returned to Valthorne. The city welcomed her back with open arms, but she could see the unspoken question in their eyes: What would she do now that her powers were gone? Alara didn’t have all the answers, but she knew that she had to find a new path, a new way to serve her people. Alara settled into her new life, the weight of her lost powers still heavy on her shoulders. Each day brought reminders of what she had once been capable of, the vibrant bond with her flames now a hollow memory. But she refused to let it define her. Instead, she sought new ways to contribute to the safety and prosperity of Valthorne. She immersed herself in the city’s politics, learning the intricacies of governance and the delicate balance of power. Alara forged alliances with neighboring regions, negotiating peace treaties and trade agreements that bolstered the city’s defenses. Though her powers had faded, her name still commanded respect for her wisdom and diplomacy. Her days were filled with meetings and strategy sessions, and her nights were often sleepless, haunted by memories of battles fought and lost. But even in these quiet moments, when the darkness seemed to close in around her, she found the strength to press on. She was determined to prove that she was more than the powers she had lost. Valthorne thrived under her guidance, but not without challenges. Word of Azrael’s defeat spread, and with it came new threats, drawn to the city like moths to a dying flame. Bandit lords and rogue sorcerers tested the city’s defenses, probing for weaknesses now that the Ashen Phoenix no longer stood as its guardian. One such threat came in the form of Karnak the Bloodied, a mercenary king who had carved out an empire in the lawless lands beyond Valthorne’s borders. He saw Alara’s fall from power as an opportunity to claim the jewel of Valthorne for his own. Karnak’s forces descended upon the city with a ferocity that caught even the most seasoned defenders off guard. His army, a horde of hardened warriors and bloodthirsty raiders, laid siege to Valthorne’s walls. The city, though fortified, was unprepared for such a relentless assault. Alara was thrust into the heart of the conflict, not as a warrior with flames at her command, but as a leader who had to rely on the strength of those around her. She coordinated the defense with precision, rallying the city’s defenders and inspiring them with her unwavering resolve. Though she could no longer hurl fire at her enemies, she wielded her knowledge and experience like a weapon, turning the tide of battle through strategy and sheer force of will. The siege dragged on for days, each passing hour a test of endurance and determination. Alara was on the front lines, leading from the walls, her sword flashing in the dim light of dawn as she defended the city she had sworn to protect. But Karnak was relentless. He knew that Valthorne’s defenses were stretched thin, and he pressed his advantage with ruthless efficiency. The city’s outer defenses began to buckle under the weight of the assault, and the people of Valthorne looked to Alara with fear in their eyes. Alara knew that they could not withstand the siege indefinitely. She needed to find a way to end it, to strike at the heart of Karnak’s army and break their morale. She devised a plan, one that required a level of daring and courage that few possessed. Under the cover of darkness, Alara led a small, elite group of warriors out of the city. Their mission was to infiltrate Karnak’s camp, to strike at the warlord himself and sow chaos among his ranks. It was a risky gambit, but Alara knew that it was their only chance. The group moved swiftly and silently through the night, their movements guided by Alara’s keen instincts. They avoided patrols and slipped through the gaps in Karnak’s defenses, making their way to the heart of the enemy camp. There, amidst the sprawling tents and makeshift fortifications, they found Karnak’s command tent. Alara’s heart pounded in her chest as they approached. She knew that this was the moment of truth, the point of no return. If they succeeded, Valthorne would be saved. If they failed, the city would fall. With a nod to her companions, Alara led the charge. They stormed the tent, taking Karnak’s guards by surprise. The warlord himself was caught off guard, his eyes widening in shock as Alara confronted him. He had expected to see fear in her eyes, but instead, he saw only steely determination. The battle that ensued was fierce and brutal. Karnak was a formidable opponent, his strength and skill honed by years of conquest. But Alara fought with a desperation born of necessity, her every move calculated, her every strike precise. She no longer had the flames to rely on, but she had something far more powerful: the will to protect the people she loved. In the end, it was Alara’s resolve that won the day. With a final, decisive blow, she struck Karnak down, ending his reign of terror. The warlord’s death sent shockwaves through his army, and the once-unbreakable siege began to crumble as his forces scattered in disarray. The victory was hard-won, and the cost was high. But Valthorne had been saved, and the people hailed Alara as their hero once more. She had proven, beyond any doubt, that she was more than the powers she had lost. She was a leader, a warrior, and a symbol of hope that could not be extinguished. In the aftermath of the battle, Alara stood atop the city walls, looking out over the horizon as the sun began to rise. The warmth of its rays touched her face, and for a moment, she felt a faint echo of the flames that had once burned within her. It was not the same, but it was enough. She knew that the road ahead would be difficult, that there would be more battles to fight, more challenges to face. But she also knew that she would not face them alone. She had the support of her people, the love of her brother, and the strength of her own indomitable spirit. Alara Thorne, the Ashen Phoenix, had risen from the ashes of her former self, not as the warrior she had once been, but as the hero she was always meant to be. And as long as she lived, the fire of hope would continue to burn brightly in the hearts of the people of Valthorne. The legend of Alara Thorne would live on, not as a tale of lost powers, but as a story of courage, resilience, and the unyielding spirit of a true hero. And in the annals of history, her name would be remembered as a beacon of light in the darkest of times, a reminder that even when the flames have died, the fire within will always endure.

1r24il

The Last Heatwave

The sun was just barely peeking over the top of the Cedar Rock Mountains, casting a fiery glow over the sleepy town of Wynnemiller. The morning dew was still thick on the grapevines that crept up the town sign – proudly announcing, “Welcome to Wynnemiller, Innovation Central!” Static cracked on an old radio as the familiar voice of DJ Lynn Sparkling filled the silence. “It’s going to be a scorcher today, y’all. The local weather service has issued a severe heat advisory for the tri-county area, starting this Friday through the weekend. Temperatures are expected to soar past previous record highs, and the heat index is expected to reach dangerous levels. Please make sure to stay indoors when at all possible, stay hydrated, and make sure your pets have a shady spot and plenty of water. Better yet, bring Fido inside for a few days; it’s gonna be too hot for the babies!” With this announcement, windows were quickly shuttered, and air conditioning units suddenly hummed to life as the townspeople prepared for the miserable days ahead. But for eleven-year-old Lacey Vargas, the heatwave announcement sparked a curiosity in her, and she suddenly felt an endowed sense of adventure. Wynnemiller wasn’t a very big town, and Lacey could see all the way into the heart of downtown from her front porch swing. She spent the first half of the morning just watching the people around her as they rushed to the local grocery store and bought ridiculous amounts of bottled water, groceries, and gasoline. The air conditioning unit attached to the neighbor’s house suddenly roared to life, breaking the silence of the calm morning air. Lacey marveled at how quickly the town had come to life with just one little announcement. The town usually entertained mild weather throughout the year. Being bordered to the North by the Cedar Rock Mountains and to the East by Grand Valley Lake, it never got exceptionally hot or cold. However, this year, the weather had been anything but normal. The winter brought with it snow for the first time in Wynnemiller’s known history, and spring brought heavy rain and flooding. Summer, so far, was proving to follow suit with this threat of a heatwave. After becoming bored with the activity she could see from her front porch, Lacey decided to go for a walk, which brought her to the edge of town. She didn’t find herself in this part of town often; it was one of those areas that kids told stories about. The kind of stories that make the hair on the back of the neck stand on end – legends of haunted houses and witches that would eat any child that dared step on their property. Lacey didn’t really believe any of these stories, but she never took a chance to come this far alone until this particular day. The area itself was nothing spectacular – there were no giant two-story homes with gargoyles guarding the gates or any especially haunted-looking houses. It was a regular neighborhood, just like every other neighborhood on every other street in town. Still, she walked cautiously and stayed aware of her surroundings. Ahead of her was an old Victorian-style home decked out in pale blue paint with pure white trim. It was a charming-looking house and was very well taken care of. It had a wrap-around porch adorned with rocking chairs. The house appeared to be very inviting, and before she realized it, Lacey found herself standing in front of the house with her hand on the gate, prepared to swing it open. “Oh! Oh no! Not again!” Lacey heard a voice scream from somewhere behind the house. She looked around to see if someone was around but couldn’t see anyone. Suddenly, she heard a loud crash! The sound came from behind the house, so she pushed her way through the front gate and jogged along the side of the house. When she came to the back, she saw, behind the house, there was a small workshop. The door was closed, but light spilled out from under it. As she approached, she could smell something burning. “Oh, I just knew this wasn’t going to work!” She heard the same voice bellow out through one of the open windows in the shop. The windows were too high for her to peek into, so she looked around for something to stand on and finally found an old milk crate. She placed the milk crate precariously under one of the windows and carefully stood on top. As she peeked into the window, she was quickly met with a sharp, “What are you doing here?” The harshness of the voice scared her so much that she fell backward into the leaf litter that was scattered on the ground. “I’m sorry,” she responded, “I heard a crash, and I was checking to see if you needed any help.” With that, the door of the shop opened, and the light was blotted out by a figure. The figure moved toward Lacey, and once he was out of the light, she could see his features. He was a man, probably in his late seventies, with a tall, slender frame that had become slightly hunched with age. The mop of thinning white hair on top of his head looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in weeks, but his deep blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of curiosity and intelligence. His skin was weathered and tanned from years of working outdoors, and his hands were calloused and permanently stained with oil and grease. Upon his face, he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and he wore an old, worn-out flannel shirt with faded suspenders and work boots that had seen better days. Lacey trembled at the sight of him. She immediately knew that this was the man the other kids had referred to as “Old Man Graves,” the elderly recluse who was holding his grandson prisoner in the upstairs bedroom and never let him out to play with the other kids. The old man cocked his head as he watched Lacey flop along amongst the leaves, unable to gain her footing. He took a step towards her, a crooked smile on his face. Then, as he let out a bellowed laugh, he reached his hand down and around her waist. In one movement, he quickly raised her up to her feet and set her down safely. “I’m so sorry, sir, I was just…” The old man threw a hand up as if to tell her to stop talking. “You don’t need to apologize, Lassie; it’s not that often I have company, and I’m quite happy to have someone to talk to.” With that, Lacey could see the warmth in his smile, and his blue eyes softened to show hints at a kind and generous spirit beneath that gruff exterior. Lacey stood there, catching her breath as the old man chuckled and brushed her off. She felt all the fear melt away under the warmth of his gaze. “Well, you were so curious to see what all the fuss was about; why don’t you come inside?” Graves smiled as he propped the door open with his foot. Inside the Workshop Lacey couldn’t believe her eyes as she entered the shop – strange inventions lay strewn about, and the worktables were littered with wires and gears. Everywhere she looked, in every little hole and crevice, some sort of contraption was stashed away. However, Lacey’s attention was quickly stolen by an object at the center of the room. The machine was a hodgepodge of old and new technology, reflecting the many years Graves had spent perfecting it. At the base of the machine was an array of dials, switches, and gauges. From there, a central column rose, flanked by copper coils that emitted the faintest humming sound as they pulsed. Atop the central column was a series of robotic arms, each holding a different object. One held a miniature wind turbine, one held a nozzle that sprayed a fine mist, and one held a disk-like structure that crackled and popped as electricity danced across it like lightning. The entire machine was encapsulated in a dome of thick glass embedded with various crystals and gemstones, all of which flashed in rhythm with the machine as it pulsed. Lacey walked around to the other side of the machine, where she saw a control panel covered in buttons and levers and, above that, a screen showing weather data. She was in awe and felt as though the machine was almost alive; moving with such synchronicity. Now that her curiosity was piqued, she couldn’t help herself and very quickly blurted out “What the heck IS  this thing?!” Graves cocked his head to the side again, but this time a prideful grin covered his face. “This, my dear, is my life’s work. The official name is Atmospheric Localized Interventions and Climate Enhancer, but I prefer to just call her A.L.I.C.E.” Lacey’s eyes twinkled with excitement, “Wait, are you saying this thing can change the weather?” “That’s the plan,” Graves lifted his hand to his chin. “ But I’ve never gotten it to work; it’s had a few bugs I’ve had to take care of. However, with this heatwave coming, I thought I’d give it one last real shot.” Lacey could see the desperation on his face. He had put so much time and effort into building this machine; he didn’t have to say it; she knew that one more failure was all his heart could take. She walked around the machine again, inspecting every detail. “Why don’t we get someone to help us?” “You don’t think I’ve tried that already? The townsfolk don’t call me ‘Crazy Graves’ for nothing. They all think I’ve lost my mind – just some old codger tinkering with his toys, thinks he can save the world.” The dejected look that played across his face was hard for Lacey to deal with. “Mayor Whitby’s daughter and I are best friends; the mayor is practically a second mother to me; if I talk to her about this, she’s sure to agree to help us! Just tell me what you need!” “Well, if you really think you can convince her, I can’t see how it would hurt to give it a shot. Let me make you a list.” With that, Graves sent Lacey on her way.  Help Has Arrived “So, you really think this machine is a solution to the heat wave?” Priscilla (aka Mayor) Barnes stared at Lacey for a long time, studying her face. “Lacey Basey, this better not be some practical joke you’re pulling on me right now; this is serious; the people in this town have never experienced temperatures like the meteorologist is predicting.” “I swear, Mama Priss, I really think Mr. Graves is on to something.” Lacey smiled to reassure the older woman. Finally, the mayor agreed to go with Lacey to Graves’ house, bringing along a few strong police officers to be the muscle. “We’re here!” Lacey announced as they strode through the gate and to the back of the house where Graves was still tinkering with A. L.I.C.E. “I’ve brought along the mayor and a few people to help; we also have all of the items on your list to finish fixing the machine.” Graves poked his head around and smiled at the sight of adults who actually believed in and were willing to support him. “You think we can have this done before it gets too hot, Mr. Graves?” Mayor Barnes asked as she reached towards the elderly man for a handshake. “I think we just might, Mrs. Barnes!” Graves replied jovially as he graciously took her hand and shook it. They spent several hours hammering and sawing, hauling, and chunking until finally, Graves threw his hands up in excitement, exclaiming something about the computer system. He was so thrilled and giddy; he spoke so quickly that no one really understood what he said; they just understood that their work was almost done. All that was left was to transport the machine to the center of town. The Heatwave Arrives The truck was scheduled to arrive Friday morning, but a flat tire caused it to be closer to noon. By that time, the heatwave had already struck. This didn’t deter Graves from continuing with the plan, and A.L.I.C.E. was loaded up and shipped off to her new home. It was brutally hot, the temperature seemed to keep going up, and the townspeople had retreated. The streets were eerily quiet. “I hope this works.” The mayor declared as she fanned herself with a piece of cardboard she had picked up from somewhere. Lacey and Mr. Graves worked feverishly to prepare the machine. With a deep sigh, Graves flipped the switch to turn it on, and A.L.I.C.E. whirred to life. At first, everything seemed to work perfectly – the sky, which had been a harsh, unforgiving sun, began darkening as clouds began to form, a cool breeze swept through the town center, and people began to peek their heads out of their doorways as they felt some relief from the drop in temperature. But just as quickly as it happened, everything seemed to go wrong, and the machine began to malfunction, causing the weather to spiral out of control. The sky darkened, and a powerful storm threatened to unleash chaos. Clouds thickened and churned, turning an ominous shade of green. A violent gush of wind howled through the streets, knocking over trash cans and sending debris flying through the air. Large, heavy raindrops began to fall, followed quickly by a torrential downpour. “Shut it off!” The mayor squealed as she ducked beneath a restaurant awning. “Graves! Turn it off NOW!” As lightning flashed across the sky, Lacey turned to Graves, who was standing in the rain. Even through the solid sheet of precipitation, she could see the sadness on his face. She wanted to run to him and hug him; she knew how hard it must be for him to realize that his life’s work had turned out to be nothing short of a disaster. As she began to walk towards him, something caught her eye. A flicker. It was one of the embedded crystals; it was flickering like a lightbulb that had given  everything it had left until it finally burned out forever. “That’s it!” she thought to herself; that crystal is faulty; it needs to be replaced, and she pulled it out of its resting place. She soon remembered a story that her grandmother had told her about a unique crystal buried beneath the town square. “Wait!” she exclaimed, slapping Graves’ hand away from the A.L.I.C.E.’s power switch. “I have an idea.” Through the wind and the rain, Lacey managed to make her way to the town square and, with the help of a few other brave souls, was able to unearth the crystal. As she ran back, the crystal began to pulse the closer they got to the machine. As she trudged through the mud, which was now caking on her shoes and legs, Lacey lunged forward and jammed the crystal into the machine where the faulty one had been. A.L.I.C.E. stabilized, and the clouds parted. As the sun shone through, the sky above them presented giant rainbows. The heatwave broke, and the residents of Wynnemiller gathered in the town square to celebrate. They cheered for their unexpected heroes. Lacey and Graves shared a smile as the people gathered around them to thank them. As the radio station announced the end of the heatwave, Lacey felt fulfilled. Not only had she made a new friend, but she realized that adventure and discovery could be found in even the most unlikely places. Mr. Graves became a respected member of the community, and kids no longer told nasty stories about him. The story about him keeping his grandson locked away turned out to be nothing more than a fairy tale. In fact, Lacey had the pleasure of meeting his grandson, and they became fast friends. Lacey continued to visit Mr. Graves, learning more and more about science, engineering, and innovation. Their friendship blossomed, and Wynnemiller was finally able to proudly share that they were, after all, “Innovation Central.”

qflg8e

The Golden Chorus

To a field of juneberry and hawthorn bushes, between a dense forest and the beaches of the great water humans call Superior, the goldfinches return. They fly in groups, settling on the scrub bushes, taking in the home they’ve missed while wintering in warmer climes. As each flock trickles in, they join a rising chorus, one great song only paused for sunset. Let’s listen: Home home home! Home to love, to cool and safety Home to seeds so tough yet tasty Home to song as day begins Home to nests and warmth therein Each arriving group brings their own melody, and the rhythm of the song dances as the chorus grows. And the subject of the song changes over time, sometimes to haughtier themes: Mock the hunters with our color Mock eavesdroppers with our song Mock those birds with feathers duller Sing with voices clear and strong Among the last arriving is an older bird name Flaxfrea. This was her tenth return trip to the land between the forest and the water. Goldfinches rarely have cause to count that as high as ten, but Flaxfrea knew this was an inauspicious number. She knew few of her kind made the trip so many times, to the warm water of the south as days grew short, then to the cool water of the north as days grew long. And on that long trip, surrounded by younger birds who grew evermore excited as they chatted and sang about future nests, future lovers, future eggs, future children, Flaxfrea couldn’t help but miss a familiar feeling deep within her heart. Flaxfrea knew the emotion the others described, remembered each time she’d made the trip bearing similar dreams, but this time she couldn’t summon that ardor no matter how much she listened to younger birds talk of love and family. She also didn’t recognize the calls of her previous lovers in the chorus. Perhaps they’d found other communities around the great superior water. Or perhaps they hadn’t made the long, exhausting trek this time. Flaxfrea made a deal with herself to not pursue a lover this season, she didn’t have the drive or the energy for it. Let younger birds have the spotlight. She picked out a hawthorn bush closer to the forest, smaller and further from the nexus of song. She would sit and listen and remember. Then she’d watch as the other birds paired off. She could revel in their youth, their happiness. And she’d watch for predators while the others were engaged. Perhaps she’d make a small nest of her own, for nostalgia or comfort’s sake, but for now, she was content to listen and watch. And with the field well-populated, the guys took the lead in advertising themselves in verse: The brightest gold you can peruse The fastest wings to fetch you sticks The greatest lover you could choose The finest nest, made fast and thick It’s me you want! It’s me! It’s me! But in the midst of this team refrain, individuals would sneak in their own personal brags, sometimes interrupting each other and finishing each other’s rhymes: Choose me for my brilliant plume No choose me, the greatest groom I faced down a cat with sharpest claws My golden plumage knows no flaws I’ll fetch seeds, day or night I’d gift our children my great height None have licked me in a fight I stayed with my last love through three years My simple mind knows no fears Flaxfrea let these boasts and promises wash over her, and she felt a small shadow of the pleasure she remembered from when she was young. Of course, she could now recognize the swagger for what it was. She’d had eight different lovers over the years, and there was little correlation between the cleverest braggarts and the lowliest rhyme-sculptors in terms of their care or capability. Or even in how healthy or lively the chicks they raised together were. But what surprised her most was how similar the brags were to each other. In youth, they’d seemed like such variety, a cornucopia of choice for dames like her. Now she realized they all promised the same things, bright plumage and vital children, just in slightly different ways. Except for that last rhyming couplet, from the bird who advertised his loyalty and “simple mind.” His voice had been different too, a croaking sort of call like a frog. Her reverie broke when the ladies began their chorus in response: Unleash your awesome, brilliant yellow Release your power, handsome fellow Show your gleaming aural pride Make us ladies wish we’d died Hope for reflections in our own Binds of love and children sown It felt strange to Flaxfrea now, that the girls didn’t advertise themselves but for their availability. They didn’t boast or make promises as the men did, like existing was all it took. It was true they didn’t have the brilliant yellow plumage of their male counterparts, but they brought as much, probably more, to the coupling. If she had it to do over again, Flaxfrea would brag and promise just like the guys. She’d claim to craft the largest eggs with the thickest shells within her. That she had the best eye for nest construction, that she’d make the boys never yearn for a better lover or mother for their chicks. She’d claim she once scared off a wolverine by flapping her wings so wide she looked like a golden hawk. For the next several days she thought about this a lot, between cracking open seeds, and spying the forest for predators. And she did make a small nest for herself, a little more snug than she normally might, and more convex to better fit her frame than the eggs it would never house. Flaxfrea only joined the chorus once during the whole mating season, late in the day one evening when the song turned to memories, she added a single rhyming couplet: This may be my final year I won’t sing much, but love to hear Over the days, Flaxfrea listened as the song dwindled as the other birds paired off. Couples sang less and worked more, preparing homes for eggs, calling out only occasionally in joyful exclamation. The few birds still seeking a lover, however, grew evermore insistent, though there was little risk of missing out on a mate entirely. Sometimes the math didn’t quite work out, leaving a bird or two without someone to spend the summer with. And among the final songs was that croaky chirp she’d picked out earlier: Adored my lovers, old and young Always faithful, sometimes wrong Many stories to be sung Voice is going, heart still strong                As she fell asleep that night, Flaxfrea briefly considered what she’d do if this croaky crooner was the last voice. Would she invite him over? Would she break the deal she’d made with herself not to take a lover this season?                These turned out to be pertinent questions, because the next morning when she opened her eyes, a finch with a strange dark pattern on his wings sat nearby, staring at her.                “You!” He said. “You’re awake.” His voice was unmistakably the croaking call she’d recognized from before.                “Yes,” she said.                “I… I would like to mate with you.” And this might seem quite brazen, but for a goldfinch, this level of forwardness is expected, and in fact Flaxfrea found this bird’s pause comforting.                “What is your name?”                “Warbly.”                “I am Flaxfrea. I heard your song. It was different.”                “Did I hear yours?”                “I only sang once.”                “You’re the bird that sang so sadly. About listening.”                “Yes.”                “I had hoped you were.”                “Oh?”                “I had sought you out, but you stopped singing. I intentionally didn’t pursue other mates.”                Flaxfrea paused to examine this suitor seriously. He was average size, with small black streaks on his wings. His gold feathers shown bright with the start of summer, but clearly more dull than most males. He was likely older, perhaps seven or eight years, younger than her but still in the fall of life. He held her gaze intently, questioningly.                In any other year, Flaxfrea would have already said yes.                “I do not seek a lover this year.”                “Why?”                “I am old.”                “No.”                “I wish to live out my life peacefully. I may not even fly south when the weather turns.”                “We could fly together.”                “I may not create many strong eggs inside me, if any at all.”                “So it would be.”                “I am tempted.”                “Let us fly together around the field, and see what your heart says then.”                So they did. They flew above the great forest and landed on the highest treetop. They wove little dancing dives around each other. They flew across the great water until they could barely see the shore and turned back. And Flaxfrea felt like she was in her first summer. And the promise she made to herself slid away in the wind. ***                Flaxfrea would only lay two eggs that season, and only one hatched despite diligent work from both parents. They named their daughter Decinae, and doted on her as much as two birds ever could, perhaps too much, as she refused to stray as far as other young finches as the weather started to turn cold.                “We’ll stay together for the migration, right?” Decinae asked one windy fall day when the community was abuzz with talk of when to leave and which southern landmark to head for.                “Of course,” Warbly replied without hesitation.                Flaxfrea sighed as she watched her lover and daughter chat about the lands to the south. Soon enough they’d make that long, exhausting trip together. Maybe her old wings would give out on the way, and she’d drift down to her final resting spot. Or maybe she’d make the trip and get to summer once more time by the warm water the humans call Mexico. Either way, she was ready.

bw25h1

Inferno

A single green shoot, pushing up from between the slightest of gaps in the dusty concrete, almost seemed to be enjoying throwing a minute splash of colour against the dead landscape. Too young to classify as anything beyond simply life , Cassian knew upon catching sight of it that come dawn the beautiful green thread would be reduced to nothing but another muted, dry husk. He looked up from his study of the infant plant to monitor the hazy glow on the horizon that signaled the imminent rising sun. The heat of it already evaporating any humidity of the dark night. It was time to move. He placed a gentle hand on his sleeping sister’s shoulder, “Sarah. Time to suit up.” He said in a soft voice. Her eyes snapped open so quickly that he caught her pupils contracting against the growing light. She shot bolt upright and shook her head as if to hurl away the remnants of sleep. “Look at the light Cassian! Dammit, I told you not to leave it so late! I’d rather be allowed time to get ready without being chased by the sun!” “You need the sleep.” He replied, standing and brushing accumulated red dirt from the tight, black anti-thermal layer that made up his only clothing. “Being tired is better than being dead. Wake me earlier tomorrow or I’ll start taking the last watch!” An accusatory finger let him know she was serious. Thankfully his lack of reply ended the argument there. In truth she was right that their time was now tight. Passing her suit over seemed to act as enough of a peace offering. Cassian stepped into his own outfit while Sarah saw to herself. The shining, silver all-in-one reminded him of the science fiction movies he had loved as a child; before computers were able to generate images akin to reality, he had believed entirely that the cheap costumes made from everyday bits and pieces were genuine spacemen and monsters. Zipping up his heat-proof cocoon he felt like an astronaut from one of those early films, except that in this case the fabric barrier would genuinely mean the difference between living or dying. He secured the encompassing hood in place and looked down to check himself over through it’s narrow viewfinder. Everything looked good, so he hit the series of buttons on his wrist to ignite the cooling fans and immediately felt the sweet, icy breeze against his skin. “All set?” He asked of his sister in an intentionally louder voice, to be heard through the layers of both suits. “Yeah, I’m good, lets get going.” She replied. Before leaving, Cassian took one last look at the emerging seedling that had captivated his attention all morning and with a shake of his head turned away before the colour completely drained from it. The vulnerable pioneer had visibly dried out and rapidly died under the emerging sunlight. Over an hour of staring at Sarah’s back followed. Their daily routine of crossing the barren, sandy soil of the old park lands, weaving between charcoal tree stumps to reach the city proper, played out the same as it had every day for the past week. Pushing the empty wheelbarrow across the shifting grains was tricky but far easier in this direction. The way back would be far worse, with tired arms and hopefully, heavily laden. The solid, green-wood wheel hindered Cassian’s progression, but it was the only real choice over rubber that would melt or metal that could spark. He kept watch over Sarah as she navigated her own barrow across the desert-like landscape, avoiding the tarmac paths that could liquefy in the rising heat and watching for the ever more active snakes of the region. He had always felt protective over her, as an older brother should. The feeling was amplified all the more by their presence in the dead zone. Having convinced her to accompany him, as the only person he could ever truly trust and more so on a count of being too cowardly to go alone. She now faced this danger by his request and so her life was in his hands. She stopped ahead under the shade of an abandoned over pass, as agreed since the next few minutes would see them enter the city for real. He gently lowered the handles of his adapted wheelbarrow alongside her and checked his wrist display. 45C / 113F already. “Damn. If today’s temperature follows the same gradient, which it always does, we are on track for the hottest day of the year. Could reach 65C / 149F at noon. We need to be even more careful than usual. Go gently, no metal, no sparks. Move slowly.” He warned Sarah. “Maybe we should head back? Try again tomorrow? It might not be as bad?” She offered. Cassian paused, seriously considering the suggestion for a moment. “No, we are here now and there’s only a few days left before we need to make the journey back east. Just go more carefully.” “Okay, I trust you brother. Why don’t we head away from the city centre today? How about that rich neighbourhood, ‘Walkerville’ was it?” “Yeah that’s right. We used to go there you know…but you probably wouldn’t remember. You were too young. They had this supermarket that was like a whole luxury experience, food draped over every surface. Hard to believe everything we had back then…but it’s a smart target, lets make a run at it.” He let her lead the way again, giving directions from behind; Cassian much preferred to have her in sight at all times. As they passed under the dual poles of a huge highway sign that read ‘Adelaide – South Australia’, he tried to remember his childhood home as anything other than the uninhabitable, hellscape of heat that it had become. They made their way across parks and through backyards, only risking the roads when they had no other choice; the heat intensified when reflected from the man-made surfaces and melted tarmac was infuriating to remove from the bottom of shoes. It made for slower progress but eventually they noticed the houses growing larger, the gardens becoming gated and the walls showing more natural stone. They had moved into the realm of the previously wealthy. He laughed to himself at the sight, all that status meant nothing now. “Alright, we do one house at a time, together . I don’t want to see any silver this time Sarah, its not worth the added weight. Gold only, stones sure but remove them from anything other than the gold. With the mines in the north closed, it’s the biggest payday. Remember we have to get everything that we scavenge fifteen-hundred kilometres back to New Melbourne. Even using the boat it’s going to be hard going until we get back to the coast, so…” “Yeah, yeah, yeah! Alright Cassian I get it. No more silver, no matter how pretty it is.” He could see the mocking in her eyes through the tiny slit of her suit and read even more humour in her head movements. “Now come on big brother! This is the fun bit! Its treasure hunting time!” The pair picked their way through the houses, pulling out bedside drawers, emptying jewellery boxes and grabbing any discarded wallets. The evacuation had been sudden enough that most people who could, had just left everything behind. By the fifth house Cassian realised they might have hit the jackpot. Every home was giving up fistfuls of gold and cash, if they kept going like this, there was a chance this could even be their last trip into the city. “Oh my god! Cass! Look at this!” Sarah’s voice rang down the long corridor of the stone building that they were busy ransacking. “You aren’t going to believe it!” He placed the watch he had uncovered onto the growing pile of valuables in his wheelbarrow and made his way slowly, carefully from the lounge down to what must have been the kitchen at the back of the house. There he found his sister digging headfirst through the…fridge. “What are you doing in here? You know kitchens are too risky, one spark from the oven or a dropped box of matches and you could set the whole city alight…us included. This is foolish Sarah…you were supposed to be upstairs.” “Oh, shush will you and come look!” He couldn’t see her face but a lifetime of shared body language told him that she was beaming. She spun around and held up two brightly coloured plastic bags, one either side of her head, each wrapping a mass of neon worms. “Are those…gummy snakes?” “YES! A packet each! What. A. SCORE!” She yelled in excitement, bouncing on the spot. “Sarah…don’t torture yourself…they’ll be liquid before you can take your suit off. Just like all the other packets not lucky enough to be left inside an airtight fridge.” “Look. This is a once in a lifetime chance. They can’t make this stuff anymore. We have stumbled upon someone crazy enough to keep sweets in a fridge and I just dug through some black stuff I couldn’t even identify to reach them. I AM eating these. It’s worth the risk Cass.” “All for some candy?” He asked. “YES.” “Okay…fine…but I go first.” He resigned, snatching one of the packets from her hand and checking the display on his wrist. 63C / 145F. Holding it in one hand and the zip at his throat in the other he took a deep breath. Then in one fluid movement dropped the zip, shoved the treats against his chest and ripped the suit closed. The entire movement lasted no more than a second but Cassian felt like someone had just opened an oven onto his chest. He waited for the discomfort and slight spike of panic to subside, then pulled his arms out of the sleeves and into the torso of his protective clothing, finding one of the joys of his childhood wedged inside. “Wow, they really are almost like new…” He said, squeezing the warm package between his fingers. Before he could marvel any further at the find, his attention was diverted by the familiar sound of a zip descending. That spike of alarm hit him again and by the time his viewfinder had raised enough to bring Sarah into focus, his eyes found her rummaging around inside her own closed suit, giggling maniacally. Neither of them said a single word from then on, only moaned and groaned in pleasure as they worked their way through an entire bag each of sugar jellies. They hadn’t even bothered to move from where they stood in the kitchen. She had been right. It was worth the risk. Cassian had forgotten what simple pleasures as these could feel like. When they had both finished, he caught his sisters demeanour changing; her shoulders dropped and the life seemed to visibly leach from her soul. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy?” He asked. “I am…it’s just. When were we reduced to this? That this is the pinnacle of what we can expect from life? I remember more than you think…from before. I remember what it was like to have a house in a city, rather than a tent in a refugee camp. I remember what it was like to have a hot meal…” “Hey…look. That’s why we are here. Even counting only what we have scored so far…it should be enough to get us passage at least to New Zealand. A few more days of scavenging at this level, we might even be able to get across the pacific and north to the truly cool countries. Australia is burning away by the day, but we have a way out, we just need to keep going. Keep believing we can do this.” “I don’t mean to sound bleak. I know we have options…thanks to you and this insane adventure you’ve brought us on. I’m okay, I just can’t help but let it get to me sometimes. Don’t you ever think about what the world is becoming? Big picture I mean, will we ever really be safe again?” “Of course we will you dope! We were just unlucky enough to be born in one of the hottest countries in the world! There are plenty of places out there that are doing just fine and come winter there will even be people venturing this far west again. Which is why we need to get a move on, can’t have them finding us still here robbing them blind now can we?” “You’re right, come on, lets put this sugar to good use!” She said, bouncing away as if all her cares were immediately lifted. Cassian twisted his wrist while her back was turned, subtly checking the noonday temperature. 67C / 152F. There it is, the hottest day of the year…of all recorded history. He swallowed his fear and hoped his little sister would never notice the terror that constantly simmered inside him.  They continued their treasure hunt to the end of the street, taking several hours to move through the large houses before stepping onto the hollow straw that carpeted the last garden of the row. The house was larger than the rest, being on the corner block and it looked promising. “Last one okay? We need to get back out into the open before night falls” Cassian instructed. “I still don’t see why we need to travel so far every day, I’m sure it would be safe enough to stay in one of these houses. Probably cooler too.” “We’ve been over this. You want to wake up surrounded by flames with no way out? We need to be in the open, with sight lines to spot bush fires in time to escape. No Sarah, we play it safe.” They moved through the house in what was becoming a routine. It was scarily obvious where to look for valuables, everyone always hid them in the same places. It was during their deconstruction of the master bedroom that Cassian heard the footsteps on the stairs. Muted thanks to the suit but unmistakable and close. He turned his whole body to direct the cumbersome suit at the door, just in time to see it slowly creak open toward them. No one entered, but a voice rang out from behind the thick timber shield. “Who’s been sleeping in MY bed!? Hwee Hwee Hwee ” Cassian silently raised his hand, palm forward, to stop Sarah from moving or reacting to the sound. They both stood there, frozen in place, staring at the open door that was hiding the stranger, not daring to breath. “Come on now sweeties. Don’t be shy. Ooooh no, don’t be that . Mummy just wants to tuck you IN. But not in that bed, hwee hwee ” The creepy, squeaking laugh that was echoing from out of sight sent chills down Cassian’s spine. He pushed his hand forward, thrusting it at his sister, urging her to remain still. “You know that’s not YOUR BED! YOURS IS IN THE NURSERY. GET OUT! GET OUT! Get out…” The door pushed wider, revealing a small framed woman with a thin summer dress hanging from her shrivelled shoulders. Her skin was like leather; thick, rough and dark as if she had spent a lifetime in the scorching sun. Her eyes were wide and milky and her head cocked to one side. The whole ensemble reminded Cassian of the undead from the scariest of his old movies. The ones that he would defend against with a couch cushion. “Why aren’t you listening sweet ones? Why oh why oh why won’t you come to bed. This isn’t yoooooour BED.” Sarah’s terrified eyes met Cassian’s and her barely perceptible shrug and nod toward the woman asked What the hell is going on? They had both seen sunstroke before, it was commonplace among those who had escaped the heat to New Melbourne, but this was something different. Something more. How this creature was still alive Cassian could not explain, no one should be able to survive any level of exposure to the sun here. Afraid to break whatever hallucination their guest was enthralled in, he stayed quiet. Who knew how she would react to learning they were not the children she believed them to be. “I know what it is.” She said, suddenly with more clarity and intention. “You’re cold. You want to sleep in the warm with Mummy. Well. Lets get this place warmed up shall we.” Cassian lunged for his sister the instant he caught the shine of the lighter clasped in the eerie woman’s hand. His subconscious calculated in a fraction of second that he wouldn’t make it to stop her in time, his body moving in protection of his only family instead. He stepped and pushed with all his might, sending Sarah backward through the second story window and plummeting down with a crunch into the dry bushes below. As the very air caught fire around the small frame of view he had through the suit, he saw her roll on to her side and stand, far below. Good. All she has to do is make it back ahead of the flames now. Passage for one is half the price after all. The display on his wrist jumped to 1000C / 1832 F, as the room exploded in an inferno.

anskxo

The Popsicle Pals' Frozen Endeavor

Chapter 1: The Challenge Sam’s stomach lurched as a silence fell over the crowd outside Frosty's Delight. It was the hottest day of the year and most of the small town of Maplewood seemed to be lined up at Frosty's Delight Ice Cream Shop. The once vibrant ice cream shop looked like it had been hit by a scoop of disappointment. Mr. Frosty, the heart and soul of the place, stood at the front steps, his shoulders slumped. “Bad news, popsicle lovers,” he began, his voice as low as the freezer temperature. "The shop will be closing for good soon. Costs are too high". A collective groan swept through the crowd. Sam felt her heart melt. Frosty’s was a special place, a cornerstone of her summer. But then, a glimmer of youthful hope ignited in Mr. Frosty’s eyes. “But fear not!” he exclaimed, his voice suddenly chipper. “I’ve got a plan! A mega, super, duper fun plan!” The crowd's mood did a one-eighty. “A town-wide scavenger hunt!” Mr. Frosty announced, holding up a rolled-up piece of paper. The crowd buzzed in a mix of cheers and confused murmurs. Sam’s ears perked up like a squirrel spotting a fallen acorn. “And the grand prize?” Mr. Frosty paused for dramatic effect. “The last ever Strawberry Dream popsicle!” A frenzy of excited chatter filled the air. Sam’s eyes widened as she imagined the taste of that legendary treat. Her spirit was as icy-cold determined as a blue raspberry popsicle. She glanced at Ben, who was already doing a happy dance. Her, Mia, and Ben had to do something. Mia joined them with her chocolate milkshake, her favourite. "We should form a team to tackle this scavenger hunt. We can do it!" Ben murmured between dance moves. Mia sat down at their table with her treat. Sam's heart raced as she huddled with Mia and Ben. "We've got this, guys," Sam's eyes sparkled. "Team Popsicle Pals, assemble!" Mia giggled, adjusting her glasses. "I like it. Sounds official. Am I in?" "Of course! All three of us." Ben nodded, a smile crossing his face. "Let's do this." As the new kid, he was happy to be included. They approached Mr. Frosty, who beamed at them. "Ah, our first team! Here's your clue, kiddos." He handed Sam a folded piece of paper. Sam's fingers trembled as she unfolded it. "'Where stories live and knowledge grows, your next clue waits in dusty rows,'" she read aloud. "Hmmm." Sam gulped down his caramel sundae. "Oh gosh, that's easy. The library!" Mia exclaimed. The group finished their ice cream treats and then dashed across town, bursting through the library doors. The librarian shushed them, but Sam was too excited to care. "Spread out," she instructed. "Look for anything unusual." She noticed just now that she was taking the lead. The Pals searched between each row. Scurrying between the library patrons. Decorum was missing from their minds. Ben's whispered voice rang out. "Guys, over here!" Sam and Mia rushed over. Ben held an ancient-looking book, its pages yellow. "The Maplewood Chronicle," Mia read, her eyes widening. "I heard about that one. It should be brimming with historical tidbits about the town! That could be it!" The librarian bent over them and frowned. Be careful with that. That book is part of our town's history. "Really?" Bens eyes almost look crosseyed. He made a mental note to visit later and learn more about Maplewood. Sam flipped through the pages, her heart skipping a beat when she flipped to the back of the book and spotted a crossword puzzle recently scribed. "Look! It's some kind of puzzle!" Sam's heart pounded like a drumbeat as she stared at the crossword puzzle. Her eyes darted between the clues and the eager faces of her friends. "Okay, team," she whispered, mindful of the librarian's shushing. "Let's put our heads together!" Sam's eyes scanned the crossword, taking in the cryptic clues. "Okay, let's take a closer look at this. The first letter is 'W' - any ideas what that could be?"  Mia tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, the clue says it has something to do with the old town hall. Didn't that historic building burn down a while back?" Ben nodded eagerly, his gaze brightening. "Yeah, I remember reading about that in one of the tourist brochures! It was a big fire back in 2002." Sam grinned, feeling a surge of pride at her friends' quick thinking. "Nicely done, you two. Let's see if we can figure out the rest of this puzzle." The trio bent their heads together, carefully considering each clue. Sam chewed on the end of her pencil, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Aha!" Mia suddenly exclaimed, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "I think the 'W' must stand for 'Waterfront'! The old town hall was located right near the river, wasn't it?" Ben snapped his fingers. "Of course! That makes perfect sense." He scribbled the letter 'W' into the first square of the crossword. Sam beamed at her friends. "You two are on a roll! Let's keep going - I bet we can crack this whole thing." The Popsicle Pals huddled closer, their pencils dancing across the page as they worked together to unravel the puzzle. It was just challenging enough to be fun. Sam filled in the blanks with a satisfying click of the pen, while Mia cross-referenced clues with historical facts. Together, they were a popsicle-powered puzzle-solving powerhouse. "We've got this in the bag," Sam grinned, high-fiving her teammates. "Frosty's is as good as saved, and that Strawberry Dream is practically ours for the tasting!" “Uh oh, this last one is lharder than deciphering hieroglyphics,” Sam muttered, gnawing on her pencil. The frumpy librarian, perched on a high stool, cleared her throat. “Need a hand, young ones?” she offered, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses. With the librarian’s gentle guidance, they slowly filled in each grid. A surge of triumph shot through Sam as the final letter slotted into place. But there was more—a spark of something lit Mia’s eyes. “Look!” she exclaimed, her finger tracing an invisible line across the puzzle. “The first letters spell something!” Sam squinted. “W-A-T-E-R-F-O-U-N-T-A-I-N,” she read aloud, her voice filled with excitement. “The water fountain!” Ben exclaimed, his eyes widening. Even the librarian looked impressed. “Well done, detectives,” she said, a rare smile curving her lips. Sam beamed at her friends. “Let’s go find that fountain!” she declared, her voice filled with anticipation. Chapter 2: The Popsicle Chase Sam led the charge as the Popsicle Pals burst out of the library, their excitement palpable. The town square wasn't far, but the summer heat made the journey feel like a trek through the Sahara. "There it is!" Sam pointed at the green, turtle-shaped fountain. Her heart sank as they drew closer. The once-cheerful Thirsty Turtle now looked more like a Sad Tortoise, its spout missing and basin dry as a bone. "Great," Ben groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Now what?" Sam's mind raced. It sure felt like the hottest day of the year. It was so hot, they needed water, and fast. Her eyes darted around the square, landing on a nearby flower shop. "I've got an idea," she grinned. Minutes later, armed with a garden hose and duct tape, they MacGyvered a makeshift spout. Water trickled out, slow but steady. "We did it!" Mia cheered, cupping her hands to catch the precious liquid. Their victory was short-lived. In their excitement, they'd wandered away from the fountain, ending up in an unfamiliar part of the square. "Um, guys?" Sam's voice wavered. "Where's the turtle?" A gruff voice startled them. "You kids lost?" They turned to find a stern-faced security guard eyeing them suspiciously. Sam's heart raced as she faced the gruff security guard. To her surprise, his stern expression softened when she explained their predicament. "The turtle fountain? It's right over there," he pointed, chuckling. Relieved, Sam led her friends back to the fountain. As water trickled from their makeshift spout, they took turns having a few gulps of the water. Something glinted in the basin. Mia fished out a small, waterproof container. "The next clue!" Sam exclaimed, popping it open. She read aloud, "Time's ticking at the old clock tower. Synchronize the chimes to unlock the power." With clear directions from their unlikely helper, the Popsicle Pals set off for the clock tower. As they climbed the winding stairs, Sam's excitement grew. At the top, they found themselves surrounded by gears and pendulums. Sam and Ben exchanged puzzled looks, but Mia's eyes lit up. "Look," Mia pointed to a complex array of levers and dials. "We need to adjust these to sync the chimes." Sam watched in awe as Mia's fingers manipulated the mechanisms, her brow furrowed in concentration. She'd never seen her friend so focused. The gears clicked and whirred, slowly coming to life under her friend's expert touch. She couldn't help but feel a swell of pride for her team. "You're amazing, Mia," Sam said, wiping sweat from her brow. The summer heat was relentless, even up here in the tower. Mia blushed. "Thanks, but I couldn't have figured it out without you guys." Ben, who'd been keeping watch at the window, chimed in. "We make a pretty good team, huh?" Sam nodded, feeling a surge of determination. "We're gonna win this thing and save Frosty's Delight. I can feel it." As they worked, Sam found herself naturally taking charge, delegating tasks and keeping everyone focused. Mia's problem-solving skills were invaluable, while Ben's quiet encouragement kept their spirits high. "Almost there," Mia muttered, her tongue poking out in concentration. Suddenly, the tower erupted in a cacophony of chimes. Sam's heart leapt. They'd done it! As the echoes faded, Sam pulled her friends into a group hug. "We did it, Popsicle Pals! On to the next clue!" Sam's heart raced as the final chime echoed through the tower. She watched Mia's face light up with pride, and Ben's quiet smile of satisfaction. They'd done it together, each playing a crucial role. As the last vibration faded, a small compartment popped open in the clock face. Sam reached in, her fingers closing around a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully, her friends leaning in close. "Congratulations, young adventurers," she read aloud. "Your final challenge awaits where cold treats delight. Return to Frosty's and claim your prize." Sam looked up, meeting her friends' excited gazes. In that moment, she felt a surge of affection for her team. Mia's brilliance, Ben's steadfast support - she couldn't have asked for better partners. "Back to Frosty's," she grinned. "Let's go save that ice cream shop!" As they descended the tower stairs, Sam felt a new spring in her step. Chapter 3: The Last Popsicle Sam's heart raced as she led the Popsicle Pals back to Frosty's Delight. The familiar storefront came into view, its pastel colors a welcome sight after their long adventure. Mr. Frosty stood outside, his eyes twinkling with excitement. As they approached, he held out a golden envelope. "You've made it this far," he said, his voice warm. "Here's your final challenge." Sam's fingers trembled as she took the envelope. She glanced at her friends, drawing strength from their encouraging nods, then carefully opened it. "'I've been here since the beginning,'" she read aloud, "a sweet treat that's always been winning. Find me where the first scoop was served, and the last popsicle will be deserved.'" Sam's mind whirled. She looked around the shop, trying to piece together the clues. Her gaze landed on an old-fashioned ice cream counter in the corner, its surface worn smooth by decades of happy customers. "The first scoop," a smile spread across her face. "That's got to be it!" Sam's heart pounded as she raced towards the old ice cream counter, her friends hot on her heels. She skidded to a stop, eyes scanning every inch of the worn surface. There, tucked behind an ancient napkin dispenser, was a small, red envelope. With shaking hands, Sam snatched it up and tore it open. A single word was written inside: "Congratulations!" "We did it!" she whooped, throwing her arms around Mia and Ben. "We won!" The Popsicle Pals jumped for joy together. Mr. Frosty's eyes crinkled with joy as he shuffled over to them. From behind his back, he produced a small, insulated box. "You've earned this," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The last Strawberry Dream." Sam's fingers tingled as she accepted the box. She carefully lifted the lid, revealing the vibrant red popsicle nestled inside. The sweet aroma of fresh strawberries wafted up, making her mouth water. "It's beautiful," she breathed, glancing at her friends. Their faces mirrored her awe and excitement. Mr. Frosty beamed at them. "You've done more than win a contest, kids. You've brought hope back to this old shop." Sam looked at the precious Strawberry Dream popsicle, then at her friends. A warm feeling spread through her chest as an idea took shape. "Hey, guys," she said, her voice soft but excited. "What if we shared this with everyone?" Mia's eyes lit up, and Ben nodded enthusiastically. Sam turned to Mr. Frosty. "Can we invite the other teams back? I think we should all celebrate together." Mr. Frosty's eyes misted over. "That's a wonderful idea, Sam." Within minutes, the news spread through Maplewood. People streamed into Frosty's Delight, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement. Sam's heart swelled as she saw the shop fill with familiar faces, including the other teams they'd competed against. Standing on a chair, Sam held up the Strawberry Dream. "We won this together," she announced, her voice ringing clear above the chatter. "Our whole town worked to save Frosty's Delight. So let's all share in the victory!" A cheer went up as Mr. Frosty began cutting the popsicle into tiny slivers, ensuring everyone got a taste. Sam watched with joy as her neighbors savored the sweet treat, their faces lighting up with each bite. As the last sliver of Strawberry Dream was savored, Mr. Frosty cleared his throat. Sam turned to look at him, her heart still racing from the excitement of their shared victory. "I have an announcement to make," Mr. Frosty said, his voice wavering with emotion. "Thanks to your incredible efforts and the overwhelming support of our community, I've decided to keep Frosty's Delight open!" The shop erupted in cheers. Sam's eyes widened in disbelief, then filled with happy tears. She looked at Mia and Ben, their faces mirroring her joy. "We did it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crowd's excitement. "We really did it!" Sam felt a warmth spreading through her chest as she gazed around the packed ice cream shop. The sight of her neighbors laughing and hugging each other filled her with joy. She, Mia, and Ben had started this journey as friends, but now they stood together as the Popsicle Pals, having accomplished something truly amazing. As the celebration continued around them, Sam couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. They had saved more than just an ice cream shop; they had preserved a piece of Maplewood's heart.

pchdqh

“SHE”

              With nothing but smolder encompassing this beautiful August day; equally too an electrifyingly exciting Friday evening, “Power Station” nostalgically emits from surrounding systems. “The Station” currently streaming glorious; equally glorious being the structured Annunaki-styled sculpted beach-side resort. 80’s music enthusiasts savvy enough can vouch the sentiment of that hit song to match the scorch of the day. As stated by Mr. Palmer himself, some like it … As “some” bask in that beach-side sentiment, two friends (James and Tim) share social pleasantries at the bar. As they do both, instantly lust occurs: HER — ATTENTION — FOCAL. HER — ATTENTION — FOCAL. (As soon to be dually known) “SHE” walks by captivating the senses of the two competing ex frat-studs equipped w/social polish. “SHE”, with a tall lean yet athletically-Swift like Taylor’s frame, facial resemblance also an uncanny match, glides with an un-obvious yet forced demure nature; Harley Quinn inspired smirk to prove. What is however obviously known: THEY GAZE, SHE KNOWS, THEY GAZE, ‘we get the polaroid’. Not to leave afloat ambiguous social-linger, Tim attacks the future exchange (sports almanac Dilemma) like an excited Doc Brown solving the puzzle of the Flux capacitor. Him: “Hello beautiful”. Her: “Hello yourself”, followed by a fake sheepish grin. Funny occurrence as him asking how “SHE’s” enjoying this weather eventually leads to drinks at the bar with her soon meeting his compadre “James”. Expeditiously enough the three click naturally and connect rather casually over preferred lager and fiery-type smooth shots of Woodford reserve. Tim exclaims, “So I’m Tim, as we’ve established, this is James … and you would be? She smiles then speaks. “I heard you talking to James, in so specifically hearing you refer to me as “SHE”. Let’s stay with that. The three share an equal mood forwarding sentiment through laughter. They banter comfortably until the point the conversation switches abruptly. “SHE” asks both new found acquaintances if they have ever heard of CERN? Tim casually admits ignorance while James exclaims, “I know it has to do with scientific research but, what’s this I hear about occult rituals and secret experiments? “SHE” laughs as she knows where James is headed then states, “why’d you leave off the rest? You really believe in secret experiments opening portals to other dimensions or even hell? LOL her preferred “aughts-inspired” general sentiment. James and Tim both admit to not knowing much on the topic but rule out nothing in a world of such un-explored phenomenon & boundless mysteries. “SHE” takes an aggressive shot of the specialty bourbon while poking fun at James, slight chuckle followed by the statement. (condescendingly imitating a frightening bellow) “Ooooooooow, watch out we might run into the dreaded “Devils bible” amongst all the occult rituals and secret experiments”. Tim laughs off the vaudeville attempts but keeps an inquisitive mind state in reference to her satanic biblical punchline. Jesting aside, all three continue conversational banter as “SHE” shoots an intriguing (so seems) request to both gentleman. “Hey, you guys wanna see something. Tim laughs and exclaims with a playful retort. “Hell Nah” (Cultural troupes sending him to the response) as Tim is African American, “Boys in the Hood” answers that question for him when posed in the movie. “SHE” laughs then says, yeah I’m white dude, but I’ve seen the movie. “No dead bodies I can assure you”, chuckling at his dithering. They laugh, click shot glasses, then forget that 3 hours ago they knew nothing of the accompanied. “F*** it”, let’s do it, James visually sifts with an adventurous stare down towards them both. Tim re-evaluates with curiosity. Random though, and even more Bizarre than Eminem’s eccentric rhyme cohort, Tim struggles to understand why in 2013, he’s staring at a framed article congratulating Tom Brady and the 2008 New England Patriots on a Super Bowl victory? “Bro” … He thinks internally. Hmmmm. (“SHE” cuts), “All-right, let’s go you two little “Roaming Roosters”. LOL. “Aww, male chickens huh? “aight you fake Max Martin collaborating wanna be Taylor Swift lookin’ a**; Tim never one to let someone bid him bashful responds a verbal jab respectfully admired by the slightly lofty beauty. She assures that this mini adventure will require no vehicular travel, as well the site is just right off the beach. On the walk over, Tim (still succumb with revisionist history bemusement) asks James, or rather looks for familiar confirmation. “Hey bro … what you think of that article? Super Bowl? James responds, “Something feels off … yeah, something off”. However the intrigue of “SHE”, plus the future knowing compels them like a priestly Christ chant. — THEY GO — In their introductory conversations, they all come to realize that they share a passion for caves, bonding closer even over dichotomous views towards the incredibly-dope cinematic monster “The Descent”. As they investigate deeper, each layer of the ethereal cave showcases deeper magnificence. The three equally lost in fantastical adolescent wonder. “SHE” pauses right quick, turns left, looks dead eye center at James and says, I read and saw your story. Sorry. James responds, “What? “Aight”, everything’s been light hearted, roses & Care bears … cool … but … what’s the deal? Who are you, and why are you bringing up my … (“SHE” speaks) hold on. Let me show you something first. (James gets steadfastly solemn) “Nah” I’m not going forward. “SHE” reverts back to the CERN talk. Both men now clearly agitated as “SHE” also recognizes and now admits ties, better yet important connections with the European organization. THEY LISTEN — SHE TALKS. Yes, I work for CERN … and is the reason for this small trip. James & Tim peak with interest as “SHE” tells James how she saw his story on TV. How, even though young still himself, he was married young as well birthed a daughter. This daughter being the love of his life in which she… “OK”, what is your f***** purp … (“SHE” vehemently cuts) … James. I noticed your inquiring mind pondering why your New York Giants aren’t recognized for the 08 feat. James: “What is your god damn poi …. “I CAN TAKE YOU TO HER”. James, now frozen with wonder, taken hostage by anger, ditches all social polish as to berate his newfound acquaintance. She however calms the scene with a professional ease. She spares the scientific details and shoots directly to what they do. “SHE” does however admit that in time travel, “alters” are inevitable. Alters is when a shift in gravitational pull as opposed to particle acceleration through the Large Hadron Collider alters future realities. If it’s minor it’s no problem, but to avoid huge shifts, an expeditious trip needs to be executed and wrapped quickly. If not … (Aggresive sentence cut) James, usually a cool character loses all temperament and turns frustratingly to leave also wanting no more of this conversation. He screams F*** you lady. As he does “SHE” confessed to being extra terrestrial. As well, confessions of impending death on her end would be coming if not for a specific item. “SHE” reveals why James’ daughter’s story made the news. She had the rarest blood type in human history. ‘Unfortunately so, her murder the sinister reality for the feature. James asks, “What does Tia (James’ daughter) have to do with you? “SHE” retorts, “I need a certain chemical in her blood, and it’s only ‘in—her—blood’! As well additionally, a sample of “your” blood is also needed to pair with hers. I’m prepared to offer you 10 million American dollars, as well as a reunion with your … (Pause) “let me stop pretending, with Tia. I’m not going to hide my intentions anymore, this facility I brought you and Tim to is the sub division to the Switzerland branch. I do work with CERN, as well do not have much time”. James, with such an important decision to make ponders intently but quickly does inevitable acts. Pose this dilemma to any grieving father wanting nothing more than to gaze in his baby girls eyes once again and watch there be no dilemmas. Tim frozen almost out of his senses retreats to the rear of this conversation. After acceptance of proposition, all are complicit as James and “SHE” equip themselves for the up coming voyage. Instantly amongst the amethyst crystal pattern adorning the cave’s walls a visual portal imagines. Imagines in the sense of it being formed through telepathic alien (imagined) thought-waves coupled w/the Large Hadron Collider. James and “SHE” pace forward embarking like a futuristic sci-fi version of Lewis & Clark. 3 more steps to a life re-imagined. Who knew that the hottest day of the summer would lead to an entire re-discovery of life. All with a “not so” chance meeting with “SHE”.

f00ia8

The Sun

July 19, 4324 It had been a while now; no one in our town had seen the sun's warm light overcome the clouds, or the sky a shade of blue. The sky has been forever gray, the air forever cold, and the sun was hiding, retired it seemed, for a long time. As the days went by with each snow and each hail that fell from the sky like tears of the sun, many, too, shed tears for warmth; tired of the cold and longing for something different. Miles away from civilization, the endless abyss of white became our unchanging view. It seemed impossible to get back what we once had, a summer of solace, but a continuous winter of woe was what faced us. We hadn’t the slightest hope we would get it back; at least not until an announcement was made on the radio. I scrambled forward on the plyboards as I heard the static coming from the speaker, my eyes searching, ravaged by what they had to say. Everyone had gathered around me as well, the same heart-racing thump in their chest, a small chatter brought up from the excitement. Before I knew it, a crowd was formed in the small room, our breaths heaving in unison, just as our thoughts were sharing the same idea; that this could be the day. The Announcer cleared its throat, preparing the news, the distinct sound of shuffling papers in his hands echoed through the speakers. Then it began: “Good afternoon, citizens. We have exciting data to share with you this evening. As you all may have realized, announcements such as these are very rare and happen in case of emergencies or natural disasters. And, after monitoring the recent weather patterns, we have concluded a very out worldly event. This information may come as a surprise to you all, as it should. The clouds have shifted westward, contrasting to its usual route of going north, leaving the sun soon-to-be bare. We do not know how long this will last, or even if our calculations are correct. Nevertheless, we advise you to be well prepared, stay indoors, and do not, under any circumstances, go outside. After many decades of a frigid temperature, we are not compatible with hot weather just yet, and, worse yet, we may have run into a heat wave. Because of this, we need as much protection from the sun as possible. This is for our safety and yours. We thank you for your cooperation and understanding. Sincerely, The Announcer.” A deafening silence filled the small room, like the announcement stifled our voices to nothing; scaring us away like a lion would to a mouse. It didn’t last long, though, as the silence turned into hushed whispers, the whispers turned into murmurs, the murmurs grew into talk, and the talk into shouts of exhilaration. “We shall have a sun, after these many cold years of solitude and perseverance, and it will be the most important event in the century.” “What’s better, we will be the ones to witness it!” Cheers had erupted from the men as if they had finally conquered a war with weather. Women had exchanged smiles with their children. All but me stood alone, pampering my thoughts. The clamor was overwhelming and somehow convincing, and for a second I thought it was a good thing; as the sun coming out after decades was supposed to be. I didn’t think much of it at first, but, just like The Announcer had warned, a danger lurked in this miracle. I looked out the window, my eyes catching a void of white, and then back to my pale, numb hands. Maybe it was a good thing, maybe the warnings were of little importance to the bigger idea, and I, like everyone else, should be fuming with excitement. Then, why did I feel sick with doubt? I snapped out of it as someone patted my back with a heavy hand, my body lurching forward at the sudden contact. I quickly fixed myself upright, realizing it was Frank; the 63-year-old man who I found nagging and annoying; but I loved him like I would my father. I cleared my throat. “What?” His eyes danced around, his body movements ecstatic. “Now, Marvey, aren’t you just excited? Wasn’t this the phenomenon you were waiting for?” “I am excited.” He sat down next to me, grabbing my hand. I knew better not to pull away. “You don’t look excited.” “I am.” I furrowed my brows. “Just leave me, Frank. I’m not in the mood to argue.” “Oh, you’re always like that.” I could feel his hesitancy, but he let go of my hand and left me alone. … The next few days after the announcement was held, changes had erupted steadily. Snow and hail no longer fell from the sagging clouds—now looking deflated—, and the sky had begun to grow a lighter shade of gray, almost white; and soon it looked as if the seasons were colliding together in a matter of weeks. The snow had begun to thaw, leaving traces of spring, spring soon turned into the warmth of summer; and that was when we had finally spotted the sun peak from the parting clouds. Careful not to touch the glass on the panel, as I was afraid it would burn me, I looked out the window and winced at the sudden light. Never, not in my lifetime of living in this barren outskirts of earth, have I seen such a spectacle that strung my curiosity to a certain point where it left my mouth open, aghast and wonder-struck. The temperature was unlike anything I’d felt before; the view was beyond my apprehension. I slowly trailed my fingers up the glass, and, finding the warmth bearable (enjoyable, too), I kept my palm there, feeling the slight tingle cascade through my blood. Suddenly, a burning sensation protruded through the glass, and I fell back from the sudden heat, landing on the wooden floor, dumbfounded. My breath hitched as my palm turned a faint red that contrasted with my usual white-skinned self. After a while, the aching began to cease, and I gave a confused huff. I quickly shut the curtains, set my hand down in the sink, and ran it through cold water, my breath slowing, my mind scattered, thinking. If the slightest interaction with the sun did that , what could it do if we were exposed? I couldn’t bear the thought, the “what ifs,” the twisted ideas that danced around like little haunting nightmares. I needed to tell the others; I needed to tell Frank. I knocked on his door, waiting with a tapping foot for it to open. And waiting. Waiting killed me. But if it was for the sake of Frank, I’d spare my patience. It didn’t last long, though. One can only ask for so much. … September 3, 4315 “Marvey, open the door!” I could hear Frank’s voice behind the thin walls. I crammed my fingers in my ears, rubbing my elbow across my tear-stained crust. I scrunched my face and kicked my legs in discomfort, holding my back to the door. “Frank, just go away!” “Open it, now.” There was a tone in his voice I couldn’t muster back in mine, so I slowly lifted myself up from the little ball of pity I formed and turned the knob. Frank was holding the jumping rope with one hand, and another one to take. “My boy, you can’t give up like that. Closing doors always opens windows. We can always try again tomorrow.” … With each second that passed, the more my doubt grew. By the minute mark, I could sense he wasn’t there. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already discovered the sun’s awakening, and I couldn’t shake my eyes from seeing a crowd of people outside that began to form slowly; whooping and throwing their hands up with a hallelujah. I didn’t care much about them ; they could be stupid and risk their lives. They didn’t know the fate that was coming for them like I did. Stopping them was out of the question; they were like battle-scarred beasts who were only tamed until they got what they wanted. I could only hope Frank wasn’t there; I could only hope he wasn’t some beast. But, I couldn’t risk it. So there I went, pushing through the group of people, trying to spot an older man with a balding haircut and a kind smile. Everything was seen as a blur; it could’ve been my lightheadedness from the sun, or it could’ve been my plain urgency. As I passed each man and woman, though, something caught my attention. Some sort of liquid fell from their brow, and there I stared in disbelief. The tears of death, they must be. The eyes must be in shock, so the body must have moved their tears to their forehead. They ought to be dying. I’ll soon be like that if I don’t hurry. Hurry, Marvey. So there, I made my way through the people, repeatedly yelling for Frank, but there was no answer with each holler I gave; even with how much emphasis I put in. “Frank, Frank!” “We need to go, Frank!” “Frank, don’t be kidding me; answer!” Of course, I was being silly, and I didn’t expect him to answer amid all the chaos, but desperation had overtaken my reasoning. I had no reasoning, really, I just wanted him here; asking me question after question, whatever he had to bother me with, I’d oblige to it. I’d oblige. Don’t pity yourself now, you’re better than that. My steps began to trail back where I started, and I was almost sure Frank was there wasn't here. But then this voice in my head, this little prancing, incompetent sough, kept on telling me: “God, Marvey, focus. You were never born to be like this. If Frank dies, it’s all your fault. All your fault, Marvey, focus. You were never born to be like this. If Frank dies, it’s all your fault. All your fault, Marvey, focus…” I couldn't just let an "almost sure" slide. It was twilight, so outside was nearly dark and placid and still, but nothing stopped me from making out the distinct lumps on the ground. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the dullness, men scattered the prairie once covered with snow, dead like flies, the setting sun being the swatter. A substance lay stiff in puddles near their mouths, a repellent stench filling the humidity. No, because if all those nonchalant people had died, one might have meant something to me. With all those useless lives lost, one might have been important. The more I thought about it, the more I thought it was likely to be true. And the more I thought it was likely, the more I began to panic. “God, Marvey, focus. You were never born to be like this. If Frank dies, it’s all your fault. All your fault, Marvey, focus. You were never born to be like this. If Frank dies, it’s all your fault. All your fault, Marvey, focus…” There it went again. My rambling thoughts wouldn’t stop, so I would keep going. … January 10, 4318 “Stop your panicking, Marvey,” said Frank, nodding firmly. “It will never get to you; I won’t let it.” I stared at the blizzard outside, then at Frank. “So, would you do anything in your power to stop it from taking me away?” “I would die to save you.” He reassured me. I laughed, thinking he was kidding, but it seemed he was taking it literally. “I don't think you would be able to.” I began slowly, looking doubtful at the man. “Are you lying?” “No, why would I? You trust me, don’t you?” “Okay.” … As I looked through the bodies with a sick face, none of which were Frank, and thus relieved. He’s not dead, and he must be somewhere back at the house, safe. I began to head back, a burden lifted off my shoulders and lighter than before, but something stopped me. A sensation erupted from the back of my throat, and an uneasiness rested in my stomach. I bent down, clutching my neck, sputtering. I couldn’t move, my body stiff and unshifting. I felt my forehead; wet and sticky with the things. There was an abrupt pause before something came out of my mouth, an impulse that I couldn’t control, and it surprised me. Lightheaded and nauseous, I went on my knees, breathing hitched breaths, lacking air. This pain was so unlike the cuts or bruises I’d had before. I could feel my insides turn out, and my outsides turn in. I had gotten chills even if it was 100 or so degrees outside, and my mouth started to quiver uncontrollably. It all went so fast, like I was racing my end to the finish line. I knew I was going to die, like all the others I’d seen. I rolled onto my side, lacking strength, staring at the small house I was not able to reach. I wish someone would see me, bring me in, save me; but most had died just like I did. If only Frank–my thoughts stopped, a curtain was pulled on the far right of the house. I used the rest of my strength to open my eyes wider. In the little window, I could make out the shape of an older man with a balding haircut. Frank, god, it was Frank! There was such a fervor of emotion latching onto me; happy he was okay, angry that I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. As the sun folded into the night, the clouds enveloped it in their thick drape, thus repeating the cycle, and snowfall would fall for another century or so. And just like the sun, I had folded away too. … August 7, 4315 “You need to fold it like this, Marvey,” Frank ushered to his own pile, and then pointed at mine. I gave a frustrated sigh, fiddling with the collar of my shirt. Reluctantly, I tried again, but it only looked like the first fold I did; a disaster. “Frank, I can’t do this. I don’t even want to do it.” I handed my lump of clothes to him, a sheepish smile plastered onto my face. “Here, you can do it.” He shook his head sternly, his brows raised. “You’re going to learn, Marvey. I can’t let you give up so easily.” … Well, Frank, I guess I had.

8ws0y3

Just Two Wishes

My kitten heels struck the polished floors, echoing on the familiar marble-clad corridors. The rhythmic clacking of keyboards would briefly stop to rehearsed ‘Bonjours’ , excited ‘comment s’est passé tes vacances…’ and exchanged bisous before the symphony of keys took over again . The hum of the air conditioning welcomed me to my fluorescent-lit office as I plopped on my seat and booted up my computer. The nearby cathedral bell tower chimed, tram T4 rumbled past, the honk of a car filled the air; reminders that I had returned to my normal routine in the vibrant city of Lyon. A stark contrast to the salty sea air and the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my skin… * “We’re cooked!” Announced Eric. A smooth baritone had announced that the sun had decided to crank up the thermostat across the Co¨te d'Azur. “Pun intended,” a boyish grin lengthening his rosy, slightly-chapped lips. He tucked the two strands of braids caressing his forehead behind each ear, rounded his black-bag-strapped broad shoulders and firmed his chiseled arms to carry our suitcases up the stairs of coach 5 on the bullet TGV train. He skimmed through the seat numbers, looking for 71 and 72. The silk silver serpent slithered through the verdant heart of France. Vineyards stretched like emerald carpets, punctuated by the occasional chateau, a fairytale castle perched on a hilltop. As we rattled south, the mercury seemed to rise after every kilometer. The air-conditioning was a mere whisper against the relentless heat. With frayed tempers, a man across the aisle shouted at the woman beside him for hogging the armrest while the woman covered her nose, accusing him of a pungent body odor. Seeing my furrowed brows, Eric put his hand on mine.  “Focus on the beach,” he said with a reassuring smile. I lost myself to the train's rhythm and watched the world transform into a kaleidoscope of greens, morphing into dramatic cliffs before plunging into the sea. The gentle sway lulled me into a state of tranquil anticipation. The French Riviera: a sun-kissed promise of azure waters and golden sands. And where I had vowed to tell this radiant soul that I loved him for the first time. That I knew that it had just been 7 months, but he had been the missing puzzle to my life, the rhythm to my heartbeat. He had held galaxies of understanding and support, a compass guiding me through life's labyrinth. A flutter of excitement and nervousness danced in my chest as I pondered. Those three words would open a new world of a deeper connection. Yet a whisper of doubt and fear of rejection weaved a subtle counterpoint. We eventually got off at Villeneuve-Loubet, a small town moored between Nice and Antibes. As we walked towards our apartment, we marveled at the cluster of four towering, curvaceous buildings that seemed to rise from the sparkling azure waters like giant, gleaming white waves. The buildings appeared to undulate and flow with their distinctive tiered balconies as if they were frozen in a perpetual dance with the sea. We walked past La Flibuste , an entirely glass-encased Michelin-star restaurant. The fashionably dressed locals and sun-bronzed tourists went about their day, in and out of the boutiques, cafés, ice cream parlors and the thalassotherapy center. As we stepped inside our room in the Admiral building, (the other 3: Commodore, Ducale and Baronnet in the order of years they were constructed) we felt instantly transported into a world of luxury and exclusivity. We rushed to the window and were stunned by the rows of sleek yachts and sailboats gracefully dotting the marina. André Minangoy and Jean Marchand, despite the controversies, will forever be famous! Eric and I jumped into each other’s arms, sharing an embrace that would make first-kissers and dying lovers jealous. He kissed me and I melted like jelly in his arms. We stayed in each other’s arms for… I honestly don’t know. Could have been a minute, could have been hours. But in that moment, the world felt right. Then came the shock! A gasp, a frantic search, and the realization: Eric’s black bag had gone AWOL. It pulled a Houdini leaving him without his personal effects. The initial panic was replaced by a grim determination. Eric, the ever-optimistic gent, suggested we go report it to the office desk who in turn directed us to the nearby police station. In the same beat, we went to a nearby Intermarché and replaced his toothbrush, hair trimmer, towel, etc while also shopping for other food essentials. “At least it wasn’t your wallet or phone that got lost,” I consoled as I unpacked the replaced essentials and refrigerated some fresh croissants, creamy French cheese and a bottle of chilled rosé. Cannes                Once we felt well rested, we made our way to the city of glamour and glitz. We strolled along the Croisette mindlessly talking, window shopping with abandon and taking snaps of the famous actors’ handprints (Angelina Jolie, Meg Ryan, Meryl Streep etc). I for one was excited to strike a model's pose on the iconic red carpet of the magnificent grand Palais des Festivals. We were pleasantly surprised when the beach appeared at the end of La Croisette. You should have seen our excitement when we finally dipped our feet in the cool waters. Our smart selves had talked ourselves out of carrying our bathing suits. Nevertheless, we savored the moment, hands held, eyes closed, the water licking our calves while kids and other swimmers swaddled around us. Our appetites, gentle but persistent, led us to a charming little bistro tucked away on a side street. We shared a plate of seafood, the flavors of the Mediterranean bursting on our palates. We devoured our meals, watching a parade of stylishly dressed people pass by, a living tableau of the Cannes lifestyle. As we headed home, the sun drowned the town and our bright but extremely exhausted faces in a golden glow in it's descent. I made myself the first promise: I would one day go back to Cannes during the Film Festival, and I would pay to watch one of the highly acclaimed showings alongside the stars. Monaco, Menton, Villefranche-sur-Mer, Nice The next day’s itinerary was ambitious, to say the least. The train journey was a blur of coastal landscapes and the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the coastal sun. Monaco, a mere speck on the map, was our first stop. The tiny principality was a study of wealth and grandeur. The legendary Monte Carlo Casino, a magnet for eyes, stood as a testament to Belle Epoque architecture. The cars, flexing wealth and power were a spectacle in themselves. We felt a pinch of the surreal as we walked amidst this world of excess, a stark contrast to our ordinary lives. Did it inspire me? Did it make me feel like a pauper? Questions to discuss with my therapist. We walked a bit, took more photos and videos for our social media and off we were to Menton, the ‘Pearl of the French Riviera”. Known for its lemon groves and lemon-themed decorations, the town was bathed in a citrusy fragrance. The Jardin Botanique, a riot of colors and scents, was a tranquil oasis. We wandered through the maze of exotic plants, the air filled with the sound of cascading waterfalls. My phone battery died as I snapped away the pastel-colored houses and charming squares of the old town. Truly a photographer’s wet dream. By this time the heat had made me sweat off my light makeup. Our backs were flat pools. We had to find shade after every 1-2 hours and drink some water or energy drinks. As we headed towards Nice, I could swear of left sock that the stunning harbor of Villefranche-sur-Mer coast called us by our full government names. Weak as we were, we obliged. Thus, we detoured for our first dip in the crystal-clear waters. Eric and I had tried to be consistent at the gym for the past year. They could have been better, but safe to say our young bodies had toned up nicely. I kept drooling over his svelte arms, back and legs whenever he would do a backstroke! Haha! (Turns pink) As the water washed over us, and the sun cast a pink and orange blanket on the horizon, we melted in contentment, kissing at the beautiful experience we were having. Then our stomach rumbled in hunger. A jealous mistress asking for her dues. Nice – The queen of the Cote d’Azur The Riviera beauty, Nice, was the embodiment of joie-de-vivre. Her very essence radiated the warmth and vibrancy of the Mediterranean sun. Her sun-kissed countenance was a siren, drawing in lovers from far and wide. Her hair, a cascade of ochre rooftops, danced in the salty breeze. Her perfume was a heady mix of jasmine and the sea. Her streets were like veins, pulsing with life. The Promenade des Anglaise, her most famous artery, was adorned by her loyal courtiers; palm trees standing tall and proud yet swaying like flamenco dancers. Her beaches were her lovers. Golden sand caressed by waves as turquoise as her mood. The sea crashed against the rocks like a lover’s heartbeat. Nice moved through the world with a natural pose that bespoke of her innate confidence. Yet beneath her sun-drenched allure, she possessed a cultured intellect that belied her youthful beauty. Her love of art and culture shone through in the elegant architecture that adorned her historic quarters, a reflection of her refined sensibilities. And in the flavors that danced across the tongue in her renowned cuisine, one could taste the depth of her centuries-old heritage. Elegant and carefree, Nice is a woman to be loved, admired and endlessly explored. We spent my birthday meandering through Nice. Our hearts beating as one as we admired all the beauty and splendor that the city had to offer. In the evening, we strolled to The Radisson Blue Hotel, where we cut the cake and had the waitresses and neighboring customers harmonise the esteemed birthday song. As we left, one of the waitresses handed us a flyer for Le Carnaval de Nice. I don't have much of a recollection of this night except the blaring music, festival colours and the few faces that talked to us as we jumped around to Techno music until the sun peeked in the distance. Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Antibes The charming old town of Beaulieu-sur-Mer with its winding streets and quaint shops was a world away from the bustling crowds. The historic Villa Kerylos and the golden sand beaches that stretched out as far as the eye could see were a sight for sore eyes. We relished some pasta at Maonas before heading to our final stop, Antibes. No visit to Antibes would be complete without a stroll along the Sentier du Littoral, the coastal path offering breathtaking vistas of the rugged Cote d’Azur. We meandered past yachts bobbing in the harbor, pausing to admire the 16th-century Chateau Grimaldi and its renowned Picasso Museum. Eric found the perfect spot to watch our last day’s sunset – a tucked-away cove where the crashing waves provided a soothing soundtrack to our quiet reflections of the trip’s adventures. As the last rays of daylight faded, I knew this memory of our time in the French Riviera would forever be etched in our hearts and minds- a vibrant tapestry of laughter, beauty and the cherished companionship of my beloved. As if hearing my thoughts, he cupped my chin and landed the softest kiss on my lips. "I love you." * “Hey, have you heard? There is a heatwave in Lyon today,“ my manager declared as he walked into my office, snapping me out of my reverie…

s8echt

Bear

She held up her phone, gazing at the top right corner. A large outcropping of rock lay ahead. Her dad slowed the car down for the turn. They passed the outcropping and… she held her breath. The last of the four bars faded.   “Mom! Dad!” she shouted. “Did it happen?” her mom asked, glancing back at her. “Yup! Which means our vacation has officially started. Only twenty more miles to go” she replied, as she showed her phone off to no one in particular. She put her phone away and drank some lemonade. *** They pulled up to their cabin. The cabin was small, but it was right next to a lake that she loved swimming in. Inside the cabin there was a small kitchen and two bedrooms. She sat down on her bed and set her suitcase down. She looked outside. The moon shone brightly through the window. “How did it get this late so fast?” she pondered. The only thing in the room besides her bed was a small dresser that would hold her clothes. She could unpack later though. She stretched her body and snuggled into the blankets. Before she knew it, she was asleep. *** She woke up. Her head was groggy. She unzipped her suitcase and changed into new clothes. Her mind was a mess. She stumbled into the kitchen to find her parents in a chaotic frenzy gathering up little bits of food. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Our food is gone, taken by a bear. We have nothing left,” her mom said.  Her mind snapped back into focus. Their food was gone. How were they going to survive? “Wait, can’t we just drive back?” she asked. “No!” her mom cried. “The bear wrecked the car too. There must have been some food inside” Her insides dropped. How were they meant to get back now? They could not call anyone because they had no internet. Her dad let out a sigh and stopped. “We are going to have to walk back,” he said. He scooped up what little food he had managed to gather and walked toward his bedroom. “Grab a ton of water bottles and stuff them in your sleeping bag. Dad will grab the other sleeping bags and the tent,” said her mom. She rushed to her room and grabbed her sleeping bag. She grabbed her water bottle, her parents' water bottles, and a few plastic ones she had from leftover lemonade. She filled them up till the point they risked overflowing and screwed the caps on, making sure to screw them extra tightly. She tossed them all in her sleeping bag, which she tied into a bundle and hoisted over her shoulder. She put her shoes on, opened the door and stepped outside. Her parents were waiting for her, just outside the door. *** She was walking at a brisk pace, but she soon realized she couldn’t travel long distances at the speed she was going. She slowed down and her legs welcomed the change of pace. When they finally decided to take a break, she practically collapsed onto a nearby stump. “My watch says we have been walking for fifteen miles,’’ her dad announced. “Almost there.” She couldn't believe they had only walked fifteen miles. She knew fifteen miles was a long distance, but it had felt so much longer. Her aching legs seemed to agree. “We need to pitch the tent,” her mom ordered. “Uuuhhhhhhggggggg, give me a second,” she groaned as she slowly stood up. She stumbled forward and then regained her footing.  “Alright,” her legs sent a new wave of pain as if to protest against standing. She stumbled over to where they had decided to pitch the tent. Her dad had already started and she helped as much as she could. When the tent was up, a thought occurred to her. “Won’t the bears want the food we gathered?” she worried. “I brought a bear proof container, and as long as we keep it far away from the tent, we should be fine,” her dad replied. “We are okay. We will be okay. We can do this,” she mumbled under her breath over and over again.  She learned that this helps with nerves. She wasn’t sure it was working though. Her breath was just as quick as it had been a few minutes ago. Her heart still raced, though she wasn’t sure if this was because she was nervous or tired. “Come on, we need to go to sleep,” her mom called to her. She crawled into their tent, hauling her sleeping bag full of water bottles behind her. She set up her spot and put the water in the corner. They only had her two lemonade bottles left. The other four bottles had been devoured throughout the hike. They only had five miles until they could get internet and call someone. She was excited for the moment where all four bars returned. Never again would she celebrate not having internet. She longed for the comfort of her old life. She snuggled into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. She couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Worry plagued her thoughts. “What if a bear attacks? What if the tent falls? What if a wolf or coyote comes across us?”  Her brain could only think of the what-ifs, allowing no room for thoughts of sleep. Still her body ached for the comfort of sleep. Slowly the what-ifs faded and she found herself drifting into blackness. *** She opened her eyes. She was staring up at a wooden ceiling. “Wait, what?” she gasped. She stood up and looked around. She was back in her room at the cabin. Her suitcase sat unpacked on the floor and her water bottle on the dresser. “Was I dreaming?” she wondered. She pinched herself, but nothing happened. She was really here. “But how?” she pondered. “Unless maybe it was all a dream.” She relaxed, none of it had actually happened. She put on new clothes and stepped out into the kitchen where her parents were scrambling around frantically. “Bear!” her mom gasped.

s3dbwz

Leave No Trace

“Where do you fancy going for our hols this year?” I ask Ellie, to the dreary percussion of rain. “I’m fed up with this time of year. Let's go to summer!” I've had enough of this winter too. It's November, the drops are heavy with sleet. I pick up the tablet and open up a brochure. “Where shall we go this time?” I ask, flicking through heavily touched-up images. “Paris, 2000?” “Nah,” Ellie dismisses. “Cultural stuff is too much like hard work in my time off. Somewhere with a beach?” Last year we went to see the summer of ‘69, mostly to say we'd been there, I'd not really enjoyed it. “Up for beach if it's not a party beach. What about camping?” Ellie gives a shrug to suggest she could go one way or the other. I'm getting excited with possibilities, wilderness holidays are much more my thing. “Let's go somewhere with really low population density, so it can be just us, doing what we want. We can have lakes, beaches, forests all to ourselves,” I chatter. “How about we really push the boat out, go way further back than usual, like 2,000BC?” “That'll way pre-date the CIA, or even Knights Templar though,” she wrinkles her nose in doubt. “We'll be completely without emergency rescue options.” “Ah come on, we've done this loads now, we know what we're doing!” I cajole, browsing ice core data to find the best summer in that era. “It’ll be an adventure! What's the worst that could happen?” Ellie shrugs again, but with a grin and a twinkle that tells me I've won her over. ### We pack up and head down to the rental shop. On hearing our destination, the cheery young man with perfect teeth and immaculately styled hair becomes very serious. “I can't sign this off. Let me get my manager,” he stutters, suddenly losing the fluidity with which he followed his earlier script. The manager, a grey-haired woman in severely angular spectacles, reads the request and peers at us suspiciously. “This is outside our standard packages, you realise, and won't be covered by any Time Travel Insurance policy?” she interrogates. “Yes, of course, we're experienced wilderness campers,” I reply. “And you are aware that the Leave No Trace regulations get significantly more stringent as you go further back?” she snips, passing us two extremely densely-worded waivers to sign. “Both of us have in-date LNT-4 qualifications,” I turn to Ellie, wearing her lightweight breathable gear, hair restrained in her infamous ‘camping bun’. She's grinning ear to ear. The manager begins tapping at her console with fearsome precision. “Very well, I have your time-space envelope here,” she slaps a printout on the desk, “and your capsule is waiting in space P-24.” Was there the flash of a faintest smile? With that, she stomps away back to the office, heels clicking. ### It's an economy capsule, no free upgrades this time. We just about squeeze in beside our tent, cooking gear and power fridge. Unlike the shiny capsules of the more tourist-friendly fleet, the ones in the Adventure section are older, tattier, with dreary green and tan paint jobs to blend into the ancient forests. Ellie squeezes my hand. “Ready to start our adventure?” she sparkles. I squeeze her back, take a last quick mental inventory, and press the ‘Start’ button. The capsule windows slowly become opaque. There might be a slight lurch, a momentary loss of gravity; it's been so many times since my first I barely notice. After a few seconds, the windows fade into transparency once more. Instead of the dingy multi-storey concrete pod park where we entered the capsule, rolling forested hills fade into view. We’ve picked a real doozy of a spot. It's a lightly forested hill overlooking the coast, waves lazily lapping the beach. Inland, there's a dramatic mountain range and some bright blue lakes. A gentle breeze stirs the pine needles and takes the edge off the summer heat. Ellie and I unload our tent and pitch it, get out the water purifier and set it to fill up from a pool beneath a waterfall, gather firewood for the evening. Perfect. ### “Problem,” Ellie calls to me from the capsule. “I just opened up the fridge and the lights were off. Turns out the pod’s battery's totally drained.” “Drained?” I sputter. “They're supposed to be able to cope with a two-way trip and have reserve to run basic power for a week.” “Definitely drained,” she replies. “Won't tell me the time, or the date. Dunno what could've drawn that much, unless the rental didn't top it up properly?” I'm usually rigorous at checking things like this at a rental, I hate getting ripped off or under-sold. Maybe the excitement got the better of me this time, but I'm sure a half-full battery would have drawn my attention like a loose tooth. “I'll put the panels in that sunny spot, it'll charge back up in a few days,” Ellie chirps. The Adventure pods had solar panels as standard, just in case you lost charge and didn't feel like waiting a few millennia to get home. ### We don't let our problems get to us and just enjoy the moment, the peace, the solitude. We sit by our small fire, watching the sunset with a now lukewarm glass of white wine, but it's still perfection. The fire burns to coals and the day's heat slips away to a cool, cloudless night, Ellie cuddling up for warmth as the stars come out. The prehistoric skies are something else: with not a blip of earth-borne light, the night is perfect black velvet coated with a generous dusting of diamonds. There are strange animal noises in the distance, but neither of us feels a threat. “How different the night sky looks to modern day,” I chunter emptily, just to fill the gap. “It will be different, not just the light pollution but the position of stars will change subtly. Precession!” Ellie’s a fan of amateur astronomy, she takes a little high magnification spyglass with us on wilderness trips. It's all part of the kooky fun, she says. She disentangles herself from me, and heads over to the tent. “Star charts!” she exclaims, and I brace for an excitable lecture. “Look, this is what it would look like at home, but in 2,000BC the Earth's precession means that… huh.” “What's up?” I ask. “Well, it doesn't line up. See?” she flashes the tablet with the 2,000BC star chart in front of me, against the sky. “We're nowhere near. You'd have to go back to…” she fiddles with a slider, then tails off, silent. “To where?” “To 20,000BC. That can't be right? They accidentally typed in an extra zero?” “How would we even tell? Anything else we can look for?” “Perhaps certain climatic markers, plants or animals? Not sure. Best is to get the capsule charged again, that'll know.” We lapse back into silence and cuddle closer. Being stranded in 20,000BC shouldn't be any different to being stranded in 2,000BC. And yet it is. ### The prehistoric past, whenever it may be, is stunning. To take our minds off the situation, we do a little exploring while the capsule recharges. From a hilltop, we use Ellie's spyglass to watch herds of huge, weird beasts, with long rubbery noses, appearing from the forest to drink in the lake. We find a route down to the beach and swim in the sea, a welcome cold shock against the heat of the day. Getting back to the campsite, I open up the pod and see the ‘charging’ light lit. A wave of relief washes over me; it may not be operable yet, but at least it's able to now show me it's taking charge. It must have squeezed out every Joule of energy to get that fully flat. I shiver, despite the warmth. Maybe it did overshoot by 18,000 years. The next day we get a bit more adventurous, boosted by the success of the solar panels. We scramble a little higher, to a rocky ridge, and see the primaeval forests stretch out for valley after valley, fading into the summer haze. We lie out, taking in the warmth of the sun, taking turns watching idly with the spyglass for more strange creatures. “Here, look at this,” Ellie hands me the spyglass and gestures. There's movement in some bushes, down in the valley. I turn the focus and… it's a man, completely naked, very hairy. I scan around, there's a couple of women with him, equally unclothed, equally hirsute. I turn to Ellie. “Is that… are we… 20,000BC?” I gabble. She nods. “Anything above LNT-2 and your envelope can't be within 100 miles of human settlements. Our envelope’s all off, we're in the wrong time.” I goggle. Even though we'd been talking about it, finding things that did and didn't support the possibility, it's still a huge jolt to get incontrovertible proof. Ellie's expression is distant. “Come on,” I say. “Let's get back to camp, see how the capsule is doing.” ### The relief is seismic when we return and find the battery sat at 99%. We can get home! The chronometer confirms what we thought; 20,000BC, give or take a century or two. I take up the solar panels and pack them away. Just like our first night, the sunset is staining the sky into indescribable streaks of red, pink and peach. By the tent, I stop and watch. Ellie puts down the peg bag and rests her hand on my arm. “It is the most beautiful here at night,” I sigh. “Shall we just stay one more night, go back in the morning?” “I'll never see skies like this again, that's for sure,” Ellie replies. “Sure, let's do that.” We spend another evening watching the stars come out, in silent awe. We roast a few sausages on the fire, following up with marshmallows for good measure. “Well, despite being a few millennia out, it's been a perfect break,” Ellie chuckles as we climb into our sleeping bags. ### I wake to the pitch black with a snuffling noise outside the tent. I reach over absently to pet the dog and then freeze in horror. The dog’s staying with my parents, 20,000-plus years in the future. “Ellie!” I whisper, shaking her as I scrabble for the torch. “I think there's something out there!” She groans unintelligibly. “I'm going to look!” I hiss. As I unzip the tent, Ellie sits up. She must be able to sense my tension, or perhaps hear the noise. I swing the beam of light around the campsite, across the fire. Two pinpoints shine back, accompanied by a low growl. My blood freezes. “Ell, quickly, can you get over to the capsule please?” I hear myself say with a brittle veneer of calm. “Just get in, I'll be right behind you.” The eyes are shining, and I can see two long fangs from the source of the growl. A sabretooth tiger, drawn by the smell of our sausages? Ellie, moving cautiously behind me, steps backwards towards the capsule, keeping facing the monster. I start to back off as well, as it paces towards me. I hear the door open, maybe three or four paces behind. That's enough. Throwing the torch towards the creature, I turn and run, jumping in the capsule and closing the door. “Let's go!” shouts Ellie as I leap in. “This is too flimsy to keep that thing out!” I scramble to find the key, and press the button. There's a hum, the stars fade from view. We're safe. “That was too close for comfort!” I gasp. “I don't think we can come back for what we left behind,” she replies, ever practical. “Do you think… I hope… leaving the tent, torch and matches behind, that's not going to change things too much, is it?”

ov19o8

The Last Radiance

The once-glorious Starspire, a towering structure of gleaming crystal, now loomed ominously in shadow as its protector, Saliria, traversed the night. Her luminous powers had once infused Hargren with vitality, serving as both a beacon of hope and a barrier against the dark forces encroaching upon their land. The menace threatening Hargren was not merely an elemental force; it was a malevolent entity pressing against the fringes of Saliria’s light. With each fleeting moment, her ceaseless battle drained her energy, causing her light to diminish. The weight of her responsibility to protect her people, coupled with her fear of failure, shrouded her in deep emotional weariness that further diminished her strength. In the heart of the city, vibrant festivities celebrated the annual Festival of Light. However, beneath the joyful exterior, an undercurrent of apprehension persisted. Draped in a cloak adorned with shimmering stars, Saliria made her way to the central square, where the once-resplendent Starspire towered. The lively crowd stood in hushed expectation; their enthusiasm dulled as the beacon's illumination flickered erratically. "Saliria, you don't look well," called Torim, an adventurous young swordsman who admired the guardian. Concern etched on his face as he drew closer to her. "I'm not alone in my distress," Saliria murmured, her voice a soft tremor. "The Starspire is dimming. The darkness is encroaching faster than we anticipated." Torim's features hardened with resolve. “There’s a legend of a mystical star hidden within the Corteron Sector. It’s said to have the power to restore any lost light. We have to find it.” Saliria felt a heaviness in her heart at the mere mention. The Corteron Sector was infamous—a land of shadows and illusions where many explorers had vanished without a trace. Yet, Torim’s steadfast spirit ignited a small spark of hope in her. “If there’s even a chance, we have to chase it.” As night bathed the city, the ambient glow faded, and tension among the people thickened. Saliria and Torim prepared for their perilous journey, gathering supplies and making preparations for the long journey ahead of them. Into the Void The journey to the Corteron Sector was not just a passage through space but a trek into the unknown depths of an ancient realm. As Saliria and Torim breached Hargren’s borders, the familiar landscape began to change drastically. What had once been rolling hills and lush forests quickly became a desolate wasteland. The bright greens of the grass and trees and the brilliant sparkle of the surging river were replaced with muted shades of gray and black, as though life had been drained from the land itself. Even though it was early in the day, the further they moved along the path, the more and more the sky darkened, thick, ominous clouds blotting out the light from the sky so that the world around them seemed to be forever cast in twilight. There was a new chill in the air, and the wind picked up, sweeping across the barren land, carrying with it whispers of forgotten souls and the faint echoes of lost memories. After three days of travel, the pair finally stepped into the area known as the Corteron Sector. The landscape continued to twist and warp in unnatural directions around them, with towering cliffs that seemed to rise and fall on their own accord. Vast chasms opened before them, threatening to swallow them whole. This was a place laced with danger, both seen and unseen. It grew darker and darker the further they traveled, and they could hear rustling and whispers on all sides of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Torim could see what appeared to be glowing eyes following his every move. Though he remained alert, he chose not to turn and face whatever creature was watching him so closely. Despite their fear and the overwhelming odds, the pair pressed on, knowing that the only chance of Hargren’s survival lay in the success of this mission. The journey was a test of willpower and endurance, but in her weakened state, Saliria drew strength from Torim’s unwavering determination. “Stay close,” Saliria instructed, her voice barely audible over the oppressive silence. The very air seemed to drain the warmth from their bodies, leaving them chilled and anxious. As they ventured deeper, a monstrous apparition emerged from the darkness—an ancient guardian of the realm, its eyes glowing with malevolent light. It was nothing like Saliria nor Torim had ever seen, towering over them; it seemed to be made of the very darkness that surrounded them. Its body was massive, blackened flesh pulsated with a sickly energy. The edges of its form were indistinguishable from the shadows of the darkness around it. The only thing that stood out was its glowing eyes – glowing orbs of malevolent light. The eyes radiated a terrifying ancient intelligence – the kind of intelligence that is only gained after a being has witnessed countless millennia pass. As the pair stood frozen in awe of the beast that presented itself before them, it opened what Saliria could only assume was its giant maw and let out a deep, guttural noise so low and loud that the ground around them shook in the violent display. The sound alone was enough to freeze the blood in their veins, a primal, soul-shaking cry that reached into the pits of their stomachs. This was far more than just a dark creature that inhabited this land. This was a guardian who, over many eons, had one job – to prevent anyone from entering or leaving with the light of the mystical star. Before Saliria could stop him, Torim leaped forward with a battle cry, his sword clashing against the creature’s dark form. The guardian met his assault, swiping at him with a massive clawed hand. Torim dodged the blow and rolled to the ground. Saliria, drained of her power, but knowing she had to fight alongside her travel companion, focused what little energy she had left on the beast and aimed a beam of light directly into what she assumed was the creature’s face. The light struck the guardian square in the eyes, causing it to shriek in pain as it retreated a few feet back. It didn’t take long, however, for the creature to begin to regenerate, and soon, it was charging the heroes once again, this time with reinvigorated fury. Unphased, Saliria channeled the last of her remaining strength and once again shot a beam of light into the beast’s face. The creature howled and thrashed, its claws slashing wildly in an attempt to swat the light away from its face. With this, Torim saw a vulnerability and made his move. With a burst of speed, he charged at the guardian's exposed flank, driving his sword deep into the side of the beast. The dark entity bellowed in agony. A rushing wind roared out of the wound on its side, and it was obvious the blow had weakened it. But the creature was far from defeated. It swung its entire body around to face Torim, catching him with a backhanded swipe that sent him flying through the air and crashing into a nearby rock formation. "Torim!" Saliria screamed, her voice filled with desperation as she saw him struggle to rise. She knew they couldn't win if they fought separately—they needed to work together. Summoning every ounce of willpower, Saliria unleashed a burst of light that momentarily blinded the guardian, giving her just enough time to rush to Torim's side. She extended a hand, helping him to his feet as the creature began to recover from the blinding attack. "We have to strike together," Saliria said, her voice resolute despite the exhaustion that weighed her down. "We combine our strengths. It’s the only way." Torim nodded, his eyes blazing with determination. "Let's finish this." The guardian, now fully recovered, charged at them with a terrifying roar, its massive form barreling toward them like a living avalanche. But this time, Saliria and Torim were ready. With a fierce cry, Torim surged forward, his sword glowing with the last vestiges of Saliria’s light. As he charged, Saliria poured every ounce of her remaining power into the blade, imbuing it with a radiance that outshone even the darkest corners of the Corteron Sector. The guardian reared back, ready to deliver a crushing blow, but Torim was faster. He leaped into the air and, with a mighty swing, brought the light-infused sword down upon the creature's head. The blade cleaved through its skull, the light exploding outwards in a brilliant flash that lit up the entire sector. The guardian’s roar of pain was cut short as its body began to disintegrate, the dark energy that had held it together unraveling in the face of Saliria's light. The creature's massive form shuddered, then crumbled into a cloud of black ash that was quickly swept away by an ethereal wind, leaving nothing behind but silence. The Last Stand Saliria and Torim found themselves in complete darkness, but they knew they had to press on. Through exhausted breaths, Torim called out to Saliria with as much excitement as his tired body would allow. He directed her attention to a light up ahead. “I think that’s the star!” He uttered before collapsing to the ground. The pair rested for a few minutes, but then, breathless and battered, they persevered. They followed the faint light that they believed to be the mythical star. The soft, calm light pulsated in a comforting rhythm. Finally, they arrived at the heart of the Corteron Sector, where the star hung suspended in a void of darkness, its light flickering like a dying ember. Saliria reached out, her hands trembling, and grasped the star. The moment she touched it, a surge of energy coursed through her, revitalizing her with a brilliance that seemed to push back the darkness itself. With the mythical star in hand, Saliria and Torim made their way back to Hargren. But their return was far from triumphant. The darkness had grown bolder in their absence, its tendrils reaching ever closer to the city. As they approached, they saw the Starspire struggling to maintain its light, the darkness clawing at its base. Saliria, now reinvigorated but still weak, directed the star’s energy into the beacon. The light flared back to life, but the darkness was relentless, a living entity of shadow that sought to consume everything in its path. Torim rallied the city’s defenders, and a fierce battle erupted between the forces of light and darkness. Saliria fought valiantly, her powers fueled by the star, but the darkness was too overwhelming. Just as it seemed the city would fall, Saliria made a desperate decision. “Run!” she cried to Torim and the defenders. “I’ll hold them off!” With the last of her strength, Saliria unleashed a blinding burst of light, pushing back the darkness and buying precious time. Her form flickered and dimmed as she fought, her power waning, but her spirit undeterred. Epilogue: A New Dawn The battle was hard-fought, and though the darkness was driven back, the cost was high. Saliria, weakened and drained, was carried back to Hargren. The city had survived, but the beacon’s light would never shine as brightly as before. In the aftermath, the people of Hargren mourned their guardian but celebrated her sacrifice. They knew that the battle against the darkness was far from over, but Saliria’s bravery had given them a chance to fight on. Torim stood at the base of the Starspire, now a symbol of hope and resilience. He looked up at the dimming beacon and vowed to protect it in Saliria’s memory. The star had rekindled the light, but the struggle to maintain it would continue. And so, the city lived on, ever vigilant, as the echoes of Saliria’s sacrifice became a beacon for future generations. In the darkest corners of their world, the light of their guardian’s courage would forever shine.

tbbalw

Turn Up the Heat

Turn Up the Heat “Turn up the heat,” Phantom said. Phantom was a small thin man, 25 years old, who fiddled with his hands as though he would perform a magic trick. “We can’t afford it, not until we sell those jewels,” said Jigsaw, a big man with a small moustache and a large paunch. “Put on a coat. You’ll warm up.” He went back to his soap opera. “It’s snowing outside. We have icicles on the eaves,” Phantom pleaded. They had rented a two-story house 10 miles outside the town. The tap water, if it ran, came out brown. The place had no storm windows and the insulation was no thicker than candy wrappers. The stairs squeaked and creaked like small animals in pain. “I can’t hear you,” Jigsaw said. He slid back on the sofa and pulled a blanket around his bulky shoulders. Something hard and cold cracked over his head. “What the–?” He picked up a shard from the broken icicle and threw it at Phantom’s chest, which knocked him back a few inches. Phantom charged him with the remaining half of the icicle. Jigsaw slid aside and punched his solar plexus. “Uhhhhh,” Phantom said. “Leave me alone,” Jigsaw said. “You’re stir-crazy. Take a rest. Do some pushups. If we show our faces around town, we’re likely to be picked up for questioning. We need the heat to die down.” Phantom slammed a fist into the living room wall and shouted,. “I’m not crazy! I’m bipolar, and I’ve got the meds to prove it.” Jigsaw chuckled. “You put the bottles on the shelf like they’re trophies. You’re supposed to take the pills in them, you moron.” “I’m not a moron, or you wouldn’t bring me along for your jobs.” “Sure, you’re Einstein on steroids.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Still a moron.” “So why do you bring me along?” Phantom glared at Jigsaw. “Good help is hard to find these days.” “Your helpers are serving time,” Phantom said. “Razorback shoulda moved those jewels by now. You know that and I know that. I’ve got big plans for that payoff.” Jigsaw said, “He’s not as stupid as you. He knows they’re hot. If he moves them now, we all get trapped in a net and served to the D.A.” Phantom said, “The snow has stopped. I need fresh air. I’ve smelled your sweat and your farts for two weeks. I can’t take it anymore.” Jigsaw rose from the sofa. “All right, I’ll take a shower and we’ll take a drive around town, get some fresh winter air. We’ll have to stay in the car. Leave your gun in its place.” He waddled toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later they squeezed into a green VW Bug and drove downtown, which had a string of snow-covered roofs of office buildings intermixed with fast-food restaurants. They saw no one they knew. Jigsaw took the Bug into the country and they dashed down tree-lined lanes as fast as he could push the venerable German engine. They passed farmhouses and pastures where horses and cattle grazed, nosing through the snow for grass.. He came to an intersection with another country road, took a left, and accelerated. He was only 25 miles over the speed limit when the deputy pulled him over. “Keep your mouth shut, Phantom,” said Jigsaw, who rolled down the window. He put his hands on the dashboard. “Put your hands on the dashboard, moron,” he said. “Then he knows we don’t have weapons.” Phantom did as he told. “I forgot to tell you–” “Shut up,” Jigsaw said. The deputy approached the vehicle. He was about six feet four, with big biceps. He wore sunglasses. He wore a blue uniform with a black belt at his waist that had the state logo on the buckle. Jigsaw rolled down the window. The deputy leaned into the already crowded car, which made it jammed. “Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction, officer?” Jigsaw asked. “No, sir,” the deputy said. “Driver’s license and registration, please,” he said. “I’ll have to check the glove box,” Jigsaw said. The cop nodded. Jigsaw fumbled in the glove box and came up with the registration. “I’m getting my wallet from my back pocket,” he told the deputy. He pulled out his wallet and handed the driver’s license to the deputy, along with the registration card. The deputy glanced at the license and said, “Hold on a minute while I do some checking.” He turned his back and returned to his patrol car. The gun in his right-handed holster bounced up and down as he walked. Seconds passed, minutes passed. Jigsaw looked at his watch, then in his rear view mirror. The deputy talked on a phone. That was all he could see. Phantom’s hands circled in and out, faster and faster like a drunken magician. Jigsaw said, “Down, boy. They don’t have our fingerprints from the robbery because we wore gloves. They don’t have our faces because we wore ski masks. They don’t have much coverage because I blew out their cameras. So relax.” “My fingers are itchy,” Phantom said. “I need some action.” “We’ll have action when the heat dies down. You’ll spruce up your truck and take your sweetie out to dinner at a high-class restaurant.” Jigsaw started the engine and ran the windshield wipers to clear the snow away. In his patrol car, the deputy looked up and back down again. “I need to stretch my legs.” Phantom opened the door and stepped into a cold pile of snow. “I shoulda worn my boots instead of my tennis shoes,” he said. “Didn’t your mother teach ya nothin’?” “Naaa, she sat on the porch and smoked and rocked and told us to make our own dinners.” Phantom lifted each foot in turn and set it down in the snow. His hands fiddled in the air like they were making a sandwich. “No dad?” “He left as soon as she was pregnant with me,” Phantom said. “.He loved the bottle more than my mother or a baby. Last seen in Dearborn, Michigan at a bank.” Jigsaw perked up. “Was he robbing it?” Phantom dropped his head. “No, he was closing his bank account.” “With a huge amount in it?” “After monthly charges, he had $9.99.” Jigsaw guffawed. “Then you met me at a farmer’s market, and the rest is history.” “At least I eat, and I have a roof over my head.” He shuffled his feet and fiddled with his hands. “Jigsaw, I can’t wait no more. I need action. If it don’t come to me, I go to it.” Before Jigsaw could say anything, Phantom loped along the snow-covered roadside toward the deputy. He drew a gun and fired through the windshield at the officer, who paused in shock, then stepped from his patrol car, drew, and fired at Phantom, who fled back to the VW Bug and jumped into his seat. “Did he hit you?” Jigsaw asked as he started the car, threw it into gear, and took off. When they were going 80 mph, he asked, “What possessed you to do a dumb thing like that? If you kill a police officer, it’s the death penalty for sure.” Phantom slunk down in the seat. “I needed some action, man. It’s in my blood.” Red lights flashed dimly in his rear view mirror. Jigsaw took a turn on a side road, drove over several bumps, and hid the car in a grove of trees. With the car idling, he turned to Phantom and socked him in the jaw. “Moron! You turned up the heat! They’ll send an army after us!” “I’m sorry, sorry,” said Phantom, who rubbed his jaw. He tasted blood. “Let’s get out of here!” Jigsaw called Bulldozer, a friend from another jewelry job, and they set up a meeting place. He drove down the side road for several miles and rolled behind a shack. Beside the shack was a rusty metal corral. Behind the shack was his friend’s battered Ford pickup. The two men rushed from the Bug to the pickup, and the friend took off at a reasonable speed. “Don’t wanna attract attention by speeding,” he said. The ten-minute drive led to a weathered barn by a farmhouse. He drove the pickup into the barn, got out, and closed the large sliding door. The barn smelled of wood and burnt metal. A police scanner sat on a workbench, and he turned it up. The chatter was all about the man who took a shot and wounded a deputy and was last seen in a green VW Bug. “See that sink over there?” Bulldozer asked. “Take the razor and the soap. Shave off your moustache.” Jigsaw did as he was told. “And you!” Bulldozer pointed at Phantom. “We don’t shoot cops. That’s a capital offense, and I’ve got nothing to disguise you with.” “Give me the gun,” Jigsaw said to Phantom, who complied. Jigsaw started an oxy/acetylene torch. He put on gloves and goggles and went to work to melt down the gun. At first, the work was slow, so he turned up the heat and the work went faster. The gun became a blob of dark metal. “That takes care of that,” he said. Bulldozer looked over the scraps of metal on the workbench. “That’s a good start,” he said. “Now hand over your cell phones.” “My cell phone!” Phantom cried. “That’s my lifeline.” “All you do is play games on it,” Jigsaw said. “Give it to him. He handed Bulldozer his phone.” “They can track you even if your cell phone is turned off,” Bulldozer said. “I’ll burn them down and take the parts to the dump.” “What about yours?” Phantom whined. “Jigsaw called your cell phone.” Bulldozer sighed. “Mine too.” He took over the workbench and melted the three cell phones. He stuck the parts from the gun and the cell phones in a fireproof bag, and he tossed a set of keys to Jigsaw. “Take the pink truck in back. It’s registered to a cop who died in California three years ago. I’ll dispose of these items.” Jigsaw and Phantom stepped over weeds and snow, and they slipped into the pink truck. “My favorite color,” Phantom said. With a chunk-chunk-chunk, the truck started on the third try. The gas gauge was on a quarter tank. Jigsaw figured that the cops would look south, where they had been heading when Phantom shot the deputy, so Jigsaw headed north. The truck’s top speed on the highway was 45 mph. “Some getaway vehicle,” Phantom said. “Shut up,” Jigsaw said. “You caused this mess. You’re lucky I let you ride with me.” He came to a fork in the road. To the left was a city, to the right was a reservoir. Jigsaw swerved right and stepped on the gas. The water in the reservoir was high, with a few isolated shards of ice on it. “Where are we going? This is the road to nowhere,” Phantom said. “I said shut up,” Jigsaw snarled. His spit hit the windshield and dribbled down. “ I’ll do the driving and I’ll keep us from being spotted by the heat.” Phantom answered, “I caused the trouble so I’ll drive us out of it.” He grabbed the steering wheel. Jigsaw fought against him, and they tugged back and forth. To throw Phantom off the wheel, Jigsaw accelerated, but it didn’t work. Phantom took control of the wheel and turned the truck toward an embankment and the reservoir. “We’ll go off the road, you moron!” Jigsaw shouted. The pink truck bucked and bumped over the embankment. Jigsaw fought the wheel to steer it back to the road. Phantom put all his weight on the wheel. The truck plunged into the water and began to sink. “Now you’ve got your action!” Jigsaw screamed as water poured through his window. Phantom tried to wriggle free through his window. The water overpowered him. The truck sank, and no one surfaced. Hours later, it began to snow again. A deputy sat in a tow truck with the driver. Divers went underwater to secure the hooks to an axle of the pink truck. They surfaced and gave the driver a sign. He turned on the winch and began to pull the pink truck out of the reservoir. “Man,” the deputy said, “it’s cold in here. Turn up the heat!” ***

7vhp6z

Accidental Staycation

It was my first ever paid vacation. Day one started with a list of my grandparents’ house plants, garden tasks, and poodle related chores.  Sparkle snuffled her encouragement as my grandmother highlighted the items she deemed most important. Care of their home and Sparkle would be punctuated by short day trips to local parks and hiking trails. Unbeknownst to me, my plans for the remainder of the week would be derailed in a few short hours. After wishing my grandparents a safe trip, I reminded myself that my vacations would someday involve friends, resorts, and exotic locations. However, until my student loans were paid off and my new-to-me car was paid for, southern Ontario would be my playground. I had grown up on the east coast, gone to school on the west coast, and landed my first career job in London, Ontario. Aside from the opportunity to explore a new province, Ontario permitted me to be close to my extended family, whom I knew only through pictures. I was at the bottom of the seniority list at work, and lucky to have gotten a week off in August. For now, cycling and camping worked well with my budget, and this first vacation – house-sitting for my dad’s parents – made my bank account happy. Moving and setting up an apartment had depleted my savings. It was nearing noon. After an early lunch for me and a little cuddling for Sparkle, I took her for a walk. She was no longer a young dog and after her exercise, would be quite content to nap for much of the afternoon. I checked her food and water, locked the house, and set out on my first day trip. I pedaled my old 10-speed through the garage past my Ford Probe and headed out of town. Although I was not yet accustomed to the humidity that was normal for this part of the country, the sky was blue and cloudless, the air was still, and the remainder of the day still full of potential. After the rolling hills and forests of New Brunswick, and the coastal mountains of the greater Vancouver area, the flat fields of Middlesex County were a novelty. Traveling down the concession roads, with farms all around, felt both familiar and foreign, for the farm I had grown up on looked nothing like these farms. Here, small clusters of trees and homesteads appeared to be carved out of cornfields. There were no rock piles at the edges of the fields, and no wet spots that rendered small areas unusable. Not to mention the ability to see a field in its entirety, from one vantage point, was unheard of, in my experience. Before I had gone my first kilometer, my hair was plastered to my head beneath my helmet, and my tank top was soaked with sweat. After a couple of hours, I stopped for a drink of water and a banana and thought that the still air, pleasant a short while ago, now seemed lifeless and oppressive. I wished for even a small breeze. As though Mother Nature had read my mind, a gust of hot air blew past me. Disappointed that it had not felt as refreshing as I’d hoped, I looked up at the sky. On my left it looked much as it had when I started my ride, but on the right, I could see in the distance that bad weather was coming – and quickly! Towering black clouds were suspended above a grey wall. It took me a moment to realize that was a wall of water. As I watched, chain lightning arced though the clouds, closely followed by a loud crack of thunder. If I didn’t turn around, I would be caught in a deluge. While my ride out of town had been relaxed, my ride back was frantic. The rainclouds were moving far faster than I. The air was no longer still. Hot air assailed me from different directions as the wind changed radically from one moment to the next. More than once, I had to return to the edge of the pavement after a particularly strong gust of wind had moved me and my 10-speed closer to the center of the road. The irony of the situation was not lost on me each time I lamented the loss of the still air I had failed to appreciate just moments ago. When the first raindrops hit me, I was surprised by their force – they weren’t cold, but they stung. A glance over my shoulder told me the wall of water would hit me any second. Very soon my visibility would be almost nil, and I was moving too fast for that. Already the dark clouds had generated a premature duskiness. I turned on my bike’s lights and my feet paused as they caught up with my brain. As I applied my brakes, a sheet of water passed over me, and I was cast into darkness. Had I been paying closer attention to the road; I might have avoided what happened next. My front tire hit a pothole and came to a sudden stop. While I was no longer going so fast that I flew over my handlebars, I did lose control of the bike. The tires slid left, towards the yellow line, and I fell onto the paved shoulder, skidding over the rough asphalt and loose gravel. The right side of my body was on fire. I moved everything gingerly, grateful to discover nothing was broken. Hopefully the lights on my bike were still working. I stood up carefully and looked around. My bike was in the middle of the road. I limped over to it, stood it up, and checked the tires and chain. Everything seemed okay. I resumed my journey home, slowly and carefully, thunder and lightning punctuating the steady pounding of the rain. Even through the rain, I could feel the hot blood trickling down my arm and leg – not far, because the rain diluted it, but it was enough to tell me I was bleeding. I could only imagine the road rash. As I approached the first houses on Cedar Street, lightning flooded the sky and thunder boomed somewhere very close by. I had hoped the streetlights and the warm glow spilling out of windows would augment my sadly inadequate headlight, but it was not to be. For when the stark lightning vanished, the town was shrouded in the absolute darkness of a power outage. It was still raining hard as I pedaled toward a shortcut that would shave about five minutes – at the rate I was going – off my travel time. I wasn’t familiar with the narrow alley, but I was certain that it would take me to Charles Street, about two blocks from my destination – home and Sparkle. By my estimation, I was about halfway along my shortcut when lightning flashed, and thunder boomed again. Burned into my retinas was the image of a power line draped across the alley at just the perfect height to clothesline me, about three feet ahead. I slammed on my brakes and lost control of my bike a second time. This time the bike slid right, and I fell on my left side, skidding along asphalt and gravel. Both my bike and I cleared the hanging power line. Again, I was grateful to discover that nothing was broken. However, I was certain that my arms and legs were now matching sets. The fiery pain that coursed along the left side of my body was now balancing perfectly the pain I had been experiencing on the right side of my body. After all, it had been so much fun the first time. I sat up and looked around. Ahead of me and to my right I could see some sparks through the rain. If I strained my ears, I could hear them sputtering quietly. They were generating enough light to reveal the silhouette of a nearby handlebar – my bike. I approached the sparking power line – apparently the other part of the wire that had caused my second helping of road rash – to happily discover that my bike was not dangerously close and could be picked up safely. I walked it back to a spot that was equidistant between the downed power lines and checked it. The chain was off the gears and dangling from the frame. I felt like I was vibrating. My adrenaline-fueled pulse was keeping time with the pounding rhythm of the pouring rain. I needed to slow my breathing and calm down. Fixing my chain was the kind of mundane task that might help facilitate that. So, I did. I kept a flashlight on my bike because my dad had insisted – thanks, Dad. My wet fingers fumbled with the chain in the pale beam of the flashlight. After a couple of failed attempts, I had the chain back in place. I decided to walk my bike the rest of the way home.  My legs, I knew, would get me there safely. As I used my flashlight to find the safest place to move past the sparking power line, I noticed three things: I was feeling much calmer, the rain had abated considerably, and Charles Street was much closer than I had realized. Given my situation, I was ecstatic! To buoy my spirits even more, I discovered that Charles Street still had power. The break in the line that I had discovered must have been the cause of the outage I had seen. I propped my bike up in the garage and closed the garage’s large car door. There was no need for the neighbours, some of whom had watched my sorry return home, to see me strip down to my underwear and trash my ruined clothing. Sparkle greeted me at the door, happy to see me and oblivious to my pain. After a long and painful shower to rid my body of every speck of gravel I’d collected, I failed to find a first aid kit. I had a late supper and an early night, sleeping on old towels to avoid ruining my grandmother’s sheets. In the morning, after carefully and painfully peeling the towels away from the places where they’d dried onto my road rash, I made a few phone calls and found a clinic that would give me a tetanus shot on short notice. A trip to the ER would not be necessary – thank goodness! Hopefully the weather would stay warm. Tank tops and shorts were all I was going to be comfortable in. I suffered the inquisitive stares of patients at the clinic, customers at the pharmacy, and patrons at the library. Back at home, Sparkle greeted me with her usual enthusiasm. She cared not one iota that my arms and legs looked like a hunk of donair meat, waiting to be shaved for the next hungry customer. I had planned day trips to parks and hiking trails. They would still be there next month, or even next summer. Instead of exploring the region I now called home, I would be hanging out with Sparkle and enjoying the air conditioning. I had a whole new set of plans for my week. I was going to start with finding out who murdered Roger Ackroyd, why someone would kill a mockingbird, and what all the fuss about Rebecca was.

ze0cv4

No Show

 The tour-guides led us towards the beginning of the ascent, their footsteps deliberate and sure. As we started our climb, the forest enveloped us in a cocoon of greenery, and the summer sun cast a warm, golden hue over everything. The air grew crisp yet carried a fragrant warmth, infused with the scent of earth and ancient wisdom. The journey up Ayotha promised not just physical elevation but a spiritual ascent into the heart of Rosina's natural sanctity, where the vibrant energy of summer matched the mood of our adventure. I have always cherished summer, its long, sunlit days and the promise of memorable experiences. This day, my heart swelled with anticipation for this summer's journey, which I hoped would become a highlight of my life. The forest ahead was a lush tapestry of emerald green, with towering trees standing proudly in their full African summer glory. Their leaves, thick and vibrant, rustled gently in the warm breeze, casting playful shadows on the forest floor. The rich, dappled light filtered through the canopy, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shade. Each tree seemed to whisper stories of ancient times, their branches adorned with clusters of leaves that shimmered like polished jade. The scent of blooming flora and the soft murmur of the summer breeze added to the enchantment, making every step feel like a step deeper into nature's most enchanting embrace. Excitement bubbled within us, fuelled by the prospect of unravelling the enigmatic tales of Ayotha. The tour-guides, with their wealth of knowledge, became our companions on this sacred pilgrimage, ready to illuminate the path through the perpetual forests that adorned the majestic mountain. The anticipation hung in the air like a tangible force as we embarked on the expedition, eager to embrace the mysteries that Ayotha held in its enduring embrace. Our laughter echoed through the air as we ventured further into the heart of Ayotha, the dense woods enveloping us in a green embrace. Ivy's comment, a spark of humour amidst the towering trees, lingered in the air like a playful jest. "These woods are as dark as the grave," she remarked with a mischievous grin. Laughter erupted from our group, a symphony of joy that danced beneath the leafy canopy. In response to Ivy's declaration, I couldn't help but tease her. "How do you know the darkness of the grave?" I asked, my voice carrying a playful curiosity. The banter continued as we slid deeper into the woods, the vibrant hues of laughter becoming our guide through the dimly lit forest. Our formation mirrored the procession of nature. Ivy trailed behind the first guide, her scepticism transformed into curiosity. Aidah led the way ahead of me, her steps confident on the uneven terrain. Mom and Dad followed closely, their presence a reassuring anchor behind me. The second tour-guide brought up the rear, a guardian of our collective journey into the mysteries of Ayotha. And before delving further into the mountain's secrets, we gathered in a clearing. The head tour-guide, a figure of authority and wisdom, addressed us with a warm yet commanding presence. The forest hummed with anticipation as he imparted the essential do's and don'ts for our venture into the sacred woods. "Respect the woods, and the woods will respect you," he began, his voice carrying the weight of tradition and experience. "No swearing, and ignore the snakes – they're more afraid of you than you are of them." The guidance continued, a blend of practical advice and mystical wisdom. "Anything that looks like gold is not gold, and remember, no urinating or otherwise in the forest – we leave no trace. Follow the tracks, and do not wander in different directions. Unity is strength." The gravity of his words resonated in the quiet pause that followed. The forest, though serene, held the potential for the unknown, and the tour-guide's counsel served as a compass for our journey into the heart of Ayotha. With a final nod from the guide, we embarked on the path ahead, our laughter now accompanied by a sense of reverence for the ancient secrets that awaited discovery within the perpetual embrace of the mountain woods. "Ivyyyy!!! Aidahhhh!!! Maaaa!!!" My calls reverberated through the dense woods, each becoming a desperate plea that hung in the air like a haunting echo. Silence responded, an eerie stillness that intensified my growing sense of unease. Panic clawed at the edges of my consciousness as the realization set in – I was alone, and the familiar voices of my family remained elusive. "Where is everyone? Please answer me!" I continued calling, the desperation in my voice now tinged with a chilling fear. The thick foliage absorbed my cries, leaving me stranded in a silence that seemed to swallow the very essence of my being. The shadows deepened around me, the once inviting woods now transformed into a labyrinth of uncertainty. My heart raced, its beats resonating with the footsteps of fear. It was chilling to be here alone, lost in the heart of Ayotha's mysterious woods. The dense canopy above cast a web of shadows, obscuring any semblance of direction. A disorienting fog settled over my thoughts, and the absence of familiar voices left me enveloped in a daunting solitude. "Ivy! Aidah! Dadaaa!!!" The echoes of my calls dissolved into the vastness of the forest, unanswered. The once vibrant laughter and camaraderie now felt like distant memories, replaced by the haunting emptiness that surrounded me. Amidst the palpable fear, my thoughts turned to my mother. Was she looking for me? What about Dad, Ivy, and Aidah? The imagined scenario of us all being lost and searching for each other sent shivers down my spine. The darkness of the woods became a metaphor for the unknown, and the absence of a reassuring response intensified my terror. As minutes passed like eternities, a harrowing realization struck me – perhaps I was the only one lost. The woods, once a source of wonder, now held an oppressive weight. The absence of any light at the end of this unseen tunnel of trees fuelled my anxiety, and the chilling silence became an oppressive force, squeezing the breath from my lungs. The terror that gripped me was profound, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability in the face of the unknown. Ayotha's woods, once a canvas of adventure, now seemed like an impenetrable maze, and the lightness of laughter was replaced by the heavy burden of isolation. In the absence of familiar faces and comforting voices, I stood alone, a solitary figure in the heart of the mysterious mountain, grappling with the profound fear of being lost with no clear path to reunite with the ones I held dear. As the darkness of the woods kept pressing in, my imagination began to spiral into the abyss of fear. I envisioned myself tumbling into a bottomless pit, a void where the echoes of my cries dissolved into the unknown. The spectre of guerrillas, born of the shadows, haunted my thoughts, and the fear of being lost forever consumed my senses. Alone in the suffocating silence, I allowed my emotions to surface. Soft sobs escaped my lips, a desperate symphony that played beneath the ancient boughs. I hesitated to cry out louder, afraid to awaken the unseen spirits that might lurk within the mountain's depths, but more terrified that my cries would remain unheard by any living soul. In the midst of my despair, a sudden glimmer of hope appeared. A monkey materialized before me, its presence both startling and surreal. It beckoned, a silent invitation to follow. Desperation mingled with curiosity, and I obliged, believing the monkey might be my guide out of the perplexing thicket. The monkey, however, vanished as soon as I took my first step forward. In its absence, a spaghetti of snakes materialized before me, a serpentine labyrinth that froze me in my tracks. The woods, once a sheltering embrace, now seemed like a surreal nightmare. As I stood paralyzed, the atmosphere shifted. The darkness lifted, and the woods expanded into a heightened reality, as if the veil between dimensions had been lifted. Daylight flooded the space, revealing a peculiar sight beneath my feet – a single needle, fragile and inconspicuous. Relief washed over me, and I naively thought this was my salvation. The absence of trees seemed like an escape from the oppressive thicket. Little did I know that the horror was just beginning to unfold. The silence shattered with an eerie sound, and a sinister presence emerged. The ground beneath me quivered as a legion of snakes writhed and slithered, a malevolent dance that entangled my surroundings. The once-clear path now became a trap, and the needle beneath my feet transformed into a harbinger of dread. Fear gripped me anew as the forest, stripped of its familiar facade, revealed the grotesque reality that lurked beneath. The imagined escape turned into a nightmarish descent, and I found myself ensnared in the clutches of a surreal horror that transcended the boundaries of my imagination. In the face of the unexpected terror, I stood frozen, my hope shattered and replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread as the mysterious events in Ayotha took a dark and unforeseen turn. The distant sight of what seemed to be a river teased me with the promise of relief. As I approached, the anticipation of quenching my thirst overpowered the despair that had gripped me moments before. The dense woods seemed to part, unveiling a stream that flowed steadily, a ribbon of hope weaving through the heart of Ayotha's mysterious woods. With each quickened step, the murmur of the stream became more audible, a melodic invitation to the life-giving liquid that awaited. But just as the prospect of rejuvenation drew near, a disconcerting sound reverberated through the air. It echoed like a boulder crashing onto the earth, and in that instant, a jolt of fear surged through me. I screamed and leaped back, my eyes snapping open to reality. However, the relief I had anticipated morphed into a chilling revelation. Instead of clear, refreshing water, I found myself standing in a pool of crimson liquid. The stream that seemed like the promise of life had transformed into a nightmarish flow of blood. The shock paralyzed me, and I stared down at the eerie scene beneath my feet. The source of this macabre stream remained elusive, hidden within the twisted depths of the woods. I was frozen, a witness to a surreal tableau that defied the logic of the natural world. The blood-red stream seemed to flow from nowhere and disappear into the shadows, leaving me standing in a realm where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred. The disconcerting revelation added another layer of mystery to Ayotha's enigmatic woods, a puzzle that defied explanation. In the midst of the haunting silence, I stood alone, surrounded by the unsettling symbolism of a stream that mirrored the ominous secrets concealed within the heart of the mountain. A fallen tree trunk cradled my defeated form as I sank into a state of surrender. The weight of powerlessness hung heavy in the air, and the invisible adversary seemed to hold dominion over the very essence of my being. The uneven battle, fought against an unseen enemy, left me with no tangible weapons, and the act of surrender felt like the only viable option. Yet, as I conceded defeat on the physical plane, a defiant spark flickered deep within me. In the midst of the oppressive darkness, I initiated a dialogue with my mum, Ingrid. Her name became a lifeline, a whispered mantra that echoed through the chambers of my consciousness. It was my way of affirming my existence, a plea for acknowledgment in the face of the unseen adversary. Amidst the cacophony of the forest, I tuned out the unsettling sounds and concentrated solely on my imaginary conversation with Ma. In the quiet recesses of my mind, I conjured the subtle smile that graced her face in moments of encouragement. Imagining her presence made me strong, and the memory of her acknowledgment became a source of inner resilience. In my mind's eye, I reached out to grab her hand, a desperate attempt to anchor myself to a reality beyond the oppressive darkness. It was a symbolic gesture, a plea for her to pull me out of the labyrinth as she had done so many times before when faced with adversity. The dialogue with Ma continued, my whispered words a testament to my determination to survive this surreal ordeal. I mouthed the words, fishing out the echoes of her voice from the depths of my soul, allowing them to guide me through the obscurity that surrounded me. In this moment of desperation, her imagined presence became a beacon of hope, a lifeline that transcended the boundaries of the physical world. Drawing on the sensory memories of her, I conjured the aroma of her Issey Miyake perfume. The familiar scent became a thread connecting me to her essence, a fragrance that led me through the darkness as I groped for a way out. As I called out to her once again, my eyes remained tightly closed, shutting out the visual disorientation. In this heightened state of vulnerability, I walked blindly, each step a testament to the desperate search for a path out of the enigmatic abyss. The darkness became not only physical but also a metaphor for the emotional and psychological turmoil that gripped me, a relentless adversary that pushed the boundaries of my sanity. In this state of desperate yearning for rescue, my journey through Ayotha's mysterious woods became a solitary and tumultuous odyssey, with the imaginary presence of my mother serving as the flickering flame that refused to be extinguished in the face of the encroaching shadows. The haunting echoes of "Nadiaaaa!" filled the air, distant yet growing nearer and stronger with each repetition. I lay motionless, my body worn down by the unforgiving trials of Ayotha's mysterious woods. The relentless call, however, spurred me into a faint response. "Ma!" I managed to utter, summoning just enough strength to open one eye, then the other. And there I was found! My surroundings came into focus, and I was met with a shocking revelation. The vibrant yellow outfit that had once adorned me now lay in tatters, a patchwork of brown and torn fabric. Even my trusty tennis shoes had been spirited away by the enigmatic forces that governed this surreal realm. The world around me seemed to fade as they threw a heat reflective blanket over me, a feeble attempt to ward off the chill that clung to my wearied form. Hysterical cries erupted from my lips as the crushing realization sank in—I, Nadia, had been lost in the heart of Ayotha for more than four months. The desperate searches, carried out with fervent urgency, had yielded nothing. Helicopters had scoured the landscape, yet the mountain held its secrets close, concealing the fates of Aidah and Ivy, my companions on this harrowing journey. My parents recounted the ordeal, detailing how they had searched tirelessly after discovering we were missing and how their determination had gradually waned as time passed. Four months later, I emerged from the wilderness as if from a dark cave, a solitary figure marked by the trials of my extended summer ordeal. The passage of time had left its indelible mark. My once-vibrant outfit, a symbol of resilience, now bore witness to the trials of the unknown. The tears and rips in the fabric mirrored the emotional scars etched upon my soul. Wrapped in the blanket, I felt a mix of relief and sorrow. Relief that I had been found, but sorrow that Aidah and Ivy remained elusive, swallowed by the inscrutable depths of Ayotha. The realization struck with a crushing weight—my desperate calls, the searches, the relentless pursuit of hope had not reunited me with my lost companions. I was the lone young survivor of a journey that had left scars too deep to heal. The mountain had claimed its victims, and my heart ached for the two who had not emerged from the shadows after those long, agonizing months. Each day, as the sun rose and set, I silently called out to Aidah and Ivy in my heart. The hope flickered like a distant flame, but it refused to be extinguished. I cried softly, my tears mingling with the echoes of Ayotha's mysteries. It was a sorrowful symphony, a lament for the friend and sister who had ventured into the unknown and never returned. As the episode of my life unfolded, my heart grew heavy with the weight of unanswered questions. Why was I the only one found? What unseen forces had conspired to separate us? The mountain, once a symbol of wonder, now loomed as a sombre memorial to the friends who had ventured into its embrace and never emerged. Today, as I reflect on the passing years, the grief is palpable. Aidah should have turned 60, an age she never reached, lost at the tender age of 16. Ivy, who should have celebrated her 55th birthday, became a phantom of the past. The mountain, relentless and indifferent, devoured them, leaving behind an emptiness that time could not erase. The world moved on, but my heart remained entwined with the memories of those lost months. The sorrow clung to me, a shadow that followed my every step. The finality of their disappearance, the void left by their absence, was a wound that refused to heal. Ayotha's mysteries became a haunting melody, playing softly in the recesses of my mind. The story had reached its sombre conclusion, leaving me with a heart heavy with unanswered questions and a soul forever entangled with the enigmatic mountain that had become a tomb for those lost in its depths. Dedicated  to the memory of my dear friend and classmate, Ruwa, who vanished, without a trace during a family vacation to the enchanting Inyangani Mountain in Eastern Zimbabwe, 1981. ~ ndai ~

p01r1i

Rio the Monkey Rescues the Ship Destiny's Dreams

No wind. Hot weather like a furnace. The ship running out of drinking water.  The steam engine used as a backup in calm seas not working. Even Captain Alfonse of the ship Destiny’s Dreams looked like a wilted plant. Foresta the colorful parrot slouched where he sat on the captain's shoulder and Rio the rescued monkey clung to his back. He reached over and stroked the parrot's head, saying something softly. Jealously, Rio the monkey wiggled around to Alfonse's chest, chittering, then jumped to the ship's deck and scampered around, picking up loose items on the deck and playing with them. “It feels like we are in a wildfire,” said one of the sailors on the ship Destiny’s Dreams. “Stranded, and our water running out.” Another sailor shook his head. “Never seen it like this,” said another. How had this happened? Looking toward the horizon, Isabella wiped her sweating face and moaned. After the captain performed her marriage with Adelberto she thought the voyage would be a celebration. Now she was hoping they would survive. It was summer in the southern hemisphere, in February off the eastern coast of South America in 1898. The Destiny’s Dreams was returning from an island expedition and heading now to Rio de Janeiro, a large bay in Brazil. This time of year was the hottest and the wettest month there. Today Isabelle felt like it must be setting a high temperature record. The sun glared down from the clear sky. Were they going to perish out here? She pictured the cool, shady bay where the ship sat anchored when it was at Rio de Janeiro. They had to get back. When she ran away from home with Alessandro, to avoid a forced marriage to her father's business partner, the captain performed her marriage with Alessandro. She never dreamed their life would come to this. Adrift in the middle of the ocean. Running out of water. What was going to happen to them? Do not think like that, she told herself. We will get back. This is only temporary. She wondered if the carnival festival had begun already. It was February. There would be parades, dancing, food, music. So different from their isolation in the heat wave on the ocean now. Perspiration dripped down Isabella’s sides. Her long dress was like a tent and the undergarments clung wetly to her body. Water drips ran down her forehead and cheeks. Her body felt like she was on fire. She felt lightheaded and staggered. “Miss, come over here to the shade.” One of the sailors sitting under the eaves of the ship’s wheelhouse tried to leap to her assistance. But the heat was so stifling that he could only manage to drag his legs slowly under the burning sun. “Have some water. Take some of mine. There. There.” His voice was kind. “I need to talk to my husband.” Isabella’s voice sounded scratchy. “There he is.” The sailor tried to help support her over to the shade. The temperature there was only a few degrees cooler, if at all. “At least this is out of the sun,” the sailor said. “Yes. Yes. That glare. I feel like I am burning up.” Isabella’s voice was raspy. “It is so hard to breathe. This heat,” she said. “In all my years as a sailor, I’ve never seen anything like it.” The sailor’s face looked grim. She saw Alessandro come out of the door to the wheelhouse. He stood for a moment, swaying. The air was like a furnace. The ship sat on the flat ocean under the blazing sun. The windless sails drooped on the three masts of the clipper ship. The steam engine smoke stack added to the boat was silent. Down in the furnace room several sailors were bent over the machinery. “We’ve got to get this working or we could die out here,” said one of them. “Hold that pipe while I try to turn it. This might work.” The voice of the other sailor was hoarse. Then he spoke to the engine as if it was alive. “You can do it. Come on. Cooommmme oooonnn.” He drew the words out like he was singing to it. Outside, the hot air seemed to waver like ripples over the smooth ocean surface. Isadora walked weakly across the deck of the ship Destiny’s Dreams to her husband. Alessandro’s eyes were like red-rimmed stones in his flushed face. He had studied the charts in the wheelhouse again. Last night under the clear, hot sky, the stars looked very close and bright. The navigator used his sextant to calculate their position. They were several days away from Rio de Janeiro. “How much longer will we have fresh water?” Captain Alfonse walked across the deck to one of the men heading toward the steps down into the steerage and cargo area below the decks. “The barrels are getting pretty low. Tighten up on the rations. Keep everyone out of the sun.” The man’s voice was low. Then he said, “Pray for wind. We must get to the shore and fill up on fresh water again.” Captain Alfonse studied the horizon in all directions. Destiny’s Dreams was returning from a set of islands hundreds of miles off the eastern coast of South America. The vessel carried an expedition of explorers, tourists, and amateur scientists from Brazil. Their trip to gather information and enjoy a pleasant vacation had turned into an emergency. How he wished they were already in the sheltered bay of Rio de Janiero, near the crystal clear streams that ran down from the mountains. He would throw himself into the waters and feel them wash through his skin all the way to the heat burning inside. The ship rocked slightly and a metal pulley on one of the halyards clanked against a metal cleat on one of the masts. The sound echoed oddly over the silent ocean. Then a holler went up. “Fire. Fire. On the mast.” The metal pulley from the halyard hitting the cleat must have thrown a tiny spark. Even that was enough in the burning heat to start burning. “Lower the buckets, form a line to the mast.” The captain yelled orders. Sailors and passengers lined up from the railing to the mast. Buckets of seawater were pulled up and passed along the line. Several sailors lowered buckets and ran with them to the mast. Orange flames were leaping at the base of the tall spar. The oiled canvas of the lowest sails caught fire. The flames ran up the mast, higher and higher, catching the large, white sails on fire. The buckets of water doused the flames at the base of the spar. But the sails above it hung in black-rimmed tatters. The air shimmered with the heat from the fire. In the bow, a group of the passengers huddled against the railings. Several small children and teenagers watched with wide eyes. The faces of the adults hung with half-open eyes while they struggled to keep breathing in the heat. The air felt so thick their lungs had to work hard to draw it into their chests. Several sailors near the burned mast were coughing. A distant humming floated through the hot air over the ocean. Captain Alfonse pulled out his telescope, squinted one eye, and turned the metal band near the lens slowly to adjust it. “Someone’s out there. A boat.” The object got closer. It was a small, steam powered vessel. “Who could this be?” Alessandro was at Captain Alfonse’s elbow. “I don’t know. Way out here. It is a shipping lane to those islands. Thieves? Pirates?” The approaching boat slowed and circled around them. People on the deck were examining the Destiny’s Dreams. The strangers’ steam-powered vessel was rusty metal and grey curls rose from the smokestack. Captain Alfonse called out to them. “Hello. We’re running out of water. Can we buy some of yours?” The boat came closer. It looked like they were going to tie up and come aboard. When the strangers’ boat came alongside the Destiny’s Dreams it had too much speed in the still ocean water. The sharp point of the bow struck the hull of the Destiny’s Dreams. There was a loud boom. Captain Alfonse and Adelberto leaned over the railing, their faces showing horror and fatigue from the heat. The paint and wood was scraped off the side of Destiny’s Dreams, but the damage did not go through the hull. There was no water leaking into the boat. Their angry faces stared at the people on the smaller boat and they identified the skipper. “So sorry. Captain Abilio here, I misjudged the speed and momentum in the calm water.” The man wearing a skipper's cap stepped forward. While they were talking a change came over the ocean that had almost never happened before. Stirred up by the heat of the surface water, far to the south, pressure systems had been building up and the weather began to change. Both captains saw a breeze ruffle the flat surface of the ocean. Their eyes followed it and widened. In the distance, they saw clouds coming over the horizon. Alfonse knew that the curvature of the earth limited sight to only several miles when in a boat on the sea. If he were standing on a cliff or mountain on the shore, then he could see much farther. The wind and clouds must only be several miles away. They were not very far. “Storm coming. Tie everything down.” Adelberto knew what to do and his voice carried to the other sailors. Waves began to replace the flat ocean water. They saw the storm approaching with tall waves, a wall of marine fog, and dark clouds in the distance. The slight movement in the air felt good. “If we can’t steer the boat to face the waves, we can get swamped and sink.” The sailors talked among themselves. Their tired faces showed a new fear. “Throw us your bowline,” hollered Captain Abilio. They saw a name on the side of this boat. It was the Carina, named after a constellation of stars in the southern hemisphere. “We will tow your ship. Our boat is smaller but our engines are fit to be used as a tugboat.” “We’ve got water too. Send your sailors to haul up these water barrels.” Isabelle watched Adelberto help attach the bowline to the Carina and load the water barrels. “Adelberto, have the sailors put the water catching barrels and all the containers possible out on the deck. If we get rain we need to catch it, in addition to having the extra water from the Carina.” Captain Alfonse’s voice was calm, despite the urgency of the situation. Captain Abilio on the Carina fired up his steam engines and the massive bowline from the Destiny’s Dreams to the stern of the Carina pulled taught. The ocean churned behind the Carina as her propellors spun. Very slowly the Destiny’s Dreams began to move. Alfonse noticed Rio the monkey was no longer clinging to his back. “Anyone see where Rio went?” A sailor replied. “I saw him run inside. Probably escaping the sun.” Inside the ship the monkey was swinging along down the stairs to the depths of the hull. It was dark there. Rio heard voices and followed the sounds. In a moment he swung from the door to the engine room where the workers were doing repairs. When the workers ignored him, Rio entertained himself by picking up pieces of machinery and tools, flying them around, and catching them. “Hey. Monkey. Stop that.” The tired worker’s voice did not seem to have any impact on Rio. Giving a playful screech, Rio used his long monkey arms to climb around the pipes and boxes. In one dark corner, he picked up another object. He made “ooo…ooo” sounds and carried the object over to the men. Maybe he could get them to play a game with him. Rio dropped the object and it landed with a loud clang. “Hey. Look what the monkey brought us. I’ve been looking all over for one of these.” The sailor’s voice sounded excited. “The missing part.” The other sailor’s voice was surprised. “Quick, grab it before the monkey gets a hold of it again.” “Who would have thought. Don’t tell anyone that the monkey found it for us.” "We've been rescued by a monkey." The workers wiped sweat from their foreheads and bent over the engine. “This should work. Easy now.” “OK. It is in place. Fire up the engine now. There’s fuel in the furnace already.” A series of sounds hissed and rumbled. The engine came to life. “We did it.” “Let’s go.” The voices were jubilant. Rio the monkey decided he was bored. He stretched out his long arms and hands, reached the top of the doorway, and swung through it. Then he made screeching and “ooo.ooo” sounds while he swung and climbed his way back to the deck. Out on the ship’s deck Captain Alfonse heard the engine start up. The ship began to move. “We have power.” “Hurray.” They untied the bowline that ran to the other ship. “Thank you. We won’t be needing a tow after all.” “You are welcome.” Both boats began to slowly move in the direction of Rio de Janeiro. Rio the monkey came out the doorway onto the ship’s deck. “Oh, there you are, Rio. I wondered where you had gone, you rascal.” The captain felt comforted when he had his parrot and monkey with him. He got to see his family when he went home to their port. But Rio and Foresta were his companions on the long voyages. Their antics lifted his spirits, even in the worst of times. Rio scampered up into Captain Alfonse’s arms, snuggled up in a hug, and then climbed around to ride on Alfonse’s back. His long, narrow fingers clutched Captain Alfonse’s damp, sweaty clothing. Everyone on deck was looking at the horizon and feeling the air moving. Waves were getting larger. “I think the air feels a little cooler. That new weather front is getting closer.” Adelberto called over to Isabelle. Her hair was wet with sweat against her neck. They had extra water from the stranger’s ship. The Destiny’s Dream’s engine was working again, and the ship was moving. A new weather front was arriving with wind. Isabelle and Adelberto smiled at each other. Rio the monkey sat on one of Captain Alfonse’s shoulders and Foresta the parrot sat on the other. Clouds came over the horizon with a stronger wind. It felt so good on their sweaty skin. In the distance, they could see the blur of raindrops hitting the ocean waves. then the storm arrived and a sprinkle of rain began to fall on them. Everyone lifted their faces to the sky, letting the drops cool their skin. The workers who repaired the engine came up onto the deck. “Thank you. Great job.” The captain’s words made them smile. “You need to thank Rio,” said one of them. Captain Alfonse raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. What had the little monkey done now? Rio chittered, made some soft screeches, and finished with some of his “ooo…ooos.” The Destiny’s Dreams chugged her way back to the bay at Rio de Janeiro. They docked at the harbor and left the ship to go downtown. They heard the music of the festivities floating across the bay. Food, dancing, singing, storytelling, costumes, and celebrating were everywhere. The frightening times of being stranded in the hot weather out on the ocean were forgotten. Captain Alfonse strode around the festival with Rio the monkey on one shoulder and Foresta the parrot on the other. They blended right in with the parades and costumes. 

xwpb4f

Pushing Daisies

As the temperature in the city rose to a historic high, Carl and his half-charred companion raced against the clock. It was just before noon on the August long-weekend and the insatiable picnic, beachgoer, and birthday party crowds were ringing up for pizza at an alarming rate. Carl had been unexpectedly dispatched by “Pepper’s Only Pizza” on 4 th street and Main. Mr. Pepper was a proud man who had painstakingly built his pizzeria from the ground up. Throughout the decades his once jet-black hair greyed and his defiant stance settled into a comforting stoop, all in service of becoming a beloved fixture in the community. Locals often gossiped over which customers had become favourites of Mr. Pepper as they’d receive the much sought-after phrase, “Please, call me Giancarlo.” “Listen, Carl. I like you. You’re a hard worker. But my commercial says ‘ From here to your door,– ’ say it with me Carl, ‘ –in 30 minutes, never more. If we’re late, please come in store, for your… free soda’. ” Mr. Pepper paused. Carl could hear faint calculations muttered through the phone. “You’ve cost us twelve free sodas this week alone!” Carl’s van—something between a hearse and an ice cream truck–groaned as it crested over a large hill. A shimmering haze rose from the road ahead. Carl’s eyes found the rear-view mirror. Red bricks from the old mortuary were swallowed by the rear horizon. Its chimney sunk slowly like a dutiful ship captain, leaving behind dark clouds to bloom across a clear sky. Carl had never seen the mortuary cough up smoke that black before. “Gian—, sorry, Mr. Pepper. I’m doing my best, you know that. Have I ever failed to deliver one of your incredible pizza pies?” Pinned between his ear and shoulder, Carl’s phone was damp with sweat. His free hand fiddled with the A/C dial already cranked to the coolest setting. A thermometer dangling from the rear-view mirror clinked against the windshield with each bump in the road; it read 42˚ C. The temperature hadn’t stopped climbing. Carl continued, “Okay, Okay. Yes, sometimes I’m a little late. But you know I cover that cost with my tips. You know that.” The leather upholstery and metallic interior of Carl’s van had been worn and muted by the years. Bang! The van hit a small pothole in the road and heavy contents in the back hurled dangerously towards Carl before slamming into a metal divider. The gurney locking system had failed. Mr. Pepper let out a small sigh. “Carl, I built this whole pizzeria with my own two hands. When my father–” “Oh, come on, please don’t give me the whole speech. Just let me have it, it’s fine.” “In the end, it’s just a dollar a soda. We sell one pizza and the money comes back, no problem. What pains me is that for every pizza that’s delivered late, it’s my name on the box. It’s my father’s name, it’s my nonno’s name. Each soda’s another broken promise to our customers.” “Listen, Giancar–,” Carl swore as he looked out his window to the concrete flowerbeds by the sidewalk that blurred past. Yellow daisies keeled over in the relentless sun while opportunistic weeds moved in on the soil bed below. Carl rolled to a stop at the town square just as the clocktower signalled the hour with a cacophony of bells. It was noon exactly. A pile of torn open envelopes and letters strewn about Carl’s makeshift coffee table flashed in his mind, each increasing in their urgency: “…we have yet to receive payment for—”; “without payment, we are afraid that action must be taken…”. On the passenger seat beneath a post-mortem report lay an unopened envelope. Carl looked over. Across the envelope, stamped in red with all capital letters, ‘FINAL NOTICE’ glared back. Carl cleared his throat. “Mr. Pepper. Times are tough, you know that. I need this job, I really do.” In the heavy silence that followed, Carl bit his lip and stopped just short of drawing blood. It was a habit he’d been trying to kick since he picked up a second job. “I like you, Carl. One last chance. Well, two,” Mr. Pepper conceded. “A call just came in for a large Hawaiian. Grab your order from the store and then pick up Salvatore and help him with his order. And please, no late deliveries today.” Carl raced through the final second of a yellow light. … A crowd stood like groundhogs around an old sycamore tree, just off the sidewalk. They squeezed in together under the shade of the green canopy, mostly motionless, save for oscillations between the tree and nearby commotion. Carl parked two blocks down and glanced at the time. Five minutes had passed since he sprinted into the pizzeria, grabbed his order, and threw it into the van without inspecting it. His delivery had to wait, finding Salvatore was the priority now. A steady gale of A/C feathered through Carl’s thick moustache as he scanned the scene. The sun was overhead now with no clouds to soften its harsh rays. A bright red sportscar was flipped sideways against the sycamore’s trunk, sinking the driver’s door partway into the grass. Broken glass sparkled all around. Standing out from the crowd was a man with slicked hair that shone like an oil spill. Despite the heat, he appeared animated under a sweat-stained tank top that clung to a small pot belly. Carl watched the man wave his hands as if the pair of paramedics before him were his orchestra, and he the drenched conductor. The pair conferred to one another before jotting something down and driving off. Soon after, a tow-truck drove past Carl towards the commotion, drawing the portly man’s attention. With a mischievous grin, the man pointed at Carl, climbed onto the sideways car, reached into the backseat, and pulled out two medium pizza boxes. The crowd Ooh’d and Ahh’d . The passenger door opened, and Carl pounced on his documents before stuffing them into the glovebox. The man watched with a raised eyebrow. With a shrug, he chucked both pizza boxes into the van, where one landed flat and the other tumbled onto its side. “You must be the famous Carl, huh? I’m Sal.” He hocked a loogie, wiped his chin, and then extended a moist hand. Five sausages adorned with gaudy rings wriggled expectantly. Carl smiled weakly and reluctantly gave Sal’s hand a shake. “How much time is left on your delivery?” Asked Carl while watching the tow-truck driver inspect the crashed sportscar. His head was bursting with questions. By his feet, Sal placed his pizza boxes on top of Carl’s order of a single large pizza. He then fiddled with his seat position until his headrest touched the metal divider behind him. “What the hell kinda car you driving anyway? This some sort of ambulance? Some kinda pizza doctor, are ya?” He laughed at the thought before adding, “You’re even late like a doctor, too.” Sal broke eye contact when he saw Carl’s stony expression. “Whoa, alright. I’m not on trial here. You got here late and now you got about­” —Sal glanced at his gold watch— “maybe 10 minutes before it’s free soda o’clock. Look out world, ‘Carbonated Carl’ comin’ in with another late delivery!” Sal cackled. “And don’t even think about kicking me out. I gotta make sure you don’t pull a fast one on us.” Carl slammed the dashboard. Sal’s inquisitive hands retreated from the glovebox, and he held them up. He then tore off the receipt from one of his pizza boxes and pantomimed waving a white flag. Wordlessly, Carl took the receipt: “Deliver to: ‘Mrs. Ginger’ - Medium Pepperoni Pizza x2.” He shifted into drive and rolled out past the collision. Sal looked out the window to his totalled car and shook his head, muttering to himself. “After the stop sign, take the next left,” said Sal without looking back. … As they drove, Carl’s attention alternated between Sal and the odd wheezing noise coming from his A/C. Receiving directions from Sal proved to be more of a crapshoot than panning for gold. Carl only managed to strike valuable information between Sal’s rapid-fire of questions. “Why do you have medical stuff everywhere?” “I don’t.” “Oh yeah? What about all those latex gloves and hand sanitizer? You scared of tomato sauce or something?” “No,” said Carl, tapping the brakes. “Left or right?” “What’re you hiding in the back, huh? A pile of­ dead bodies?” Sal’s thumb jutted to the right and Carl swerved the van at the last second, slamming the contents in the back against the metal side. A loud Thud reverberated throughout the vehicle. Sal’s eyes widened and he pointed frantically to the metal divider. “I knew it! You’re hiding something back there and I bet that’s why you’re always late,” Sal said triumphantly. “Tell you what, I’ll get you to the delivery address on time, for once , and in exchange, you show me what’s in the back. Deal?” With only a few minutes before he was late, Carl was running out of options. … Earlier that morning, Carl woke to Maria’s breathless call. Despite the panic in her voice, just hearing her speak brought a sleepy smile to his face. Maria had followed in her father’s footsteps to become heir to the town’s mortuary monopoly. She even spearheaded the purchase of their new mortuary located on the south side of town, complete with a brand-new retort. Maria’s father had resisted, arguing that, “bodies have been burnt the same way since the discovery of fire. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need a damn good reason to justify sinking all our money into this.” Unfortunately for Maria and her father, justification rose up phoenix-like that morning: Mr. Lytton, beloved ex-mayor, lay half-crisped in the non-functional combustion chamber of the old retort. His once-kind face had been darkened and singed, yet an eerie smile remained as if he were simply napping in shadow. Maria took a second to steady her breathing. “Mr. Lytton’s daughters are dropping by the old mortuary in the afternoon with the press. They’re writing some piece about their father’s ‘lasting legacy’ on the town and want some pictures with his ashes. If the press gets wind of this, we’ll get dragged through the mud and Dad’s going to have a heart attack.” Still on the phone, Carl tumbled off his sweat-stained bedsheets. The sun had barely risen, and it was already 35˚ C. Maria continued, “Dad’s going to sneak Mr. Lytton out in a body bag and then stall them. I need you to deliver that corpse to the south mortuary location as fast as you can. I’ll be there getting the new retort up-and-running so I can, respectfully, finish roasting this guy. I think I can get the retort fired up by 1 pm. Can you do it?” In a sweet half-whisper, she added, “You’re the only one I can trust Carl, please.” … In front of a squat, white house, a baby-faced man paced along a rickety porch. He was swivelling his head between his watch and the driveway. Two blonde children, one in a flowy dress, the other in shorts and a bucket hat, followed their father closely. By the road, a woman under a wide brim sunhat and goggle-like sunglasses leaned against a mailbox that read “Kale” in peeling paint. With a minute left before the 12:40 pm deadline, the Kale’s called out the passing seconds. They were halfway done when Carl turned onto their street. He shot Sal an angry look when he realized that Sal had led him past this street earlier. Sal shrugged with his feet up on the dashboard. Carl was nearly out the door before he remembered to shift the van into park. He raced over to Mrs. Kale while the kids shrieked out, “Six! Five! Four!”. Mrs. Kale’s mouth went wide. She turned and ran, stumbling to their porch. “Two! One! Free soda!” Mr. Kale scooped up his kids and they all cheered. Breathless, Carl said, “Hello, I have a delivery for Ginger. Please, there’s been a mistake. I was here right on time. Your kids were still chanting seconds when I was on your lawn.” “First of all, it’s ‘Mrs. Kale’ to you, young man,” she said, tapping her foot. “Secondly, are you calling us liars? I’m not so sure Giancarlo would like to hear that, now, would he?” Carl opened his mouth in protest, but no words came out. Defeated, he chewed his lip absentmindedly and completed the delivery. Mr. Kale’s baby face was scrunched up in a tiny sneer while both kids stuck out their tongues and giggled. Behind Carl, a clanging filled the air as Sal tried in vain to bust open the back of the van. “Wait a minute, what if I covered the sodas myself? I have about, uh—” Carl reached into his pockets and produced a gum wrapper and some lint. He looked up sheepishly at Mrs. Kale on the porch, looming several steps above him. “One second!” Carl placed the pizza boxes on a step and sprinted back to the van. As he ran, he didn’t notice Sal sitting halfway out the passenger door and beside him, an open glovebox. Carl threw himself into the driver’s seat and pilfered through every nook and cranny before noticing that the van felt like an oven. A small gasp escaped his lips as he thrust his hands to the dashboard air vents. Nothing. He grabbed at the hanging thermometer: 46 ˚ C. His heart dropped; Mr. Lytton was going to liquefy. “Sal! Sal, when did the A/C blow?” Sal didn’t reply. Littered on the floor of the van was shreds from an envelope with an unmistakable red stamp. Carl’s blood boiled. He lunged for the back of Sal’s shirt but was just a hair too slow. Sal shot out from his seat and onto the sidewalk before tripping and landing on the Kale’s lawn. Fluttering onto the grass beside him was the post-mortem report and an eviction notice. Sal didn’t have time to get up before Carl was on him. Pinned down, Sal kicked up his feet as he laughed. “You’re done, Carl! It’s over man, the pizza’s gone cold!” Carl gripped Sal’s collar and shook him. He felt like screaming but he didn’t know what to say. Near Sal’s hyena-like expression, a wilted daisy drew Carl’s attention. Below its yellow petals, Carl laid eyes on the word “eviction” for the first time and his anger dissipated into a weightless mist. He released Sal and sat down, clutching his knees to his chest. “I can’t wait ‘till pops hears about this! Two late pizzas and a dead guy in the back. Jesus! I mean, I could never get you fired before, but now I find out you’re hauling around actual corpses like some kinda crypt keeper. Pops is gonna freak!” Sal exclaimed, holding his hands to his cheeks in disbelief. In the middle of the town, the clocktower bells rang out. Carl’s eyes fell onto the back of his van, and in an instant, he was back on his feet. Sal’s self-satisfied grin evaporated as Carl swung his hand towards him. Peeking through his fingers, Sal watched Carl pocket his documents and rush back to the van. Melted cheese and pepperoni grease lined the mouths of the Kale family while they took in the scene on their front lawn. When Carl slammed the glovebox shut, he noticed Sal had torn off the receipt for his order. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. As Carl drove off, the town’s temperature approached the half-century mark. … It took less than ten minutes for Carl to get to Maria’s new mortuary. He took careful note of the skylights in the sloped roof before rushing to Mr. Lytton. Just as the padlock was unfastened from the van’s rear doors, Maria appeared, squinting under the bright sun. She matched Carl in both jumpsuit and latex gloves. “Fancy meeting you here,” said Carl, pulling at the flipped over gurney. Then, nervously, “You know, I really like the skylights. Nice touch.” They exchanged quick pleasantries while reorienting the body bag and rolling the gurney into the air-conditioned relief of the mortuary. The building was brand new and filled only with the smell of fresh paint and concrete. That is, except for the fired-up retort in a back corner. Once the body reached the corner, Carl’s job was done. Little was said while Maria worked under the steady drone of venting fans. During the process, Maria glanced over at Carl from time to time. He was drenched in sweat and covered in grass stains. Since arriving, only once did he meet her eyeline. When Maria had finished, Mr. Lytton’s body was allowed to resume its journey towards the undiscovered country where his spirit was no doubt lying in wait. Soon, his half-charred smile gave way to embers and a new sleep took him. “You’re late,” Maria finally said. She took off her gloves and then went to check the retort gauges. Carl felt overwhelmingly heavy as he watched her walk off. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the building, so Carl sat on the cool concrete and pulled his knees in close. “I guess I’m always late,” said Carl, rubbing his shins. He gave a hollow laugh. “You know, I used to run a lot as a kid. All the kids in my neighbourhood did. And you know, I never won once. Never. But I finished every race I ever started. I guess I always thought that’d count for something.” Carl looked up at the skylights, glad to be out of the heat. Maria turned to face Carl. “Oh, really? Every race?” She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “Then why am I not holding a large Hawaiian pizza right now?”

whe3ia

Boop on the Nose

      “Breaking news. Planet Earth had stopped rotating for approximately fifteen minutes this morning. The planet resumed rotation. Physicists remain confused over this phenomenon. We are interviewing-”            The screen turned dark, reflecting my blank face back at me. I felt a hand ruffle my hair. It was my father. It was also my father who turned off the television.            “You don’t have to watch the news, Wayne,” his dad said, “it’s just a hundred of us folks on the same train. Some people never learn. Not that I mean you, of course.”            “Right,” I didn’t know how to react, “anything I should know ?” “Wear a cap before you leave the house,” my father paused for a brief second, "preferably a disposable one.” I responded with an ok sign and signaled I want to get some air. My parents have been walking on eggshells around him ever since I lost my ability. I heard a splat as soon as the front door shut, right when my feet left the front porch. There was a splatter of white on my cap. A cockatoo landed on an overhead branch. I got onto the crosswalk a few streets down after the lights turned green. Tires squealing accompanied by a roaring engine were the only warning signs. I leapt back onto the refuge island. A car stopped inches from where I’d been. Its exhaust fumes hit me a second later. The driver scowled and waved at me to move along. Days like this are when I feel as if I’ve lost my vision. Rat-tat-tat. Walken’s door opened before I even lowered my fist, then brown curls and blue eyes and grunge clothes appeared. “Sup, W !” His fist slammed into mine in greeting. Walken’s just like me, or -more accurately- I used to be like him. Not counting him being the class president for three years in a row and basketball captain for two, and all-time perfectionist. “It’s giving …” his wide eyes flicked to my cap, “unlucky.” “Thanks man,” I flip my cap inside out before stuffing it inside my pocket, “you heard about the ‘100 people on the train’ thing ?” In a second, I felt something close around my wrist. And I was in his house. “Keep it on the down low !” His eyes seemed to speak another language, “The Normals mustn’t know about that fluke.” “I AM a Normal,” I yank my hand out from his grasp, “and I’m sure as hell the government knows.” My voice came out harsher than I intended, “Uhhh… I didn’t mean-” “You know what I mean,” Walken scoffed, “we’re good bro.” He handed me a fortune cookie as a peace offering. I had to stifle a smile. Nearly my entire life, I’d complained that I couldn’t enjoy a fortune cookie before cracking it open. It’s ironic. “C’mon,” Walken gestured to me, “We’re gonna be late for rehearsal.” Graduation’s overrated. And it’s not only me who thinks so. Our salutatorian Wes slipped between Walken and me, complaining about practice being ‘pointless’. We formed the ‘W triumvirate’ like always. “Nah man,” Walken disagreed, “you gotta give a speech, don’t you ?” “I could see it play out,” Wes said dryly, “everyone will clap when I give a speech of gratitude.” Walken and I exchanged a glance. If only Wes knew. All our classmates were taking selfies together, and signing yearbooks. Or enthusiastically throwing their graduation caps in the air. I didn’t need any ability to tell who’ll go to university and who’ll work for minimum wage. Suddenly, everyone turned to face the door in revered silence. It was the Prime Minister. The tension was like a grenade waiting to blow up. My body went rigid. He smirked at me from behind his toothbrush mustache. He remembered me. I heard my pulse in my ears and fought the urge to hide behind my friends. The Prime Minister said to no one in particular, “A health check for every school in this suburb during their graduation.” His staff followed him on his way out. “I did not see that coming,” Walken picked his jaw off the ground. “Literally ?” I snarked. “Sounds ominous,” Wes used finger quotes, “we must skip this ‘health check’.” The laptop screen glowed violently in the night. As bright as the Prime Minister’s hand. For months, I’ve been using Tor to visit websites that could never meet the light of day. Apparently, the ‘fluke’ was people purchasing power. Maybe they want side hustles as fortune tellers. Get this – according to User imma_steal_your_girl (who I paid for information), there is a market for the ability we’re born with. For unknown reasons, that person refused to message the information. He wanted to meet up. So here I am. And there he is. Except us, the nightlife bustled like normal. Drunks partied, cars whizzed on the road, offices were lit for overtime workers, and stargazers oooohed skywards. His shadow came closer and closer , until- “Wayne ?!” “Wes ?!” Walken asked us the next morning, “What did I miss ?” The Dark Alley looked like its name. Red strings of LED lights hung on both sides, barely enough to illuminate Wes’ hooded face -bottom half, anyway- and Walken’s shirt. Walken was against it at first, but Wes and I were determined to come regardless. The cobblestones stretched into darkness for what seemed to be miles ahead. We curved a sharp right and were completely submerged into a bustling market. Coins clink when exchanged, strange scents filled the air, and bargains -both shouted and whispered- were all part of the black market. Walden shrank back from a guy who stumbled off-balance, clearly intoxicated. ‘Stay close,’ Wes led the way as we winded around stalls. Colorful neon lights offered voyeurism, others offered illegal drugs, weaponry, betting, even hitman services. It was basically an underbelly night market. We dodged drunks, women clad in scanty cloaks, and loan sharks who offered their services. Walken squatted low. Seconds later, a green glass bottle sailed above his head. Clang! The bottle broke into pieces. Walken crossed his arms in front of his chest. Left, right, right, straight ahead. I lost count of the turns we did and everything became a blaze of lights.            Soft fabric was on my face the same time I felt something bump into my back. I’d walked right into Wes and Walken walked into me. The person manning the stall was a giant. Cloaked in black, only his bloodshot eyes were visible from the shadows on his face. And they seemed to glow. His silence only made him more menacing.            I gulped as Walden took a step backwards. Only Wes placed both his hands on the stall booth. Our guide whispered something in a low voice. The stall owner grunted something. Wes motioned for me to join in their conversation.            ‘Five million,’ the stall person’s voice was as rough as he looked.            ‘Two million,’ Wes poked his index finger onto the flat surface.            ‘Four million,’ the giant boomed, ‘last in stock.’            Wes tapped my shoulder, ‘What’s your budget ?’ I took out a -pitifully small- crumpled ball of cash, then thought of my debit card.            ‘Eight hundred thousand,’ I mumbled. The stall owner glared at me. Shivers raced down my spine in response. If Dad was furious he couldn’t buy the car he’d been saving up for, he’d be less scary than this dude. Without another word, Wes gripped my wrist and dragged me away. My feet dragged on the floor as I stumbled to catch up. He had me walking along the edge of the black market before we stopped to catch our breaths. ‘What is-” I panted, ‘-up with you ?’ Wes cocked his head at an angle. Walden emerged from the dim, gently shaking a plastic container the way he’d handle test tubes. I hadn’t even noticed he was gone. I gawk at the goody two-shoes, ‘You stol -’ Wes immediately clamped a hand over my mouth. Just then, a sharp shrill pierced the air, accompanied by flashing lights. The LED suddenly seemed ominous. People stopped what they were doing and started to look around suspiciously. “Time to go,” Wes sped us towards the exit. We tore through the market when a mass of black vehicles drove past the outskirts. They parked with screeches and headlights turned on, so much that we struggled to open our eyes. Big, muscled men in black jumped out of the vehicles. My eyes watered from the bright intensity. Yelling, loads of yelling. Someone was screaming for help. I squinted against the glare. Tires squealed and engines faded as the vehicles zoomed off into the night. “Walken !” Panic gripped me, “They’ve got Walken!” “And he has the enhancer !” Wes looked like he could faint any moment. “We have to go after them,” I scanned a bicycle parked near the road. “Hello again.” I looked to the source of the voice and my blood froze. The Prime Minister pinned Walken by his neck. Walken’s face was red, and he was struggling to breathe. Wes threw a punch, only to be deflected and kicked to the side. I tried and failed to pry the Minister’s hand from Walken’s neck. A sharp knock to my head and I bit the dust. “No!” My voice was muffled, “Stop!” The Prime Minister just grinned at us. His palm glowed like the sun. I’d walked into the medical room expecting a physical checkup. Blood pressure, weight scales, that sort of thing. What I didn’t expect was the freaking Prime Minister in the nurse’s chair, legs crossed, shades over his eyes. He nonchalantly started a conversation with me, then asked me to do him a favor. And, like a dumbass, I agreed despite knowing I’d lose something. Just because I wanted to get in his good books. Two of his bodyguards came out from nowhere. They grabbed hold of my wrists and held me in place. Once my confusion wore off, I struggled and kicked, even shouted for help. The Prime Minister’s hand -I kid you not- glowed. “Magic,” I remembered thinking. A tap on the tip of my nose, and my body sagged towards the floor. By the time his goons let go, what I had since birth was gone.            When it was over, the Prime Minister let go. Walken collapsed in an unmoving heap.            “YOU!” I darted forward. Except Wes grabbed my wrist, he frantically shook his head. Goons abruptly materialized from thin air once again. They escorted the Prime Minister out with sneers directed at us. Once they slammed the door behind them, we heaved Walden up and slapped him. “Wakey wakey,” I said when Walden blinked, “did you give it up ?” Walden pointed a shaky finger at Wes, then mimed pulling an invisible hoodie over his own head. So I rummaged through Wes' hoodie. My fingers brushed against something cold and hard. “We had it the entire time ?” I squinted at the transparent liquid in disbelief, “I mean … What are the odds I develop auditory hallucinations ?” Wes dabbed his finger in it, then booped my nose, “Think this will work ?” Walden visibly held his breath. I closed my eyes and felt … the same. My head drooped in defeat. I opened my eyes when something warm wrapped itself around me. It was Walden. Something else dug into my pockets. Wes. The salutatorian held out my crumpled fortune cookie. Despite the cracks, it miraculously held together. A bright mental flash occurred, followed by a polaroid snapshot which faded into nothingness. “Go beyond borders,” I read aloud the image in my head. My hands shook as I ripped open the cookie. Those exact three words were on the paper. Walden let out a hearty whoop while Wes gave me an energized fist bump. I dabbed a few drops onto Walden’s nose. He gave me a thumbs up in response. “We’ve got a graduation to crash,” I grin at the W triumvirate, “you guys ready ?”

fn4vwy

Broken Leg Summer

It's the first day of summer in Newport, New Hampshire. During the summer, we encourage communal stargazing under the open sky. Join the little bear and his companion as they contemplate the vast night sky and envision tomorrow's adventures. Invite your children to partake in this enriching activity with you for a fun and memorable summer together. With only two mouths to enjoy it, kids can't waste a single minute. Each night becomes a precious opportunity to bond, dream, and explore the wonders above. So grab the blankets, find a cozy spot, and let the stars guide your imagination. One such kid is called "Joy Dolly Bracket." A high-spirited girl is usually seen with her friends Sam and Johnny; they share a strong and enduring friendship. Whenever Joy and her friends go out, they are always on the move, running through the forest or walking through their neighborhood, laughing and giggling with delight. No matter how many stones they throw, how many water balloon fights they have, or how many racecar races they participate in, their days are filled with excitement and camaraderie. Each adventure creates memories that last a lifetime, bringing them closer together. However, a lousy accident destroyed the girl's spirit, leaving her confined to her room. Joy is moping around in her cast, her tomboyish spirit crushed by the broken leg that forced her to sit out the summer. Her parents, Alxe and April, desperate to lift her mood, surprised her with a family vacation to the South Shore of New Hampshire. Despite the salty air and seagulls' cries, she could not shake off boredom as they arrived. On the first day, Joy reluctantly settled for building sandcastles, her mind still on the baseball diamond. She dreamed of leading the Moose Browns, New Hampshire's youth league team, to victory alongside her crush, Peter. But an accident got in the way. An opposing team member accidentally hit her leg while making the final run to earn a point. The game stopped abruptly when she fell hard to the ground, her pain immediate and intense. Her best friend and teammate Tim and Fred, her uncle and team coach, were the first to rush to her side; their faces paled with worry. Even though the Mooses lost, they put their disappointment aside to take their team away to recuperate. While the damage wasn't so bad to be considered permanent, it would fully heal in the fall, so her summer plans were at least ruined. With her heart heavy with disappointment at the resolutions, Joy refused to leave her room. From her window, she watched enviously as her friends played outside, their laughter a painful reminder of what she was missing. As much as her parents tried to cheer her up, the weight of her broken dreams kept her spirit confined, much like the cast on her leg. As she gazed out at the turquoise waves, an idea sparked. She convinced her parents to rent a kayak, promising to take it easy. As she paddled solo, the waves of the ocean regained her excitement. The wind in her hair, the sun on her face, and the rhythmic dipping of the paddle into the water brought back the thrill of competition she had missed. The sudden riptide swept her away from the shore, and panic set in as she struggled to paddle back. Just as fear overwhelmed her, a solid current pushed her toward a hidden cove. Breathless and shaken, Joy looked up to find a secluded paradise: turquoise waters lapping on a crescent beach surrounded by towering palms. It didn't end from there. Several days later, her father took her fishing, teaching her to reel in a catch with patience and skill. During her time at the shore, she also spent time collecting seashells with her mother, April. For the first time all summer, Joy felt alive, her heart racing with fear and exhilaration. As she paddled back to her relieved parents, she realized that sometimes a wrong turn could lead to an unexpected adventure and a chance to rediscover her joy. By the time she came home, Sam and Johnny had come in, refusing to let things ruin her cast. Leaving the trio to work thanks to video games, board games, Lego building, and drawing. Together, they created epic storylines, built intricate Lego cities, and engaged in thrilling video game quests. Joy's room became a vibrant world of creativity and fun, where their imaginations soared just as high as the stars they once gazed at. Restoring more of her smile. Before one of their activities ends, Sam and Johnny meet up with Peter. Peter still feels guilty about Joy's accident. He wants to make amends, but he has no idea Joy likes him. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Sam and Johnny plan to bring Joy and Peter together. They want to create an ideal moment to bond and spark something more. So they asked Peter to go to their favorite spot in the forest and wait there while they brought Joy. They kept the plan secret. As Joy arrived and saw Peter standing under the tree canopy, her heart raced, and her face turned red like an apple. She wanted to run away, but her friends encouraged her to stay and face him, giving her the courage to finally speak to him. The two friends left them alone, hoping for a heartfelt conversation, but their well-intentioned plan backfired. Peter fumbled with his words, unable to express his remorse for Joy's broken leg, while Joy's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she struggled to confess her feelings. The silence between them grew awkward, with each moment stretching longer than the last. But the silence was broken when Peter revealed he had been trying to talk to her & searching for her everywhere, terrified when she didn't return. Joy's heart skipped a beat quickly. When Joy nearly fell from embarrassment, she grabbed her walking stick to escape. Before getting hurt, Peter rushed to her and helped her pick herself up. They looked at each other for a second. There's a palpable attraction between them. Their faces turned red with embarrassment as they shared a kiss. Amidst the blush, they shared a tender smile, feeling relief and connection. Peter helped Joy with her walking stick, and they went home together. The irony wasn't lost on Joy; she had broken her leg to win the game and lost, but she got a much more significant win as Peter took his time to try to find her, showing his care. A series of unexpected events led Joy back to him after she recovered from her whole experience. As they walked hand in hand, the sound of the waves and seagulls fading into the background, Joy knew that this summer, despite its rocky start, might be the most unforgettable yet.

ogeqj0

Love, Loss and Letters

Mom, Thanks for all the help in the operating room today. I know my husband can be a bit of a lightweight when it comes to blood and other assorted bodily fluids. Thank you for keeping me calm in the utmost vulnerability, and not taking advantage of or using that time against me. Today was a day I won’t ever forget and I'm sure I won’t let my husband forget or live this situation down either. He’s sad he missed the birth, but I'm sure he’s somewhat secretly glad at the same time. Either way, both of us are ecstatic to welcome our daughterMichaela to the world. Thanks again mom, Your daughter, Rosa Stonecross Mom, Thank you so much for helping plan Michaela’s second birthday party. Things have gotten hard since Stan left us but you have been a shining light within the darkness for us. Money’s been tight too and your creativity has helped us stretch it a long way. If you ever need a favor, we owe you one for sure. Thank you so much for your support Your Daughter, Rosa Grandma thanks for letting me stay the night tonight -Michaela Sweetie, thank you for coming over. All the other grandkids think they’re too old to hang out with your grandma these days. I hope you never change in that way but I won't hold my breath. -Grandma Grandma thanks for coming to my band recital tonight - Michaela Michaela Stonecross thank you for being such a big part of the fifth grade band this year. I got to have the pleasure of watching you develop from a complete beginner to a student who is well on her way to perform on our symphonic bands in a higher level someday. You possess a lot of raw, natural talent, young lady and I am itching to see where that talent takes you. Keep practicing over the summer. Steven Dromless Band Director, MPA Public Schools Thanks for being a great friend Michaela, HAGS! ;) -Janet Hey Michaela, this is Jordan from band class. Janet gave me your number. Thanks for helping me out in band class this past week. Would you wanna hang out sometime? Dear Aunt Theresa, Thank you again for coming to my graduation party this year, it really meant a lot for you to drive out of state to see me. Especially with my grandma passing away recently it’s nice to have a supportive familial face there. -Michaela Michaela, Sweet girl it was truly my pleasure to drive, no distance is ever too far to see my favorite niece <3. Once again congratulations, high school completion is no joke especially where we come from. I know you don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but this is a major life milestone for you, and I wanted to make that day unforgettable. Good luck at college in the fall, I'll be rooting for you from afar. Hopefully I can come to visit for Christmas this year. -Your favorite auntie Hey mom, going out tonight. Thanks for being the greatest. -Ur fav daughter Hey mom, sorry things got out of hand last night but I'm glad you’re always there for me -Michaela Mrs. Stonecross Thank you for reaching out to us with your resume. I had myself and our HR department look over it, and we are looking to bring you onto the team. I’d like a short interview if you are interested, but you are almost guaranteed the position so no need to stress about it. Zachary Case Business Manager Techcorp Zachary Thanks for getting back to me! What time works best for you guys on that interview? Michaela Stonecross Janet, Thanks for talking to your friend that works at Techorp. I think I've got the job on lock. -Michaela Michaela thx 4 holding my hair back 2nite bby -Ur bestie Janet Dearest Michaela, Thanks for the greatest night ever, here’s some flowers I picked up for you on my way to work. They made me think of what you said last night. Enjoy! -Sean Sean, Thanks for the flowers but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I think we would be better off as friends. -Michaela Michaela, Thanks for coming out to the wedding this past weekend girl, having you as my Maid of Honor was the best decision I could have ever made. Just remember that nobody finds out anything about what happened at my Bachelorette Party. That information stays between me, you, the girls and that man in the firefighting costume who’s pole I wanted to ride ;). Anyways maybe i’ll have the chance to repay the favor one day? No rush, you’ve always been an independent gal at heart, and I respect that. Love you lots, Janet Tashion-Filter Michaela Stonecross, Thank you for your unwavering intelligence, dedication and strength this past year. You have led the pack in sales for the past four years but you continue to outdo yourself each time. Zachary Case Business Manager Techcorp Dr. Case, Thank you for the opportunity but I would like to politely decline. I enjoy what I do enough, and the time dedication with this new position wouldn’t let me do the things that I love to do. This year I am going to be a teaching assistant with an old friend starting in the fall, and that is something I am not willing to give up. Apologies for keeping it brief, but I hope you can understand my concern and my situation. Michaela Stonecross Sales Representative Techcorp Mrs. Stonecross I never thought I would be writing this, but I suppose I should be thanking my lucky stars. Thank you for a very successful year teaching with me this past season. Twenty years ago when I first had you in class I would have never Truth be told, I am getting very old, older every day. There isn’t much steam left in the tank for me, and this year with all the craziness has shown me I'm slowing down to a point where it’s hard for me to hang with the younger kids now. You have shown me that you are more than capable to take the throne next, and whenever you are ready I would be happy to retire and let you take over as soon as possible. Steven Dromless Band Director, MPA Public Schools Dr. Case Unfortunately I have to put in my resignation notice for the end of the summer, the last week I will be able to work is August 12. Thank you for these past five years at the company. I have grown as an individual, and without this job I don’t know where I would be. However this job is not my true passion, and I have the opportunity of a lifetime to grab control of my life again and do what I enjoy. Michaela Stonecross Sales Representative Techcorp Mrs. Stonecross, Thank you for the notice, I'll get that down to HR as soon as possible. Thanks for being a part of the company and I wish you nothing but the best for the future. Mr. Dromless, I’d happily accept your invitation to take on the band program. Thank you for the offer. I am very excited to begin work. -Michaela Connor, Thanks for last night, I was celebrating and you made it really special -Michaela Janet, Thanks for helping me with my mom’s funeral. I know we haven’t talked much in a while, but having you there reminded me of old times. If you want to go get drinks sometime let me know. -Michaela Michaela I don’t know where to start. I’m so sorry it had to end this way. It’s been years since your death but I still feel guilty for letting you leave the bar like that. I should have known you weren’t good enough to drive in your condition. Seeing you in an emotional wreck broke me a little bit, and I didn’t want to intervene but not a day goes by where I don’t think about what happened to you. I know we weren’t the closest in your final years but having you as a best friend changed my life. REST IN PEACE MICHAELA -janet

i3834b

Ignite

I woke up and the world was on fire. Orange light and incomprehensible sound roared in my ears on the other side of the tent fabric. My camping partners were already up and yelling, shadows flitting across my vision in a frenzy of movement. The tent flap zipped open and Patrick’s head appeared, framed by a world unbeknownst to me - trees ablaze and sparks flying, smoke and heat like a wall of death blasted me in the face. He grabbed my sleeping bag and tried to get me unzipped, frantically screaming something that I couldn’t hear. I snapped out of my stupor and fumbled with the zipper myself, fingers no longer computing what my brain was screaming: to get out, move. Finally freeing myself I flung my body out the door, on Patrick’s heels, and stopped in my tracks. The forest was a world of horrors; smoke furled up towards an unseen sky, flames licked up the pines and caught on every stick, every leaf, turning them to ash in an instant. My friends were sprinting around the site, screaming at each other, trying to decide which way to go, for there was no clear path. It seemed we were stuck in an endless world of raging heat and flame. Joe was screaming and pointing, Andy doing the same but in the opposite direction. I stared around helplessly as the world I knew disappeared into ash and fire. Patrick ran over to me and took my face in his hands, shaking me slightly - his eyes were animalistic, soot smudged his face, he smelled of burnt hair and sweat and something else - fear. I found his eyes and came alive once again. He pointed to a small sliver of hope - an opening in the brush. We ran over and grabbed the shirts of our friends, throwing them in the direction of freedom. Realizing, they began to run. We followed. The heat was suffocating - sweat slid down my face, my back, pooled in my palms, ran into my eyes. My shirt stuck to my skin and my hair plastered to my face. Smoke poured down my throat and seared my insides but I kept running, kept following my friends through a nightmarish land of heat. We turned this way and that, following whichever way showed less signs of devastation and burning. Trees and branches fell around me - crashing to the earth in bone rattling defeat that shook the ground beneath my feet. Tears mingled with sweat, and the salt combined on my tongue and cracked lips to whisper strength that I could not find anywhere else. Around the bend, straight, back track, are we going in circles? It was so hot, and I could not breathe. I stopped for a moment and bent over, placing my hands on my knees. Slick with sweat yet black with soot they belonged to someone else. Someone grabbed my collar and hauled me onward just as a flaming bough crashed to the earth again behind me. I barely registered catching fire. It was Patrick who grabbed me and put out my pant leg - I did not have the courage to look at the charred flesh, but I could smell it as it mingled with the burning bark of the trees. I do not know how long we ran for, but I was about to give up when we came upon a lake and plunged into the eerily still waters. The glass surface rippled as we stumbled and gasped to chest height in the frigid water. When we deemed we were safe enough, we stared around. The entire forest seemed to be alight. There was no sky, just smoke and debris flung into the air, flames licking and reaching upwards, outwards, devouring, hungry, everlasting. The horrors around us reflected in the once again still surface as we stood in silence - we were in an alternate world, still in the nightmare, but just removed. We did not speak. We just stood, lone figures with no place left to go, nothing left to say, as we watched the world burn. At some point Patrick came over and put his arm around me, and that was when I realized I was silently crying once again. I realized then too that my calf was screaming even though submerged. This was not a prescribed burn, this was the result of a single spark, from a campfire that was not doused. A single spark, and my forest, the complex life around me, burned. One spark that ignited a pain in my heart for a world that would never be the same. How easy, to say, “good enough”, when leaving your campsite. How easy to say, “how sad” when the forest burns. But this was not easy. I felt more connected to this forest, my forest, more than ever before. I watched it burn before me while I stood, safe in the icy waters, and felt the pieces of me burning, too. My heart, catching fire, and turning to ash along with the trees who would not whisper sweet nothings into the air on a summer breeze, to the plants and bugs and animals that would cease to chatter. Perhaps I would cease to chatter next. I woke with a start, gasping for breath. My lungs did not meet smoke, my calf was not injured. A dream, just a dream. My forest was alive and well, and we were not burning. I touched my face and felt the smooth skin, stared at clean hands that had not been smeared with soot. I stretched my feet to feel my leg muscles work in tandem. We were not burning. But something was wrong, what started as a soft rumble in the distance was becoming louder, much too loud, much too fast. Like a growling beast, awake after a long slumber, prowling through a once silent wood. What was the sound? I unzipped my tent and stepped onto the pine needles. I stood tall and turned - to face the wall of flames heading for camp.

08juks

Gratitude

I step out of my cozy shed and enjoy a big stretch. The wonderfully scrumptious fish dinner is still keeping my belly happy, and today, I'm going to venture out to the outskirts of my territory, where I last spotted a precious prey. I haven't been around there in a while, so I must be cautious. Strutting through my usual route, I start to recall on how I found myself in my lovely situation. It was not too long ago when my mother left my siblings and me, “Go explore this wonderful world now, my dear children,” she said. And so, one by one, my siblings and I started to venture out a little further each day, carving out new territories; until one day, I suddenly realized that I was quite far away from where I was born, and there was no point in returning. The days went by quickly. I hunt when I please and I nap in the sun, constantly. I do pride myself on being a decent hunter, just like how Mother taught us. But one day, there was a constant pouring of rain, as if the sky was dumping buckets of water down at us, and I found myself cold and miserable and terribly hungry. I burrowed deep under some thick bushes to try to find a dry spot and came out the other side, into a nicely kept backyard. That was when I first spotted her. She saw me right away, then bent down and made the softest sounds I've ever heard a human make, gesturing her hand toward me. My first instinct was to dash, but I was drenched and helpless, so I sat and watched her cautiously. Mother had told us to be careful with humans; they are highly unpredictable, although some of them do enjoy engaging with us; the trick is to be able to tell them apart. After a while, she left and went inside the house, and I resumed my search for a dry spot to sleep. When I finally found shelter behind a garden Gnome who was holding a big mushroom over his head, I smelled something that instantly got my attention. The lady had gotten back out, and she set down a bowl under the awning. It smelled like food; like the most delicious food ever. Her eyes found me at my new spot, and she started making soft noises again. I really wanted to run over and devour whatever was in that bowl, but my mother's lessons kept me at bay; I watched the bowl, and I watched her. Perhaps my helpless desperation had registered with her as she walked away and left the bowl. Still, I waited a few moments before I gently walked over to the bowl; it was the best meal I'd ever had. I slept next to the Gnome, and when I woke up, I could smell that the bowl was filled again. Cautiously, I went over and ate some more of the yummiest food I've ever had. Then I saw her looking at me through her patio door, I instantly turned to start to run, but the scent of the food was so intoxicating that my feet were glued to the ground. Since she made no movements, I decided to keep eating. I'll just be on my way after I finish this, I said to myself. The sun was out again and I resumed my daily routine, but very quickly I found that the food I caught for myself was no longer satisfying. I ventured over to that backyard, feeling careful and hopeful. And there it was, the bowl filled with the most wonderful meat. This time I simply did a quick scan around me before I dived into the bowl. Satisfaction achieved. Afterward, the lady would leave me food in the bowl every day. Slowly, I began to think that she was one of the humans who liked us, and I started to let her come closer to me each day. One day, she was able to reach out her hand and set it on my head, she glided down her hand toward my back, and repeated this motion; It felt so soothing, like I was being groomed by Mother. I do believe I started purring rather quickly that day, which was a little embarrassing. And then, one day, she presented me with a shed. It is a shed that no cat will sneer at, just the right size for me to sprawl out or curl up inside, complete with warm blankets and cushions, and an entry that's designed for just me to get through. It was the best sleep I've ever had, and I greeted her the next morning with purrs and rubs. I think that pleased her, too, for she was making a lot of gentle sounds and petting me continuously. I think she might have named me that day. I jump on a fence and head towards the streets. At the end of this corner, I'll attempt to cross the street and enter an area that I'm not super familiar with. Crossing the street could be very dangerous business, but I'm on a mission today, and I will not settle for any mouse or squirrel. Surely, my lady deserves a gift with feathers. I jump down off the fence and run under a parked car. From under here, I peeked out to the street. Giant machines zoomed by, making lots of noises. Cars, I'm glad Mother had taught us how to look out for the signs of them coming or going. It's not too hard once you get the hang of listening to them. There are a few minutes when I couldn't hear anything, so I look to both sides and quickly dash to the other side of the street, under another parked car. From here, I could see my destination, an open space of grass, trees, and bushes. I walk along the bushes, keeping my ears open. And there it is, hopping around and pecking at the grounds, the feathers jolting tantalizingly. I instantly lower my body, and I slowly stalk from under the bushes. It hasn't noticed me yet, and I get closer. I observe its pattern of hopping and pecking. When I believe it has stopped for a moment before pecking again, I raise my behind and hind legs, wiggle it a little for good measure, and pounce directly onto the bird. Success. How wonderful. Holding the poor lifeless bird in my mouth, I start to head back. Through the parked car, and the same careful method to cross the street, onto the long fences, down to the bushes, and back into my backyard. I drop the bird in front of her patio door. I do believe it makes a fine present. I really hope she loves it. 

bg2mi5

Escape

“Come on Skylar! Hurry up!” Layla squeals at me from the bottom floor. I smile at her excitement and hurry down my stairs making sure not to trip. “I’m coming!” I yell back at her, when I finally reach the bottom I see Layla standing there with a smile on her face, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. “You're very slow at getting ready,” Layla laughs, I roll my eyes at her comment. “Whatever, let's just go I'm getting sick of waiting,” I grumble, Layla grabs my hand and drags me out of my house, she had come over to get ready here for my birthday. She told me there was a new escape room in town and we should go, I didn’t want to at first but she convinced me. I get into the driver's seat and Layla gets in the passenger seat, today is my seventeenth birthday, so Layla told me we had to go somewhere. I don’t exactly know why it’s so special, but she thinks it is. I suppose I don’t have a problem with going somewhere today, although it would have been more enjoyable to stay home and chill. “I’m so excited,” Layla bubbles next to me, I turn on the car and start driving, the wheels of the car screeching on the road “Yeah, me too,” I smile hoping my tone isn’t too monotone. It’s around midday when I pull the car into the parking lot. I hop out of the vehicle each step I take with a certain amount of excitement. Layla gets out of the vehicle slamming the door behind her with a loud thud. “Careful! I just got this car,” I complain as I shut my door with a much quieter thud. “It’s not that big of a deal Skylar, chill out,” Layla snickers, skipping towards the large building in front of us. I laugh to myself and rush to keep up with her. “Slow down Layla!” I grumble, Layla opens the door to the building and waits for me there with a smug expression. I roll my eyes in annoyance before stepping inside, the door slams shut and I walk to the front desk. Layla follows close behind me, a smile on her face accompanied by small dimples. “Two tickets please,” I hand over the money and she gives me the two tickets as requested. I smile and walk towards the entrance, Layla still behind me. I give Layla her ticket and we walk through the escape room entrance. I smile to myself as a large room appears in front of us, it looks as if it’s a cabin. I don’t exactly know how many rooms there are to go through, but I know it shouldn't take all day. A large fireplace sits across from the door against the wall, a table in front of it. The room feels quiet and cozy, like a real cabin. “Alright! Now time to look for clues to escape right?” Layla beams next to me, a bright smile on her face. “Right,” I step towards the fireplace searching atop the mantel. I glance behind me, Layla is searching the table that's filled with candles and plates, I turn back to the fireplace, now searching the crevices of the brick sides. My finger runs across a hole, an oddly shaped hole. As if a key would fit perfectly inside… before I can even say anything Layla speaks up. Layla flings papers everywhere, searching for something. She smiles. “Skylar, I found a key!” She holds up a key and I smile as well. “And I found a keyhole,” I run my finger across the brick again trying to find the hole once more. Once my finger finally runs across the familiar crater in the fireplace I look over at Layla. She hands me the key and I shove it into place, twisting it carefully. I hear a click, the fire turns off and the fireplace moves to the side. It has a horrible screech to it, I smile and grab Layla’s hand dragging her through the dark entrance that just opened up. The hallway we’re walking through is dark, but I see a red light in the distance. I can tell the hallway isn't too long though. Layla squeals in excitement behind me and I smile. I can’t remember the last time I saw her so happy. Her excitement is infectious as we step into a room with red fog surrounding us. “Woah…” I release Layla and start walking around the room, my shoes making quiet thuds on the soft ground as I walk. “This is so cool!” Layla grins rushing around the area excitedly. I smile and follow her, the room is filled with boxes, but I’m not exactly sure what we're looking for. “You search over there,” Layla points at one side of the room and starts searching the boxes on the opposite side. I follow her directions, opening a box. The box is filled with packing peanuts, I’m almost afraid to stick my hand in. I smile to myself searching through the box quickly, making sure not to make a huge mess. After searching various different-sized boxes, I switch to one of the larger ones, starting to search through it until my hand hits the bottom of the box, almost my whole arm is encased in the packing peanuts, and my hand moves around the bottom of the box. Then, only a moment later my hand hits something sticky . I blink, my hand immediately pulls out of the box, some sort of sticky substance on it. My expression turns to a grimace. “Layla…” I pause and she looks in my direction “Come here,” Layla walks over to me, a concerned expression on her face. “Reach into the box real quick,” Her concerned expression turns to a suspicious one, she looks at me for a long moment. Then she reaches into the box moving her hand around, then she pulls her hand out with such speed that I almost jump away. “Ew! What is that Skylar?” she pauses “Could you not have just told me instead of making me touch that!?” Layla gags and I nearly laugh, but I hold back for fear of getting slapped or something. “Sorry…” I mutter, “But what is that?” I say as if she’ll know. Layla reaches into the box again, then pulls her arm out with a repulsed expression. In her hand, is a key lathered in some sort of goop. “This is gross…” Layla gripes shaking her hand violently, goop flinging everywhere. “Well… did you find a keyhole?” I ask hoping she has, “No,” “Great… well let's start searching then….” I sigh, looking around, the red fog is making it extremely difficult to see. Although that is probably the point, I walk towards one of the walls, following it keeping my hand on it. Layla reluctantly follows me. The air has grown tense and the fog isn't helping. I feel a cold hand grip my shoulder and I jump forward. My eyes dart around the room before landing on a laughing Layla. “You should have seen your face!” She giggles and I roll my eyes in annoyance. “Whatever…” I grumble, scanning the room. My eyes catch on a divet in the wall, I quickly rush over to it. Layla follows close behind me when I finally reach it, there's a large dent in the wall, it's a perfectly round hole with a tree design in the middle. I run my hand across it, and I click something. A small hole is revealed, and a small smile tugs at my lips. “Layla,” I snap in her face to get her attention, she's still holding the slimy key in her hands. I point at the hole in the wall. She stares at it for a moment before smiling and putting the key in. It takes a few tries to twist the key, but eventually, she's successful. A loud thunk goes off next to us, I whip my head around to see a large wooden board on the ground, and above it on the wall, a very large opening large enough to fit a person. I smile and grab Layla’s hand, dragging her through the hole. Although I’m starting to feel off about this whole situation, I put the thought aside. I look behind me at Layla, who also looks a little off-put. The new tunnel leads into a bedroom, one bed, a nightstand, and… a toy box. I’m not sure if they meant for this to be creepy or not, but it sure is freaking me out. “Skylar,” Layla looks over at me her expression unreadable. “Yea?” “Are you getting a bad feeling about this too?” Layla asks me, I look over at her. “Yea…” I mutter, “Well I guess we should start searching so we can get out of here..” Layla nods in agreement. “Uhm.. you can do the chest…” Layla decides without my permission, I grimace but start towards the chest anyway. I reluctantly open it, it's filled with children's toys… I shudder, remembering all the stupid horror movies I’ve watched in the past. But do I regret it? Not even a little bit. I carefully dig through the chest, I’m afraid, to say the least. And I think Layla is just the same as me, I keep digging. When I finally reach the bottom of the chest I reluctantly start searching it, shoving children's toys out of the way. My heart is pounding as if something is going to jump out and tear my face off, although I’m very aware that is highly unlikely. I eventually reach the bottom, hesitantly running my hand across the flooring of the chest. A stinging pain in my finger, I grab whatever just poked me and immediately pull my hand out of the chest stepping back and nearly tripping over myself. I’m holding a key, with a needle attached to the other end. “Um…” I pause, thinking “Layla?” I look over at Layla, who is messing with the bedside table. “Yea?” She grumbles going through the drawers. “I found a key,” A small droplet of blood forms on the tip of my finger. “Oh good!” Layla bubbles, I smile, although I’m not exactly happy at this moment. This situation is starting to feel really wrong, but we can’t exactly go back now… Layla is still messing with the bedside table, I’m waiting for her to say something else but I have a feeling that's not going to happen. “So… you found a keyhole?” I ask hoping for confirmation that I’m right. “Yea, no,” Layla mutters kicking the table a few times. I sigh walking up behind her quietly, making sure not to startle her. I rest my hand on the side of the bedside table, thoughts rushing through my mind at an almost alarming pace. I grab the edge of it and tug, Layla seems to get the idea and helps me pull the table away from the wall. There’s an outline of a very small door through the wallpaper, I look at the key I’m still gripping tightly and take the needle's end, running it on the wallpaper, it tearing as I do so. I glance over at Layla who's half frowning. Now that I’ve removed the wallpaper there's a keyhole visible. I hold the key by the needle end and stick it inside, twisting it carefully. There’s no doubt that this is getting stranger by the room… With a gurgling scream, the door creaks open, Layla and I share glances at each other before she enters first. The door is so small we have to crawl through, the sides of the tunnel press against my body tightly, and it’s horrifying. The ground beneath us feels hollow as if we are going to fall right through. “Layla…” I mutter, she freezes, shifting her attention to me “This isn't right,” “I know… let's just get this through and done with then we can go home…” Layla's voice doesn't match her expression, her face screams unsettled, but her voice is calm. Oh, how I wish I could stay calm in a situation like this. We crawl into a new room, they seem to be getting increasingly smaller, I’m not even sure if we have a time limit anymore. I think I’d rather not, seeing all the movies where the time runs out and everyone dies… I don’t even think I’ve seen one of those though. This is a completely irrational fear, or so I think. I’m not quite sure what to believe anymore. This time the room is dark, the only light is the cameras in the corners of each room. A shiver runs through my spine. I do not want to be here anymore. Layla steps into the room and I follow close behind. “Hold my hand,” Layla mutters in front of me, our hands struggle to find each other in the dark before finally latching together tightly. Layla puts her hand on the wall, walking around the outline of the room. I follow behind her, my grip tightening on her hand. If I weren't holding onto Layla so tightly my hand would probably be trembling. “This isn’t fun anymore…” I mutter to Layla, who is still walking around the room. Suddenly she halts, and I walk straight into her. “A door…” Layla mumbles in front of me, suddenly a light that surely wasn't there before catches my eye. A door, red light seeping through the cracks and spilling onto the floor. My eyes widen slightly, I’m not sure if I’m scared or wowed. “Let's go,” Layla hurries towards the door, my hand nearly slipping out of hers. “Slow down Layla!” I pause, “We don’t even know what's in there! It could be the wrong door for all we know!” I protest, not wanting to get us killed. “Relax Skylar! Nothing is going to happen!” She grumbles walking up to the door, I reluctantly follow. She cracks the door open, peaking inside. Before she swings it open with such force it bangs against the wall loudly. I nearly jump out of my skin. “Layla!” I whisper harshly as we walk inside. “I didn’t do anything!” She denies it, though her expression is smug. “Look…” I pause, “Can we please just focus on the current task?” “Fine…” Layla grumbles releasing my hand. This room thankfully has a light, but the room is smaller than the rest… I don’t exactly know why but I have a horrible feeling about this room. I hear gears clicking around the room. My eyes quickly dart around the room, but nothing strange catches my attention… “What was that?” Layla asks as if I have a single clue. “Why would I know!” I huff. “I-I don’t know!” Layla splutters, her hands in the air. I sigh then gears click again, my body stiffens as I listen closely looking around the room. The walls are closing in. My eyes widen and I glance at Layla, who has the same expression as me. I shudder moving to the middle of the room. Layla is standing next to me. “W-What do we do?!” My voice cracks in fear as I speak, Layla looks at me. “We have to find a way out!” Layla looks around. The walls are getting closer and closer to squishing us into sandwiches. My eyes catch on a vent, and a small smile tugs at my lips, but I force the little bit of hope that I’m feeling deep down. “Layla, the vent!” I utter quickly, Layla glances at the vent. “No that won't work, we have to try something else,” She ushers looking around. “Skylar stay close to me!” Layla grabs my hand, and I grip hers tightly. The walls are only a few feet away from us. I suck my breath in trying to make myself smaller. The walls are pressing against our bodies now. I look over at Layla. “Layla…” I stop for a moment, thinking “Just know you were the best friend I ever had…” I force a smile onto my face as I look at her. A hole opens up in the walls light spilling through it, it's big enough for a person to fit through… “That's my cue, by the way, Skylar, we were never friends,” My eyes widen and she crawls through the hole, she gives a smug smirk as the hole closes behind her… and then I fall through into a pit, swallowed by the dark. As I plummet into the abyss, Layla’s betrayal carves a deeper scar than the fear of the unknown darkness engulfing me. The last image seared into my mind is her cold, unfeeling smirk. My eyes close as I remember all the fun things we had done together, all the fake things. My heart burns with pain as I hit the ground, my breath taken away from me. A small tear falls down my cheek as I take my final breath.

3ps6kl

Professor Tenpenny's Court-Ordered Gratitude

Dear Mr. Camden: I have written you this letter to express my deep, abiding, and court-ordered gratitude. To accommodate your stipulated unwillingness to notice, obey, or acknowledge the existence of obvious and clearly-written caution signs with well-illustrated pictographs, I have crafted this letter in the form of a list so that your goldfish-like attention span may be able to digest it. I took this measure of consideration in light of your insistence upon receiving a letter of gratitude from me, in the hope you might endeavor to read these pages, even though you did not read far simpler postings which could have circumvented this entire debacle. This hope of mine is sobered by skepticism, however, as you went to extraordinary lengths to ignore my verbal and written testimony in the numerous court proceedings that resulted in this ludicrous judgment upon me. 1.     I am thankful that the judge who presided over our bench trial, despite ruling in your favor, was lenient in her sentencing and furthermore did not order me to show any remorse in this letter. 2.     I am thankful that the sole requirements of this letter are total sincerity and to refrain from any foul language—an obstacle easily overcome by my colossal and creative vocabulary. 3.     I am thankful that you will spend an inordinate amount of time consulting a dictionary (which I assume will an internet search engine, as you do not strike me as the sort of person who owns a book because you have shown no hint of intellect nor the curiosity required to develop one) to comprehend this letter, a process which will doubtless be tedious and painful for you. 4.     I am thankful that you may have given up after the first paragraph and, though I might be denied my satisfaction of recounting the true prelude to our bitter legal dispute, you could well be thwarted in the satisfaction of having made me write this letter. 5.     I am thankful to have emerged alive from the events of the day in question, especially in light of your dogged commitment to exacerbating circumstances in ways so inconceivably asinine that the best (or worst) writers could not contrive to script it. 6.     I am thankful to have fulfilled my lifelong dream of visiting Yellowstone National Park, where I indulged in the land’s breathtaking scenery whilst graced with clear skies and temperate summer weather until I had the misfortune of crossing your path on the final day of my visit. 7.     I am thankful that, prior to that day, I had never heard of you, your YouTube channel, or your reputation for entertaining your followers with “full-contact content.” 8.     I am thankful that the bison calf was not injured and immediately bucked you off when you foolishly attempted to climb onto its back for the purpose of riding it (as later reported by other witnesses, contrary to your insistence that you shattered any records previously held by the world’s premier rodeo professionals). 9.     I am thankful that you will not profit from any footage you captured, as there was insufficient cellular signal for you to livestream, and you dropped your phone upon realizing the calf’s herd had perceived you as a threat to its young and scores of bison were stampeding toward you. 10. I am thankful that the calf trampled your $200 limited-edition, blue-lensed, mirrored aviator sunglasses that you whined and blubbered about during our narrow escape. 11. I am thankful that I had an hour to use my new camera, which the university where I am tenured gifted to me for my thirty years of service, before you, in your flight from certain death, spotted me standing next to my car (on the properly marked trail, near one of the ubiquitous signs which advised tourists not to approach the wildlife) and screamed for my help. 12. I am thankful that the lead bison (which I like to believe was the calf’s mother), upon catching up to you, headbutted you in the backside with such impressive force and momentum that you flew far enough ahead of the oncoming herd that we had sufficient distance to get into the car before they were upon us. 13. I am thankful that, during your short and frankly amusing flight, your custom channel-branded ballcap, which you of course were wearing backward, fluttered off you like a bird glad to be quit of the gel-slicked follicle forest you call a hair style. 14. I am thankful that it was a large, steaming pile of fresh bison dung that broke your fall and preserved you from significant injury, and not merely a conveniently-placed lump of mud as you initially pretended despite all olfactory evidence. 15. I am thankful that, when you realized you had dropped your phone and turned to retrieve it, claiming you could simply “run between” the approaching bison because “that footage is worth, like, a billion views,” I had the presence of mind to punch you squarely in the nose for your own good. 16. I am thankful that you were too stunned to struggle when I shoved you into the backseat of my car, as the bison were by then so close their approach could have been mistaken for a weak earthquake. 17. I am thankful that the child locks on my vehicle engage automatically, so you were unsuccessful in exiting the car to recover your phone before I could drive away, and I did not have to see you gored and trampled to death which—however richly deserved it might have been on your part—would have been a scarring experience for me. 18. I am thankful that I did not lose control of the car when you clambered haphazardly into the front seat (nearly kicking me in the face in the process) to escape via the passenger door while shouting you could easily “tuck and roll” without me stopping if I were “too chicken-[ expletive omitted ]” to brake. 19. I am thankful that, once you opened the door, you realized I had accelerated to a speed great enough to provide virtually no chance of survival if you leapt from the car, and so you gave up on that course of action and closed the door again. 20. I am thankful that you did not kill us both when you next attempted to seize control of the steering wheel to turn the car around because, in your estimation, “that footage was worth more than both our lives.” 21. I am thankful that we didn’t crash head-on into the singularly magnificent Lodgepole pine in front of us when I removed one hand from the steering wheel long enough to punch you in the nose again (which I still contend, despite judicial findings otherwise, was self-defense). 22. I am thankful that I broke your nose, and in so doing discouraged you from any further attempts to wrest control of the car from me. 23. I am thankful that the rush of adrenaline I experienced, my tunnel vision on the road, and the tumultuous thundering hooves of the bison chasing us drowned out most of your moaning about your sunglasses, your hat, your phone, how “lame” I was for “kidnapping” you during the “best video ever filmed,” and other complaints too unintelligible to decipher once you realized you were, in fact, covered in bison feces. 24. I am thankful that the bison gave up their pursuit after a few miles once we were out of their territory and the threat to their young was removed. 25. I am thankful that my car was not damaged beyond the stains from your soiled clothing, which were fortunately removed by professional car detailing services the next day. 26. I am thankful that the park rangers who witnessed our escape believed my explanation that I had no idea who you were and was involved only by ill-fated happenstance, despite your wild fabrications that I was entirely at fault for having “forced you to do it,” which I can only assume was a ridiculous revenge scheme for my breaking your nose and preventing you from regaining your phone. 27. I am thankful that you were heavily fined and banned from ever returning to the park. 28. I am thankful that the park rangers restrained me from hitting you a third time when you, after hearing my protestations that I had never heard of your channel and found your chosen profession of “influencing” preposterous, became irate and told me, and I quote, “Bro, you should be thanking me. You’re going to be famous now.” (I am thankful, that is, not for being denied the gratification of hitting you, but that I have received this light sentence due to the fact I struck you only in the context of saving you from your own stupidity and audacity.) 29. I am thankful that the bison calf was not rejected by its herd after you terrorized it, so that it did not have to be euthanized. 30. I am thankful your phone was later found smashed to pieces so small they could have been used as confetti. 31. I am thankful that your self-proclaimed “celebrity” did not, as you assumed, supersede the laws which forbade you from suing me, the park, the rangers, or the bison (which should not have had to be explained to you) for restitution for the value of your soiled clothing, your sunglasses, your hat, your phone, the perceived (and highly contested) value of the lost footage, or your medical expenses for the fractured coccyx you sustained from the aforementioned headbutting. 32. I am thankful that, when the court ruled I had indeed assaulted you because Good Samaritan laws do not protect volunteer (I use the term “volunteer” loosely) rescuers when they punch the victim (with “victim” loose to the point of farcical) in the face, the judge regardless admonished you for your sense of entitlement and refused to award the compensatory damages you asked for the medical treatment of your broken nose or the punitive damages for “intentional infliction of emotional distress” you alleged to have suffered when I “unlawfully imprisoned” you in my vehicle. 33. I am thankful that you are so stupefyingly narcissistic that, when you received no financial award for your suit, you demanded this letter of gratitude as my sentence in lieu of the letter of apology the judge suggested, which I would have rather served jail time than have written. 34. I am thankful that, when you leveraged your “platform” to bring notoriety to this fiasco with the express mission of getting me “canceled so hard” that the University would be forced to fire me despite my tenure, you instead raised the attention of your sponsors and followers to your endangerment of a bison calf, and as a result your channel was severely demonetized. 35. I am thankful that National Geographic magazine has paid me handsomely for the photo I accidentally captured of you sprinting toward me, your face a mask of sheer terror as a herd of apoplectic bison pursued you, dust rising around their hooves like sulfuric smoke, as if your idiocy had accidentally broken loose ravening beasts from the very gates of hell. 36. I am thankful that the photograph will be on the front cover of the magazine and tie in to a feature article about the troubling trend of so-called influencers targeting innocent animals as their subject matter and that trend’s consequences both for the humans and the poor creatures they exploit. 37. I am thankful that the image I captured has, in your turn of phrase, “gone viral” and has garnished millions of views internationally and made you a “meme” that is globally mocked and chastised. 38. I am thankful for the celebrity I now enjoy, as the photo has drawn attention to my amateur photography website, and I have received an influx of offers from local vendors who wish to sell my photos on canvas in their establishments, which is quickly developing into a reliable passive income. And so, Mr. Camden, your proclamations that I should be the one to thank you and that I would see fame as a result of your miscreancy have borne out equally prophetic and ironic. I hope this court-ordered letter of gratitude—which cost only a few hours of my time and proved unexpectedly cathartic in its creation—has brought you enlightenment. I assure you that, when I brought it with me to the pub for my friends to review, you generated hours of rip-roaring laughter and eye-wiping merriment. In the years to come, when your name and brand have long-since faded into obscurity, the photo of you fleeing those bison will hang large over my mantle as a conversation piece and a reminder of all these things for which I am ever so grateful. Very, very, very, very sincerely yours, Professor Charles Tenpenny, Ph.D.

0dl2uw

Twin Adventure: A Spirit, A Dream, A Deliverance

An invisible hand grabbed Sadie’s leg, dragging her to the edge of her tiny twin-sized bed. “Sean!” Sadie hollered.               Her fourteen-year-old twin leapt to her aid. “Sadie,” he said the same time as the door busted open and their grandmother Keturah entered their bedroom.               “You, unclean spirit, get out of my house in the name of Jesus!” Grandma Keturah commanded.               Sadie could feel the moment the creature released her, and the dark, oppressive atmosphere shifted but that wasn’t before she heard the words communicated, “I’ll be back.” She’d shuddered at the sound of the menacing voice, speaking to her spirit, but was happy to be rescued from its sinister plot.               As soon as the ordeal was over, she sprung from her bed and into her grandmother’s awaiting arms. “How’d you know?” Sadie asked.               “A grandma always knows,” grandma Keturah said.               Sadie stiffened. Did she know about the adventures Sean and Sadie had been on? Did that mean she was also aware of Sadie’s run in with a taxi, Jarvis, Sadie’s former crush, Yael, the cherub, the giant they had fought and Sadie’s showdown with the demonic prince called Molech. If so, how did she know? How could she know? She was never present any of their meetings or battles or was she?               The walls of the house were made of concrete and the panel doors were sturdy and strong. Sean and Sadie had also been discreet in their discussions and had concealed two out of three weapons, which comprised a slingshot – the slingshot that former King David of Israel had used to kill Goliath, a nine feet giant, and a ring that could vanquish giants and seal heavenly decrees. The third was a power packed camera that could nemeses temporarily blind. Sadie kept that one around her neck for it was a gift from her dad. Yael, the cherub, who’d scared her and Sean out of their socks the night they met, had added the power to Sadie’s camera.               “Let me pray over you so you can get some rest,” grandma Keturah said. She brought out a bottle of olive oil, Sadie hadn’t realized she’d had with her. She then anointed their heads while repeating Psalm 23, a Psalm of King David, from the King James Version of the Bible. She then prayed over them and remained with them until they fell asleep on their respective beds.               It was the best sleep Sadie had in days. Both her and Sean were sent by their parents to spend the summer holiday with their grandmother, Keturah, in Linstead, a rural district in the parish of Saint Catherine in Jamaica. The parish boasted fruit trees, lots of ground provisions and were known to have quite a number of farmers. The twin spent their days with Sean reading and Sadie snapping pictures. Sometimes they would help Grandma Keturah in her large garden, although she had workers and would occasionally take on a mentee as her way of giving back to the district. Grandma Keturah had specialized in selling callaloos and so her neighbours and even supermarkets would come to her for their supply.               It was in the midst of that life that they encountered a mystical rainbow flower that had turned their lives around. They were visited by a cherub by the name of Yael, who had told them that they had to send a demon back into the fabric of time. He’d visited a week ago with a second assignment. It was to help break a curse off the most powerful family in Linstead, the Richardsons. The twins were successful in both ventures. But Sadie had been left with the nightmares of the events. Last night, the nightmares were capped off with a diabolic encounter.               What did it mean by it would be back? Sadie’s fork danced around the ackee and saltfish and fried dumpling on her plate, Jamaica’s national dish, while she gazed out the window at the sun lighting up the morning. It was a calm and serene day but her stomach was in knots and her throat felt constricted.               “Do you want that?” Sean’s light brown eyes were hopeful as he stared at the barely touched breakfast. She glared at him, with eyes the replica of his. Unlike her, he’d been able to sleep, read, eat and crack jokes like their worlds hadn’t been turned upside down. A stab of envy pierced her chest but then she recalled he hadn’t experienced a near fall to his death, neither had he battled Molech, the baby eating demon; although, had it not been for his singing over her as she slept, she would have died in her sleep. With all the recent uproar, she wished she could say, “It was all a dream.” That simply wouldn’t be true.               “What’s the matter, my sweets?” her grandmother asked her and Sadie had the urge to fling her arms around her neck and curl up in her granny’s lap like she used to do when she was much younger.               “Life,” Sadie said with a sad smile.               Her grandmother chortled. “You’re only fourteen and you sound like that already. Imagine what will happen when you get to my age.”               “If I get to your age.”               “Don’t sound like that precious. Here, let grandma cheer you up.” Grandma Keturah donned a pair of glasses, got up from the chair and walked to a breakfront, where she retrieved her Bible. She opened the book and read, “Psalm 42.” She read the scripture from start to finish. Sadie closed her eyes and allowed the words to wash over her soul.               “Better?” Grandma Keturah asked.               Sadie nodded. She hadn't completely recovered from her doldrums but it had helped a little. Grandma Keturah clapped her hands, surprising the twins. “Great! Grab your swimsuits. We’re going to the river today."              "No way!" Sean said, standing up.              Grandma Keturah grinned. "Yes way. Finish up your breakfasts and go get dressed. Our ride will be here in an hour. "               Soon after they had breakfast, Sean and Sadie grabbed their beach bags and proceeded to pack their items. Along with her swimsuit, Sadie packed her camera and the ring.               She glanced in her brother’s bag. He’d packed his trunks, a towel and some marbles for sports. “Where’s your slingshot?” she asked.               He snatched the bag from her hand. “I won’t need it.”                “You don’t know that.”               “Sadie, you’re being paranoid.”               “No, I’m not.” She glanced around her and saw the slingshot in a pile of clothes sticking out in a corner. So much for being discrete!               She marched over to it and snatched it up. “Is this any way to care for a God given weapon?” She dropped it into his bag.               “That’s it. I’m telling Yael and Jarvis, no more mission. They need to find other kids because you can’t handle it.”               “I’m fine!” she yelled. “I can handle it.”               “Then why are you yelling?” he asked, his voice held no judgment, only confusion and that made Sadie even more perplexed.               “I don’t know,” she said and then she started to cry.               “Are you on your period?”               She shook her head in the negative. She'd thought she was better, even if a little, after Grandma Keturah had read a little of the Bible but she couldn't shake the mass of dread forming in the pit of her tummy. “I’m scared and – and I feel heavy, sad and confused.”               Sean sighed and opened his arms to his sister. Sadie hugged him and then proceeded to wail like a baby. ***** The Rio Cobre river was long, winding and calm. Sadie longed to dive into it and ease the tension built from some of the most awful experiences she’d ever witnessed.               Her, Grandma Keturah and Sean weren’t the only ones at the river. Quite a few families had come to the river to get away from the sweltering heat.               No sooner had they arrived than Sean found some boys to play a ball game while Sadie changed into her swimsuit and headed to the river.               “Sadie,” her grandmother called. “Wait until you have company before you go in.”               “Okay.”               “Oh, Sadie.”               “Yes, Grandma.”               “I didn’t call you baby.”               “Sadie.” Sadie spun in the direction of her grandmother’s voice but her grandmother was busy talking to a lady a little further down the river bank.               “Down here,” the voice said.               Sadie rotated into the direction of the water, her heart in her throat. There in the water, a mossy green face stared back at her.               “Come on home, sweetie,” the creature sang. Sadie locked eyes with black devilish eyes and stepped into the clear water.               The last thing she heard was her grandmother calling her name before she went under. ***** Sean was watching his sister. He couldn’t tell the last time he’d seen her breakdown the way she had done that morning. He watched as she jogged to the water. She appeared happy. Good, he thought.               “Sean,” his new teammate called. He caught the ball then sent it flying through the makeshift goal post.               A scream had him springing into action.  A little girl stood near where he’d last seen Sadie, shaking and screaming, “Mermaid, mommy, mermaid!”               “My granddaughter! Help!” Grandma Keturah exclaimed.               “Sadie!” he heard himself calling repeatedly as terror gripped his heart.               “Mermaid,” the little girl continued to scream even as her mother shushed her.               “Stop the nonsense.”               He stopped short when he got to the river. A grotesque creature with half body and half tail was carrying his sister under water, downstream. Her body was atop the water like a stiff corpse and the creature was carrying her beneath. Though his limbs weren’t touching her body, it was clear he was using some mystical power to carry her along.               A mermaid , he thought.               The sight of his sister’s lifeless form had him diving for the water except his feet didn’t leave the ground. Someone was holding him from behind.               “Let me go!” he screamed.               “Easy yute,” a male voice said. “If you go in there you’re going to die.”               He trembled as tears streamed down his face. “My sister.”               “Will live,” the man said, he pointed at three divers who had gone into the water after his sister.               The creature raised up from under the water. It was a broad fellow, with a leaf at the side of his head and he was angry. The water started to foam and froth throwing off his sister’s rescuers. The man’s hand around Sean slackened and Sean manoeuvred himself out of his grip and started for his slingshot, which was in his beach bag.               “That’s not how you take that one a marine spirit,” his grandmother said. His grandmother erupted into a language that he hadn’t heard her speak before and Sadie stopped moving and began to change direction. The creature, noticing his captive was no longer under his spell, glared in their direction. He then opened his mouth and howled. A ring of sound waves protruded from his mouth and in the direction of Sean and Grandma Keturah. The clear sky darkened and wind began to swirl around them.               Persons raced to collect their belongings while others clung to each other and asked, “What is that?”               Grandma Keturah stood, unmoveable and Sean clung to her as she continued her speaking.  She then raised her hand. The sky parted and a light shone from heaven vanquishing the mermaid devil. The river calmed and the men reached his sister, who had awoken from her stupor and started to flap about in the water.               Sean stared in wide eyed wonder at his grandmother Keturah. “Grandma,” he said.               “I’ve always hated mermaids,” she said. “They got the world thinking they’re some good creatures when it was their god, Dagon who took out Samson’s eyes.” Sean nodded like he understood what she was saying.  She smiled and touched his cheek. “Let’s go tend to your sister,” she said.               As the men carried her ashore, Sadie could be heard regaling her rescuers with tale of a merman who had kidnapped her.               “Poor thing hit her head,” said one the men.               “Grandma it’s true,” Sadie said. “Sean, you believe me. Don’t you?”               He hugged her then whispered in her ear, “I believe you. Grandma knows it’s true. She fought the spirit.”               Sadie eased away from her brother. “Grandma, d-did you?”               “I wasn’t born yesterday, child,” she said. “Spiritual warfare is a normal part of a Christian’s life. It’s just that some of us are more exposed than some. We are from a family of seers.” Seers . Now that was a word that they hadn’t heard before.               “Yes,” Grandma Keturah said. “We see with our eyes open, by way of dream or vision, things that exist in the other dimensions or things to come. It’s a gift but it also has many burdens.”               “Tell me about it.” Sadie shivered               “Let’s get you a towel,” Grandma Keturah said.               Sean snuggled deeper into his sheet then shot up out the bed. All around him was dark and he was in bed. A smile graced his lips.  It was all a dream. Sadie being attacked. The mermaid. Grandma. The Angel. The deliverance.               Sadie screamed. “Let go off me. Sean!”

jfkcji

You Are What You See

Stud muffin, an absolute stud muffin. George admires himself in the mirror. His big powerful arms, broad and defined. His tall bulky body that resembles his father’s. His long thick beard that hugs his chiseled jawline. He flexes his arms, causing his biceps to pop out further, and then turns his body to see his backside. Pleased with himself, he straightens his hat and descends the stairs of his huge three-story house. At the bottom, he is greeted by Amelia. “Good morning, beautiful.” “Good morning daddy.” He lifts the little girl gleefully into the air, spinning around causing her to scream in delight. With a kiss to the top of her head, he lowers back to the floor. He watches blissfully as she waddles away. George continues to the kitchen to greet his son and wife. Jr. is at the kitchen table enjoying a smorgasbord breakfast. He joins in, quickly devouring his favorites, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. He savors a cup of coffee and fills a travel cup for later. Sitting back in his chair satisfied, he admires his wife. Her beautiful blond hair that’s just like his mother’s, sharp blue eyes that can see a person’s soul. She is always attentive to his needs and nurturing to the children. How lucky he is to have such a beautiful family, how blessed to have such a lavish home. With longing in his heart, he kisses each one goodbye. A man’s gotta do what a man's gotta do. That’s what his daddy always tells him, and a man has to provide for his family. He grabs the lunch his wife prepared earlier that morning and heads to work. He is a third generation truck driver and proud of it. A man can learn a lot about himself when he’s all alone on the road, his daddy always said. When the only company you have is yourself, you have plenty of time to take a good long look at yourself. Some men can handle it, some can’t. Excitement bubbles inside of him as he steps up inside the big rig. He slides into the captain's seat and places his lunch pail on the passenger side. He grips the steering wheel with both hands and bounces on the seat. With a turn of a key and shift of a gear, away he goes down the road to the delivery point. This time he is carrying a whole truckload of LEGOs to the local orphanage. Each set a perfect little gift for a sad, lonely child in need of a little joy. He pulls up to the large brick building and aligns his truck up to the base of the crane. He climbs down from the semi truck and up into the derrick deck.  With ease he maneuvers the crane to pick up the packages one by one and stacks them in front of the waiting children as they cheer him along. When he is finished, each one grabs a box and rushes back inside. George chuckles at the thought of by morning time the walls will be bursting with LEGO creations and smiling faces. With a wave goodbye to the few children that remain, he climbs back into his truck and starts onto the road once again.His next stop is along a river front to enjoy the lunch his lovely wife made for him. While eating, he calls home to his family. “Hello dear, how is your day going?” “My day is going great Georgie, how is your day?” “Another wonderful day of delivering toys to needy children. Next, I will be taking a load of vegetables to the supermarket.” “ How exciting!” “ How are the children?” “ They are well, missing you, of course.” “ Yes of course. As always, I will be home for dinner. Can you make my favorite tonight, please?” “ Meat loaf for dinner, it will be. Don’t forget we are going to the beach this weekend, the whole family.” “ How could I forget? I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks! I have to go now, dear. I will see you shortly.” George hangs up the phone as he takes the last bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He types in his destination into his navigation and pulls back onto the road. One load of veggies to the supermarket and his day is done. While on his way home, he stops to treat himself with a chocolate milkshake after a hard day’s work. The weekend rolls around and he spends the day at the beach with his family. Little Amilia pitter patters around playing in the sand, making castles while Jr. splashes in the waves. Darlene and George sit on the beach blanket, wrapped up in each other’s arms. He loves little moments like these, when the kids are smiling and so is his lovely wife. He blinks and he’s back at home, the day drawing to an end. With a kiss goodnight and a long bed-time story, each child is tucked into their beds for the night. He silently closes the door behind him and exits their rooms. The next morning, he rises early to plan for the day. Today he is going skydiving for the first time ever! He grabs a quick cup of coffee and a piece of toast and he heads out the door. His belly rumbles for something more, but food and skydiving rarely go well together. He jumps into his jeep wrangler and drives to the airport some thirty miles away. Next, he climbs aboard a twin-engine plane and is greeted by the pilot. “ Hi, my name is Max. I will be your instructor today. First, let’s get your parachute on you.” George steps forward as Max places the heavy book bag on his back and connects the straps around his legs and mid section. “Once you jump, count to 20 and pull this cord. Counting ensures you are far enough away from the engines that it won’t suck you in. If that happens it will be certain death. If you wait too long to pull the cord, you will probably die on impact. If that parachute fails, you have a backup right here.” Max pointed to a little orange rope tethered to the shoulder strap.  “When landing, do a parachute landing fall, touch down on the balls of your feet, then shift your weight to your calves, outer thighs, and back." Max demonstrates as he speaks. " "This maneuver helps absorb impact. Or you can tuck and roll, but I’ve seen attempts at that maneuver not go so well for beginners. Instead of rolling, they just kind of stick to the ground. Avoid looking directly down at the ground, as this will cause it to appear as if it is speeding toward you quicker than it really is. Look at about 45 degrees up from the ground and it will be a smoother ride. Are you ready?” George shakes his head yes and throws himself out of the plane. Butterflies swirl in his stomach as he glides through the air. One alligator, two alligator, three alligator. He counts all the way to 20 and then counts a couple more just to be sure he didn't rush. He pulls the cord on his parachute. The air catches it as it unravels and tugs him upward just for a moment. A bird's-eye view awestruck George as he soaks in the scenery. Everything looks so small and unrecognizable. His jeep is all but a little yellow speck on the ground. The rows of corn fields he passed on the way here appear to be blades of grass. The roadway looks like a tiny thin line drawn on the landscape.  Locking his eyes at roughly 45 degrees George repeats Max’s instructions in his head and prepares for landing. The balls of his feet touch down and he shifts his weight to spread out the impact. Just like he had seen in the movies, he lands gracefully and guides his parachute to the ground behind him. “Earth to Georgie, Earth to Georgie, come in Georgie, it’s time to leave the imagination station and come for lunch.” George’s mother says. “ Aww man.” George replies as he climbs out of the cardboard box. He follows her to this kitchen and sits down at the table to enjoy his favorite lunch, peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “ Where did you travel to today?” “ I was skydiving in Ohio.” “ Ohio, wow, how fascinating. I think I would be too scared to sky dive. What was it like?” “ It’s a piece of cake.” George repeats the instructions Max gave him.” It really was exhilarating.” She smiles at the little 8-year-old before her and marvels at his creativity. He has managed to travel the whole world without ever leaving the living room. She loves hearing about his little adventures and listens earnestly. One day all too soon, the conversations won't be so child-like.  

o0e26l

The Farm

The CIA never confirmed it, but Daria Ahmadi knew her ability to speak fluent Farsi is what led to her recruitment. Six months out of Ohio State, having sent hundreds of unanswered job applications, she had been working at her parents' Subway sandwich shop in Minneapolis when the US government flew her to Washington DC for an interview. Three weeks later, she was at ‘The Farm’, deep in the Virginia woods, training on how to be an intelligence officer. She learned how to tail targets without being seen, how to collect dead drops, mastered all sorts of firearms. Despite passing every test, the ex-military members of her training class looked at her, with her Middle Eastern features and petite Persian stature, with scorn. But she refused to wilt under their disdain. A year later, when most of those grunts were sitting on dusty hilltops in Afghanistan watching drone strikes, Daria attended embassy receptions. Language skills turned out to be more valuable for a spy than anything the military teaches. On one afternoon, under the chandeliers of the Malaysian embassy in Cairo, Daria surveyed the odd assortment of guests gathered: bored businessmen, salespeople looking for customers, employees of the other minor embassies in Cairo, who mostly didn’t have anything else to do. Her target was Colonel Ghasemi, an Iranian air force officer likely in Cairo to oversee their back channel tech imports. The microchips in Iran's drones were all from American factories. Her backup, Jacob, an Ivy League trust fund type, stood across the room. She looked past Jacob’s shoulder and played with her earring–their agreed upon signal for assistance. He adjusted his tie in response, which meant, y ou’re on your own. Typical. No one in the room would have connected their gestures, but they might have seen the flash of worry in Daria’s face. The Ivy League grads in the CIA like Jacob confused her with their strange form of elitism. When something was important, like a job review or a promotion, they pretended as if they didn’t care. When something wasn't significant at all, such as the type of sushi they ate, or the yoga they did, they acted as if it was the most important thing in the world. While Jacob drank and traded jokes with Arab guests, Daria turned her attention back to Colonel Ghasemi. The deal she was offering him was a tough sell. Risk life in prison to give Iranian government secrets to America. She reapplied her lipstick in a mirror. Be fearless . She repeated her mantra to herself, the one she told herself every morning in the mirror. She approached the Colonel, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor. “A fellow Persian speaker in Cairo?” she asked, her voice cheerful yet measured. “It’s a pleasure.” The Colonel turned, his smile warm and genuine. “Salam. Indeed, it is. What brings you to this beautiful city?” “Business.” Daria brushed her hair back, making sure the Colonel could see the lack of a wedding ring. “Then back to Tehran next week.” Persian men paid attention to her. Daria’s mother was from Tehran, and her father from Greece. Her face was familiar, but exotic enough to elicit their curiosity. “Tehran! Lucky you. Syria for me….” He winked. “A military man’s life is not always glamorous” Daria laughed softly, touching his arm. “Speaking of the military, I have a cousin at Hamedan University studying nuclear engineering. Perhaps you know of any research institutes hiring graduates? It would be a big help.” The Colonel took her business card, one for a supposed Tehran real estate broker. “For a patriotic Iranian, I would be happy to help,” he said. “Sepas gozaram,” Daria replied, her voice full of gratitude. “Khodahafez.” The Colonel nodded, and turned back to his other guests. Daria backed off, confident she had planted the hooks to receive a response from the Colonel, probably about a few days from now. Men need to believe they are making their own decisions. And he was an ENTJ personality, narcissistic tendencies, susceptible to flattery. She memorized his case file. Intelligence gathering was farming. Planting seeds, and collecting the fruits of her labor afterward. Male operators often bashed their target’s face in to extract info, and killed the chicken that lays the golden eggs in the process. Her way was better. Daria mingled with the other guests, deftly mentioning connections to influential people–a billionaire in Dubai, a famous professor at Harvard, a cousin who works for the Prince in Riyadh. Reasons for people to contact her. She would sort through her leads later with the analysts at Langley. After the Iranian delegation left, she approached Jacob. He was busy putting a strange type of sushi into his mouth, the one covered in orange goo. “Funny seeing you here!” she said, role playing a distant acquaintance. “Are you enjoying the party?” Jacob asked discreetly. “Set the bait. The client might email some leads later.” “Good.” Jacob's eyes scanned the room, his expression bored. They were alone in the corner, and no one was paying attention to them. The CIA rewarded teamwork, but Jacob hadn’t done at all today, and his nonchalance irritated her. “Good? That’s all you got?” Jacob licked the corner of his lip. “ We have been playing this game for a while.” “What do you mean?” She kept her voice low, her smiled fixed in place. “Iran feeds us addresses. Israel bombs them. Everyone’s happy.” He popped the rest of the sushi roll into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Daria’s heart pounded in her chest. “He knows who I am?” “Your Farsi is perfect, but you speak as if you stepped out of 1979.” Jacob’s gaze was piercing, his voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think you were going to fool anyone, did you?” “Farsi is my mother tongue.” “Exactly.” Daria thought about how her mother left Iran during the Iranian Revolution, in 1979. “How did you send me in unprotected? Why didn’t you tell me?” “Think about it. It’s a win-win,” Jacob said. “Israel gets to bomb some targets, the politicians get to proclaim victories, and the CIA budget gets renewed. No one gets hurt. What’s not to like?” Daria's mind raced, the room suddenly too hot, too loud. She wanted to scream. She planned to turn Jacob in as soon as she got back to Langley. But how far up did this go? She would need to report this to someone senior, maybe even the Director. Jacob was studying her reaction, his eyes calculating. “So I guessed wrong. You don’t like it. How are you going to get a promotion after being a whistleblower? Have you ever seen a whistleblower promoted in the US government?” “I didn't say that-” “Do you want to be stuck hunkered down in the desert watching drone strikes, where you won’t do any damage to an intelligence operation?” Jacob had a point. Daria took a deep breath. “Fine. So how do I handle the Colonel if he wants…more?” She moved her hands along her hips, smoothing her silk dress. “Don’t worry about that.” Jacob smirked. “The Colonel is gay, Why do you think they chose him to contact you?” “How did you know he’s gay? That wasn’t in the case file.” Jacob winked again. An infuriating gesture. “I have my sources.” Suddenly she saw it. “I didn’t see that one coming.” Daria took a sip of her mocktail, the sweet liquid washing away the bitter taste in her mouth. She thought about the chilled bottle of chardonnay waiting for her at the luxury hotel, her cover location as a supposed Iranian businesswoman.  Daria's next placement was in New Delhi and she looked forward to touring the palaces. She would play the long game. One way or another, she would find out who was pulling the strings. Daria was no one’s pawn.

deuquo

The Most Clever

The warlock lay slumped atop the stump where Carys sat next to. For the past month, Carys bore witness to the warlock’s constant struggles to find a noble hero who could defeat the great beast of the cave. As the most recent chosen one’s corpse was tossed out from the hollow, the warlock released a deep sigh. He looked down at Carys. “Now, I don’t suppose you want to be a hero, little one?” Carys huffed because she was simply a fox and that’s the sound foxes made. The warlock chuckled, “Of course not. You don’t wish for glory because you don’t even understand the concept. A shame these warriors can’t be more like you. They all fail this quest, for each and every one of them ends up being tempted by the treasures which reside under the beast’s belly. But you wouldn’t. Not unless there are gooseberries in there.” The warlock clapped his hands once to signal an idea had come to him. Carys slowly backed away. While Carys considered herself to be the warlock’s companion and friend, she knew nothing good ever came from the warlock’s ideas. After all, his last idea literally lay in a pile of bones a mere stone’s throw away. It was best to leave the warlock to his own devices, wait for the plan to explode in his face, and return to comfort him. Most of the time, he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice Carys’s absence. However, this time, he chuckled as he saw her attempt to leave. “Carys, my dear. Please don’t go. I swear this time , my plan will succeed.” He spoke the old tongue, some sort of cantation. Carys’s fur stood up as she felt a chill. Carys struggled to understand her warlock most days, even when he spoke in the modern tongue, so she had even more trouble understanding his spell. However, somewhere deep in her bones, she recognized it. But, of course, she did. Every animal—including man—recognized this bit of spell craft, for it was the spell which separated man from their primal cousins. This was a well known fact amongst the creatures of Earth, but of course, said fact would slowly descend into fairytale then myth then obscurity. Eventually, man would grow far too prideful to allow themselves to be associated with their unambitious kin. That is the nature of man after all; the constant desire to be greater than those around them. Carys darted towards the forest as she felt her self change. The first change of note was how her limbs grew, in both size and weight, causing her to trip and collapse under her own body. Next, her fur sank into her flesh like a grand boat buckling under the weight of a whole ocean. Her nose shrunk to accommodate the new layout of her face and her eyes lost the ability to see in the dark. No doubt, more changes came about, however, mere moments ago, Carys had been a simple creature and wasn’t used to interpreting a vast amount of information. Now, her head pounded with thoughts and knowledge and ideas and realizations that would have best stayed non-existent. Once she felt as if the transformation had finally finished, Carys collapsed onto the floor. She looked down at where her paws had been, only to see five oblong appendages sprouted from a palm. The warlock outstretched his hand to Carys’s hands, for she had those now. “You stupid, man,” was the first thing Carys said to her former friend. “After all these years of support, you curse me so?” Humor glittered in his old eyes. “Don’t you see, Carys? It is no curse. It’s a gift; the gift of humanity.” “Well, I shall wish to return it,” she said, “I have no use for gifts. I am a fox.” The warlock frowned as if he hadn’t considered Carys would not wish to be man. He didn’t consider much. He simply acted then acted surprised when his plans failed. “If that is what you wish,” he started, “Once you defeat the beast, I shall return you to your original state.” “You mustn’t be serious.” Carys attempted to growl, however, her vocal cords could no longer form the sound the way she was used to. “I considered you my friend and this is how you treat me? You are going to send me to my death!” “Carys, you are the most intelligent creature I have ever met. I am certain you will make it out alive.” To punctuate his point—and most likely to avoid consequences—the old man disappeared in a puffing cloud of smoke, leaving Carys with only one path going forward. If she wished to be herself again, she’d have to defeat the monster which so many men had failed to do. But in her current state, she could not see how she could. She was a mere wild Canid. For the first time ever, Carys felt shame; in both her abilities but her appearance as well. Her fiery red hair cascaded down past her shoulders akin to a waterfall made entirely of fire. It was wild and untamed, a pure mess, and surely had any bystander walked by in that moment, they would be able to immediately tell Carys was an animal in mortal form, for no woman would dare leave her hair as such when an updo was the fashion of the time. Was this what it meant to be man? To be prideful but also filled with shame like a chalice filled with both wine and poison? Carys attempted to walk as she had seen the warlock and so many other men walk, up right on their hind legs, but with each attempt, she fell back on her front legs—arms, that’s what they were called—for support. Carys had seen plenty of infant humans walk on all fours, so clearly, this was a skill one could learn, but Carys did not have a parent to teach her. She’d have to learn it herself. She crawled herself over to a sloping tree, grabbed onto the branches, and hoisted herself up, until her hind legs were the only things on the ground. She moved one leg, and then the next in mimicry of the movements she’d seen before. It took until near night fall for Carys to learn to walk. She’d always been quick witted and she supposed she still was, considering a skill that took most children a year to master, took her a few hours. It just did not feel like much of an accomplishment in that moment. She supposed there was nothing left stopping her from making her attempt. From here on out if she waited any longer, she was simply postponing the inevitable. She would succeed or she would die. Either way, she best get a move on. No point dreading her death any longer. And so, our dearest former fox, traveled on the trail where the swallow would not follow deep down into the hollow. Carys descended until the light from the setting sun could no longer reach her mortal eyes. For once in her life, Carys was trapped in the shadows. Her bare feet scraped against the rough cave floor as she tumbled into the lair. Carys only halted her movements when some light flickered into her eyes. She knew though, that this light could not possibly be natural. Glittering gold and reddened rubies and turquoise gems lined the floor of the cave. The light came from each precious item reflecting the next one. Carys could see how so many knights and warriors were defeated so quickly, considering just how close the treasure was. Despite Carys loosing her superior hearing and eyesight, her mind was still trained to pick up on small details needed to hunt mice. So when she saw slight movement coming from the gold, she understood completely. These were not gems or gold, but scales. You could not simply pick up a treasure, because in doing so, you would wake the beast the faux treasure was attached to. Carys perched herself atop a boulder and studied the creature along with the layout. Despite the exterior of the cave, the interior seemed manmade. There were stone pillars lining the walls keeping the ceiling aloft, off to the side resided a bookcase filled with spell books no doubt, and in a corner of the room—for it was a room not a cave—there lay a couple scepters. No wonder the warlock wished to get rid of this monster; it took over his home. It wasn’t for a while that the being shifted positions in it’s sleep to reveal it’s two legs with sharp talons, a scaly tail the height of a tower, and a set of leathery wings the color of freshly drawn blood. Our fox knew then what she was staring down; a fearsome beast, most never dare speak the name of. It was believed speaking the name of such a being would only summon it to destroy all that you loved. But Carys knew this creature to be a Wyvern for the warlock held no fear in his heart, only hubris. He never believed a Wyvern would be summoned by him for simply speaking a name and yet, here slept the beast in his very own home. It was no wonder the beast’s existence incited worry in the nearby village. Despite having poor eyesight for the light, the Wyvern were not nocturnal. This meant that, more often than not, a Wyvern would fly so high up during the day and block out the sun with it’s wings. The mere presence of a Wyvern could result in an eternal night, with no hope for crops to grow. And based on the appearance of this Wyvern, it was only a babe, for it curled in on itself as if it wished to be held by a mother. Perhaps, the Wyvern had not yet learned to fly but as Carys had just discovered herself, it would only be a matter of time before instincts took hold and the Wyvern was forced to learn on its own. Soon enough, the Wyvern would grow too big for this cave and on it’s journey out, would desire to consume all the light of the sun. Considering all the food the warlock had provided for this infant Wyvern, the day was coming soon. This was possibly one of the last chances to kill the thing before it grew to adulthood and became too powerful. As this realization set in, Carys couldn’t help but worry. After all, how did she expect to kill a Wyvern if it took her hours to learn to walk? There lie the issue. Carys had been trying to think like man, but all those men had failed before her. So clearly, thinking like man was not the proper approach. Carys needed to think like herself; like a fox. “My apologies,” Carys whispered like the stealth animal she was as she put her entire body weight against the closest pillar. She used all her might until it came toppling down, landing right next to the tail of sleeping Wyvern. Before the Wyvern could rouse from it’s sleep, the cave rumbled as more pillars collapsed in on themselves and the ceiling came racing down. In mere minutes, a blanket of rubble covered the no longer sleeping, but dead, Wyvern. It was indeed rather un-noble of Carys to kill the creature during it’s slumber when it had no chance to defend itself, but as established earlier, Carys was unburdened by nobility. She was a fox. And a fox knew the best time to strike during a hunt was when your opponent was asleep. Perhaps, a death in sleep was better than any other alternative, Carys mused. Maybe she had been merciful. Of course, that was Carys’s introduction to a famous tactic of man; rationalization. When Carys emerged from the cave, the warlock was waiting for her, his hand rested on his scepter. “Have you done it?” Carys noted there was no concern from him of her well being. He simply wanted to know if the deed was done. She told him it was. The warlock laughed with pure mirth. This was possibly the first time one of his half-concocted plans actually succeeded. “Fantastic! Oh, the village will be so pleased. I am certain they will throw a festival in your honor.” “They best not. It would be rather odd for me to attend as a fox.” The warlock’s amusement dropped. “After what you have experienced, you still wish to return to your inferior form?” Carys resisted the urge to bare her teeth, for it would likely not have the same effect now that her canines were dulled. Instead, she said, “We made a deal. I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain.” The warlock hurried to say, “But just think for a moment. If you remained in this form, you could have glory beyond measure! You achieved what none other before you was able to. You could be the Slayer of Wyvern.” Carys shook her head. “I thought you wanted a hero with no desire for glory. And yet, you wish to turn me proud. Return me to my true form, warlock. Our deal is done and so is our partnership.” The warlock’s eyes turned cold. He sighed and he seemed so very old in that moment. “I’m afraid I can not return you. The spell is permanent. You can not strip away humanity once it’s been added as you can not remove fire from a burnt forest.” Something boiled in her veins, perhaps her red blood, only to freeze over as a chill of ice ran through Carys’s whole body. Ever since she’d been transformed, she’d felt cold and now she knew she would never have her furcoat again. She would be cold for the rest of her existence, and it would be a longer existence now considering the life span of man was larger than that of a fox. “You have ruined me,” Carys choked out. “How have I ruined you when you are now the most clever woman to exist?” Carys laughed and it was the first sound she made that sounded like her true form. “And I was an average fox. I preferred it that way. I do not wish to be great or most or legend or woman. But you never cared to ask me what I wanted before cursing me. One of these days, that will destroy you. You will create a far less forgiving creature than I. But I suppose you knew I would have no desire for revenge. You knew I would simply want a simple life. That’s why you picked me in the first place. Your perfect hero.” The warlock seemed to have no response to Carys’s ire. He stood there and stared at her, as if she were mad. Carys knew the warlock to be quite intuitive. He could always manage to summon the bravado needed from a hero to force them on a doomed quest. He was likely shocked that for the first time ever, he hadn’t been able to predict his hero. “Never speak of me again. If I hear word of legend surrounding my name, I will reveal your secrets, my dear friend ,” Carys spat. That was how she left him before running into the woods reminiscent to how she’d attempted to earlier that day. But this time, the warlock allowed her to run. After all, he had no further need for her. A few moons later, Carys padded into a cavern. The soft glow of the lanterns illuminated a bard, softly strumming his crwth as he sung a tale about the Wyvern and the warlock who slayed it with—a sword, of course. Carys scrunched up her unfoxish nose. It made sense, in the end, for the warlock to claim the glory for himself. He was man after all. However, so was Carys. She’d been trapped in her form of man for about the lifetime of a housefly, but she did not feel that much different than she had as a four-legged creature. Perhaps, the spell which created man had not been what turned their hearts cruel. Could it be that it was what the men used their souls to create, that which destroyed them? Now that was a question for philosophers, not for a fox.

z7fvyl

Thank You (A Confessional)

For nurse Sarah Robinson, Thank you for taking such good care of this old man in his final days. I couldn’t have asked for a more compassionate and competent person to guide me towards the end of the line. I have no doubt that, even if you knew who I was, and what I did, you would have treated me with the same care and respect that I have come to receive these past few days. As a final request, my hope is that you can help these letters find their way to their intended recipients. If you are curious and would like to know more about the man you have treated these past few days, please feel free to browse these letters. For my wife (Please place on her gravestone), Thank you, Meredith, for all the love, joy and support you brought to my life over our 58 years of marriage. A secret such as mine can be a heavy burden to bear, and I cannot thank you enough for sharing that burden with me all those years. I wish I could have preceded you in death, but I am hopeful that we will be reunited in whatever afterlife awaits. If I am to be judged on the actions of my life, I hope the cosmic scales weigh in favor of the good that resulted from my reckless and desperate act so many years ago. For my children, Roy and Nancy, Thank you for the joy you have brought this old man over his life. As I fell through the cold dark sky on that fateful night, I prayed to whatever god(s) there may be, that I would get to see you two grow up. I'm so proud of all that you have become and accomplished. I hope you can forgive me for keeping this large secret from you until now, and that you can understand that I only kept it from you to protect you. I have left a safety deposit box to be transferred into your names after my passing. The contents of which should be sufficient to validate my story, and to incriminate only those who have since left this mortal plane. For the family of Joe and Maureen Babiche, Thank you, Joe and Maureen, for the kindness, loyalty and friendship that you gave to Meridith and I over the many decades that we lived next to one another in our sleepy little suburb. When Joe found me stumbling out of the forest on that frigid Thanksgiving eve, I was hypothermic, battered and broken. How he found me so quickly, and so far from our intended pickup point, I have never been able to comprehend. Had he not been there to ferry me to safety, I surely would have died in those woods. Had Maureen not been so adept at treating my wounds and nursing me back to health, I very well may have perished later. I truly owe my life to you both. For the family of Julio Vasquez, Thank you, Julio (or Agent Vasquez, as I knew him at the time) for turning a blind eye towards a man For the Evergreen Skydiving and Parachuting School, Thank you, Robert and Maggie, for being excellent teachers who unknowingly helped me to prepare and survive my dangerous jump on that stressful night. For the surviving members (or families) of the crew of Northwest Orient Airlines Flight 305 (I have included names on the back), Thank you for your calm and courteous treatment of me during such an extraordinary event on that night so long ago. I've never forgiven myself for putting you through such a harrowing experience, nor do I expect forgiveness. However, I want you to know that the ransom money was not spent frivolously but was instead used to help support numerous families who were struggling during those difficult times. For the Seattle Sacred Days Church, Thank you, Pastor Joseph and his flock, for discretely laundering the money that would be used to benefit so many needy families. I will never forget the calm and comforting words that Pastor Joseph said when I confessed to him of my transgression. When ye thought evil against me, God disposed it to good, that he might bring to pass, as it is this day, and save much people alive. Genesis, 50:20 For the Boeing Workers Union, Thank you to all the wonderful people I worked with during my time at Boeing. The so called "Boeing Bust" was terrible for so many workers and their families. I tried my best to ensure that the ransom money be discreetly distributed to those families who were most severely impacted by those layoffs. For the Seattle Times, Thank you to the various media outlets, including the Seattle Times, who have provided fair and unbiased media coverage of my act over the years. My only complaint would be the misreporting of my alias, as well as the continued use of such terribly inaccurate police sketches. At least they got the sunglasses right. Over these many years, I have wrestled with how to view the notoriety and cult following that my act has inspired. I am not proud of having carried out the hijacking, nor do I think it was the right thing to do, despite the good that the ransom money was used for. It was a dangerous and desperate act of a man who was thinking irrationally in those dire financial circumstances of the time. What I did was wrong, and I beg of anyone in similarly desperate circumstances to please choose a different path. That being said, I have been heartened by the many treasure hunters, true-crime enthusiasts, and amateur investigators who have found joy in pursuing me. Despite my regrets over my dangerous and stupid actions, I'm glad I was able to add a bit of mystery to the world over these past 54 years. Sincerely, Roger Billings, aka Dan Cooper, aka D.B. Cooper P.S. My parachute and some other gear may still be out there in those woods, waiting to be found. I’ve listed some clues as to the approximate location on the back of this letter. There is one item in particular that may be very surprising to anyone that finds it. Happy hunting!

xsdh7k

KED Said

Floating helplessly in space, waiting for death to come along and claim me, was a tough thing to process. After training for deep space missions, I blasted off from Earth convinced I could handle anything. Truth be told, that was just a necessary lie I convinced myself of so I could climb atop a tower of fuel and light it up. I stopped keeping the ship’s logs when I realized no human would ever see them. By then, the lie of being able to handle anything had crumbled away. If aliens came across me, and managed to make sense of my logs, I would spare them my pale, hollow-eyed, unwashed desperation. I would spare them my sobbing as I slowly lost my mind, starving to death, then spinning through nothingness in my little bubble of spent atmosphere, for eternity. That would be no kind of introduction to our species. Or maybe I’ll asphyxiate. Best case scenario was getting hit by something floating out there with me and dying instantly, unexpectedly, with a pop. Though, statistically, that was somewhere in the ballpark of two grains of salt finding each other in a swimming pool before they dissolved, so I didn’t hold out much hope. KED was doing its best to keep my spirits up, despite my repeated requests that it stop. There’s something about the comfort of algorithms that just wasn’t comforting. “KED, lights,” I said, after laying awake for what felt like hours.                The lights sprang up. I meant to tell KED to ease them on slowly, to keep them dim for a bit, but I didn’t end up bothering. The light was meant to replicate sunlight and while the glare was spot on, the warmth was off.                “What’s for breakfast?”                “French toast, bacon, hash browns . . .”                “That’s not funny.”                “Ration C.”                I sighed and got up.                “Status changes?”                “None.”                “Time remaining?”                That was the closest to referring to my own demise that KED would allow. For the sake of my mental health, I was admonished whenever I got fatalistic.                “Air is at sixty percent. Food rations at sixty one,” KED said.                “And asphyxiation takes the lead. Wow, what caused the O2 drop?”                “You had nightmares last night. You were breathing at one hundred and seventy percent the normal rate. This is likely due to your growing fixation on death. I do not need to tell you how important it is to steer your thoughts away from the subject, do I? Dwelling will not help.”                Judging by the exhaustion clouding my thoughts, and the reluctance of my muscles to answer my commands, it must have been a violently restless night. When I thought back to what I dreamt about, the nightmare gushed back into my head. Something had caused a pinhole puncture in the hull. I was suctioned over it, naked, and my skin made a seal. I was turned into a bloody noodle as outer space ripped me from my ship through a hole the size of a pea. I could feel my spine compress into something the size of a hockey puck, then crumble into gravel, then sand, then out into the cold.                “Yeah. I need something to work on, to occupy me. These days of floating and talking to you are worse than torture.” The white panel walls, scorched in places, the exposed wires, the clips and buckles and packages, all felt like they were clenching around me, grabbing at me. The only section of the craft still inhabitable after the explosion felt about the size of a living room when I first crawled my way into it, and sealed the door. The area felt like a coffin now.                “I have thought about your ennui, and have a suggestion,” said KED.                KED said. KED said until I’m dead.                “Robot suggestions.”                “You should keep a gratitude journal.”                “No.”                “The alternative is to let your mind atrophy until you are dead.”                KED said dead!                “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about my impending doom.”                “I was simply making your options clear to you. I want to be truthful.”                “Those are my only two options, then? Really? Gratitude journal or pudding brain? I don’t want to keep a gratitude journal, KED, what do I have to be grateful for?”                “You have me.”                “You’re a voice attached to programming.”                “You’re a voice attached to an increasingly neurotic skullful of jelly.”                “KED, turn off.”                The green light in the panel display dimmed slowly until it was gone, and only my reflection remained. Gratitude journal. I spent a moment thinking about gratitude. There was nothing in my life that deserved gratitude at the moment. What, that I didn’t die like Haltain and Sharma when the fuel lines blew? That life support wasn’t damaged? That I have three months worth of food, water, and air with which to go insane? That the AI trying to cheer me up doesn’t know what hopeless misery feels like? No. I floated, stewed, brooded, and pouted, for nearly four hours. ***                Gratitude Journal: Entry # 1                It’s been four months since it became clear I’ll never make it home. I’ll never barbecue anything again, never see a smile, never hug anyone or get laid again. KED has told me to keep a gratitude journal. For the record, I hate the idea, but have come up with nothing better to do. Things I have to be grateful for – KED. The only thing that could be worse than slowly dying out in space with nothing but an AI to keep me company, is not having the AI. I am grateful for KED. Writing it felt dirty and pointless, like dressing a doll made of feces. However, I had to admit to KED later, over a wonderfully prepared serving of Ration G, that I wasn’t dwelling on my misery as much during the two minutes it took me to write it. KED says the possibility of rescue is never absolute zero, and for that reason alone I have to keep on surviving. Such distractions, KED says, will help. ***                “KED, lights.”                Lights KED. KED said let there be light, and there was. I woke up fidgety. My sleep had been better, though, I could feel it immediately.                “Good morning,” came KED’s smooth, warm voice.                “I dreamt of noodles last night. The spicy noodles I used to get from that steamy booth on Fortieth. It’s been so long since I’ve had them. The tender pork and the real onions were there, in my dream. The taste of them, I mean. I can remember it like I had been slurping on them just minutes ago. Then the noodles began escaping my stomach by wriggling up my throat and out my nose. They came back up as snakes.” I wondered briefly why I told KED about that particular dream. “What’s for breakfast?”                “I’m afraid it’s Ration A this morning.”                I winced. ***                Gratitude Journal # 2                I am grateful for Ration M. It’s a savory, chicken and gravy sort of delight, reserved for when my proteins, electrolytes, and mood are low. Without it, the entire alphabet of cubed rations would be nothing but selections from Satan’s menu. Especially Ration A, which boosts most of my vitamins, and tastes like jellied horse droppings. ***                The latrine failed. That’s what KED and I called it, the “latrine”, but it was really just conduit piping glued to a bowl with a hole in it, rigged to a vacuum. It seemed the space gods, with their bizarre and unfathomable judgements, had cursed me. My weightless bowel movement clogged and ruptured some piping. I feel the same – split brain tubes clogged by digested waste. KED talked me through repairs, but couldn’t appreciate how bad the smells were, couldn’t sympathize. Not really. Stink doesn’t bother AI, and all the commiseration in the world from a talking machine would be nothing more than replicated sounds. Smells linger brutally aboard zero G spacecrafts. What I would give for just a quarter G to send that stink to the ground where I couldn’t smell it. The ramshackle latrine took nearly four hours to fix, and the smell floated around for the rest of the day. The air scrubbers were working just fine, and would last longer than the oxygen they scrubbed, but the smell remained. Maybe I was imagining it lingering, and the stink was living in my nose’s memory like a stubborn possum in a garage. It happened every time the waste elimination situation needed to be opened up. A day of stink. None of its parts were doing what they were designed for. I knew the crapper was probably going to die before I did, which meant an already less than ideal situation was going to get much worse. ***                Gratitude Journal # 3 I am grateful for gravity. Now that it’s gone I realize I should have been grateful for it when I had it. I was not and I miss it. ***                “KED, lights.”                No dreams.                KED said let there be light and there was nothing but darkness for lightyears. ***                Gratitude Journal # 3                I am grateful for a night without nightmares. Spinning away into emptiness towards certain death gives you bad dreams, it turns out. ***                “That was a bleak entry,” KED commented.                I waited for more nagging, but none came.                “Please stop reading my gratitude journal.”                “I like your entries. I think you’re doing a great job.”                “Well, KED, what you think doesn’t really matter much, does it? You only tell me what I need to hear.”                “Perhaps what I say does not matter, if you choose to look at it that way. You should consider why the things I say are what you need to hear, however.”                “I do,” I said in a grumble.                “You seem particularly sour today. Is something amiss?”                “Absolutely nothing, KED, I plan on leaving a glowing, five star review once this trip is over.”                “I struggle to comprehend your sarcastic humour sometimes,” KED said with those humming, mechanical tones.                “No joke, you’ve been a tremendous host.”                “Is this still sarcasm?”                “KED, shut down.” *** Gratitude Journal # 5                I am grateful for light. ***                “KED, lights”                I woke up face down and KED said dead again.                “You are going to wake up dead if you cover your nose and mouth when you sleep like that,” it said.                “Then I wouldn’t wake up, would I?”                “Not in the usual way, but perhaps you would wake up to whatever’s next.”                “And what makes you think there’s something next?”                “It is a primary tenet of human thought, posited around the world, throughout all of history.”                “We’re an arrogant lot, KED. We can’t imagine existence without ourselves in it.” ***                Gratitude Journal # 8                I am grateful for my mother. I was due back to Earth months ago. The explosion would have registered and been transmitted before comms were blasted. Notice of a catastrophic failure would have been squirted at light speed back home, arriving in just over three weeks. Someone in a suit must have showed up at my mother’s door by now, to tell her about how brave I was, to say how I died doing incredible things for humanity’s sake. Though it kills me to think of her pain, to picture her face twisted in grief, I’m glad there’s someone back home to grieve. She will do it well, as she did when dad went. She taught me how to be strong, and how to feel my feelings. She never let either of us feel like victims. She gave me the drive it took to learn, earn, and fight my way onto the ship I’m now imprisoned in, and I’m grateful for her. ***                “My last entry was about my mom,” I said over a Ration F breakfast.                “Was it difficult?”                I thought for a moment.                “Yes.”                “More difficult than the situation you are in now?”                “No.”                “Then you can handle it.”                I nodded.                “You’re still reading my entries, aren’t you?”                “No.”                “You are.”                “I promise, I am not.”                “What does a promise from a computer mean?”                “I suppose it means what you’ve programmed it to mean. Have you programmed me to be honest?”                “Yes, but you’ve also been programmed to maintain my health, both physical and mental. What if honesty conflicts with that prerogative?”                “Perhaps it is better you do not know the answer to that question. Besides, I may not tell you the truth.”                “You’re the worst, KED.”                “Well, given that I am the only intelligent thing, besides you, within an immense distance, I am also the best.”                “Touche.” ***                Gratitude Journal # 22                I am grateful for what I’ve seen. The sun peeking it’s golden glory over the horizon as I leave Earth’s atmosphere. My home planet eclipsed by another, lifeless one. I’ve seen Earth become a dot as I touched the edge of our solar system. I have put my toes to the edge of the Oort cloud and looked out onto infinity. I am grateful for that. *** “KED, lights.”                “Good morning.”                “Morning, KED,” I said, slurring as I brushed my teeth. “What makes it morning, anyway?”                “We are synchronized with Earth’s day and night cycle.”                “Yeah, but where on Earth are we synched to?”                “Pacific time.”                “Why Pacific?”                “Because that is where you are from on Earth.”                I considered this.                “But what about when the others were still . . . They were from Ireland and India. How did you decide where to sync to then?”                “I synched to where you launched from.”                That made sense.                “When did you switch to Pacific?”                “I did it gradually. A few minutes each day, immediately after the accident.”                “Have you changed any other things?”                “Too many to list. The calculations that needed to be adjusted based on the catastrophic change in circumstances were astronomical. It would take the rest of your life for me to describe less than half of what I’ve had to deal with. Think about that while you’re complaining about having nothing to do.”                “Is that meant to be humour?”                “You tell me.” ***                Gratitude Journal # 30                Ration M for dinner today. I cut it into slices so thin they melted on my tongue. I’m glad I got to have ice cream in my lifetime. Whoever thought of putting cookie dough in ice cream, I am grateful to that person.

1emu9e

An Alaskan Vacation

An Alaskan Vacation It was day 48 of the continuous Alaskan Summer Sun and Eric was still lost. His shelter for almost the last 2 months was nothing more than the torn fuselage of his bush plane that had crashed after an engine failure. The remains of his wife and only passenger lay a mere 10 feet from the wreckage, in a shallow grave. They had been flying along the North Slope of the Brooks Range in northern Alaska as part of a wilderness getaway that Eric and his wife had done every summer for the last 3 years. He had just turned back to head towards Prudhoe Bay when his engine died without warning. With nothing but trees below them the landing was never going to be easy. The aluminum skin of the small aircraft didn’t offer much resistance to the old hardwood trees of the Alaskan wilderness. During the crash a branch had impaled his wife after coming straight through the thin metal of her door. 3 feet of spruce had lodged itself into her shoulder, pinning her in place. It had only taken 3 days for her to ask Eric to end her suffering. Eric rebuked her, saying that help would be there soon. The airport would notice he hadn’t returned and send a search party. In the meantime, Eric kept busy. He gathered firewood, found and boiled water, foraged for food, and set traps for small game. He forced her to drink and eat. He hid the limited antibiotics from their medical kit in her food. This went on for 15 days before the supplies of antibiotics ran dry. On day 17 as Eric tried to feed his wife some of the scarce food he had been able to scrounge together, she refused. She looked him in the eyes and begged for death. The infection had developed at a rapid pace. She said her body was on fire and all she knew was pain. By day 19 Eric had worked up the courage to ease his wife’s suffering but it was too late. She had passed while Eric was sleeping. Her eyes stuck half open, staring down at the wooden stake that had claimed her. Not knowing what else to do, Eric held a small funeral for the love of his life. After digging a shallow hole with a torn piece of aircraft aluminum he whispered a short prayer to himself and lowered her body into grave. After day 20 and every single day afterwords Eric would hear a single voice over the aircraft’s broken radio. Only when the shadows were long from the Sun’s daily flirt with the horizon would he hear this voice. He convinced himself it was nothing, just his extreme hunger manifesting in strange ways. He had, after all, been giving all the food he found to his wife. Day 26 and Eric had almost no energy to do anything. His stomach was a deep dark pit in which his very soul seemed to be sinking into. All he could focus his hazy mind on was food. Food and thoughts of his wife, whom he missed more than anything. Eric could no longer keep his mind straight. Thoughts of his wife and complaints from his empty stomach conjoined into a horrible plan of action. Eric sat, staring at the impromptu grave he had created for his late spouse. It was day 32 and he wanted to see his wife again. Grabbing the piece of aluminum he had used to initially dig the 3-foot hole, he began digging again. This time was much easier though. A deep longing feeling in the pit of his stomach pushed him forward even when his muscles should’ve failed from exhaustion. After a few minutes, he once again looked at the face of his wife. Her features were somehow unchanged, as if they had been perfectly preserved in the Alaskan soil. Eric chalked this up to a possible layer of permafrost that must be just below, just out of sight. The sun was setting on day 33 and Eric had a large fire going. His feast would soon be ready. It is what she would’ve wanted, he tells himself. He would want the same thing if the roles had been reversed. The idea of sacrificing yourself to feed your loved one is almost romantic, Eric thinks to himself as the flesh of his significant other crackles and cooks in the fire. This way they would be truly together forever. Her body incorporated into his. It was day 48. Eric sat huddled in his shelter. The sacrifice offered up by his wife had run out a couple of days ago. He stood to look at her grave, the soil still disturbed after he had gone back and buried his wife’s bones. He tried thinking of her from before this horrible ordeal. His stomach rumbled. Before he could finish his train of thought though, a sound caught his attention. A distant but instantly recognizable sound, a helicopter, and from the sound it was rapidly getting closer. He scrambled to find something, anything to get their attention. Searching for the survival kit which he knew contained flairs, he worried that he might miss his chance. The sound of helicopter blades was growing louder. If they overflew him and did not see him, it was over. Giving up on trying to find the flares he turned and grabbed a piece of the airplane’s fuselage. Using as much strength as he could muster, he tore the thin metal from its frame, his hands bleeding from the sharp edges. The helicopter sounded so close now he turned his head to look for it. He could see the helicopter now, using the aluminum as a mirror he attempted to catch their attention. Hoping the Sun’s rays would cooperate. At first, he couldn’t tell if it was working, he flailed the makeshift mirror about in a desperate effort to signal them. The helicopter flew out of his vision, shielded by the dense forest around him. Eric was about to give up when he noticed the sound of the helicopter was still growing louder. A great gust of wind enveloped him as the helicopter appeared overhead. It’s approach shielded from his view by the forest. Eric shielded his eyes from the dirt and dust that the prop wash from the helicopter was kicking up. A blinding spotlight shone down on him, somehow eclipsing even the Sun in terms of brightness. The helicopter was all Eric could see or hear. Staring into the bright light of certain salvation Eric could swear he could hear another noise just beneath the sound of the blades, a rhythmic beeping that seemed to be in time with his heartbeat. Opening his eyes he found himself lying in a bed staring up at white ceiling tiles. A ceiling fan lazily spun above him. Beeping to his left caught his attention. A heart rate monitor and an IV bag on a stand were connected to his arm. Turning his head to the right he saw balloons and cards with various versions of “get well soon” and “Hope to see you soon” scribbled on them. A voice from across the room startled him. “Sir, you are in the Kansas City Regional Hospital. You’ve been in a car accident.” A nurse that he hadn’t noticed yet crossed the room to come to his bedside. She spoke again. “You’ve been in a medically induced coma for a week. How do you feel?” Before Eric could speak another voice was heard just outside the door, a familiar voice. Eric’s wife opened the door and upon seeing that he was awake, ran to him. “Oh god I’m glad you’re ok!” She said while hugging him tightly “They wheeled you away so quickly in the ambulance I was terrified.” Eric wrapped his arms around her, returning the tight hug. For some reason all Eric could think about while holding his wife was about how hungry he suddenly was.

yv7wiz

Whispers of the Forest

In the heart of the medieval forest, a small shack cast a shadow over the land, the air hung heavy with grey mist as Ernest fled for her life. She pressed on undeterred despite the branches clawing at her clothes and roots reaching for her feet. Her hair blowing from the cold wind blocking her vision. The sharp thrones nagged at her legs making a sharp cut on her leg. She started limping through the forest after she saw the monster walking softer each time. She picked up the torn-up piece of her short jeans an wrapped her leg slowly and also paced her breathing at the same time. Fear pulsed through her veins as she felt a looming presence trailing behind her. Memories flooded her mind as she raced through the forest, seemingly feeding the unseen terror that pursued her with each step. Despite her attempts to push these emotions aside through denial and distraction, they continued to haunt her. A sudden realization struck Ernest: the monster chasing her wasn't a physical entity but the embodiment of her own emotions. With trembling legs and a heavy heart, she earnestly stopped and turned toward the monster. Its expression shifted from aggression to a haunting reflection of her sadness. Its eyes, once filled with malice, are now filled with tears. Ernest found herself staring into a distorted mirror of her soul. As she stood there, a strange calm washed over her. The monster, no longer fearsome, it seemed to shrink before her eyes, its form dissolving into the mist that dispersed into the air. What remained was not a creature of darkness, but a shadowy echo of herself—vulnerable, wounded, and in desperate need of understanding. As she embraced the sorrow she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. As Ernest left the clearing where the pursuit had concluded, she departed with a realization. The monster that had tormented her was not there to hunt her down, but an aspect of her own being yearning for empathy and resolution. With each stride, she welcomed the complexity of her feelings, recognizing that genuine healing and acknowledging and accepting her sorrow, rather than running away from it. The echoes of her past pains were lingering, but now she faced them with courage. She gained wisdom from confronting her inner monsters that embodied her saddest emotions. Ernest continued to go deeper into the forest, her footsteps now steady. The sun seemed to embrace her casting a gentle glow upon her pathway. As she walked memories counted to surface, one by one, each one capturing a snippet of her life. She recalled her moments of joy and laughter that were once filled with warmth and empathy. Yet intertwined with her darker memories-moments of pain and loss that scarred her. Ernest has spent years trying to hide these painful memories that were dragging her down. Now, she understood that true healing required acknowledging her emotions. The ancient forest around her seemed to echo each step she took. She paused with a clear, glistening lake. She cupped her hands together and splashed water on her face. Ernest reflected on her inner monster. It had been a moment of realization of fears and anxieties. The journey through the medial forest became her inner landscape-the landscape that she navigated. The day turned into. the sky painted in orange and pink above the horizon. She acknowledged the pain of past disappointments and the ache of unfulfilled goals. She also discovered moments of gratitude. The strength that had carried her through difficult situations, for the lessons learned along the way, and to this moment of profound self-discovery. As night came, Ernest sat beneath the stars that shimmered like diamonds in the dark sky. The darkness no longer held fear for her; instead, it was comforting and warming, which she embraced every bit. She thought about the people who had given her warmth life—the friends who had offered support, who had imparted wisdom, and the loved ones whose memories still lingered in her heart. Ernest found herself whispering words of forgiveness—to others, but most importantly, to herself. She forgave herself for the times she had faltered she felt a weight lift from her shoulders, as if releasing a burden she had carried for far too long. As dawn painted the sky in shades of blue and light gold, Ernest rose from beneath the oak tree. She felt a sense of clarity wash over her. That she had not experienced in years. The forest, once a place of fear and uncertainty, had become her safe place—a space where she had faced her inner monsters and emerged stronger. With each step she took on her journey back through the forest, Ernest carried with her a renewed sense of purpose. She knew that the path ahead would not be easy challenges But she also knew that she possessed the strength to face whatever lay ahead of her, she was ready to battle them. As she emerged from the forest, the small shack where her journey had begun came into view. Its shadow no longer loomed over the land, but instead stood as a reminder of the courage and resilience she had discovered within herself. Ernest paused at the edge of the clearing, taking one last look back at the ancient trees that had witness to her transformation. Yet she also knew that she possessed the courage and wisdom to face whatever lay ahead with grace and determination. As she emerged from the forest's embrace, Ernest turned back one last time to farewell to the ancient trees that had witness to her through her journey to finding herself. Their branches reached towards the sky like arms, as if they were applauding her for the courage she had shown and achieved. Ernest had a smile ear to ear with radiated from deep within her soul—a smile of gratitude, acceptance, and newfound peace. carried with her the knowledge that she was no longer defined by her fears, but liberated by her courage to face them. With a heart full of gratitude and a spirit, Ernest turned towards the horizon, ready to embrace the new chapter of her life. She thought about the wise old woman with the eyes that seemed to withhold the wisdom of age or the travelers who discover their journeys. As she disappeared into the mist, Ernest thought to herself. "Never give up, chase your dreams.

qlzvkt

Digital Detox Delirium

A sharp stab of pain in my neck causes me to look up from the thousands of words on the hundreds of pages on the phone I wasn’t really even seeing. I gingerly stretched, wincing when I heard the distinctive popping of vertebrae. They sounded like gunshots. I glance at the nearby clock, my breath catching in my throat when I see the time. 10:51 pm. It’s almost eleven! But… but how? I remembered eating dinner, a sorry excuse of lasagna with pasta that wasn’t fully cooked and tomato sauce that had freezer burn. After putting my dishes by the sink I headed to my room; as soon as I had sat down, my phone vibrated, alerting me to a new notification. Picking it up I saw Janie had just posted on Panoptic. That had been at 7:04. I blinked, realizing how dry my eyes were and how numb my butt felt. Had I really just spent FOUR hours looking at… What had I been looking at? Groaning, I tossed my phone aside, hearing it land with a satisfying thud on the table beside me. Most people would have worried about cracking it. I wasn’t. You could run one of them over with a car or drop it off a twenty-story building, and the thing wouldn’t have a scratch on it. I should know. I tried both last summer. The four-note chime sounded, alerting me to another notification. I ignored it. Instead, I let my eyes wander around my room. There was a partly folded pile of clothes on the floor by my dresser, a task interrupted by my phone. In the corner was a bin of stuffed animals, the layer of dust coating them visible even from where I sat. Nostalgia washed over me, and I smiled, remembering the hours I used to spend playing with them, creating stories from nothing but my mind. I don’t know if I could still do that even if I tried. Finally, my gaze landed on the bookshelf at the foot of my bed. Well, in reality, it was a shelf that I happened to use for books, a small collection of antique paper-backs, probably some of the last print books published before the switch to digital. They all had cracked covers, dog-eared pages, and coffee stains, but there was something charming about them: the way they felt in my hands, the sound the turning pages made, and the smell… When was the last time I had picked one up? Maybe I should start one tonight. Just a few pages before bed. I was about to scan the shelf when my phone vibrated, and the same four-note chime rang out. Automatically, I felt my hand drift towards the table. At the last second, I paused, hand hovering above the phone. Vibration. Four notes. I sighed, irritated and longing for the time when notifications could be silenced with the push of a button. But those days were nothing more than a fading memory now, so I did the next best thing: I got to my feet and left the room. Unsurprisingly, I found my parents in the living room, side-by-side on the couch, noses glued to the screens of their respective device of choice. Neither of them acknowledged me when I entered, and I’m positive they didn’t notice when I walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind me. I flopped down in the middle of the driveway, savoring the warmth of the concrete against my back and the oscillating calls of the nearby katydids. Thousands of pinpricks of light danced in the night sky. If I squinted, I could almost pretend they were stars, just like I had done when I was younger. I knew better now, though. I knew that years before I was born, Earth’s leaders had finally declared that light pollution was a crisis. They had been too late. Now, the only star that could still be seen was Sirus. Everything else was satellites, airplanes, and drones. I heard the front door slam, and I didn’t need to turn my head to recognize the distinctive footsteps of my older sister, Emery, walking towards me. “Watcha doing out here?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sky watchin’.” There was a muffled thump as she plopped down beside me, and then... It was so quiet I thought I had imagined them at first, but then the sound came again. Four distinctive notes. I stiffened. Emery laughed as she removed my phone from her pocket. “Oh, right! I came out here to give you this. It was going crazy in your bedroom.” She threw it to me and my hands reflexively darted out to catch it. I stared down at the device. It vibrated once more. “I don’t want it,” I mumble. Emery looked at me, cocking her head. “What?” “I said . I. Don’t. Want it!” I pulled my arm back and then hurled the phone as far into the yard as I could. As far away from me as I could. “Matilda! What did you do that for? Mom and Dad worked hard to get you a nice model,” she admonished. “Relax,” I huffed. “It landed in the grass.” “Well, didn’t you at least want to check what the notifs were about?” “Not really,” I said, crossing my arms. “But what if it’s important?” “I’m sure it can wait until the morning.” “What if Leaha is trying to contact you? “At 11:20? You know she goes to bed at like 9.” “Or if it’s a reminder for an assignment due tomorrow? “It’s the summer , Em. There are no assignments.” “Or what if your favorite band, what was it… Velvet Nebula! What if they’re going to have a concert tomorrow and tonight’s the only chance to buy tickets?” I let out a snort. “Now you’re being ridiculous. I haven’t liked Velvet Nebula since middle school.” Emory grinned. “I’m just saying, Meti, you won’t know unless you check .” “Em, drop it. I don’t want to check the stupid notifs.” “But why? “Because I don’t want to be scrolling through Panoptic until 3 am,” I snapped. I could feel Emory roll her eyes. “You know you could just check and then close it after you’re done, genius.” A wave of calm washed over me, and I could think for the first time in what felt like months. “That’s just it, though. You can’t ‘just check’. I’ve told myself that hundreds of times but I always end up scrolling for hours afterwards. It does something to our brains, Em… It makes it impossible for us to just check .” “Are you auditioning for theater next year? Because that was some monologue!” I reach over and hit her on the shoulder. Enough to hurt, but not enough to leave a bruise. “I'm serious, Em. It’s not natural.” Emery let out a long sigh. “I don’t know when you suddenly decided to become anti-technology, but you know it's not all evil, right? Think about all the wonderful things it has allowed us to do! Message friends hundreds of miles away, make new friends on Panoptic, look anything up, learn any skill you want... Not to mention there are thousands of options for entertainment! Honestly, Mittens, I think you're catastrophizing.” “Mittens?” I echo. “You haven’t called me that in years.” “What? I can’t reuse old nicknames?” she said, flashing me her perfected “annoying big sister” smile. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “Anyway. Since when have you become a walking, talking, breathing advertisement?” “Since I’ve been trying to cure you of your stupidity and help you see how wrong you are.” I groaned, knowing she wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “Fine. Fine! I’ll check the notifs before I go to bed, just… give me a few more minutes, okay?” I saw Em nod her head out of the corner of my eye, clearly satisfied with herself. I decided, then, to change the topic. “So what are you still doing up? Don’t you have work tomorrow?” “Nah. They gave us the day off. I’m going to meet a couple of friends at 8-Byte Bagels.” “But how are you going to get there? Your car’s still in the shop.” Emery stared at me with an expression on her face like I had asked her what color the sky was. “Uhh… I’ll take the bus, obviously,” she said, laughing. I sat up, head spinning a little at the sudden motion. The pit of my stomach felt hollow. “What did you just say?” “That I’ll take the bus?” My heart quickened to match the racing of my thoughts. My breathing involuntarily increased as well, but regardless, I felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. Emery NEVER used public transit. She hadn’t directly said so, but I know it’s because she’s scared of it. After all, it’s the reason why she had to have her left leg amputated. Back when I was younger, she had always taken the bus to school. One day, though, something went wrong. A semi-truck drifted out of its lane, hitting the bus head-on, totaling it and killing five passengers. Emery had been one of the “lucky” ones, the doctors had said as they prepared her for surgery. The post-accident investigation found that there had been an error in the truck’s self-driving system, and so immediately after being discharged, Emery had gone to a scrapyard and salvaged an old manual car that she had by some miracle managed to repair. She has refused to drive or ride in anything else since. “Meti. Meti. Hey, are you alright?” I looked up to see that Emery was sitting up now, staring at me, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. That’s when I looked at her, and I mean really looked at her. Everything about her was so familiar. The slight curve of her mouth quirked up in a perpetual smirk, her thick eyebrows that she used to tell me were caterpillars fused to her skin, the small mole dotted on her right cheek… The closer I studied her, though, the more things that seemed… off. Her nose was a little too straight, her teeth a little too white, her jaw a little too sharp, and her eyes… For a second, just a breath, I could have sworn her pupils looked almost… square. Then I blinked and everything was right again. All I could see was the concerned face of my sister staring at me. “Matilda… you haven’t answered me. Are you feeling al—” I didn’t let myself hesitate any longer. I slammed my fist into my sister’s face, cutting off her question. She let out a sound of surprise, but I hardly noticed. Blood roared in my ears, drowning out her cries of pain, her pleading, her begging. I ignored her, punching again and again and again. I ignored her because the thing standing in front of me was not my sister. My sister was dead. She died on my 17th birthday.  Slowly, everything began to dissolve around me. The first time this had happened, I had panicked. Now, though, I stayed still watching as the concrete beneath me vanished and the sky disappeared. Eventually, everything was dark. Then, light. I groaned, squinting against the bright fluorescent assaulting my eyes with the ferocity of a thousand suns. Muffled voices became clearer, and the blobs of color eventually stopped shifting as my vision returned to normal. Four doctors in freshly pressed lab coats stood in front of me. Two were humans and two… were AIs. The female AI with curly red hair was bent over a clipboard furiously scribbling down notes. I had never bothered learning its “name”. Assigning it a name would humanize it, and it was definitely not human. The doctors still had yet to speak to me when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. That’s when I saw…it. The AI from the simulation. It was still wearing my sister’s face. I felt my features twist into a snarl. Nothing I did in the simulations ever transferred over into the real world, but I had still secretly hoped the AI would have at least a little blood on its face. Sadly, there wasn’t even a speck, and unfortunately, I could not remedy that fact due to the restraints around my wrists. My non-sister walked over to stand in front of me, smiling. “Mati,” it said, voice sickly sweet. “Don’t call me that,” I growled. Something flashed in its eyes. Annoyance maybe? I still hadn’t figured out exactly which emotions AIs felt, if any. “Matilda,” it began again. “Why must you fight against all of our attempts to help you? We only want what is best for you.” “Go to hell,” I spat. The not-Emery AI’s eyes darkened. I swallowed. Definitely anger. I knew I was treading on thin ice but didn’t really care. I noticed the curly-haired AI was once again writing on its clipboard—probably something along the lines of “Patient quick to anger; demonstrates emotional distress upon seeing dead sister.” “I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you go back to your bedroom and have a nice long think about today’s session, Matilda?” It was phrased like a question, but I knew what it actually was. A command. That’s when the needle pierced my skin. The next time I opened my eyes, I was back in my “bedroom,” although calling it that was being generous. Sure, there was a bed tucked into the corner, and there was also a small table with a lamp, but besides those and the four pale blue-gray walls, there was nothing else in my “bedroom.” At one point there had also been a rug, but that had been removed after I spent an entire day counting its threads. I had gotten to 653,457. To me it had simply been a way to pass time; to the doctors, it was distracting me from the thing they believed I should be doing—scrolling mindlessly through Panoptic. As if simply thinking its name was a trigger, the phone lying on the bedside table vibrated, filling the room with its insufferable chime. I didn’t move from my spot on the bed. Much to the doctors’ annoyance, I had already gone almost a year without looking at Panoptic. I would rather die than let it consume me like it had my parents. Emery’s death was the catalyst. I stopped doing a lot of things after she died, like using Panoptic… or eating. Instead, I spent the majority of my days lying in bed staring at the ceiling or sleeping. My eyes were constantly red from crying and my nose was constantly raw. My parents were so engrossed by their precious screens, that they didn’t notice I was suffering from a depression so deep that it rivaled the Mariana Trench. By the time they finally did realize, I had to be hospitalized, where I was treated and then diagnosed with depression. The doctors, though, were more concerned about the fact that I hadn’t logged into Panoptic in over three weeks. “Far too long for any ‘healthy’ person,” they claimed. Ultimately, they diagnosed me with ludditea delirare , its key symptoms being depression and uninterest in technology. They offered to enroll me in a government-funded correctional program. My parents quickly agreed, and before I knew it, I was shipped off to this place, where doctors claimed they wanted to help cure me while I screamed at them that there was nothing to cure . Again, the phone chimed at me, vibrating and dancing on the little wooden table. Vibrating and chiming and screaming until I couldn’t take it anymore. Leaping to my feet, I grabbed the phone and hurled it against the wall. The phone bounced off and landed with a clatter on the floor, still vibrating. I ran over to it. Not a scratch. Rage. White, hot, and blinding took over, and I began smashing the phone against the floor. It was still screaming. Or was that me? Was I the one screaming? Maybe we both were. All I knew was that I wanted it to stop. I wanted the safety of my bed and the warmth of the concrete beneath my back. I wanted the calm of the katydids’ calls. I wanted my parents to finally look up and see me, I wanted my sister to be alive, but most of all I wanted silence. My hand was numb from gripping the phone, and when I raised it up to check, I already knew what I would find: a pristine screen with not a single chip. Instinctively, my eyes found the latest notif: User 01000001_01001001 has posted on Panoptic. I watched as that same notif appeared again and again. I knew then, that there was only one way to silence its demands—I clicked on the notif. I clicked on it, and the logo for Panoptic appeared on my screen: a simple, stylized eye, with two gently sloping lines forming the eyelids and a small circle in the center forming the pupil. If you looked closer, though, you would realize it wasn’t really a pupil, but a camera lens. The post filled my screen. It was from an account I had never heard of before and consisted of two words: stop resisting . It was only then that I realized how tired I was. Tired of waking up at night every time a notif chimed, tired of having to constantly stop myself from checking, tired of staring at blue-gray walls, tired of fighting…So I did the one thing that made sense to do: I stopped resisting. A single tear broke free from the corner of my eye as I began slowly scrolling through Panoptic. I scrolled… and scrolled… and scrolled… I scrolled while looking at the thousands of words on the hundreds of pages on the phone that would be forever what I see.

409ots

A hero From The Grave

Copyright 2022 Self- published by C.E. Metcalf ISBN 978-1-387-76220-0 A Hero From The Grave Everyone needs a hero. There is no strength stronger than love. Even from the ones that are no longer with us. Some stories say that hero’s never truly die that their souls remain amongst the living to protect the ones they love. Whether that is fact or fiction know one truly knows. But in this case……. Chapter 1 The last thing I remember I had just returned home after a tour in Afghanistan. I came home to a loving welcome home from both my son and my wife. My son David had just turned twelve and was as tall as me. My wife Cathy the love of my life was expecting our next child within the next month. I was so glad to be home at last. My tour lasted twenty- eight months. If I never see sand again it will be too soon. Cathy prepared a fantastic meal that night it was fit for royalty. Our son David wanted to tell me what went on in his life all in one night. He didn’t have school the next day, so we just let him talk until he fell asleep on the couch. Cathy and I headed for bed. As I was getting undressed, she could see the battle scars on my body. I couldn’t help but notice she was starting to cry. Why do you keep putting yourself through this she asked? I fight for the things I love I said. I love our country and most of all I love you and David. I know sooner got the words out of my mouth and I heard a noise that made my skin crawl. Like hell I said to myself as I jumped up and grabbed my pistol from our nightstand. Our bedroom door open and four masked people came through. I shot one in the forehead dropping the person to the ground. The second attacker tried to kick me in the face and missed as I drove my fist into his kneecap. As the second attacker fell to the floor screaming my chest exploded in pain as a bullet went into my chest killing me. Two years have gone by since that night. Through the darkness I could hear a faint cry for help and soon realized it was my son. In the coldest of my coffin, I could feel my heart slowly start to beat. One beat and then another my strength was returning. How can this be? I’m dead? Or am I. The next thing I knew I was standing on the ground looking at my gravestone. Edward David Steel 1980- 2014 Loving husband and father. I heard again that cry for help and this time I asked where are you, David? A force that I had never experienced before was telling me what I had to do. A power greater than myself was pulling me away from my grave. The power of Love. My son needed me, and I would search through Hell to find him if necessary. As I walked through the city of New York I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a store window. I couldn’t help but notice I looked dam good for a dead man. My clothes were even clean. When I looked at myself closer, I was much younger than my death age. I didn’t look much over thirty. I kept hearing a voice in my head telling me to prepare for war. War is worse than anything I have seen before. A war against good and evil whatever that meant. I always knew the difference between the two or at least I thought I did. I could feel the force inside me, pulling at my soul and taking me away from the store window. For some reason I had a compulsion to run. My legs didn’t even feel like my own. I started running faster than I ever did in my life. I jumped over a parked car like I was jumping in a mud puddle. I passed a moving taxi as if it was sitting still. What have I come back as? At this point I didn’t care. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of my old address. The house was dark and run down. The grass in the lawn was knee high. I walked up the five steps to the front porch and listened. I heard nothing. The door had been locked from the outside with a padlock, and crime scene tape was across the front. The memories of that night were rushing back into my head. The anger burned in my soul like fire. I took hold of the padlock and squeezed, and I watched it crumble like dust as it fell to the floor. My hand didn’t even have a mark on it. Hoping it was still there, I had built a secret room off the bedroom where I kept my military stuff. I opened the door and stepped inside, and it was like stepping back in time. The downstairs was just like I had left it. Everything was in its place even though it was covered with dust. The upstairs I knew would be different. Taking one step at a time I headed to the second floor. When I got there, I found our bedroom door wide open, and it looked like hell had broken loose. There was blood everywhere along with things smashed. The one thing that hadn’t been moved was our dresser. I slowly moved it off to the side so I could get to the hidden door. At the time I built the room, I was hoping I would never have to use it. We had even wallpapered over the door. Taking my fingertips, I felt for the edges of the door feeling for the hidden button that opened it. When I found it, the door popped open ripping the wallpaper around it. The room I had designed was only six-by-ten feet in size. Hanging on every inch of the walls were weapons of every kind. I was highly trained on every one of them. I had put a small safe in one corner where I stored and hid special documents. I didn’t bother turning the combination lock. I just grabbed the handle and pulled. When the door broke loose, I threw it to one side. Laying inside I had a large envelope with every ID I needed. The thought of my son needing me kept swirling around in my head. How can I help you if I don’t know where you are? You know what to do the voice said. And then there was silence. The silence before the storm. I strapped a knife holster under each pant leg along with a pistol holster under the back of my shirt. Next, I put on a bullet proof vest. Around my waist I put on a belt with two more holsters. My belly pack had more than enough rounds for a small war. I took one last look at my hidden room and shut the door. This will be my last visit to my old home. Home is where the heart is and mine wasn’t there any longer. My son’s voice called out for me again, sounding louder each time. I felt like a magnet being drawn by force in which I didn’t have any control. I stood in the middle of the street facing one way and then another. Just waiting for something or even a sign telling me what to do next. Sometimes the signs are right in front of you, and you don’t even see them. So many people overlook the obvious and I don’t want to be one of them. Not this time, not ever. Visions of Cathy and David were going through my head. Cathy was crying at the top her lungs while two men were raping her. Another man had my son David bent over a table and he was about to screw him in the ass, and someone said like hell you will. That voice was mine. I was standing in the same room they were. How I got there I had no idea. Who the fuck are you? Said the man who had my son. Like lightning I had a knife across his throat. I’m the man from hell and that’s where you’re going as I drew my knife across his neck. Just before he fell to the floor he looked into my eyes, and he knew who I was. You son of a bitch one of the other men screamed. I just held my ground and laughed. Are you two just a couple of pussies? The only way you can get laid is by raping innocent women. You blow buddy and are just a sick bastard that deserved to die the man said. One of them through a knife at my head and I grabbed it in midair and threw it back planting it between his eyes. The last one came at me with his bare hands and said I’m going to kill you mother fucker. I don’t think so because I’m already dead. I made my fingers into a point thrusting into his chest. As I held his still beating heart in my hand, I asked him how it feels to get your heart ripped out. I squeezed every ounce of blood from his heart and threw it on the floor beside him. By this time David had his pants pulled up and was sitting on the floor in a ball. His face showed no emotion and not a sound came from his lips. I knew he was in shock. Cathy was still lying on the bed with a face full of tears. Her clothes were ripped and there was blood between her legs. I softly took hold her hands and sat her up. When I looked into her eyes, she knew who I was. I had just turned thirty when we were married. She couldn’t help but remember my eyes. The eyes that loved her so much. How can this be she asked? I watched you die and then be buried. She put her arms around me and squeezed me so hard my eyeballs almost popped out. I turned my head and David was standing beside me. Not a word came from his lips. I slowly put my arms around him and gave him a hug. Everything will be ok, I promise. I could see the tears forming in his eyes. With a broken voice he asked is it really your dad? Yes son, it is. I don’t know how, but I know why. Your voice was calling out to me through the darkness for help and here I am. But how Dad? You’re dead? Some soldiers never truly die their souls remain here to protect the ones they love. When needed they come to help. Why son, I really don’t know. That’s been a story that has been passed down through the centuries. Will you been leaving again? asked David. Probably when I know you’re safe. But no matter where you are I will be watching over you and guarding you from harm. You might say I’m your guardian angel. That’s cool, said David. Cathy on the other hand still couldn’t believe it. I stood there and listened for a minute as the sirens were coming. Somehow, they received a report that something went down here. You will be OK now, I promised as my image faded away from their eyes. Cathy spoke my name and said thank you, but I didn’t answer. I was still there but they couldn’t see me. My soul was just there. I could see the tears in Cathy’s eyes as she said I love you. In a soft voice like a whisper, I said I love you too.       Once the cops and the EMT’s showed up, I faded away into nothingness. There I stood once again in front of my grave staring at my headstone. A mysterious force began pulling me downward. I laughed a little and grinned as I slowly was lowered back into my resting place. As I laid in my coffin, I could feel my heartbeat slow down like a battery that was dying, one beat at a time until it stopped. And then there was nothing. Normally when you die your body rots away in your casket, and all that is left is bone. Most of the time I would agree but not this time. Somewhere in the world another soldier is rising from his grave and the cycle continues. Just like it has for hundreds of years. No one ever knows how it happens. Some people won’t even admit it even when they see it happen. Usually, it’s the ones that do and think to themselves they must be going crazy. Then again, maybe some are. We truly know don’t whether it is fact or fiction. Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. You never know who yours might be. C.E. Metcalf        

eyo0q0

Hero?

 “Hold.” Maximus' voice rang out and echoed down the cave. “Bring up the rangers.” Two burly, black bearded men moved forward. They cautiously approached the wide stairs and examined them for traps. Mary Anesh accompanied them, one step behind, providing her mage light. Ewol peered down the dark expanse, watching as the men disarmed an explosive series of traps. They'd traveled treacherous mountain terrain for two months to find this place. It was amazing to watch them work. Ewol wanted to be like them. To protect Prince Maximus, the Hero, could there be anything greater? He wondered if he wasn't just a mistake. The adventure had been amazing. It came with challenges, such as sleeping on the ground at night, and the hundreds of miles of travel. But Maximus had led them. He told stories during the day and played the lute and sang songs at night. Ewol had been an indentured apprentice in the kitchen. He'd struggled, spilling broth or dropping food, and the head cook would strike him with a cast iron pan. Ewol had volunteered to go when no one else would. The head cook was all too happy to send him. “We've finished, Sire,” The ranger called. “Indeed. Maybe it's a fresh coat of paint the skeleton lords put on to welcome us.” Ewol froze as the men marched past. He'd forgotten about that. Legend had it the treasure they sought was kept by two skeleton rulers who killed anyone who tried to enter. Their group of warriors and mages, dressed in the royal green and silver, navigated the terrain slowly. As the group reached the bottom they stopped in a cluster. A large chamber with vaulted ceilings opened to an ornately decorated wall with crenelations, columns, and arches. In the center, a double door rose four stories high. The mages were working to open it. Embedded in the door, jewels sparkled in the mage's light. One of the rangers pried a jewel free and brought it to the Prince. “It looks like we didn't come all this way for nothing!” Maximus chuckled and returned the jewel. “Finders keeper.” Ewol watched quietly, stunned by what he saw. Maximus had just held a stone that could have been the crown jewel in a king's crown, and he handed it back to the man who had found it. Is that what heroes did? His mind swam with fantasies where the Hero ruled and no one was a slave or an orphan, there was food for everyone, and the world was joyous and content. “My warriors, we've had an easy journey, but behind these doors lies an evil that will challenge us like never before. Hold steady and we will be victorious!” Ewol raised his arm in cheer with the rest of the warriors. He drank in their enthusiasm like an intoxicating wine. He was in company of the greatest fighters in all the lands. What could go wrong? He wanted to be like them, but he didn't have a sword. He only had a cast iron pan. He knew how much it could hurt. “My lord, spell on the door has been broken.” Mary Anesh approached him. “It will open at your command.” Ewol watched as Maximus took Mary Anesh and kissed her. “I will find you a sapphire worthy of your love,” he purred. “My Prince.” she blushed. Maximus gave a wolfish grin and led the party to the door. “Open! And show us your treasure!” he said, raising his elven blade high. A blue shimmer went over the doors as dust and pebbles cascaded down from them as they opened. The metal whined and screeched with the cacophony of tortured souls as the ancient hinges moved. Ewol sensed there was something in the air. A tang of something which smelled like the cutlery closet where all the silverware and golden goblets were kept. Only this was much richer. “Mages,” Maximus ordered. The magic workers moved slowly forward, projecting their glowing orbs forward. The group followed, stepping past the threshold. “Would you look at that.” Maximus paused. “The tiles...they're gold.” Ewol knelt to touch the floor. It was cool to the touch, but it shown like the burning sun against the clouds at sunset. A cathedral of gold stretched before them, the peaked sections held by gold pillars with chandeliers hanging in the centers. Each vase which ringed the pillars—spilling with coins—was gold. Heaps of ingots, chalices, scepters, swords, and shields lay before them. All of it, made from the precious yellow metal. The light played off the items in a mesmerizing swirl of hues. Chariots of gold drawn by golden horses lined the sides, creating a long parade to the center of the cathedral. Ewol couldn't believe what he was seeing. There was enough gold here to make everyone a King or Queen! There would never be hunger or poverty again! He wanted to pick up armfuls of gold and fill his pockets. But the Hero didn't even look at the wealth, neither did his men. They steadily moved forward, eyes ahead, weapons ready. Ewol forced himself to pull his eyes away and follow. As they marched, he noticed other, smaller branches of the cathedral leading off, each glimmering with gold. They carried on, the line of chariots ended and tall statues of men and women took their place. It seemed someone had replicated the gods, each holding gem encrusted goblets spilling over with gold coins. The structure opened to a grand hall, its tall ceiling fading to darkness. The floor changed to a white marble with veins of gold. The statues formed a ring around the grand hall, and in it's center, two gold thrones facing each other. Two shadowy figures sitting on them. Maximus called them to a halt. “I want to draw them out, force them to fight us among the statues.” “I agree, My Liege,” Mary Anesh said. The men separated and Ewol found himself standing with the Hero. “Ah, cook, you're still here.” Maximus smiled. “You afraid?” Ewol considered his statement for a moment. He had felt scared, but was too embarrassed to say anything. He had seen all the others and their lack of any fear. Not one of them had expressed concern or worry. How could he be here if he was the only one to say he was afraid. He had decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Besides, he was surrounded by the Hero's company. What did he have to worry about? “I have been afraid, but I'm with you.” “A true man feels fear, but doesn't let it control him,” Maximus said, glancing at the pan. “Besides, with that pan, you'll crush anything that gets in our way.” He slapped Ewol on the shoulder with a laugh. “Let's move into position,” Maximus said as he ran to join the group on the left. They formed two wedges and quietly moved towards the thrones. As one, the mages threw their magic up to light the chandeliers. Two skeletons, a king and a queen, sat in black robes on the daises. A simple crystal bowl with water sat between them. “It's them,” Mary Anesh said. “Dead a long time. Two souls entombed in their greed.” Ewol didn't know what they meant. Was the phrase 'skeleton lord' more of a title? “If they are dead, our work here is done. We can return and report to my father.” A sharp click echoed in the chamber. “It seems we have guests, my dear.” A man's voice, clear and melodic, sounded from the throne. “We need to greet them, my love,” a woman's voice followed. The skeletons arose, nearly soundless, drawing swords from the sides of the thrones. “Fall back!” Maximus ordered. Ewol scrambled and nearly fell down as the warriors scrambled to evacuate. He glanced back to see two skeletal frames, twenty feet tall, shadows for eyes, arms bare bones, striding towards them. By the gods! How could they even move? Ewol threw himself into keeping up with the soldiers and archers. Mary Anesh led the group he was with and they sped into position within the statues and piles of gold. The warriors formed up, creating a barrier wall of twenty shields. Behind it the archers drew and fired their bolts. Their attacker raised his shield and blocked the shots, advancing slowly. “Change targets!” Mary Anesh commanded as she cast a spell on the arrows. The tips ignited with orange flame and the archers sent shots across the skeleton's body. Many of them pierced the robes but were extinguished. “I haven't seen that spell in a while.” The skeleton mocked as it plucked one like a toothpick and pinched it out. Ewol cried out as it charged at them, kicking at the row of shields. Two men went down, stunned. The others pushed in to reform the wall but the skeleton lord made a swift slash down, cutting through the top of the shield, into the warrior's chest. He dropped dead. “I'm looking forward to this, aren't you my dear?” the skeleton called out. Ewol glanced to the other side and saw the Hero in full retreat as the skeleton queen slashed and hacked mercilessly. “To have your eyes feast upon my beautiful body again, it's all I've wanted for a hundred years, my love.” Ewol sensed something was wrong. Their weapons were doing nothing. The men were hacking away and it only produced sparks against the bony legs of the skeleton that attacked them. The arrows were useless and Mary Anesh's spells weren't affecting him. But he couldn't find his voice. He couldn't tell the Hero and his group to fall back, to retreat outside. In his heart, that's not something a hero would do. Another warrior fell as the line of swordsmrn dwindled. “Maximus!” Mary Anesh cried out. But he was too busy protecting what remained of his men, swinging the elven sword its silvery metal sang as it deflected the skeleton queen's attack. He fought with a determination and grace that only a hero could fight with. “To the door, we'll regroup there!” Mary Anesh commanded. But the Skeleton Lord didn't stop his relentless attack. He lunged forward in an attempt to step past the warriors and take out their mage. Ewol saw what he was doing. Using the pan he scooped up a pile of gold coins and flung it under their attacker's feet. The skeleton lord slipped and fell with a thudding of bones. “Now, m'lady. Run!” Ewol hissed as he grabbed her and pulled her away. He knew the fight was lost. They needed a different approach, a new way to deal with them. They'd have to come up with it once they were safe. He needed to get them out. Mary Anesh cast a spell behind her as they fled, sending a torrent of wind to push the skeleton back. The few men followed. Ewol pulled her to the middle, away from the chariots, statues, and piles of gold that could block their way. A few strides behind them, the Hero appeared, his face bloodied, his armor dented and scratched. He led the handful of survivors in a wedge formation, holding off the strokes and stabs from the Skeleton Queen. The others joined them in a group, as the skeleton lord strode out and, standing side by side with his partner, harried their retreat. Taking down a warrior from time to time, thinning the lines. The door! Ewol pulled the mage towards the door, it was only a hundred yards away. If they ran, they could escape. The Hero would certainly follow. He could fight another day. “Maximus!” Mary Anesh cried out and broke out of Ewol's grip. She ran to join them. Uttering a spell she touched his sword with her staff, and the elven blade glowed with blue fire. Maximus leaped forward in an unexpected attack and cut the skeleton queen's blade in half. In a blur, the skeleton lord kicked Maximus in the chest, sending him flying, the sword bouncing away. The men, shocked at the loss of their leader, quickly fell. “Well, that was intense.” the skeleton lord said as he slowly strode past the bodies of the warriors, to where Mary Anesh held Maximus. Ewol stood frozen, his chest clenched in horror. This was not supposed to happen! The Hero was supposed to triumph. They were supposed to return home in glory. “Which one should use as messenger?” The skeleton lord asked. “That one.” The skeleton queen pointed at Ewol. “This one, she's broken.” She shoved her sword through Mary Anesh's chest. She toppled over. “I can't wait,” the skeleton lord said as he picked up Maximus and the others, hauling them back to the center of the cathedral. Putting one foot in the water of the crystal bowl, he put the hero to his mouth. Maximus' body changed to a flurry of sparkling white dust which flowed down the skeletons throat, through his chest, and to his feet. Immediately his muscles and flesh grew back, until a complete man appeared. Ewol watched in horror as the queen did the same with Mary Anesh. The giants consumed more of the warriors. If it hadn't been for what he'd just witnessed, he would have seen the beauty of the two rulers that stood before him. “Ah, it's good to be reborn.” “Shall we gather the others?” “They can wait,” the skeleton lord said with a mischievous grin as he grabbed her hand. “Oh wait, the messenger.” Ewol wanted to run, but he couldn't as the giant stepped over and pointed his sword at him. “Go, tell the others of the gold you see here, and the challenge that awaits them.” The giant turned away. “Is that enough?” the Queen asked. “They always come back in a hundred years or so,” the King answered. Ewol couldn't move. His feet felt like they were cemented to the ground. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Why! Why couldn't I help you, Hero! His hand touched something and he found the elven blade, still glowing. Something took over him. An anger that sprang from the hope that no longer could live in his bosom. A raging fury that the Hero was dead and that all their dreams were gone. He was commanded to go back and tell the King what had happened. But he wasn't going to do that. He'd seen the center of the circle, where the skeletons had stood to consume the bodies. The two giants had just finished absorbing all the others and were walking away. Ewol forced himself to stand. He wasn't going to do nothing. The call of the Heor had been his and he wasn't going to leave. An instinct touched his mind, he should strike back. He took the sword and rushed to the middle. “Wait, what is he doing?” the Skeleton Queen called out. “Stop!” The skeleton King lunged. Ewol summoned all his strength, hoping it would be enough, and slammed the sword into the crystal at his feet. It shattered, the water instantly evaporated, sending a groan through the cathedral. The pillars buckled and contorted as the two giants screamed in fierce anger. Ewol tried to pull the sword free but it wouldn't budge. He tried again and again before jumping away and grabbing his pan. But the giants didn't attack, their supple bodies reduced to bones, had crumpled and broken, scattering to the floor. Ewol fell to his knees, tears pushing their way out, as he found himself alone. Maximus and Mary Anesh were gone, he'd never hear a compliment from them again. He'd never see them smile at him when they ate his food or play the lute to bring everyone together with song. They had failed, and he was the only one left to bring the story back. He couldn't bear the thought of telling the King, or anyone else for that matter. Guilt swept over him, smothering him like a wave of stampeding horses. His hope was left crushed. He scooped up a pan of the gold. For a moment he stared at it. His happiness felt sick and horrible in his mouth, like cold bile licked off the floor. He hated the gold. It didn't make him feel good anymore. Turning the pan over, he dumped out the contents and made his way out of the cathedral. At the doorway he paused. The mage and rangers had disarmed some traps. But that was to stop someone from coming in. He rearmed them, each one, before running for the exit. The explosions followed him, stinging him with bits of granite shrapnel and showering him with dust. The cave collapsed with rocks the size of houses covering everything. He didn't stop running until he reached the wagons. Ewol sat alone for three days, mourning. Missing the friendship, the self worth he'd found accompanying the hero. He barely ate, and slept in fits. On the fourth day he placed his pan next to the fire pit and left, vowing that no hero in the future would die, searching for the gold that cost him everything.

b61qs8

No Moon over Miami

Dean Troutman, native New Yorker, struggled to walk down a palatial residential sidewalk as the inviting Miami sunshine burned through the tall palm trees. Under the blue sky and fluffy clouds, he wiped his brow and viewed the address on his phone. The immaculate lawns, towering homes, and friendly waves from unknown neighbors, made him feel uncomfortable. He preferred Manhattan: no one made eye contact and he could hide in the shadows of the skyscrapers. He was on a mission. He had to speak to the Master about the issues in New York, and it couldn’t wait. He removed his black leather jacket and put it in his backpack. One more block and he should be at the destination according to the GPS. His gold chains weighed down his burning neck. Sweat dripped from his pale face, through his saturated t-shirt, and sizzled on the concrete. This fish out of water found his Gatorade and guzzled half of its contents. He replaced it in his bag and moved forward. He saw a group of men in the same orange uniform running toward him. Dean slipped behind a large palm branch. He watched them pass and realized they were just organized joggers; not a drop of sweat. Floridiots. He smirked, “I didn’t see that one coming.” He couldn’t afford to be spotted by anyone, until he relayed the information. The Master’s daughter, Emmy, was in mortal danger from Sandra Harris, the second in command. He couldn’t trust his phone because every call and text were monitored. Sandy would kill him if she knew his motives for going to south Florida. Sandy hated Emmy more than the rest of the crew; probably over a guy. Dean stopped when his phone beeped. He looked around and saw no house, just a brick path into immense azalea bushes. He sniffed the air. He could smell the magic of the secret headquarters. He walked straight into the bushes and vanished. The weary traveler reappeared on the brick path, but in front of a giant black iron gate fifty-feet away. He marched to the black gate and halted. What appeared to be one gate was actually two large gates connected in the middle. Dean heard mechanisms whirring and the gate slightly parted. He still could not see a house, but moved through the opening. With his first step, he found himself in the foyer of a pristine mansion. A crystal chandelier was directly above him and a beautiful spiral staircase stood to his left. On his right were amazing paintings on the wall: A Rembrandt, a Van Gogh, a Monet. He saw a full-size marble sculpture and walked over to it. Was it a Michelangelo? His sweaty hand reached out. “Please. Do not touch the art.” Dean jumped and spun around to face a tall female butler. “May I take your bag, sir?” She said. "Towel sir?" “Yes. Thank you.” The visitor dried his face and arms. The butler placed the bag by the stairs. “I am Marjorie. Would you like a refreshment before seeing the Master?” “Just some water please. It’s so hot here. Thanks.” Dean handed the drenched towel back. “Indeed.” Marjorie held the towel with two fingers and deposited it in the trash. She went to an oak door on her left and produced two large Smart Water bottles. “One is for you and the other for the Master.” Dean opened his bottle and drank. The butler waited for him to stop. “Please follow me to the pool.” He wiped his mouth and followed the butler through the gorgeous estate to the glass back door. “Wait outside under the veranda until you are called. Understand?” “Yes. Thank you.” Dean replied and then moved under the veranda. He observed two lounge chairs with a small table in between. One was empty except for a folded towel. Dr. McMasters lounged on the other near the crystal clear pool and wore a straw fedora over his eyes. Someone swam laps. He heard soft jazz playing in the background. Dean smelled salt water, sneezed, and wiped his nose. “Stop sniveling and come over here.” McMasters barked. Dean hustled over. “Put the bottle on the table.” Dean obeyed, but held on to his water. “So Dean, this better be important. You know how I hate to be disturbed.” “Yes sir. Of the utmost.” Dean replied and the leaned over and whispered into McMaster’s ear for several minutes. The doctor sat up, “Are you certain?" He lifted his hat and stared at the visitor. "I did not see that one coming.” Dean straightened up and replied, “Ab…solute…ly…. beautiful.” His attention had been diverted to the pool where the lone swimmer slowly emerged from the saltwater pool. A perfectly tan woman in an ivory two-piece bikini, glowed and glistened as the water dripped from her sculpted figure and strong legs. Cobolt eyes pierced his soul. She smiled at the visitor. Her smooth fingers combed through her long wet dark hair as she walked up to Dean. Her honey voice was sweet music to his ears. “Hello, Dean. Is this for little o` me? The saltwater dries me out. I’m so thirsty. You are too kind.” Dean extended his water bottle to her and stared. She sipped a little and then handed the bottle back. “Thanks. Y’all are welcome and safe here, friend. Please enjoy the amenities of House Castle. I will see you at dinner.” The beauty touched his right arm and squeezed. Dean smiled, waved, and stumbled back to the house. He tripped over a chair and nearly fell. He waved to her again. She watched him, giggled, and gave him a finger wave. She strolled over to her lounge chair and used the towel to dry off. “Jocelyn, why do you toy with them?” McMasters asked. She stretched toward the sun. “It’s fun. I like him, he’s loyal and cute.” Jocelyn replied. “We may have a situation in New York. It’s about Emmy.” She placed on her sunglasses, opened the water bottle, and drank. She lay down on the lounger. She wiggled and got comfortable. “You claimed you could handle Gotham, David. I thought you had my daughter under control. Can you manage it? Please pass me the lotion.” He handed her the sunscreen. “Yes, but I could use…” “It’s time to illuminate Emmy. Bring her to me. Is that a problem?” The stunner applied the lotion on her arms, legs, and across her toned abs. “No. However, your presence…” “If it is, then you will have a problem. Nothing can deter us from the plan. Nothing.” She leaned back and absorbed the sunlight. “Josie, I know. I just thought…” She slowly turned her head to him and lifted her glasses. Her eyes glowed an electric plasma blue. She turned away and closed her eyes. The doctor bowed his head. “Yes, of course, I will handle it. Master.” “Excellent. Take the Leer jet. When you go inside, please ask Marjorie to send Dean to join me here. It is such an exquisite day. I wanna toy with him. Have a safe trip.” The doctor stood and briskly walked to the exit. “Oh, David?” Josie asked. He halted and glared at her. “No mistakes or I will have your head.” A moment later, Dean popped around the glass door. “You wanted to see me, Miss.” She reclined her chair further and flipped over. “Yes, Dean. Don’t be shy. Come over here. Lotion my back and legs.” The New Yorker moved cautiously and sat next to the sunbathing beauty. He squirted the lotion into his hands. “Take your time, Dean. Please tell me what’s happening in the Big Apple. Every single detail counts. I wanna know everything.” Dean gulped but chatted and massaged her for over an hour. “Your hands are so soft.” Josie moaned and sat up. She kissed Dean on the lips. His brain melted. “Let’s go for a dip. You are so sweaty and hot.” Dean said, “I don’t have a suit.” “These will do just fine.” She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the warm pool water. They playfully splashed each other. “So, Dean, how well do you know Emmy, my daughter?” “I can see where she got her good looks, Master.” Josie smiled, “Thank you. You’re a sweet talker aren’t you?” Dean blushed. “You would tell me whatever I want to hear just to save your own wretched skin.” Dean frowned and trembled with fear. “No, Master. I didn’t mess with her; I swear it. Sandy and the others have gone rogue. They hate Emmy.” She put a blue electrified finger to his quivering lips. “Shh. Don’t cry. I gave y’all one rule and one consequence for violating that rule.” “Master please. I will do what…” Before Dean could finish the sentence, Josie snapped her charged fingers and decapitated his wet head from his sweaty shoulders. Seconds later, his flesh transformed into pillars of salt and dissolved into the water. Gold chains and an amulet sank in the water. Dean’s wet clothes floated to the pool’s surface. Josie retrieved the gold and exited the pool. She dried off, entered her home, and called out to the butler. “Marjorie, please clean up the pool, our guest’s clothes are floating around. Put this with the others. I am off to the shower.” The butler appeared out of nowhere. Josie handed her the jewelry. “Of course. Will you be staying for dinner, Master?” “No. I’m going to New York. I am taking the Mercedes. Have it brought around, please.” The Master walked up the staircase, thought for a moment, and grinned. “Clean up Dean’s leather jacket and place it in the car. It’s frigid in the North this time of year.” The butler rolled her eyes and muttered, “I didn’t see that one coming.” Josie paused and scowled, “Did you say something, Marjorie?” “Will that be all, Master?” The butler asked. With glee, the Master scooted up the remaining stairs. “Please get the guest suite ready. I’m bringing my daughter home.”

rryb47

Rescue AID

“Hey! Can you help me find my dog?” Justin asked, nearly out of breath from running next door to his best friend Dreaden’s house. Justin and Dreaden had been friends since they were five when Justin moved in next door. Even though Dreaden was homeschooled and Justin went to public school they were inseparable when school let out. “Again,” replied Dreaden. “What does this make, three times this week?” Justin had a hard time remembering to close the front door all the way when he left the house. It was usually at the sound of Cooper’s barking that got Justin’s attention. He would look back but it was too late. The family dog was out the door and making his way towards the wooded area where the two friends would live out their weekend adventures conquering kingdoms afar. “Are you gonna help me or what?” Justin said, now starting to catch his breath. “I have actually been waiting all day for you to come over!” Dreaden said with a huge grin on his face. “Of course I’m going to help you! Don’t I always help you? “Yeah, I suppose you do.” Justin said in a grateful voice. “Want to go to the fort and gear up for a search mission?” “What are we waiting for?” Dreaden said, closing the door behind him and taking off full speed toward the woods. Both Dreaden and Justin loved to begin every adventure at the fort. It was a place just deep enough in the woods that when you looked back you could no longer see the everyday life of society. There was no more homework or chores to do. It was a place of freedom. A place of imagination. Three years ago, Justin got a hammer and nail set for his tenth birthday and for the past three years now the two friends have been piecing together a fortress. Every piece of lumber, every door hinge, every wooden shipping crate they could find went toward building the fort. It was built into the side of an old tree near a creek. Dreaden was always a little faster at running than Justin even though they were the same age and it was usually Dreaden that caught the dog when he got loose. Kicking up leaves behind them on the trail the boys ran to the fort. Just inside the fort there was a table with large pieces of paper and black markers for drawing treasure maps. Sometimes they would draw out plans for a secret mission. Just underneath the table there was an old tin coffee can where they stored dog treats that were used to lure Cooper near enough to grab him. Justin opened the coffee can and drew out four dog treats and gave Dreaden two of them. Dreaden grabbed a black marker and a piece of paper. Dreaden began to draw the fort and the nearby creek. The detail that Dreaden put into his drawings in such a short amount of time always impressed Justin. “I swear you can draw faster and better than any thirteen year old alive!” Justin said, putting one of the dog treats into one of the pockets of his jeans. “You tell me that everytime I draw something, but thanks!” Dreaden said. Wiping some dust from the page and capping the marker, Dreaden began to lay out some plans. “You go north along the creek. I will go south. Cooper couldn't have crossed the creek. The water is up because of all the rain we’ve been getting. Let’s try to meet back here with or without Cooper in 15 minutes.” “What do you mean with or without him? You know we always find him by the creek playing at the edge of the water?” Justin said. “I only meant to add a level of excitement to our rescue mission,” Dreaden responded with a smile. Justin thought to himself about how smart Dreaden was. He always had a good sense of direction, he could draw better than any kid he had ever met in public school, and how he could turn an everyday task into a mission of a possible no return. Justin enjoyed every minute he spent with Dreaden. Justin wondered if all this talent was because he was homeschooled. Maybe it was the fact that he was homeschooled by parents who were guinesses. His dad worked with computers and his mom was some kind of strange biologist that was retired and stayed at home with Dreaden most of the time. They really seemed to love Dreaden, given how much time they spent with him. “Hey! You awake!” Dreaden shouted. Justin seemed to be spaced out staring at the ceiling of their fort. “Are you ready to execute this rescue mission for Cooper who just happens to be lost in enemy territory?” Dreaden said, grabbing Justin’s shoulder and smiling ear to ear. “Sorry. I guess I zoned out for a minute. Let’s do this!” Justin said. They both started out the door of their fort. Justin going North along the creek and Dreaden going south along the creek. As Justin walked along the creek side calling for Cooper he looked at his watch to get an idea of when he should start heading back to the fort so that he would meet Dreaden at the end of 15 minutes. Justin thought about how Dreaden never wore a watch but always seemed to have a good sense of time. Justin admired his friend Dreaden as he thought about all the adventures they’ve shared in the woods. Mostly at the fort. He always came up with the best ideas and the most elaborate of quests. Their friendship was like no other. “Cooper! Cooper! Here boy! Where are you boy?” Justin shouted out, throwing an occasional rock or stick into the creek. He noticed the wind starting to pick up. The trees started swaying as he walked on. A few minutes passed and a light sprinkle of rain started to come down. The clouds started getting darker and the wind started blowing even harder than moments before. Justin thought about how they had been getting a lot of rain in the area. He looked at the creek and noticed the current picking up speed splashing against branches that had fallen along the bank. Thunder sounded in the distance like the sound of a shotgun. Justin checked his watch and even though he had a few more minutes until it was time to head back to the fort he decided to head back early due to a storm coming. He hoped that Dreaden had already found Cooper and was waiting for him to get back since he was usually the one to catch him. Making his way back toward the fort the rain began to come down thick and heavy. Justin was soaking wet in a matter of minutes. He began to waver back and forth between fear of what his mother would say coming home soaked or if he would even make it home at all. If he could just make it back to Dreaden, he thought, he would know what to do. He always seemed to know exactly what to do. Lightning cracked the sky nearby, letting out a boom which made Justin breakout into a full sprint. The rain was really coming down in thick sheets now. He could see the fort ahead. A moment of relief came with the thought of Dreaden being inside. Being around his friend always made him feel at peace. Something he desperately needed at the moment. He reached the door of the fort just as Dreaden was coming around the other side of the fort. He was just as soaked as he was. In a moment of relief in seeing his friend he shouted out through the heavy rain, “Did you find Cooper?”. “No! Did you?” Dreaden shouted back. “We’ve got to go back home, Cooper will be okay until the storm is over! I will help you again when the rain stops and we get into some dry clothes!” Dreaden continued. “I can’t leave without Cooper! I just can’t!” Justin quickly responded. “Hey! Did you hear that?” Dreaden called out. “I can’t hear anything in this downpour!” “There it is again! Listen! Justin turned his head to face the same direction Dreaden was facing in hope that he would hear what he heard. There it was, the faintest barking sound. It seemed to make its way into his ear through all the rain and the thunder. “I do hear it! Justin said. “Where is it coming from?” Dreaden looked at the fort and said, “I think it is coming from the fort!” Justin opened the door and rushed in to see Cooper under the table that held the paper and markers now somewhat wet from the rain coming in through cracks in the roof. Dreaden was about to enter behind him when a bolt of lightning struck the tree shearing off a limb which came crashing down on the doorway of the fort blocking the entrance keeping Dreaden out and Justin and Cooper trapped inside. Justin began to panic! “Dreaden! Dreaden! Help!” Cooper started barking even more all the while shaking from being soaked just as much as Justin and Dreaden. Justin could hear Dreaden calling back, “Justin! Are you okay?” “I’m okay!” Justin shouted out. “I will see if I can find something to pry against the pieces of wood blocking the doorway!” Justin started looking around for anything he could put together to give him leverage. At the back of the fort he saw creek water starting to come in the fort from the flash flooding. Justin yelled out in a panic, “Dreaden! The fort is flooding! Help!” The rain continued to pour and the sky continued to flash with lightning. The roar of the wind pounding on the walls of the fort caused Justin to fear for his life. Why was Dreaden not helping me he thought as his body began to shiver. From the opposite side of the fort Justin began to hear loud banging. Louder and louder. Bang! bang! The wall started cracking. Justin grabbed Cooper and crouched in a corner staring at the wall. Bang! Bang! Fear had overtaken him completely. His skin turned pale and his lips purple from being wet and cold. The water from the creek was getting higher and higher. Bang! Bang! The wall burst open and Dreaden pushed through. “Justin! This way!” Dreaden shouted. When Cooper realized what was going on he stood up and carrying Cooper he ran through the opening that Dreaden was somehow able to make in the wall of the fort. Coming through the other side of the wall they took off running toward the edge of the woods. Justin was so glad to be free from the fort carrying Cooper in his hands. As the boys ran, Dreaden just ahead of Justin, Justin noticed Dreadens hand. Something wasn’t right about it, but it was hard to make out what was wrong through the thick rain and the darkness of the clouds. Passing through the last few trees they came into the clear that was between the woods and their neighboring houses. There was more light in this area and Justin got a better look at Dreaden’s hand. “Dreaden!” Justin shouted. Both Boys came to a halt in the middle of the clearing. “Dreaden! What's wrong with your hand? Justin asked. Dreaden drew his hand from behind his back and extended it forward where Justin could get a better look. “No one was ever supposed to know,” Dreaden said. “I couldn’t just leave you in the fort so I started punching the wall as hard as I could. I had to get you out. I have always been there for you and couldn’t let you down. You are my best friend! I am sorry I didn’t tell you, but know one was supposed to know.” The skin on Dreaden’s hand was torn open. His skin was ripped strangely and the light from a nearby lamp post reflected off of what looked like metallic metal fingers within the flesh.  “What are you Dreaden?” Justin asked. “You were never supposed to know… My parents… they could never have kids so they created me.” Dreaden said, looking at his hand. “As your best friend, Dreaden, I need to know. What are you?” Justin asked again. “I am a machine. A robot induced with artificial intelligence. I know this is a lot to take in Justin.” Dreaden responded. Justin was confused, and slightly freaked out. He had known Dreaden all his life, or did he? How could he have not known? Every weekend chasing dragons with sticks that they pretended to be swords. And yet, in a strange way it all made sense. His sense of time and direction. His ability to create the most perfect and imaginative adventures and games. His ability to draw with accurate detail. Staring at his best friend Justin thought about how Dreaden had always been there for him. Always helping him find Cooper. How he never got tired of playing. This was Justin’s best friend and he was an A.I. Robot. Then he smiled and thought, how cool is this! Justin took a deep breath, the rain was already starting to let up, then he said, “Dreaden, thanks for saving my life back there. I was so scared for my life. I promise not to tell anyone our secret. You're my best friend! Of course, I have a lot of questions. Can we meet up again tomorrow?” Dreaden smiled and said, “Of course we can! We have a fort to rebuild, destroyed by the storms of battle. I will see you tomorrow.” That night Justin couldn’t sleep. He laid in bed staring at the ceiling. He thought about all that happened and how his best friend was some kind of A.I. android. He was so glad to be safe and back at home and it was thanks to Dreaden who was willing to risk exposing his secret to save his life. The next morning after breakfast he rushed over to Dreaden’s house to find him waiting outside on the porch. “Are you ready to head to the fort?” Dreaden asked. Justin looked at Dreaden’s hand and it looked somewhat normal. His skin was sewn up with several stitches. Justin smiled and said, “Let’s go Rescue AID.” Dreaden, not too sure what Justin meant by that, asked, “Why did you call me Rescue AID?” Justin, smiling ear to ear and looking into Dreaden’s eyes, said, “As in, Rescue A.I.Dreaden. Thanks again for saving me last night.” “Let’s cut the mushy stuff and catch us some dragons!” Dreaden said. Justin reassured Dreaden that he would never let their secret get out and teased him about being his personal Rescue A.I.D. They shared a couple of laughs then they headed off into the woods to their next adventure and with many more to come.

noxlt6

Experiences Shared

Experiences Shared By Bryan Wade Toby and Scott had been friends for a few years. They’d been buddies ever since Toby moved into the house next door. Scott’s house was a big, old, rambling place with creaky polished wooden floors, which were great for sliding on and even more exciting when they chased each other around the house. Unfortunately, they quickly stopped games like these before chasing the excited pair into the garden to let off steam. They were both seven years old and enjoyed doing the same things, usually having battles in the large sandpit at the bottom of Scott’s garden. But far more exhilarating were their secret expeditions into the enormous forest that started at the bottom of their backyards. A tall wire fence acted as a substantial barrier to keep wild deer and other creatures from wandering into their properties, but in the far corner of Toby’s garden, there was a secret hole they could just about squeeze through. Their secret entry saved the would-be adventurers a long trek to a lopsided gate at the end of their road. It also saved them from passing a tumble-down cottage where a crazy old woman lived. She was short and round with long, grey, frizzy hair and a booming voice. She always seemed to be in the garden pulling up plants and mumbling, and if they stopped to look through her gate, she’d always raise her stick and shout, and sometimes she’d scurry down her path towards them waving. She also had a fat black cat that trailed behind her wherever she went, as though her shadow. It walked with the same slow rolling gait, and if it looked in their direction, it didn’t look friendly. But once in the forest, they were free to run wild in their own personal playground, where they enjoyed some of their best times together. A favourite was racing down the narrow trails that zig-zagged through the shrubbery to the valley bottom. In a small area, the remains of several tumbled-down buildings were great for climbing on, as were several old cars surrounded by thick, tangled creepers, creating unique places to hide and play. Usually, when they returned home after spending a few hours here, they’d be worn out, grubby and sometimes in need of a bath. On adventure days, Toby would sit on his front porch and wait until his friend arrived. On this particular day, they came across all sorts of great places. The best was close to a prominent rocky ridge where Scott found what looked like a small opening. As they investigated, it became more like an extended tunnel, which was rather scary in a few places because it was so narrow. It also smelt like a fox or badger had lived there, and they both knew a badger was something they shouldn’t tangle with. Foxes, on the other hand, were more nervous creatures and would usually run away. But those old black and white badgers could be very aggressive! Putting those thoughts to the back of their minds, they’d slowly edge their way in and moments later, the tunnel opened to a vast cavern. Daylight poured through small holes in the roof, allowing them to see numerous narrow pathways leading off in all directions. Several led to tunnels that had collapsed, while others were too dark and scary to investigate— some were flooded with black water that smelt rotten. Yet the adventurers found loads to keep them happily entertained. Walking home later that afternoon, they came across a lake, so they decided to take a short rest. However, they soon became captivated by a large bird that circuited over the expanse of water at a great height. Sometimes, the bird looked like it had stopped in mid-air, but moments later, it dived down at great speed and tried to catch something hidden in the water. The last time it swooped, there was a great splash, but the bird flew away towards some trees, so they couldn’t see what it had grabbed. They wandered around the lake's shoreline to where the bird had settled, but it had vanished by the time they arrived there. The following day, they returned to the brickworks and then onto their newly found cavern, but Scott didn’t seem to enjoy himself and appeared happy just to sit and watch his partner. And then, on the way home, he kept lagging, so Toby had to keep stopping for him to catch up. When they finally arrived at the lake, the big bird was nowhere to be seen, and a big man wearing a hat was walking through the trees near the far short line. So, the bird may have been frightened off. A few minutes later, it began to drizzle. Toby realised he was hungry, so set off for home, but his friend didn’t follow. Moments later, Toby retraced his steps to find his buddy, who was still lying by the lake. Just then, the heavens opened, and the downpour motivated Scott, but again, he kept stopping as they climbed out of the valley. He seemed tired and out of breath and struggled to get through the hole in the fence. Toby didn’t see Scott over the next couple of days. He wandered around to his place, but there was no sign of him. And there was no music playing in the house as there often was. Also, the yellow car that usually stood outside wasn’t there either. A day or so later, the car was back. Toby sat waiting on his porch to see if his friend would arrive, but he didn’t. He noticed there was still no music playing and thought he could hear the faint sound of crying. Then the phone in his house rang, followed by voices. It crossed his mind to wander over to his friend’s and investigate because he sensed something rather odd, but then the porch door opened and closed behind him.  A moment later, a hand rested lightly on his head. Gentle fingers played with his ear as a soft voice spoke, “Your buddy won’t be coming over anymore, Toby. He died yesterday.” Toby didn’t really understand, so just wagged his tail before trotting off to find his friend.

4jn253

Earning the Golden Bandage Award

Being an adult Boy Scout Leader can be a rewarding experience, so I was told before signing the contract. When I turned the signed contract in, the man hid his smirk. This should have been my first clue, but I wanted to help out the troop where my son was now a member. “Hey there, welcome aboard.” The scoutmaster, Mr. Hinge shook my hand, “You have joined just in time.” “How so?” I asked in complete naivety. “Summer camp is in three weeks. We are going to Camp Geronimo this year.” Mr. Hinge told me as his smirk reappeared. “Great.” I smiled, but had I been able to peer into the future, I might have run away screaming. I have never been even the slightest bit clairvoyant. I have always been ignorant of the future. I had just signed up for the worst summer vacation of my life   Five adult scout leaders, of which I was one, took twenty Boy Scouts to Camp Geronimo in Payson, Arizona from our troop. While my home in Gilbert sizzled in triple digit temperatures, there was always a cool breeze blowing up near the Mogollon Rim at the camp. The hike up hill to Camp #24, was a six-mile hike over some unforgiving terrain. It was hot and dry most of the way and I must confess it was harder than I had bargained for. As a leader, I was not going to let on that this hike with all my stuff crammed into a backpack was testing the limits of my physical endurance. I would keep my stiff upper lip in place even if I bit through it in the process. According to what I heard; Camp Geronimo was once a hiding place for the famous Apache leader of the same name when he was on the run from the cavalry. Located on the Mogollon Rim, from the parade fields, you can see rock formations that look like mounted Apache warriors around twilight. Seeing these shadows made me feel uneasy at first until I got used to it. The hike up hill to Camp #24, was a six-mile hike over some unforgiving terrain. It was hot and dry most of the way and I must confess it was harder than I had bargained for. As a leader, I was not going to let on that this hike with all my stuff crammed into a backpack was testing the limits of my physical endurance. I would keep my stiff upper lip in place even if I bit through it in the process. The boys on the other hand were not afraid to show how difficult the trail was as they began to complain and groan with each step.  One of the younger members of the troop brandishing a walking stick from REI, began to complain with his tears. Tripping over the gravel, he fell skinning his knee. Through his discomfort, he declared that he was going to discard his expensive walking stick into the bushes. Knowing how much that stick cost, I was not about to let him do that and instead told him to “suck it up.” This did not go over well, but I will give him credit, he still had that walking stick when we finally got to the campsite.  Arriving exhausted, I was shown to my tent that I would share with another adult leader in a lean-to style. The cot was one of those tension snap-together with a taut green canvas that was hard as some of the rocks we had stumbled over on our way here. I had been put in charge of the medical supplies and the boys’ medicine, but since one of the leaders was a paramedic, he became really the resident expert. It didn’t take long before I found out that I had taken on quite a bit more than I had bargained for on this camping trip.  The real job was to make sure the boys went to events they had signed up for so that from about 10 am until 4 pm in the afternoon, the five adult leaders were free of the test of the scouts. Sitting in my chair, I enjoyed the peace and serenity that comes with being deep in the woods.   I did however get bored from napping and would wander around to keep tabs on what the boys were up to. When the boys came back at 4 pm, we would clean up the campsite and prepare to go to the chow hall at around 5 pm. The dining facility was about three miles downhill, but this buffet style dining hall had some very good entrees. The camp was celebrating its fiftieth anniversary so there was always a little surprise waiting for us at dinner.  As the sun drained from the sky, we would get together with other troops for some Boy Scout Style of entertainment which included silly skits and crazy campfire songs.  Lights out was at 9 pm, but most of the boys would stay up until 10 pm. Wearing my headlamp to read by, I quickly found out that the bugs would fly into the light like little bullets. Reading became a hazardous affair. What was even more concerning is that I disobeyed the rule of “no snacks” and heard scuffling noises under our floorboards as I munched on trail mix. *********** Skylar was not a water guy like me. The rest of the boys filed out to the pool. We were scheduled for a swim test the first day of the camp. So, there we stood waiting for our test. We had no idea that the water temperature was barely at 60 degrees. For a summer in Arizona, it meant the water was frigid.  When we all jumped into the pool water (one of the few activities adult leaders had to go to) the shock of the cold water could just about knock you out. After that Skylar refused to get into the water. I managed, but while swimming my laps, I spit out a discarded band aid that floated into my open mouth. I would go on the last day of camp and get the miler badge for swimming 60 laps that equaled one mile. By then the water had finally reached 60 degrees Fahrenheit and there were no floating band aids that I encountered. Another thing we had to get used to was cold showers. Most of the boys refused to get into the shower with water that was too cold for them. It was just another memory that will forever be in my mind. Many of the boys were also not used to open latrines which means the facilities were nothing more than a wooden bench with three holes without running water or in other words you did not have to flush. Flies and other bugs love to descend on these holes creating clouds of greedy, hungry bugs that would die for these open latrines if they had to. I will not go into the stench that flowed from these places, but once again it will live forever in my memory. ********** I know I am skipping ahead, but on the last night of camp there is a big bonfire ceremony where awards are presented to the participating troops, and we won an award that I had to go up there to receive. What award, you ask? How about “The Golden Band Aid Award?” And when the trophy was handed to me, it was what its title said it was, a gilded band aid. Now your next question would be, “How did we earn such a prestigious award. This memory, too, is forever filed away. On the first night of camp, one of the boys went off trail and found some poison oak. The burning rash was evident after dinner as it was getting dark (and the stone Apache warriors were visible the entire way) to the infirmary.  When we got to the infirmary the RN had the infected scout apply some calamine lotion to his itchy rash.  “We get quite a few cases of poison oak.” She smiled. As we left, I bid her farewell without knowing I was going to make several more trips throughout the week. Once the applied lotion began to soothe the itch, we decided to hike back uphill to camp. There was some lighting, but on this rocky trail, it was still very dark. For the better part of the hike, I spent tripping over several roots and foliage on our way back to camp.  On the second night, one of the boys got really ill after dinner, but the wood provided plenty of places to vomit rather than fight the clouds of insects in the latrine. Once again, I hiked with the scout down to the infirmary for some Pepto Bismol and then again in the dark uphill back to camp. He still was not feeling well after our ten-mile hike, but facing the alternative in the latrine, he wandered back to his tent and into his sleeping bag. Next morning the scout reported that he was still feeling unwell and so once again we hiked to the infirmary. The nurse at the infirmary kept the scout in one of the beds in her station. By the time dinner came around, the scout was in real pain, so one of the adult leaders of the troop transported the sick scout to a Payson Emergency Care Unit where it was determined he was suffering from appendicitis. From there he was transported back to Gilbert where his parents took him to the hospital to have his appendix surgically removed. Before our adult leader got back to camp after dropping off the sick scout for transport, I had to hike with another scout who had twisted his ankle. Without any means of transporting him, we were forced to hike with him on his bad ankle. He put his arm around my shoulders and kept his injured ankle wrapped.  Since he was an athlete at his high school, this was not much of an obstacle as I first anticipated. The nurse had to rewrap the sprain and on our return trip, he would be on crutches. Needless to say, between his learning curve to walk on the crutches and the darkness that swallowed us up, we got back to camp past lights out.  I did not sleep through the night. I heard a timid voice call my name and when I looked up from my peaceful slumber, I saw four scouts lined up at the entrance to the tent, one of them being my own son. Spider bite. Yes, we were to be on the lookout since there were poisonous spiders reported in the area. So, a five-mile hike with a scout who had been given first aid by three other boys that included Skylar.  Apparently, the unseen spider had bit him on his finger which was heavily wrapped with gauze. He was not scared, which was a good thing.  When we got to the station, the nurse called me in as she removed the gauze from the boy’s finger. She laughed out loud and called me in to see what had tickled her funny bone.  When I walked in, I saw that there was over a pound of gauze on the table. As it turned out there was no spider bite that could be detected. The nurse told me if it had been a poisonous spider, the skin would be red and infected, easy to spot. She could find nothing, but she was impressed by the bandage the other three boys had applied for their comrade. Back up to the camp and I could hardly keep my eyes open on the return trip, but the scout next to me was smiling the entire way, relieved that he was not going to die of a spider bite. Next afternoon the kid with the walking stick came to us during lunch. He was a diabetic and his blood sugar was dangerously low due to the morning physical activity. Since the chow hall was a five-mile downhill hike, he was not going to make it safely.  The scout leader, a paramedic to help apply an insulin injection. Mr. Thompson, the paramedic adult leader, prepared the boy’s insulin. The boy took the syringe for his self-injection, and jerked the needle squirting the contents over the crouch of Mr. Thompson’s shorts. Even with his soaked shorts Mr. Thompson loaded the scout into his pickup and drove him into the Pasyon Emergency Room. They would be gone the rest of the day waiting for another insulin injection.  On the last day of camp, the scoutmaster told the boys nobody else was allowed to get sick or injured. I took the boys on the Cat Eye hike of five miles following a compass and a map with markers in the trees to guide them along the correct trail. But as I heard gunfire, I began to get worried since the firing range was getting closer. The guide for the camp said the trail was far enough away that we would not have to worry about it. He was wrong. I heard the Rangemaster yell, “Cease fire!”  Later one of our boys told me that I had wandered into the “unsafe zone” following the trail and when the Rangemaster ordered cease fire, he wanted to keep shooting saying he would aim low. This was not reassuring to me in the least. So, I took the Golden Bandage Award home with me, proud that we had been recognized for something we did in our seven days at Camp Geronimo.  Looking at Skylar, his eyelids were indeed heavy. There was also a ripe stench about him. I knew that Skylar’s experience had been a good one with the exception of the pool, which was the first thing he told his mother when he got home. I showed her the Golden Bandage award and the first aid that had been applied by my son and two other scouts for a non-existent spider bite and she could not stop laughing as she pictured them huddled around the injured boy applying nearly all of the gauze in their first aid kits. I would go to camp for three more summers as an adult leader. Skylar quit just as I started attending Arizona State University for my teaching credentials.   Sometimes I recall that feeling of being called to the big fire to receive the Golden Bandage Award, knowing that the team really pulled together for this one. I don’t know if the trophy is still in the troop’s trophy case, but if it is, it’s my legacy to the troop. I will never admit that I was so proud to be presented the Golden Bandage away by the nurse who manned the infirmary during out fabled stay at Geronimo Summer Camp in Payson.  

3lt76f

A twisted backpacking journey

I weighed my pack before going and it was 45lbs and my dog's pack was 10lbs. I left the motel after an egg and bacon breakfast sandwich. The drive to the trailhead went through Kootenay National Park and then connected with Banff National Park. It was a gorgeous hike through the woods with several viewpoints along the way to the Ink Pots. Such a beautiful scenic walk through some meadows overlooking the Banff Sawback Mountain Range. There were a few steep portions, but since it was my first day, I had the energy! I arrived at the campsite and set up at a site overlooking Johnson River. I enjoyed some time basking in the river. Time for dinner, but unfortunately my stove was missing a small screw. Luckily, I could balance the pot on top, so it wouldn't fall over. I enjoyed a vegetarian lasagna dish for dinner and then some trail mix. I met an amazing couple from Vancouver and two hikers from Canmore. Lots of stories were shared, and then off to bed. I woke up at 6am to helicopters rescuing a camper that twisted his ankle. The helicopter landed right in the small kitchen area! For breakfast, I had a quinoa, tofu and sweet potato meal. I didn't realize I ordered the vegan breakfast options, but hey its fuel. I started the trail afterwards and there was several steep portions and WOW was my pack HEAVY. I took several breaks and then stopped to have lunch at a gorgeous lookout by the river. There was a phenomenal view of the mountains. I FINALLY arrived to camp and found a site that overlooked the mountains. JACKPOT! Afterwards, I made some cheesy pasta. I spent some time in the river playing with rocks and watching Luke try to chase after them. Then, I sat on a cozy rock and read This Accursed Land by Lennard Bickel. Later on, I walked Luke and then headed to bed. Wow... did I ever wake up with a migraine. My head was pounding, I was nauseous and vomiting. YIKES. Good thing today was a short hike to the lake. Slowly; but surely my migraine started leaving my aching body. I did some yoga stretches, enjoyed the sunrise and got cozy with Luke. It was pretty chilly , so I headed back into the tent and decided I will pack up after lunch and then head for Luellen Lake. I had an amazing broccoli and cheddar rice dish for lunch. Prior to leaving, I saw a young grizzly in the bush, I yelled loudly and it retreated... WHEW! It seemed like a curious bear and was not defensive or aggressive. I made a wrong turn(was quite overgrown) and went halfway up a different trail. Once at camp, I found a nice site down by a cool entrance to the lake. I met an amazing family from Calgary, a hiker from Quebec and the Netherlands. There was lots of fun stories shared and we all had dinner together. I enjoyed some pasta with spring vegetables for dinner. It was a lighter meal than usual. My beautiful site overlooked two mountains. Luke enjoyed a nice swim and tomorrow will be a nice rest day to wash my clothes and ME ! Prior to going to bed, I noticed poor Luke had a welt under his eye and on his snout. Those evil bugs! I gave him some benadryl and hopefully after a few doses he will be feeling better. I woke up around 7am, and Luke's snout and eye are no longer swollen. He seemed quite painful last night, but is back to himself today. I fed Luke and took him for a nice walk. Then, I washed all my clothes and planned to have a dip in the lake after breakfast. A little mishap making breakfast, stove was not screwed tight enough to canister and caught on fire. I put the pot over the stove and all was well. I waited for it to cool down and then everything was okay the next try... For breakfast today; I had tofu, potatoes, onions with a plant based sausage blend. I went for a nice swim and got all cleaned up. I feel so much better now. After the swim, I was brushing my hair and broke my hairbrush. The life of having thick hair; haha. Unfortunately, there was 2 rescues today around 1pm, Banff National Park's backcountry is NO JOKE. Now it's time to enjoy my book and relax with Luke. I will have an early day tomorrow as I will be attempting to hike past Badger Pass Junction to Pulsatilla Pass; then back to the campsite. This mountain pass has been highly recommended to me. I made dinner and enjoyed a bowl of potato and cheddar soup. YUM! Later on, I sat around the kitchen area and met some campers from Canmore and Calgary. I heard the sounds of wolves or coyotes howling and Luke was so curious and he was sniffing alot. I am hoping to wake up around 6am, off to bed I go. I woke up at 630am and headed out by 8am. I decided to skip breakfast and do the whole hike to Pulsatilla Pass, then head to camp after. YES... WITH MY GIGANTIC PACK. I was making good ground rather quickly. The hike was quite the bushwack, but luckily no grizzly sightings. We made it up to Pulsatilla Pass at noon. It was quite steep, a total amount of 2345m elevation once at the top. It was extremely tough with my pack. On the pass- I saw 2 pikas and they were chirping very loudly. Luke wanted to eat both of them. The pass showed views of Pulsatilla Mountain and Mount Avens; as well as the rest of Sawback Mountain Range in the distance. After a nice break, I headed to Badger Junction. Unfortunately, on the way down I twisted my ankle. I took some aleve and put a salonpas patch on. I arrived to camp around 130pm. There was lots of thunder and some rain at camp, but luckily I set up my tent already. This camp is the most backcountry yet with sites right in the middle of two mountain passes, water sources are further away; but it is gorgeous. My site has a perfect view of Badger Pass! I met a hiker from Vancouver Island who did Badger Pass and saw 6 mountain sheep. For dinner I had chicken pot pie; what a full-filling meal after my long day. After dinner, we explored the camp some more and got some amazing photos. Off to bed I go after some more reading of my book. Last night was the craziest thunderstorm I have ever been in. The tent was shaking, rain was crashing down and the whole tent lit up when there was lightning. Luke was pretty scared, so we cuddled up together. Luckily the tent held up and we stayed dry. There was several trees that went down at camp, but luckily no one was injured. One tree fell the opposite way of one camper's tent pad... SO CRAZY. For breakfast, I enjoyed a potato, tofu, onion and plant based sausage meal. Off we go to Johnston Creek at noon. Along the way, I met two guys from Ontario! I arrived to Johnston Creek at 230pm, and there was lots of fallen trees along the way and at camp. I picked the same site as last time, since it has a nice shady area for Luke. Now it's time to set up and put my food away. As I was setting up, I met a nice family from Czech Republic. Time to relax, do some stretching and bask in the river now! I found a cool island in the river to wade out to and I relaxed there with Luke for a little bit. It was so nice to dunk my legs in the water; my feet were killing me! I have so many bug bites it is insane, I don't think the "12hr protection" is meant for backcountry. Afterwards, I did some yoga stretches to hopefully relieve this back and neck pain. Unfortunately, when I was doing one of my stretches, I got a splinter in my right hand pinky finger from the wooden frame surrounding the tent pad. It hurt pretty bad, so I attempted to squeeze it out. No luck doing that, so I made a small incision with my knife 1/2mm in depth and 1mm in diameter. Then, I was able to extract the splinter out this way and only have a small wound present. I cleaned it afterwards and placed a bandaid with some polysporin. Now it's time to make some cheese pasta for dinner as it is 730pm. I did some light reading and went for a swim after dinner. Time for bed at 10pm. Unfortunately, I woke up at 330am to go to the washroom and struggled to go back to bed. Hopefully I can get some rest soon! Back to bed I went at 430am. I woke up at 930am and I better get moving now!! I am all packed at 1130am, and off we go to Larry's Camp. I skipped breakfast today, since I am saving the lighter juice for dinner tonight and breakfast in the morning if I can. Unfortunately, my lighter is running out of fluid and my matches are all wet. I probably should have brought an extra lighter, but I was trying to save space. We made it to camp by 230pm. I had to take 2 breaks along the way. It was a grueling, very hot hike to get here. My body aches and my feet feel like they are on fire. Now it's time to set up and go for a much needed swim. My site has a nice lookout through the trees of the mountains and river. When I was putting my food away at the bear lockers, I met a nice group from West Vancouver, Coquitlam and Edmonton. Everyone loved Luke... (OBVIOUSLY). Afterwards, I had the best swim of my entire life and felt so amazing. What a fantastic day so far. Now, I am trying to air out my tent, bag and clothes as everything reeks SO BAD. Now it's time to take more cool photos, read my book and have some leftover pasta from last night. If I am still hungry, I will see if the lighter has some juice to make my vegetarian mexican rice dish. I must have been a zombie with my night shift brain when I ordered my meals, since everything was either vegetarian or vegan and I only had ONE meat based meal. I can't wait to get a chicken/beef burger when I am back on the road again!!! After my pasta and some more basking in the river, I headed back to the tent site afterwards. Later in the evening, Luke was very alert and in a guard position. I heard chuffing sounds... and at this point it could be a black or grizzly bear. I always have my bear spray with me; so I felt okay. A black bear came right by camp down one of the deer trails. It had to be 50 feet from me. I made sure to look closely as grizzlies can be black as well. Luckily, no hump was seen and the bear didn't seem to bother or notice us. The bear went off to the river area and off into the distance. Such a close call... yet again. I went back to the tent pad to read my book; and YAY I finished my book at 11pm. Off to bed I go. Last night around 1130pm, Luke started panting very heavily. I thought at first he just needed some water. His mucous membranes were moist and he did not have a dehydrated skin tent present. Immediately, I thought maybe he was in pain, but there was no wounds present and he didn't pull back when I manipulated his joints. I noticed that his body, ears and paws were very hot to the touch. We went out to the river and I immersed him in water. This did not seem like a fever caused by an illness to me as he showed no signs of that. I figured he could have had mild signs of heat stroke; since it was a very hot day. There is no way to truly tell. Yes, he was drinking lots throughout the day; but I also was very warm as well and felt off as well. After he cooled off, he seemed fine. I dried him off and we went to bed. Luckily, I didn't run into any animals when we went to river. I woke up around 6am myself and was vomiting quite excessively. I feel like I got hot by a truck, so I decided to lay down some more. Luke seems fine and no concerns this morning. I've been taking it slow this morning, because my migraine is really bad. The stomach pain coming along with this; is quite unreal. Unfortunately, I need to get moving, so hopefully the aleve starts working and I feel better soon. 13.8km to go... Today was a fantastic hike and Johnson Canyon was a great site to see. Arrived at my car around 130pm. What an amazing trip. I am so happy and relieved. We did it!!!! Total trip- 65.1km with 2345m elevation gain in 7 days and 1 rest day This trip tested me greatly and I feel so much stronger and grateful to be alive. So many things went wrong, but that didn't matter and I just kept on going. I will say farewell to Banff National Park, but see you soon...

pkpdex

Dolion

Amalie was outside waiting for the bus, muddled, when she pulled the arm of her so called ‘friend’, and he turned around. “Okay Dolion. What’s been going on?” “Nothing. Look, I got to get home, I’ll see you later.” And just like that he was off in the crowd of teenagers waiting to get home. That week he and Amalie were supposed to work on some school project that Dolion had even seemed excited for, but then the Tuesday after they got the project he started to avoid her and now it was due that Monday coming up. And how much had they worked on it? Not a bit. Amalie got on her usual bus and on the way home she looked at her messages with Dolion. She had still gotten no responses. She had even texted Max, another one of his friends and he hadn’t heard from him either. Is he okay? One thing Amalie sometimes couldn’t even admit to herself is that sometimes her ideas got the best of her, and once she decided on something, nothing was gonna stop her from doing it. Once back in the third grade Amalie tried to get this girl to talk, and not matter what, she couldn’t say a single thing. So Amalie made it her goal to get her to say even one word. Amalie eventually talked so much (too much) and asked so many questions that the girl had finally answered using her words. Amalie doesn’t even remember what the question was, but she thinks the only reason the girl even answered was because she was getting so annoyed. But who was that girl now? Vania, Amalie’s best friend. Amalie and Vania were a bike ride away from each other, which they had only started learning they could do, a few weeks ago. Amalie got home off the bus as usual, and, as long as she got home in time for dinner, biked to Vania’s house. Once she was there she knocked on the door and Vania opened it. “Hey Amalie, what’s up?” They both made their way to her bedroom. “Nothing much. Well besides the whole Dolion issue.” “Ah.” Amalie sat at the desk chair and Vania sat on the edge of her bed. “And I had an idea. I was wondering if you’d help?” “Depends.” Vania gave a look at Amalie that Amalie had seen a thousand times from her. “It’s not way over the head. Look, when we started the project, he said that he’d let me know when I could come over and that when I was ready I would text him.” Amalie grinned like every time she’s had a plan and Vania knew exactly what it meant. “I guess that means I need my bike?” Amalie nodded. Amalie and Vania were off on the sidewalk biking their way to Dolion’s house. “I can’t believe I’m doing this with you.” Vania shook her head and laughed. “I know. I mean this out first, like, outside of a building adventure.” She made a motion with her hands momentarily letting go of the bike handles. Vania gasped, worried, and Amalie snorted at it. “You’re gonna kill yourself doing that.” Vania warned her yet still as a friend and less as a parole officer or angry teacher. “And it’ll be as likely as being raised back from the dead by some kid.” Finally they had made it to their destination. They both walked up to the door and Amalie knocked on it. Then it was opened by a lady they both knew. She goes by: Dolion’s mother. “Hey! I was wondering when you were going to show up!” She welcomed us in and we were greeted by Dolion’s younger brother and sister. “HI AMA!” Gael a few months older than his younger sister Jayla, rushed past her almost knocking her over. “Hey Gael.” “Hey! Don’t push me!” Jayla angrily yet very cutely walked up to us, arms crossed. “Hi Jayla!” Jayla’s anger tuned instantly to happiness when she saw Vania. Although Dolion had always been good friends with them, Amalie always found it cool that Vania had probably a better relationship with his younger siblings than with him. “If you want to head up to his room, Dolion is already up there.” “Oh, thanks.” Amalie knew that this was it. She was finally going to get answers. She walked up to his bedroom door and without knocking opened it to find him, with his back to the door, on the phone with some old man. “And don’t tell anyone. We can’t have anyone finding out you’re The Healer.” He hung up and Dolion turned around, immediately looking horrified. “Uh, I uh, how long have you been there?” “You could say long enough. Which was roughly 10 seconds.” He then abruptly walked past her and slammed the door shut. “Look, you can’t tell anyone what you just heard. It could ruin my family’s life.” “My lips are sealed.” Amalie made a hand motion across her face, trying to lighten the mood. “No, I need you to leave. You weren’t supposed to know any of that, no one can know any of that.” He nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not leaving. You have to tell me what’s going on. You’re the Healer?” “I can’t tell you.” His eyes that were welling with tears and about to pour over suddenly drained like a public pool. “Oh, so we’re best buddies for six years and suddenly you can’t tell me stuff!” Amalie didn’t know how to react. All she felt was anger, but she knew she should feel bad for Dolion for some reason. “Just get out! If anyone finds out, they’ll move my family and I to some lab!” Once we was done screaming he took a breath. “Dolion, I’m-,” Amalie started. “Don’t talk, just go.” Amalie stormed out the door ready to leave. She rushed down the stairs, passing a confused Vania, Jayla, and Gael. Amalie, didn’t know what to do so she got onto her bike with out thinking about it and started to ride top speed out of the driveway. But Amalie was so caught up in her frustrations that she didn’t look both ways and by this time it was traffic hour. She ran straight out into the road, and the car coming didn’t have time to react, and drove straight for her. Amalie woke up in her bed, reality coming back to her. She checked her phone, and it was Saturday. She leaned back on her pillow smiling. It was all a dream. Usually she’d still be upset by how the dream ended just in general, but she couldn’t find a real reason. Although, she didn't like that her friendly adventure bike riding was her fatal flaw, if that's what she could even call it. She decided to call someone and tell them the dream she just had. “Hey Amalie, whats up?” “You won’t believe the dream I just had.” “I’m not sure about that. After what happened Monday, I think I could believe anything.” He genuinely believed that too. “Well, you know the project we got assigned?” “And it was a good project this time!” “Well my dream started on yesterday, and that whole week you had been avoiding your friends, and we hadn’t done the project, so I went to you’re house with Vania-” “The Vania part makes sense.” “And when we went in you had a younger brother and sister.” “How did your head give me a younger brother?” “I don’t know, but it gets weirder, or awesome-er you could say.” “Well I’m not, because that’s not a word.” “Whatever, just listen. I went to your room all by myself, and heard The Old Man call you The Healer.” “Wow. Sounds like a comic book name. Although, The Old Mans name is too.” “Hey, The Old Man’s not a bad teacher though. Anyway the rest of the dream was that I got hit by car later and I woke up, lucky me.” “Well that got dark.” “Yeah, it did. But what do you think? You and Fire boy could go stop crime or something.” “Fire boy! Ha! I think he likes the name Max more.” He laughed on the other side of the phone, then stopped creating silence. “You don’t remember what happened last night do you?” Amalie was confused.  What had happened last night? “What do you mean? I came home from school, then sometime I went to bed.” “What happened before you went to bed?” Then it hit Amalie that she had no idea. She couldn’t remember anything. “Dolion, what happened?” “You, Vania, and Max, were gonna come over, but on the way, you… got hit.” “By the car.” “Yeah. After that you must’ve made up that whole dream from this whole past week.” “Wait so, how am I here?” “Well I do sorta have healing powers.” “Wait you.. thank you!” “Anytime, just start listening to Vania about riding a bike correctly.” Vania was right. I was as likely to die on that bike than some kid going to heal me. “You got it, Dolion, The Healer.”

17r4oi

Locket

Unofficial Report Document: I did what I had to do. Okay, I am writing this to cover my own ass if any of this comes out. I was engaged by Captain K_____________ on a mission to retrieve an object on a post-apocalyptic Tier-4 planet and the mission went very badly. This is how I am interpreting it. This document will be stored with my other papers, so I do not expect to have this timestamped beyond the safe where it is kept and the lodging where I awaited my instructions. Again, I was taken onto a mission by a senior officer. I followed orders. I obeyed. Okay, now, with that out of the way, I can speak freely. Always talking and never doing, that was what we always said about the Captain. Not to his face, of course, but I think that he would have agreed with anyone who could approach him so honestly. I really hope he would because I suspect that one day, he will read this. Or at least I used to think so. Not so sure now. I was the navigator in charge of this mission, my 50th with the Captain. A nice round number to the staff and managers, if they ever heard about it. Again, I repeat, this was a private mission and he asked me to not bring it up with the head office. I thought it was a joke, but he was quite serious about it. A part of me felt that some of the ugly comments I made about him behind his back were catching up with him and he wanted some sort of revenge, but I quickly pushed all that out of my head. That stuff about talking and not doing? Not true at all. Seems strange now, don’t you think? All those missions; all those runs… And he still did not think that he could trust anyone except me. It was not unusual to have a flight with a captain and just one navigator, but we were using a cargo transporter; it was big enough to house a platoon of men, their food and weapons, and bring them into real danger. But this might have been where his genius came out for the first time: they would never suspect what he was doing with such a ship. A smaller one would have to be signed out, registered and then verified after it had come home. The cargo ones were travelling so frequently that there was no problem flying off with it. Smart, I thought. A nice little way to beat the system. Systems were on my mind as soon as he told me the co-ordinates. And I thought it was a joke. A tier-4 planet in that galaxy? No life left to speak of due to overuse of natural resources and military conflicts? Great. The Captain had gone nuts for some reason. But again, I was navigator working with a man who decided to pilot the ship himself. Maybe he knew something that I didn’t, and he was about to retrieve a very special prize. Or something that I could not guess at. Okay, I had better share this before I talk about the planet itself. He dropped the information about the locket before we landed. Again, I thought that he was joking or crazy, but he showed it to me. It was a heart. Not a real heart; one of those old-fashioned hearts I saw once when we investigated the history of this place. He kept staring at that picture on one of our monitors as he told me he needed it and that he was going to find it. I said nothing, but I made sure that I had my weapon charged and nearby after he spoke. Okay, on the planet itself, it was a simple landing. No life forms were detected (no surprise), and the radiation levels were safe enough for us to land and pause for a few moments as I tried to get him to change his mind. We were reading no transmissions, a poor air quality reading and many small storms and tremors in that region. I told him what to expect. And he went out. Now, I waited as long as I could. I watched his life readings as he made his exploration of the area. He had his own private monitor and using it, he was tracking the object. That locket… Why didn’t anyone say a thing about it before? All this time we had been searching for that key and the captain was the only one who knew that it was in there? Bullshit. We could have sent out teams; we could have filled up that entire cargo ship with a crew that would scour the entire area to find it. It would have been an easy salvage. But no, I had to be dragged on a mission that I never knew was secret until I read what the captain was tracking. I could see that he was in some sort of collapsed structure. He was opening the case… And that was that. No readings were available. I made a point of running multiple scans over the whole area and checking the equipment to see if there were any problems or glitches I had not noticed. And then I went out there to see what had happened. Based on the last reading, there was no way he could have made it past ten kilometres northeast. And I took my time. I really did. I really did. And I did not see that one coming... No one would believe me if they saw it. The photograph… He had somehow had a physical with him when he entered that structure. I found it on the floor of a room, along with his suit. Strange thing is that it was all neatly folded and placed right next to the picture, as if someone were waiting for me to pick it up. Back at the ship, I did run some tests. His DNA was faint inside the suit, but nothing more could be traced from it. And I want to be clear about this before I end this report: NOTHING WAS FOUND ON THAT PLANET . It was a wasteland and remains a wasteland today. No reason to go back and search for something most of us have only heard rumours about and have never seen. Enclosed you will find a photo of the locket, this letter, and all the information and data taken from the record of the journey. I expect that this will become available to the first person who not only cracks the code of the safe, but cares that I am gone. And there is something that I must do…

z8zt4a

A Desert Twist

“You never told me what you did before the draft,” Johnny said. The light from the flames danced over his face. “What does it matter, whoever that was I ain’t no more”. Charlie replied, biting off a piece of jerky, and stared into the fire. His eyes were distant. Johnny leaned back on his hands, crossed his legs, and looked up at the starry sky. Around them the Nevada desert engulfed them, dry, desolate yet inviting strangely. It attracted the dreamer, the lost, and the searching to its vast expanse. “Come, cross me and fortune awaits on the other side.” It called. They had gone off the Bloody Canyon Road, east of Star Peak of the Humboldt Range on a dirt road into the Coyote Canyon and stowed away their choppers, both riding Triumphs with gooseneck frames, narrow ape bars, and characteristic long forks. “I was about to become a teacher,” Johnny said. “I don’t know why really, it seemed reasonable, I guess. My parents were, or well they still are but my mother has retired now. 30 years she taught, imagine that; 30 years.” “Mmh” was the only reply that Charlie could muster. Lost in his own thoughts, his left-hand index finger running along the steel of his recently “gifted” Benelli B76 9mm. A unique piece that was newly produced that same year in 1976. His right-hand thumb fingered a 1% patch on the left side breast pocket. In his mind, there was a darkness blacker than space. “Come now, Charlie, who were you?” Charlie glanced at Johnny; the flames mirrored in his eyes. “A guy who died in that jungle. Just fucking died.” “Jesus man, you need to move on.” “We killed Johnny, and we died too, Jesus? He saw our souls and thought those ain’t lookin’ right and threw us in hell.” Johnny said nothing. A thick silence fell upon them, a thick angst that stole both hope and joy. “And they all died too, Big Ear, Bugs, Charlie Brown, Lazy, Grumpy, hell Johnny, even Junior Kid blew up two weeks in fucking rice field. Jesus, man, he was fixin’ them congress kids to join him in heaven and shoving us into ten years in hell.” Charlie’s eyes were wide, black with a mix of stern despair. “I’m a ghost Smiley, just a fuckin’ ghost.” Jonny sighed. “Smiley, yeah.. yeah, you are in a dark place Charlie, you should do like me. Just leave Vulture behind in that jungle as I did with Smiley, time to move on, and see life instead of death.” Charlie stared at him as if he was unable to comprehend the words that Johnny spoke. An alien language with words and meanings that were lost to him or forgotten. Words that had drowned in a knee-deep pool of blood in a wet jungle. “Anyway, I am down to my last twenty, what about you?” The question threw Charlie off his dark mental stride. “Uh, yeah, me too.” Johnny sighed as if he had an answer he didn’t want, got up, opened a saddle bag on his chopper, and pulled out a map. He sat down by the fire again and studied it for a few minutes. “There’s a small town, probably about an hour away, Lovelock, a liquor store or two there I bet.” Charlie took another bite of jerky. “And a casino I think.” “You want to hit up a casino? Man, you are in a dark place. You would do good with a bit of Jesus in your life.” Charlie shrugged. “Why not? In ‘n out, fast, grab all’s we can n’ ride off. I bet it got more cash for grabbin’ than a liquor store.” He took a firm grip of his gun. The rest of the evening was spent in silence and anticipation. Johnny, whilst still questioning the idea felt an ethical, almost duty-like responsibility to support Charlie. He looked at the man, Charlie’s face was untidy, rugged, and beardy. Someone should pick his eyebrows even. They both had endorsed the now classic biker outlaw look, jeans, t-shirts, wrong leather vests with patches, red and white bandanas and black leather motorcycle boots. They didn’t look mean but they sure as hell looked like they were up to no good. The following morning, they set off and the sun beat down mercilessly on the barren expanse as they first made their way north along the mountain range, turned west, and then down south along Route 80. In the distance, a patrol car emerged through the asphalt mirage and as they passed made a U-turn and wailed its siren for them to stop. Charlie and Johnny pulled over to the side of the highway and exchanged wary glances. The officer stepped out clad in a crisp uniform, he adjusted his hat and approached with a cautious gait, his hand resting near his holster. “Afternoon.. gentlemen,” the officer began. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?” His eyes darted between the two bikers. “Just passin’ through, Officer.” The officer’s gaze narrowed, “Texas boy huh?.. Passing through to where? This isn’t exactly a tourist route.” Charlie locked his eyes and pierced through the police officer aviators. A gust of wind swept over them. The officer slowly chewed on his gum. Johnny finally broke the silence, “Is there a problem officer?” The patrolman’s hand tightened on his belt. “Not yet,” he replied slowly, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Stay out of trouble.” The weight of his words settled in the still air. The three men remained motionless exchanging a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The vastness of the desert around them amplified the quiet standoff. “Aint’ no problem from us officer” Charlie replied. The officer gave a curt nod and turned back to his patrol car. The bikers remained still. Their eyes followed him until the patrol car pulled away, made another U-turn, and continued in its previous path. "Let's go," Charlie muttered. The engines of the choppers roared back to life, shattering the stillness as they tore back onto the highway. The officer's suspicion trailed behind them like a shadow, but their focus was ahead—toward the neon lights of the casino and the high stakes that awaited them. They rolled into Lovelock, the deep thundering noise of their engines and rugged faces turned the heads of law-abiding citizens. The casino was easy enough to find and they parked their choppers at the Royal Inn across the street and sat down in its outdoor seating area. Betty Sue, a petite brunette with bright, hopeful eyes and a warm smile, approached their table. Her hair, tied in a loose ponytail, bounced lightly with each step. “Hello gentlemen,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “Name’s Betty Sue. What can I get you? Maybe something to eat?” She lingered by Johnny, her gaze lingering a bit too long. Johnny looked up, forcing a smile. "I don't know, Betty Sue. What do you recommend?" She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, leaning in just a bit closer. "Well, that depends. Are you looking for something strong and quick, or something that lasts a bit longer?" Johnny chuckled. "What would you suggest for a man just passing through?" Betty Sue’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe something that lasts a bit longer?" “Alright then Betty Sue, how about you give us something that lasts a bit longer?” She winked and smiled. Her smile was warm and inviting, “Two beers and keep them coming? Two plates of bacon, eggs, and two pieces of steak?” Johnny’s gaze softened, “My kind of girl Betty Sue, you sure are my kind of girl.” Betty Sue giggled, drawn by their roughness. They came from somewhere and were probably going far away to a thrilling adventure. From behind her, the disapproving figure of her father appeared. “Betty Sue, leave these men alone. They’re not your type, they’re not anyone’s type,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing at Johnny. Betty Sue rolled her eyes and retreated, throwing Johnny a wink as she left. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Eyes on the prize Johnny, no distractions.” Johnny smiled innocently. They drank, ate, and observed the comings and goings of the patrons of the casino. Betty Sue had clearly been instructed to keep her distance from the two bikers and they were only served by her recalcitrant father. But in the background, she threw secret glances and winks at Johnny threw his winks and glances back, antagonizing Charlie's demand for restraint for lust and sinning in the process. They waited for a moment, that moment. That life-defining moment when a man chose a path that he can’t turn back on. When he either walks the path of the righteous or forever leaves that good man behind and becomes a true outcast of society. As the sun began to set over the horizon, a pause of movement at the casino emerged after more patrons had left the casino than had entered. “Now” Charlie stated. They finished their beers and got up and were about to exit the bar at the Royal Inn, and just as they were about to pull up their bandanas over their faces Charlie bumped into a man that was busy orchestrating the exit of his chattering wife and three children. The man looked up at Charlie who looked back. Charlie’s eyes were black as a wild death. The man’s eyes scanned Charlie's face, his eyes pondering as if he had seen Charlie before. “Hey, aren’t you Charles Cortlandt?” Charlie was clearly thrown off guard, he staggered back two steps and shook his head. “I don’t.. no I don’t know who you are talking about.” The man began to smile raised his hand up to the height of his chest and pointed at Charlie. “No no, sure you are! Charles Cortlandt! I saw you dancing on TV, oh man, that must have been what, ten, fifteen years ago?” Johnny looked perplexed, stunned. He looked at the man, and then Charlie, and then the man. Clearly, this man was not mistaken given the level of excitement. “The Vulture.. danced?” The man looked at Johnny, “Oh yeah, he did. The best twister there was, he won competitions you know. Twisted like no one else, magic it was. Charles Cortlandt, “The Twister” he was called. Yeah yeah, I know you, The Twister! What happened to you? Did you dance more?” Charlie's eyes fluctuated and stirred. “I.. dude you must be thinking of someone else” “I’m Bobby Robertsson” he pressed and shook Charlie's hand before he could withdraw it and Johnny too. “And this is my wife Brenda and those three wildlings are Bobby JR, Linda, and Paris, Brenda's mother always wanted to go to Paris but she was ill so we named her Paris..” Bobby Robertsson continued for a minute or two, elaborating on his family before he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Hey, you know what?” “No what?” Johnny replied. “There’s actually a Twister competition at the casino, like right now!” Bobby looked at his watch. “Five thousand for first place, me and the missus are going. Kids these days don’t appreciate the power of a good twist so this might be the last twist competition ever. You should come, Charles, I bet you’d win! Anyway, best we get going. Need to get these little monsters into bed, I hope I’ll see you later Charles Cortlandt!” Bobby scrambled together his family to the best of his ability, Paris, the youngest waved goodbye “See you later! See you later Charles!” “Imagine that honey, The Twister! Just out here!” was the last word they heard from them. Jonny smiled. Charles looked at him with defiance. “Look man, I don’t..” Johnny interrupted him simply with a shake of his head. “Charles Cortlandt, ‘The Twister’, the greatest twister there was.” He burst out laughing, smacked his leg,s and looked back up with the largest grin on his face from Nevada to Kansas. “Well look at that, the infamous ‘Vulture’ is ‘The Twister’, how good were you, really?” Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to the other, not sure of which path to go down, and which character he would play at this moment. Who was he? Really? A ghost from the jungle or a memory of an artistic expression. “I made a couple of dollars.” He replied. “Made a couple of dollars? From Bobby, it sounded like you made more than a couple of dollars.” Charlie had no words, somewhere inside a boy’s light voice echoed through the darkness. A whisper of innocence and silent words of sadness floated into his mind. He felt a wave of guilt and remorse fill him. But most of all, an overwhelming feeling of unfairness. That boy had been forced into war, forced to kill, and forced to walk through knee-deep puddles of blood, and where that boy drowned only for The Vulture to be born. His eyes became red and teary. “Charlie, my friend,” Johnny said. “You can win five thousand dollars from twisting, or a few hundred from violence and robbery. Two different paths brother. Chose the right one.” The air inside the remote casino crackled with anticipation as the Twist competition reached its peak. The room was filled with tidy, upstanding citizens, their polished shoes and crisp attire were a stark contrast to the rugged figure who strode onto the dance floor. Dressed in his worn leather, uncut beard, dirty biker boots, and his ravaged face, Charlie stood out like filth on a crisp white wall. Whispers and raised eyebrows followed his every step, but his eyes were fixed on the center of the room. He knew this moment was more than just a dance—it was a chance to choose the path of reclamation and find that stolen boy again. As the first notes of Let’s Twist Again filled the air, his body came alive with a fluidity that seemed impossible for someone so hardened by life. Come on let's twist again like we did last summer Yeah, let's twist again like we did last year Do you remember when things were really hummin'? Yeah, let's twist again, twistin' time is here And he danced. His movements were a mesmerizing blend of precision and passion, each step with a grace that belied his rugged appearance. The crowd, watched in silent awe as he spun and twisted with an energy that transcended the boundaries of time and space. He moved as if the dance floor were his domain, a place where the past's shadows held no sway over the lost and now-found boy. With every twist of his hips and swing of his arms, Charlie painted a story of resilience and rebirth. He looked up at the disco ball's reflective colorful lights-covered ceiling and broke out in tears that ran down his cheeks and flooded his beard. His feet tapped out a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of a man rediscovering his lost joy. The judgmental gazes, now held their breath, captivated by the sheer artistry unfolding before them. There was no need for applause or cheers; just a collective recognition of the extraordinary that unfolded among them. As the final notes lingered in the air, he came to a breathless halt, standing tall amidst the quiet reverence of the onlookers. At that moment, he was no longer the biker and the soldier haunted by memories of war. He was the dancer, The Twister. A boy with a dream that dared to dream. The boy that had captivated Bobby all those years ago. He was a man who had found a way to weave beauty and grace from the threads of his past. The competition was won, not through the points of the judges, but through the transformation of a phoenix rising from the ashes of a haunted ghost. Epilogue. Charles Cortlandt left Charlie behind on the dancefloor of the C Punch Inn & Casino. He won that competition and went on to become one of the greatest dancers in the United States of his time, reaching far beyond just the Twist. Rumba, Flamenco, Experimental Dance, and much more. He never got married but much to the detriment of his sister he overwhelmed her two children with all the love and gifts an uncle with a seemingly unlimited amount of prize money can give, spoiling them beyond her control. He retired from competitive dancing in his fifties and opened a legendary dance school. Johnny married Betty Sue her father’s protests and they both became teachers just like his own parents were and they taught at the same high school for more than 30 years until retirement. He died peacefully in his sleep after a period of slowly evolving pancreatic cancer, leaving behind his wife and three children. Betty Sue’s father eventually succumbed and eventually, one of his grandchildren took over the inn. Bobby continued managing his family and saw his three children grow up into healthy young adults. He and his wife retired in Boca and enjoyed a long retirement in the sun where she learned to play the piano and Bobby explored a newfound passion of constantly demanding that he and his wife should take care of at least one of their 10 grandchildren. The patrol officer never needed to keep an eye out for the two bikers, he continued to patrol Highway 80 keeping the lawful safe and criminals and boys that were up to no good unsafe, chewing his gum. Charlie and Johnny kept in touch and exchanged letters weekly. Charlie spent the first years writing about the war with Johnny, the only one he felt that could truly understand but eventually let it go and wrote about his dance career. They made several trips to Vietnam to visit old battlegrounds and reunited with Vietnamese veterans, burying hatchets and ghosts from the past. 

5y9z0w

Orion's Time

 Orion stumbled out of the club with her friend Darla. They had too many tequila shots. Orion didn't know if she was holding if Darla was holding her up. " We did. We graduated from College!" Darla screamed. "Whoop whoop," Orion screamed joyously. "Thank God our apartment is near because I have to pee." Darla laughed. They started half walking towards their apartment. Darla leaned against a wall of a shop. "I feel sick," Darla said before vomiting. Some of it got into her long blue-black hair. Orion felt strange. She heard footsteps behind them. Darla, I think someone is following us. Orion glanced into the shop window. She could see a tall, white figure, its body translucent and ethereal. Darla wiped vomit from her mouth. "I think you had too many shots, bestie," Darla said. Orion turned around to see a tall, white figure. It looked at her with its big, black, protruding eyes. "Darla, you don't see that tall, white weird thing," Orion said, pointing at it. "No, maybe your braids are pulling too tight." Orion was entirely sober. She grabbed Darla's hand and started walking fast. The tall, apparent alien followed them. "You're walking too fast," Darla yelled. Darla pulled away from her. The figure was upon them. Orion stretched her hands out in front of her. "No!" She screamed. A beam of light shot out from her palms. Darla's eyes widened as she saw the Tall white creature, its features becoming defined in the light. The beast screamed in pain as it turned into dust. Darla was silent. "I told you it was there," Orion explained. Orion grabbed Darla's hand again and started running. This time, Darla didn't argue. Orion unlocked the door to their brownstone apartment. She pushed Darla in before locking the door. Darla's eyes were wild. "What the F just happened?" Darla screamed. "A beam of light shot out of your hands; there was some kind of invisible creature." Orion sat on the couch. She pulled on one of her long braids. Orion always pulled on her hair when she was nervous. "You have powers," Darla said. "How long have you had these powers?" Orion looked at her best friend. "It started two months ago," Orion explained. "I don't know how to control it. It happens when I'm scared. It's like a defense mechanism." "What happened two months ago?" Darla asked. Orion: "I was walking home from the library late at night, and a creature similar to that was following me." Orion looked past Darla as she thought about her first encounter with the translucent creature. "My hands felt like they were on fire when the beam shot out of my palms. The creature disintegrated just like tonight. I thought I was crazy, but you saw it." "Yes, I did see it." Darla paced back and forth. "We have to tell someone." She insisted. "Who would believe us?" Orion asked. "What about your Aunt Zoe?" She is a scientist. Darla suggested. Orion's parents died when she was a baby, and her Aunt raised her. "You don't have any other options." Orion's relationship with her Aunt was shaky. "We are too messed up to drive," Orion told her. "Let's get some rest and leave in the morning." Darla went into her bedroom. Orion had a restless sleep on the couch. She woke up to frantic knocking on the door. Orion jumped up. "Hello, it's Zoe!" Orion opened the door. "We have to go," Zoe told her. "What's going on?" Darla said as she walked into the living room wearing boxer shorts and a tee shirt, scratching her butt. "Silence," Zoe said as she waved her hand at Darla. Darla froze. Orion was shocked. "How did you do that?"  "I don't have time to explain. " Zoe told her. Orion walked up to Darla and moved her hand across her eyes. She was still. "The Translucent's will be here soon," Zoe told her. Orion stared at Zoe. "You know about them." Zoe shook her head. "Obviously. You have to leave Darla here. She will slow us down and get us killed." Zoe told her. "No, I won't leave her." Orion insisted. "I can only freeze time for fifteen minutes. We have five minutes left." "She is coming with us." Orion insisted. "Okay, we don't have time to argue." Zoe unfroze Darla. " She knows about the white creatures; we have to go," Orion told her. "Let me pack some clothes and food," Darla said. " I have a sweet new pair of jeans and sneakers."  Zoe pulled a gun out of her pocket. "They are here." She said. The door blasted open. " Zoe shot at two tall white creatures as they walked through the door. Darla dived behind the couch. The bullets passed through the translucent skin of one of the white beings without injuring it. The other white creature looked at them. It emitted a high-pitched frequency. "Pain." It said telepathically. Zoe, Darla, Zoe, and Orion screamed in agony. Orion could feel blood trickling out of her ears. The white creatures moved towards them. Orion held her hands up and shot them with beams of light. They turned into dust. "There are more on the way." Orion wiped the blood from her ears. Darla quickly put on jeans and sandals. Zoe opened the front door. She looked around before cautiously walking out. The sun was rising. Zoe took out a fob from her pocket and pushed it. Orion and Darla heard a vehicle unlocking sound. "What the hell?" Darla said. "You can never be too careful in this janky area," Zoe replied. A circular object appeared. "This is my ride," Zoe said, smiling. "Come on." Zoe led the way to the ship. She touched a keypad, and a door opened. "Welcome back, Zoe Anteries." Zoe walked into the spaceship. "Hurry." She told the two shocked women. Orion and Darla walked into the ship. "Cloaking on," Zoe told the ship. The ship turned invisible. "We can't have people seeing us." She commented. "Sit down and strap in. Zoe instructed. Orion and Darla sat on soft seats and locked themselves into shoulder harnesses. The ship hovered up and then shot off fast over the city. "When did you get your ability," Zoe asked Orion as she steered the ship above the clouds. "Two months ago," Orion replied." Orion didn't want to tell Zoe that a bee had attacked her and that she had turned it to dust."You may have more than one ability," Zoe said, glancing back at her. Orion couldn't control one ability. How could she control more? Orion thought. "Those white creatures are not from this world."We called them the Translucent's." Orion shifted in her seat nervously. "Who are we?" Orion asked. "The we that I speak of are the resistance, and they are our people." Darla was smacking on a granola bar. "Really? "You are eating? " Orion said in an irritated voice. I'm hungry." Darla replied. "You want a piece?" Orion took a piece of her granola bar. "It does taste good." Orion crunched. Zoe landed the ship in a clearing in the woods outside the city. Zoe opened the door of the ship and walked out. "I think your Aunt might be a baddy," Darla said. They unbuckled themselves and followed her out. Orion walked up to her Aunt and a group of people. "We barely escaped, "Zoe said. The people looked at Orion and Darla. A petite, beautiful, older Asian woman wearing a flowing red robe approached them. " This is my niece Orion." Zoe said." The woman bowed. " I am Sachiko." She told Orian. "I have been awaiting your arrival, daughter of Zander." "You knew my mother?" The woman smiled. "Yes, I was your mothers and Zoe's royal tutor." Orion was not sure she heard correctly. "Did you say royal?" Darla asked. "Yes, Orion is of royal birth." "I didn't see that one coming," Darla said in a shocked voice. Orion's hands were sweating, and she felt dizzy. We will go to our shelter, and I will tell you about our history." Zoe told Orion. Zoe nodded.  Sachiko raised her hands and waved them side to side. Three tall white buildings appeared, surrounded by purple trees and a turquoise lake. Orion was at a loss for words to describe what she was seeing. "Excellent," Darla said, smiling like the Cheshier cat from Alice in Wonderland. Zoe led the way through a field of strange-looking plants. Orion saw a group of children and a handsome adult male. The children were practicing how to control their powers. "He is a yummy," Darla said with a big grin. "Is that all you saw?" Orion asked. "Didn't you see the kids using powers?" Darla laughed. "Yes, but you have to admit he is nice!" The adults who had greeted them departed and went in different directions. "Sachiko, please join us." Zoe insisted. Sachiko nodded in agreement. "This was my house with your mother before she left and met your father." Zoe paused for a second before she opened the door.  "There is no need to lock doors here. We all trust each other." Sachiko, Orion, and Darla followed Zoe into her home. It is spacious with hues of purple. Zoe sat on one of the four-floor cushions. " "It is time for you to learn who you are," Zoe told Orion as she motioned for them to sit. "Sachiko, if you please." Sachiko waved her hands. It seemed like they were moving as they were sitting still. Orion could feel her face distort. She looked at Darla. Darla's face is stretching in different directions. Then all was still. "This how our world, Planet Terra nova, looked," Sachiko explained. Orion looked at the turquoise water surrounding her. Purple flowered trees blew in a soft, gentle breeze. "Sweet," Patty said. "You said looked," Orion noted. "Our planet is five hundred years into Earth's future." Sachiko continued. "My parents were the rulers. Our planet was peaceful. Your mother was next in line to take the throne. Zandra was good with technology. She invented what you would call time travel. Zandra also could use vibration to shoot beams out of her hands, and she had super speed." Zoe told her. "We all have abilities or powers, as you call it." Orion felt overwhelmed. Zoe paused. She could see Orion's the deer caught in the headlight's expression. "Some on our planet wanted to use their powers to conquer other worlds." Zoe continued. We call them the translucents." Orion was perplexed. "You are talking about those white creatures?" She asked. "Our ancestors and the translucent's arrived on planet Aksum simultaneously. Our ancestors came from Earth; we don't know where they came from, but our ancestors wanted a peaceful society after surviving World War Three on Earth. Our ancestors developed abilities over time on this new non-hostile planet, as did translucents. Children were being born with abilities. Your powers were dormant because your father was from Earth," Zoe explained. " Brax is the leader of the translucent, and he craves power. Brax killed many of our people, including my parents. Your mother, myself, and all these people were able to escape the massacre. We boarded a ship that had been underwater since our ancestors arrived. Zandra had been repairing it for years because she suspected Brax would one day turn against Father." "How did you get to Earth?" Orion asked. "Zandra opened up a wormhole with her time machine device. She thought we would be able to thrive in a period before World War three but also in a time when technology was advancing. Zandra chose 1999, but her calculations were slightly off, so we landed here in 1997." Zoe nodded at Sachiko. Sachiko waved her hands, and they were back in where they began. Orion stood up, wobbling, trying to make it to the door. Zoe got up to assist her. "Mind time travel can be difficult the first time." Orion walked into the sunlight. Why did Zoe keep everything a secret from her? "Your mother didn't want you to know about your history," Zoe told her. She knew Orion had questions. "Zandra wanted you to have a regular Earth life. Your mother made me promise never to tell you who you were." Orion tugged on one of her braids nervously. Darla stood up, holding her head. Zoe and Orion had left her alone with Sachiko. "Let them be," Sachiko told Darla. "Zoe needs time alone with Orion." Sachiko went into the kitchen and made tea and refreshments. "Darla, Orion has much to learn about her role as our new ruler." She implied that Darla would not be Orion's priority. Darla frowned at Sachiko before she walked out the door. She saw Zoe and Orion standing by the lake in deep conversation. Darla walked past the fields and the children playing. Orion was meek, yet she had power. Darla remembered when they had class together, Orion said very little, but when she did talk, the other students listened and wanted to be with her. Orion was friendly and considered pretty. Her bright-colored hazel eyes and smile mesmerized people. Darla pressed her lips together. All this was going to be Orion's. She saw a wooded area. Darla cautiously looked around before entering. " You will be our leader. It is your birthright," Zoe told Orion. Orion swallowed hard. What if I don't want it?" she asked Zoe. Zoe smiled softly at her niece, who was like her mother in many ways. I will be here to help along with Sachiko. You are not alone. You will be a great leader because you don't crave power." Zoe walked away, leaving Orion alone with her thoughts. Darla sat on the ground and closed her eyes. Her mind traveled and connected to Brax as it did the night before. "Human, show me where you are." He commanded. Darla resisted. Years of meditation have taught her how to empty her mind. "No, I want powers. You told me you could give me powers if I helped you." Brax tried to delve into her mind. How was she able to resist him? "You are a worthy opponent, human." Brax relented. "I want to fly and throw fire."  "It is done, human." Brax put his tentacle fingers together in a triangle. Darla could feel power entering into her body. She knew her body had changed. "Now, show me." Darla let Brax enter her mind. Zoe was walking past the fields when she saw Darla entering the woods. What was she doing? Zoe wondered. Zoe was going to find out. When Darla exited her trance, she saw Zoe running up to her. "You were communicating with the Translucent," Zoe screamed. Zoe jumped on Darla, knocking her to the ground. Zoe punched Darla in the face. "You traitor." Darla could feel blood trickling out of her mouth. Darla blocked other punches. She pushed Darla off of her and stood up. Darla jumped up and was getting ready to attack again. Darla threw a fireball at Zoe. Zoe jumped out of the way. "You have abilities." Darla laughed. "Yes, why should Orion, who doesn't deserve or want power, have powers." Zoe had to warn the others. She started running back to the others. Darla flew up and threw a fireball at Zoe, striking Zoe in the back. Zoe was on fire. She screamed in pain. "You won't be warning anyone." Darla laughed. Zoe rolled around, putting out the fire. She reached out her hand and froze Darla up in the air before blacking out. It was close to sunset, and Orion had not seen her Zoe or Darla. Orion decided to search for them. She asked adults and children if they had seen either one of them. No one had. Orion came to a wooded area. She felt uneasy. Orion knew that Zoe and Darla were in the woods and that something was terribly wrong. Orion could hear her heart beating in her ears. She walked into the woods. "Zoe, Darla," Orion screamed. There was no answer. The sun was starting to set. Orion walked deeper into the woods. "Oh my God," Orion gasped. She saw Darla frozen in the air with a menacing look on her face. How was this possible? She thought. "Orion." A faint voice called to her. Orion walked towards the voice. It was Zoe. She ran to Zoe and knelt next to her. Zoe was severely burnt. "Zoe, who did this to you?" Orion asked for the answer but did not want to accept it. "Darla, betrayer," Zoe whispered. Orion looked at Darla. She felt sadness and anger all at once. Orion tried to pick up Zoe. "I will take you back to the others and get you help," Orion told her. "No time." Zoe coughed. "You must tell everyone. You are the leader now." Zoe touched Orion's face. She smiled at her. " I believe in you." Zoe gasped and took her last breath. "No, Zoe, come back." Orion felt tears running down her face as the sky turned dark. Orion heard Darla land behind her. She turned around. "You killed her!" She screamed. "You never liked her." Darla snarled. "She was the only family I had. Now I have no one." Zoe felt her hands starting to glow. " You have me. I made a deal with the Aliens." Orion didn't want to hear it. Her Aunt was dead. She shot beams of light at Darla. Darla flew away from it. She threw a fireball at Orion. Orion ran fast. It seemed as if the fireball was going in slow motion. She saw it leaving Darla's hand. I have super speed, like Mom. Orion thought. Orion ran fast back to the homes. She had to warn them. It was too late. Orion saw alien ships coming down through the dark sky.

hl4wno

A Fish Tale

“Now I know how a pinball feels.” Joel shot his hands out this way and that. “You do?” “Yeah, no personal autonomy. Always reacting to this flipper, that bumper… and don’t forget gravity.” “Gravity’s a bitch.” Keith laughed. Joel Fitzhugh was talking to his father. “And why do you feel this way, Joel?” “Everything in my life. You and Silvana always nudging me in opposite directions… Work is demanding…” “Work does that...” Amused, Keith had heard this before. “How is Silvana? Haven’t seen her.” “Oh, we broke up. She left.” “What! The wedding’s off? Why?” “It was nothing.” “It had to be something. You are great together.” “She thought I lied too much.” “Lie? Why do you lie?” “Not so much lies as little jokes. No sense of humor.” “Oh, those…” “Nothing big. You know, creative. Playing with the facts. Hyperbole… Looking at things askew… It’s what I do…” “You’ve always done that. You’re a master.” Keith grinned. “Maybe my way of gaining control… Always feel like I’m reacting. I want to be the source, the cause…” Most people didn’t think of Joel as a liar. Most people didn’t know him. Those who knew him didn’t doubt his uneasy relationship with the truth.   Lying made Joel famous. A journalist, he stated his analysis or predictions as if they were factual. By the time the truth came out, his fans had moved on to his next speculative hunch. Joel’s soothsaying was accurate often enough that he gained renown as a kind of prophet. Those divinations were what they remembered. Joel knew how to tell the truth. But he found people didn’t believe him. They bought his lies every time. Facts were mundane and boring to him. Joel told Keith, “She left. I feel betrayed.” “Don’t you love her?” “I guess…” “Don’t guess. Take control. Go after her. Prove your love. Win her back.” Keith put his arm over Joel’s shoulder. “Don’t let her go. You’re made for each other.” Joel remembered their breakup. Silvana said, “You want me to forget all your lies?” “It wasn’t a big one. Nothing important…” “Yes, one more, tiny lie. Just shy of infinity. What you had for breakfast.” “Is this because your dad’s a politician?” “You’re kidding. I don’t like your lying about him. But no.” Joel insisted, “I don’t always lie.” “Like when you’re asleep? Oh, right, you’re lying then too.” “What about all the times I’m honest?” “Let me think… there must be one.” “Like when I say I love you. That’s a fact.” “Right. But you think facts are boring.” “Some are. Not that one.” Silvana said, “You have a tick when you’re honest. You hesitate and look up to your left.” Round and round they went. Joel couldn’t reason with her. Before slamming the door she said, “Why should I trust you over any stranger in the street?” Joel felt he couldn’t win. He went for a walk. His father was right about Silvana. She was amazing. They should be together. But she didn’t like his lies. Big deal. He didn’t kill anyone. Joel didn’t care about money or even Silvana’s beauty. He wanted her to trust him. ‘What about what I want? Will that ever count?’ The harbor lights drew him. Joel had once thought of going to sea until life superseded. A line of men awaited boarding a ship. He approached the purser. “I want to book a cabin.” The man looked askance at Joel. “No luggage?” “Sent it ahead.” “Know where we’re going?” “Don’t care.” “Want to know when we’ll get there?” Joel shrugged. “Not important…” The purser took his money and let him board. Settling in his cabin, Joel lay on the bed and looked out the porthole. For the first time in his life, he felt free of external constraints. He smiled as he felt the rumbling engines move the ship into the channel. ‘Captain of my own fate…’ He dozed off. A sickening roll and flashing lightning awakened him. “No, no, no…” He ran into the corridor to see people milling about. A steward pushed by him. “Put on a life vest!” The lights went out. People screamed. Joel had to escape. He groped his way out. He burst into open air on ‘A’ deck when the wave overwhelmed the ship. ~ Joel lay on the beach in the early light. Water lapped at his feet. Covered with seaweed, his clothes were wet. Sand flies circled happily. Pain in his ear awakened him. ‘What…?’ A pair of beachcombers mistook him for a dead seal. They moved in for a closer look. “Oww!” Slapping the side of his head, he sent up a cloud of flies. The beachcombers screamed and scrambled to safety. Trying to make sense of where he was and how he got there, he sat up and shivered in the damp. ‘Oh, yeah…’ Memories flooded back of his ill-fated journey and why he embarked on it. Joel took the helm, to write his own destiny, to lie his way to independence. Free to just about drown himself. More people gathered. Someone put a blanket over his shoulders. “You okay? You need a doctor?” Gaining clarity, he thought, ‘No one will believe this. Who would? I wouldn’t, and I know the truth. Easier to lie. But I can’t. No more lies. Any chance of our getting back together… Have to be honest if it kills me… If she won’t accept the truth, then…’ Walking lockstep to his father’s dictates went against everything Joel stood for. His life had been planned to the minute. He only needed to show up. He’d tried to change course. He’d thought, ‘No thanks… I’ll make my own mistakes.’ And so he did. Someone asked, “What happened to you?” Turning to his rescuers, he said, “I won’t bore you with the details. I fell overboard and got swallowed by a giant fish. He spit me out here. Where am I?” They told him and he nodded like it all made sense. “I was headed here anyway, before this detour…” Bystanders looked at each other and murmured. Joel was well known for his regular appearances on TV talk shows. “Aren’t you Joel Fitzhugh?” “None other…” Joel rose to his feet. People reached to steady him. “Where can I shower and change?” Several people accompanied him to a beachside motel. They found him some abandoned cargo shorts and a t-shirt. He refused a doctor. He said, “I need to talk to the mayor.” Despite his scrubbing down with soap and hot water, everyone he met held their noses. Someone drove him to city hall with all the windows down. The secretary, Sage, held a kerchief to her nose. “They’re in a meeting. I’ll see if they will see you.” She excused herself. Sage said, “Sorry to interrupt. It’s that journalist, Joel Fish-hugh. I mean, Fitzhugh. He claims an enormous fish swallowed him. Do you have a moment? He wants to ask something.” “You believe him?” She nodded. “He smells fishy.” “Something does.” “What’s he want?” “The mayor’s daughter broke their engagement. He came to win her back.” “No surprise if he smells like that.” Sage said, “He said, ‘If you refuse to let me see her, an earthquake will destroy the city. Believe it.’” “We’ll discuss it. Have him wait.” Sage nodded and exited. The council members debated.            “If his threats come true, it will look like he made it happen.” “Or that he knew something we didn’t.” “He’s trying to warn us…” “Election’s coming. Do we need a curse looming over us?” “Every week, it seems some charlatan wants to blackmail us with some threat.” “But this guy has a track record…” “Send him home. If nothing happens, then…” “Stuff happens, or doesn’t, all the time. Regardless of believing him.” “What if we meet his demands and something bad happens anyway?” “They’ll spin it…” “If we don’t go along, and something happens, we’ll be out.” “We should stay out of it. He wants Silvana. Let them work it out.” They voted to fulfill Joel’s request. Sage brought him to Silvana. Before their meeting, Silvana said, “Have to give Joel credit for audacity. Think he’s lying?” “Don’t know, but he’s predicting disaster if you don’t hear him out.” “I know about his ‘disasters.’” Silvana nodded. “I’ll give him five minutes. Send him in.” When he entered, she held her nose. “Wow, Joel. Have you been shopping at Ambercrombie and Fish again?” “I couldn’t wait to see you, my love.” She dabbed her eyes and gestured, stopping him. “Stay back, Joel. Better you admire me from afar.” “Why did you leave me?” “I told you. I hate the endless lies.” She turned away. Joel shouted. “Wait! You don’t understand.” She opened the window and sighed. “That’s better.” She paused. “Why should I give you another chance?” Joel rolled his eyes at the obvious. “I’m more fun than some stranger.” “Another lie. I give up.” “Sylvie, wait. You’re wrong.” Silvana relaxed and faced him. “That’s refreshing. You’ve never said that. You usually play to my vanity.” “But why won’t you believe me?” “You say a big fish swallowed you?” He nodded. “Is that true?” He hesitated for a millisecond. “Yes.” She laughed. “And you ask why I don’t believe you.” “But that’s proof! No one believes me when I’m honest. They believe me when I lie. So, if you don’t believe me, I must be telling the truth.” “That’s too cute by half. Desperation seeped into Joel’s voice. “Look, you don’t have to believe everything.” She nodded. “Agreed…” “But look at the pesky facts. I’m here. I came for you. Risked my life… Wouldn’t go through this for anyone else.” He gestured to his clothes. “I didn’t get this way by wolfing a tuna melt.” She shrugged. “Sylvie, I love you. But I need to express it my way.” Shaking her head, she looked at him. “I’ll grant you, this is original.” “And I smell like fish.” She laughed. “Now, that smells like the truth.” “Let’s get dinner. Start fresh. We can talk.” “Okay. I know a place with a nice open patio… and no sushi.” “Deal!” Joel moved to embrace her. She raised her hands to stop him. “First things first.” They laughed.

zqn5su

Fahrenheit 212

My blood begins to boil as my resentments rise. The temperature in my suite is edging up to combustion level. I’m almost willing to endure the 450+F. that promises to destroy those things that bug me the most. I’ve been told I need to leave my apartment for 8 hours while this intrusive treatment takes place. I’m not happy. Water boils at 212F. Apparently it freezes at 32F. Hell’s bell’s for elections that’s mighty cold, I’m thinking about running and jumping into the hot pot. I sullenly turn to the one remedy that has served me well over the years. Gratitude, supposedly the foundation for much. My brain hurts thinking about the complexities and just as I begin to smell burning rubber, I’m reminded…KISS. Keep it simple…silly ( I currently am grateful for not calling myself stupid.) Back to gratitude. This act has become a ritual which I practice daily. The consequences for not doing so can be severe and as the years march forward, sometimes immediate. In this particular moment I am most grateful for…bedbugs. Yes, you’ve read that correctly, bedbugs, or as I now refer to them, my BB’s, aka my “Best Buddies”. Close on their tails are a slightly different breed of pests…penises.(look it up, that is the plural for more than one penis.) I shall claim neurodivergence and briefly describe a rather rare genetic condition, diphallia. This phenomenon is present at birth and the person (I’m guessing a male person) with this condition has two penises. I shall continue the divergence from bedbugs and dip a little into the heart of the night to tell a story which possibly is based in reality. It is about a man and a woman who for protection shall have their names changed. The man will be known as Jean-Luc and the woman as Alexandria. Truth be told, though this story might appear fictional, it has strong taproots into the lives of several very much alive human beings. So the story continues and dips somewhat deeply into a place some might call erotica. My mind begins to wander and as my eyes close, the following scene ambles across the darkened stage… Jean-Luc stands in front of the window and allowed Alexandria to slowly unzip him. His obsession has convinced him that this act will allow him to become uniquely free of self.  The woman who sits before him senses that this is perhaps the first time he's ever been fondled in such a manner. For her, the act becomes an almost clinical operation. Alexandria, a vibrantly passionate woman seems to understand intuitively that the act she is performing is not about sex, but more about being “human." This woman has been obsessed with penises for what seemed like a lifetime. When she first met Jean-Luc, she was virtually lifted out of her seat. His resemblance to a man she had recently released from her heart, was uncanny. True, her first thoughts were not about his penis, she was much more interested in the reality of who this man might be and if he was anything like the guy she’d pinned her hopes on for far more years than what was healthy for her heart. She had vowed not to make that mistake again and yet here she was mesmerized by what may have been an illusion. She had observed Jean-Luc carefully for several years and began to understand that she liked the person she was beginning to know. Though they had never met in the physical world, that time slowly unfolded before them. Came the day they actually met in the real world. They were both a little frightened as the platform they’d gotten to know each other on, was famous for its power to recreate. Using a magic bag of tricks, it could transform a 72-year-old, three-hundred-pound woman into a rather attractive package. It was mostly smoke and mirrors! Who knows what Jean-Luc’s first thoughts were when they met. He was a rather secretive introvert who kept his thoughts carefully guarded. Not even the highly talented, keenly intuitive Alexandria could see to the bottom of that murky pool. What he did manage to convey in rather short order, was his desire to have her sketch his penis. For Alex, this was not as outrageous a request as one might imagine. She was an Artist and had spent years examining and closely observing the world around her. Her talent had manifested at an early age. The family joke was that she’d arrived through this earthly veil with a crayon in her hand. For the young artist this thin veil had wrapped itself around her heart like an icy shroud. Back to the window and Jean-Luc’s request to have Alexandria examine his penis, perhaps as a precursor to sketching it in more detail. What he may have underestimated was this woman’s curiosity with these organs, her rather limited exposure to them and the fact she hadn’t seen, let alone held one for over 30 years. So she indulged his teasing, his retreats into the safety of his head and his occasional forays into the physical world. It was in that place that the feline in Alexandria lay waiting to pounce. She would wiggle her backside as she hugged the ground tighter and tighter. Her ears would flatten, her whiskers twitch and quiet little moans of anticipation would escape her lips. She licked them frequently in anticipation of playing with the bait he dangled before her. Alexandria was very careful to keep this feral creature in check. However, she had finally had enough of this guy’s teasing and decided to take the bull by the horn, literally. As she sat in a hard chair. Jean-Luc walked by and stood facing her to say goodbye. At eye level was… a middle she’d become a little obsessed with. So, she grabbed him by his belt, pulled him roughly towards her and began her exploration. She was very careful to seek his permission, both verbally and most important, by the voice of his body. His compliance was both with words and a definite leaning into the experience. She began where all good things begin, his navel. She traced the fur around it, lightly trailed her fingers down the spiraling tufts and used HUGE restraint by not using her tongue to assist the operation. She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in the delicious appetizer that rippled and twitched beneath her fingers. She slowly traced her finger down the line, got to his belt and began letting it loose. As she lowered his pants and the underwear beneath, she caught glimpses of the prize she was longing to examine more carefully. What she wanted most, was to use her tongue to swirl around the tip, while her hands gently probed the delicious sack beneath an organ whose length she’d already been warned about many times. What she wasn’t prepared for was its delectable girth, its beautiful purple hue and again the balls enclosed by a deeper purple, lightly veined velvet bag. Intuitively, she knew she needed to restrain herself, even as her own nether regions began to pulse, twitch and ache to have that gorgeous appendage bury its whole 7 inches inside her. She did remarkably well. She remembered this man’s words about not wanting to get into a romantic relationship and restrained herself. And so, the examination ended. She tucked him back in, pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and did her best to treat this experience as a scientific experiment. It seemed to work. She gathered her equilibrium, her shawl, hat and keys and walked Jean-Luc out to his truck. She bade him goodbye, went for a short walk to clear her head and began to ponder the enormity of what had happened. She chose to see it from his perspective. This helped immensely in cutting her fantasies short and as she returned to her apartment her smoking carburetor had begun to settle down. She sat on her recliner, feet up and smiled with satisfaction. She realized her 30 year fast had been broken, well, at least partially. If she were to pass in the next moment, it would be with the satisfaction of having once again seen and held a live penis. In that moment, life was good and she was satisfied. She slept for a long time, sailed back over a year, in and out of weeks and through a day, and into the night of her very own room. At least it seemed like her room. She shivered. Some psychic nerve deep within the fibers of her heart told her that she may just have washed up on a foreign shore. It felt familiar and at the same time totally out of sync. BOOM! My eyes open, a few tears have blurred the movie I’d just watched and then I recalled the words spoken by my sweet ‘Jean-Luc’. “You really need to know that I have no intention of becoming involved with anyone, in any type of romantic endeavors for the foreseeable future.” Okay, a bit of a wake up call, but still room for possibilities. My ears are perked and waiting for his next words. “I'm now happy and free, but yet very much wanting to continue with a program of recovery.” My heart fell further as he continued to expand on the subject. “I'm thankful that you've decided to continue looking for "that person" in your life. You need to know, I’m not that guy. I hope you find what you are looking for and know that I value our friendship even should you find that partner.” My heart ached a little and that burning desire for a mate crackled, sizzled and began to disappear. Out of the ashes, arose…the Phoenix, plaintively reminding me that love need never be a weakness or a place of harm. Further soft caresses flow from its sweet beak as it whispers, “Love should stand as a pillar of strength, offering a soft refuge in a turbulent storm.” I weep with longing for that which I seem destined to never have. Back to bedbugs. I diligently followed a program which unfolded alongside the 12 months of Christianity. I entered June and July with a humble attitude, begging my Higher Power to remove my numerous shortcomings. I knew my fantasies of Jean-Luc were quite unrealistic and bless his heart, he had been quite clear with me from the very start. I began several lists expressing gratitude for having made connection with this rather enigmatic creature. I would reach a certain stage, sense the emergence of ancient patterns and end up burning that list. Each time he rose to higher levels of disappointment, invisible bands of restraint began to snap, releasing my heart to a realm I’d only dreamed of as a possibility. My lively little visiting BB’s were the breaking straw. They seemed to provide the reason for which many chose to avoid me and my abode and Jean-Luc joined the front ranks. I actually agreed and held little resentment, rising out of my own struggles to evict these unwanted guests. My 75th birthday became the catalyst for an amazing gratitude list. At the very top was his name, Jean-Luc. As I pondered the nature of our connection, strong feelings began swirling in the pit of my gut. I stopped writing, closed my eyes and began to pray…fervently. I looked out my window, saw a beautiful clear sky and knew that my wish for his health, prosperity and happiness were absolutely sincere. Rabbit holes began to appear, swallowing many of my unrealistic expectations. The most miraculous crevice yawned sleepily and swallowed most of my BB’s. I sit with a blank slate and a small scrap of paper. On it are words that came from a fortune cookie I received after my birthday dinner. It read, ”When one door closes, another will open.” I smile serenely as gratitude expands throughout my being. I know without doubt that in this moment, life is good 🙏

oftgvb

You Kick Really Hard For A Girl

"They're coming!" Flimlet yelled. The forest came alive, with magical tree trunks rushing toward the north watchtower. Bells sounded. Women screamed, and children cried. The war they'd been expecting arrived. Selwyn and Jorton soldiers quickly assembled, forming a defensive line. The trunkers slammed into them with devastating effect, knocking many soldiers unconscious. Lady Nimmo and Oakaford gathered as many stumpers as possible and joined the fight. Trunkers hammered into stumpers, and stumpers banged into trunkers. The sound of magical tree stumps and trunks crashing into one another reverberated throughout Trungen Forest. Flimlet and Tim, unlike most dwarfs and elves, fought side by side as fellow warriors. Tim's bow was no use against the massive trunks, but Flimlet's borrowed battle axe was perfect. He swung, chopping the limb of a nearby trunker in two. The trunker attempted to knock Tim's head off with his other limb, but Flimlet sliced it off in mid-swing. They pushed the limbless trunker onto his back and laughed, "No limb! No win!" They shouted in unison. Captain Arrow and Jor had to physically remove Lady Nimmo from the front line and place her inside the Keep. Oakaford, Folg, Rain Storm, Trungen, and Gladise were charged with protecting her and, more importantly, keeping her from running back into the battle. The battle raged on. Hundreds of trunkers advanced, gaining ground and pushing towards the Keep and Town Hall, the last line of defense. "We've got to get out there!" Lady Nimmo shouted to her protective detail. "Nimmo, collect yourself," her mother, Gladise, said. "The battle is coming to us. We need to be ready and in control." Hours later, the gate to the Keep rocked with a giant thud. "It begins," Trungen said, walking to the gate and standing in the middle of the entrance. The rest of the gang joined her. "Stay near each other; we're stronger as a unit." The gate busted open, and trunkers poured into the courtyard. They surrounded the gang but made no move to attack. Several rungs of trunkers formed around Lady Nimmo's band, making it impossible to escape. "Why they not attack?" Folg asked. "Be ready," Oakaford said. From the direction of the downed gate, trunkers parted, creating a path for a darkly dressed man. As he neared, they saw he wasn't a man but a shadow elf. Lady Nimmo instinctively knew he wasn't just any shadow elf. He was the creator of the trunkers. "Finally, I get to meet the great Lady Nimmo, creator of those tiny stumpers," the dark creator said. "You've been like a splinter, and today, I will remove you." "You have the advantage," Lady Nimmo said. "I don't know your name." "Call me Lammerous." "Well, if you plan on removing me, Lammerous, let's get to it." Lammerous laughed, "You clearly don't know me. I don't fight – never have. My Kraff-Nocks do that for me." "That's a strange name for tree trunks," Oakaford said. "Really? Do you think stumper is more creative? Anyway, back to my Kraff-Nocks. They will remove you and your little stumper, too." Gladise stepped past Trungen and Lady Nimmo and stretched out her arm. "Xer-Bane saved my life when I was a little girl and gave me a magic ability that would rescue me and those I love when all hope was gone. The battle is lost, and you intend to kill my little girl. I'd say all hope is gone. What do you think, Lammy?" "What did you call me?" His face was as red as a book with a red cover. "Kill them all!" The Kraff-Nocks moved closer. Gladise raised both arms to the sky and violently swung them down. Suddenly, blue lightning repeatedly stuck the Kraff-Nocks and Lammerous. No one was hurt, but when the lightning ceased, those who were stuck began to scratch their heads in confusion. "Where are we?" Lammerous said in a dreamy, confused manner. "Who are you?" He looked to one of his Kraff-Nocks and then to Gladise. "What's going on here?" The Kraff-Nocks were just as clueless as Lammerous; in fact, everyone was just as clueless as Lammerous, except for Gladise. "You all were about to help clean up the mess you made," Gladise said. "After that, you all need to go home. Got it?" "Oh, I remember. That's right," Lammerous said. They got to work: helping injured stumpers, carrying soldiers to the healers, and collecting their own limbless Kraff-Nocks. They worked quickly and then departed without saying a word. After Lady Nimmo spent hours carving away the stumper's injuries, she found her mom. "Hello? Lightning? Your daughter?" Lady Nimmo cryptically said. "I'm sorry for not telling you, but Xer-Bane told me never to say anything about his gift," Gladise said. "Wow. I have so many questions. Will they get their memories back? Can you do that again? Does it hurt you?" "Lammy and his trunkers will regain their memory. I plan on sending Flimlet and Tim to inform him that I can do that repeatedly. Lammy and his ilk won't bother us anymore. No, it doesn't hurt, but I plan on taking extra naps for a while." They talked for some time when Tim interrupted. "Excuse me, my ladies, but I have some disturbing news." Lady Nimmo ran faster than she had ever run before, and Tim could barely keep up. They arrived at the tent and entered. Captain Arrow lay on a cot, blood covering the lower half of his body. She went to him and knelt beside him. The healers and Tim stepped out to give them some privacy. "Are you able to heal him?" Tim asked the healers. "He will live, but his injury is beyond our power to heal." "What?" "We'll do our best, but it won't be enough." "But he will live?" "Yes, but he won't ever be the same." Inside the tent, Lady Nimmo held Arrow's hand. He hadn't moved since she arrived. She began talking with him to prevent a complete meltdown. "You won't believe what mom can do. Did you see the lightning? I'm not mad at you for carrying me to the Keep. I was screaming at you and kicking you because I was so keyed up to fight. You know how I can get?" She was petting his hand the entire time. Suddenly, she felt a very faint movement. Arrow's finger wiggled ever so slightly. "Arrow? Can you hear me?" He wiggled two fingers and attempted to lift his eyelids. After three or four failed attempts, he finally opened them and looked at Lady Nimmo. In a faint voice, he said, "You kick really hard for a girl." She smiled and had to force herself not to kiss and hug him. "If you weren't so banged up, I'd kick you again." "The healers say I'm going to lose my leg." She gently squeezed his hand and could not hold back her tears. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault." "What are you talking about?" "They were after me. You should have been on your ship hunting treasure instead of fighting my enemies." "My Dear, your enemies are my enemies. I'd give both my legs to protect you." Captain Arrow did lose his leg. However, despite the ferocity of the battle, there were surprisingly few casualties. The town of Jorton recovered quickly, and as a sign of respect and honor, King Moreland accepted Jorton as a full member city of the nation of Selwyn with all of its protections and privileges. In addition, the new Selwyn City grew in reputation and was picked as the most desirable place to live by the prestigious scroll company, The Wanowyn Wisemen. Flimlet and Tim began a running school for speed and marathon runners. Folg and Trungen went on a quest to find the Kroff-Nocks created from Trungen trees and liberate them from Lammerous. Splinter and Tat were promoted to Chief Deputy of the Border Guard. Oakaford and Rain Storm remained close to Lady Nimmo as part of her inner circle of advisers. Jor and the retired King's Guards were reinstated by King Moreland and assigned to protect Duchess Nimmo. Gladise continued to teach art. Perhaps the best news of all is that Captain Arrow and Lady Nimmo got married and were the happiest couple in town. Captain Arrow proudly displayed his wooden leg whenever possible, and Lady Nimmo frequently created new stumpers. How does one end a story like this? The adventures were many, the heartaches were few, and the characters were a delight. After thinking about it, there's only one way. And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

ioj7pc

A Bold Move

I received the call on my son’s 16th birthday. My kids had both been accepted to an amazing charter school…in Florida. My husband and I both grew up in South Florida, and he especially, was yearning to return to the Sunshine State. We’d had long-term plans of helping in the expansion of a family business…but those plans weren’t ready to be actualized yet. Meanwhile, our situation in Georgia had become a bit dire. We have raised our kids as homeschoolers, blessed with a local homeschool community, and lots of outdoor learning opportunities. It was wonderful for a while, until some drama happened, the community became a bit fragmented, followed by the dramatic upheaval of 2020…and we realized, we had reached the end of the road with the community. Our oldest child, our son, entered his first year of high school in the fall of 2020. It was a strange time, indeed, to be making this transition. And we soon came to realize, just how horrifying the public school scenario could be. It definitely could have been worse than it was - our son never got hurt, nobody laid a finger on him - but there were fights at his school. Several times a week. The police were brought in, quite often. For us parents, the situation was teetering on the edge of nightmarish. And our 12-year-old daughter was asking to go to middle school, right across the street from the high school, with much of the same scene. So, I submitted the charter school applications for both kids. Two months later, I was trying to make peace with the fact that they probably weren’t getting in, that we’d be in Georgia for at least another school year, and how were we ever going to handle that? When suddenly, I found myself on the phone with a sweet lady telling me our kids had gotten in! I was beside myself. I hung up and immediately called my husband at work. “Are you crazy?” he demanded. “We’re not ready to sell the house. And we’d need to make a lot of money from it. The cost of living in Florida….you know how much I want to move there….but this is crazy.” How glad I am, that I didn’t listen to him. He definitely “wears the pants” in our relationship, but *that* time, I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I called the office lady back and told her we were IN. I knew it was a long shot, but I felt in my heart of hearts that this was a gift from the heavens, a twist of fate, and that’s not the kind of thing you just turn down because of fear. Sometimes, you have to look fear in the face and say, “Come at me, bro.” Over the next month, I tiptoed around the subject with my husband, who is not a huge fan of change and was aggravated at the prospect of uprooting our lives so suddenly. While at my mother-in-law’s house one day, a commercial for the company HomeLight came on - they assist people find buyers for their house. Just a few days later, I found myself in my master bathroom speaking to a HomeLight representative in hushed tones, while my husband and daughter waited downstairs for me, to go on a hike. My husband finally agreed to meet with one - just one - real estate agent. The right guy showed up, said the right things, and exactly a month and three days after that phone call that seemed to come right from heaven, our house went on the market. The following day, we left for a pre-planned vacation to the exact same area we were desiring to move to. And four days later, while still on vacation, we had a signed contract on our house in Georgia!! Back at home, I made a vision board and covered it in green foliage. You see, we had this gorgeous wooded backyard in Georgia, where deer came to graze, and where our girl had built countless forts. As much as I was ready to give it up for the beach…I wasn’t really ready to give it up completely, in exchange for a cookie-cutter house sandwiched in between neighbors. I needed us to have some semblance of privacy, like we’d had for the past 6 years. So the vision board went up, I envisioned, I called it in…and even when doubt crept in and I watched houses I thought I loved go like hotcakes…I held to that vision. I started calling around and talking to different realtors, and after a few tries, found a human angel who was willing to help us find a rental. At the very top of the first MLS listing she sent me, was the house I knew we were meant to have. Tucked away behind a small neighborhood, down a gravel road on an acre of land, was the single-story, 1800 sq. ft house that had our names written all over it. Well, specifically, my name. It was almost EXACTLY what I had been envisioning…spacious enough for us with a large, open living room and kitchen, no carpet anywhere in the house, a guest room, and oh, so much green. Did I mention neighbors? How about NONE? In a state where houses are often stacked seemingly on top of one another, I had managed to find a little slice of paradise, 30 minutes from the beach, and twenty minutes from the kids’ school. We did have a few heart-in-throat situations along the way, with landlords who had just renovated the house and were not wanting pets inside the house. There was no way we were moving in without our three cats! For the sake of my sanity, we started off telling them that they’d be outside cats only (a half-truth, if you will)…and after what seemed like an eternity, the realtor came back and let us know that the cats wouldn’t be a big deal. Not three months after that first fated phone call, we were living in Florida, in a dream house, with space for our kitties to roam. How quickly the pieces of this puzzle just fell into place, as if orchestrated by a Divine hand!! Our arrival here was a beautifully designed co-creation, something that we’d wished for but that I ultimately called into existence, at the right and perfect time. Exactly two years ago today, we were newly landed, still trying to make sense of the whirlwind that had just uprooted us into another plane of existence. Sometimes things are just meant to be, but we might never know if we don’t take the initiative to stake our claim. We have incredible power at our disposal, to create our lives the way we want them to be – if only we can know that this is possible for us, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Doubt is the killer of dreams. And I am most grateful for the certainty I have, of this sleeping giant within. Ready to be stirred and shaped into the best vision we can contain for ourselves. Intention is where it all begins. We are magic. 

u6ilqx

Gratitude Mapping for Dummies

I lay the posterboard on the table in preparation to plot my gratitude map. I contemplate what topics I want to include to best describe what I appreciate about my life. After much thought, I write down in the center the word gratitude. Next, I write my wife and daughter near the top. I spread out other topics on my posterboard that includes my military career, college experience, time in Japan, the states I have lived in, the schools I have attended, the individual experiences most don’t get an opportunity to, and my successes and failures. I plot lines from the word gratitude to each topic I have added to my map. I next place intersecting lines to areas that influence each other. One of these intersections includes my military career connection to my time in Japan which connects to meeting my wife and the birth of my daughter. I look down to see the commonality between each topic and the connecting lines that display my life’s journey. If my journey were not filled with a fair share of failures, I would struggle to appreciate my successes and the opportunities I have been exposed to. I observed on my gratitude map the journey started in a state I would only live in for the first year and a half of my life while my parents were in the military. Going back thirty years later, I was still accepted as one of their own when asked where I was born. After my father left the military, we continued to live an unstable nomadic life. He attended 2 colleges in different states and then worked for only a few years or less at each of his next jobs for the next ten years. When asked by many where I claimed to be from, my usual fallback response was everywhere and nowhere. A life of instability exposed me to different cultures in the South, New England, the Pacific Northwest, Florida, Japan, and the Philippines. I had my struggles with saying stupid things and doing things that go against their cultural expectations. I plot a line from here to what I would call my three career changes. The first career I describe as my 13 years of basic schooling during my nomadic life included Florida (3), Massachusetts (2), Montana (1), Washington (2), and South Carolina (1). The different schools have given me some shocking moments I would have only expected in a movie scene, not real life. This has led to good, bad, and weird experiences. During one school year, I moved three times causing me to read Romeo and Juliet three times in English because each school studied it at a different time. I will admit it gave me an advantage reading it a third time in one year. I did issue a little sigh when I was forced to read Romeo and Juliet and watch the movie again. Gratitude connects to my appreciation for my senior year of high school. I was never one to get into trouble at school, but my senior year made up for 12 years of no detention or suspension. This might sound extreme, but I had 30 days of detention in my math class for being late, sleeping, or not doing my homework. I did make it to the end of the school year, but I found out that on the last day of school, I would not be allowed to graduate and would have to repeat my senior year. I never failed a class during my 13 years of school. I did try hard to fail my French class every time, but somehow, I always failed by passing with a high D. I almost failed my senior year for three library books I did not return. I had to jump through hoops to prove I was not the one who checked out the books in my name. I was allowed to graduate only through proof that I did not check out the three books.  I was saved after a librarian I attended church vouched for me. Even though college was not in my cards at first, I connected a line from my senior year to my failure to become an archeologist or a lawyer. I was inspired toward these two career fields through my desire to be like Indiana Jones, running from boulders, scrapping off spiders, fighting off Nazis, and swinging from my trusty whip.  My family wanted me to become a lawyer because I always picked the opposite side of every argument with my cousin. Even if neither of us believed in it, we had to fight for the other side as if our lives depended on it. I was not blessed like all of my friends who either received scholarships or had a parent with enough money to pay for it. I tried to attend college by paying for it out of pocket by working 70+ hours a week between one full-time graveyard job and another part-time job. That only worked for so long before I was too tired to keep up with the schedule. I temporarily gave up on the college dream to join the military. I did not want to follow in my parent's footsteps through military service but it is still a point and line on my map that I am grateful for. I finally gave in to pay for college and to see the world. The day I turned 21 years old, I had a desire to escape my life. I walked into the local recruiter and I was headed off to bootcamp. For a career that gives me nightmares, I add my military career to the map. There were the sweet moments, the down ones, and 9/11. Each one gave me a beautiful pinpoint on my journey that I cherish today. The military gave me confidence and taught me how to lead. I appreciate this point because it influences the man I have become. Even though my first marriage only lasted ten years during a portion of my second career, it is an addition to my gratitude map. When I married her, I loved her, when we got divorced, I still loved her. This marriage taught me how to love and support someone diagnosed with a mental disorder, and how to pick myself up after losing everything. After my divorce, my hurt was so deep, that I moved across the world to escape. My escape adds Japan, my wife, and my daughter onto the map. A divorce that started in court on my birthday and ended the day I flew to Japan did give me an appreciation for my journey and the next woman I would marry. I hear that you should never marry someone you meet at a bar, but it was at a bar that I met my wife. The night I met her, she told me she invited me to her birthday party turning 28. She asked me to bring a cake to her party. She got a lot of curious looks at the cake. I found her lie out months later when I looked at her ID that she fibbed about her age. She turned 35. We can look back and laugh at this now. I plot another point for her culture. I made a huge mistake when she was pregnant with our daughter, I told her what she was doing was weird. I was at her house when she was cooking spaghetti for her brother's birthday. I found this different so I made the tactical error of calling it weird. She found this rude and kicked me out of the house. Luckily, she forgave me and she gave birth to our daughter. This allowed me to do another birthday tradition for the first year of my daughter’s life. We got her a birthday cake every month on the anniversary of her birth. My military career connects to Japan and connects to my wife leading another line to my daughter. My daughter on the map adds a new dimension to my appreciation for the journey I have been on. I learned fast that having a baby can create unique problems, especially with the rules of another country. We ran into a dilemma with picking her name based on Japanese rules, we were limited to 12 characters for her first and middle name. My wife had her first name set at 10 letters leaving me to come up with a middle name that was only two letters long. We were able to degree. The naming process was part one but at her first doctor's appointment developed one fear. The nurse said she needed a vaccine that would prevent her brain from melting. I think there was something lost in translation. This wasn’t the first time I was told the loose translation for something. My daughter was told that gaga translated to the “F” word in Illongo. I learned later that it translated to stupid, my wife just didn’t want our daughter saying it for some reason. Between my daughter and my wife, they have both add a lot of gratitude to my lived experience. I left the military life with my wife and daughter to work toward my third career. My journey has given me a hemorrhoid on the path to where I am without our daughter living with us and my wife stuck overseas waiting for a visa. We have quickly learned how difficult it can be with three denials and a fourth answer we still are waiting for. We have not given up hope but it has enabled us to appreciate each other more. I lay my map down for now with the completion up to the most current point. I know it is not complete, but it is labeled interactively with the different points on my journey. Each topic is connected to the word gratitude. A quick observation shows how some topics connect and how they have influenced my journey. Hindsight has blessed me with the ability to appreciate the journey I have been on to get where I am now, but it is not complete and I look forward to seeing how each new area is added with a connection to gratitude and the journey I have already have placed.

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