We call it the guest room. Well, Esther does, but she's always been the more optimistic of the two of us. The guest room, though we've never had guests in there, and likely won't for a while. The guest room, though used to be my Mom's room. It used to be. The pandemic had screwed everything up. Mom couldn't stay in the retirement home anymore. Before the lockdown hit us, we got her out. I didn't want her to be alone. Esther agreed, and so we did it. We saved her. Or, so I thought. It wasn't the pandemic that killed her. It had killed so many, but not Mom. We were careful. Masks. Sanitizing. I went to the store alone. Esther could work from home, so Mom wasn't even alone during the day. But it was the cancer. It came back, it was worse. Doctors only did video-chats with Mom, saying bedrest was all they could do. Hospitals weren't safe for her compromised immune system. It only took six months. Six months after she moved in and she was gone. No funeral. No family. We had her cremated, kept the ashes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But she was gone. I couldn't believe it. She was gone. Until she came back. The evening was going as they had for the last year: lazy supper, binge watching some "look-at-your-phone-while-it's-in-the-background" show, and early to bed. Esther had said just one more episode and then bed, but that was three episodes ago. As I clicked "Next Episode", she groaned. "Seriously, honey?" Esther complained. She turned to me, pulling out her best pouty face. It's hard to resist, that one. But I did my best. I returned my best smirk. "Seriously? It's only 8:30. We can watch another one." Esther shook her head. "You haven't watched any of them. You're so deep in you phone, do you even remember what this show is called?" My eyes shot to the screen. The title was usually showing between episodes, but it had already jumped to the start of the episode. Esther quickly reached over and snapped up the remote, turning off the TV before I could remember which show that particular collection of characters belonged to. I sighed. "Sorry. Yeah, let's go bed." She smiled at me, throwing the remote back at me, hitting my chest. BOOM. We both jumped. I stared down at the remote, confused. Was that the remote hitting my chest? I looked up at Esther. She was staring at the ceiling. "What was that?" she asked, more angry than afraid. I shook my head, though she didn't look at me, and I followed her gaze. BOOM. Again, louder, I think. Or maybe it was because we saw the ceiling thud with the noise, the hanging plant sway from the commotion. I stood up, headed for the stairs. Esther was right behind me. As we ran up the stairs, another boom. I felt this one. As we rounded the stairs, we stopped dead in our tracks. Mom's room door, the guest room door was closed. And someone was banging on it, from the inside. I backed up slowly, bumping into Esther. She had her phone out, and was talking. I couldn't hear her words. I just stared. My fear turned to curiosity, too quickly. Who was it? The front door was locked, they always locked it after supper. Right? I turned to Esther. "Let's go back down" I whispered. She nodded. As I followed her down the stairs, I could hear her giving our address. My eyes stayed on the top of the stairs and the door. My Mom's door. The guest room door. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard Esther say, too loudly "30 minutes? Are you %$#&ing kidding me? We could be murdered by then!" BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The booming became louder more frantic, as if convinced that someone was there. Someone could hear it. Someone could answer. "We should go outside," I whispered, failing to hide the fear in the voice. Esther's eyes flashed to mine. I saw the transition from angry woman to protective warrior. She glance down, then took a deep breath. "You know what? I've got a bat. %$#& you. I'll deal with it myself." Esther hung up her phone to audible protests, then tossed me her phone. She reached over, grabbing the baseball bat we kept by the front door. I'd never considered it before, but the bat was our last line of defence in this house. Esther hadn't played in years, but I valued her swing over mine. I followed her as she slowly made her way back up the stairs. It wasn't until we reached the top that I realized the knocking had stopped. Perhaps it had stopped when Esther had screamed into her phone, or when she grabbed the bat. I couldn't be sure, but I pushed the thought away as Esther moved in on Mom's room, the guest room door. "Whoever's in there, get ready to get %$#&ed up!" "Esther!" I said, barely above a whisper. She shot me a glance. It spoke volumes: both "shut up" and "I got this" in one. But the moment she looked away from the door... BOOM! I don't know if it was the fear, the sudden break in silence, or that something from beyond the door literally shook the house; but I fell. It was almost as embarrassing as it was painful. I landed square on my ass. Esther (damn, what a woman) had only steadied herself against the threat, raising the bat to strike the knocking invader. "You okay?" she called. I whimpered a response, confirming I was. I slowly got back to my feet as Esther inched towards the door. The booming had ramped up, a constant barrage of thunderous knocking. Esther, barefoot and wearing the cute penguin pyjamas I had got her on her birthday, reared up like a combat soldier and kicked in the door. The wood of the frame fractured as the door gave way. Mom's room, the guest room, opened to us, dark and boring. The booming stopped, but so did my heart. Standing in the middle of the room, Mom's room, the guest room was the ghostly form of... "Mom?"


I am not sexy, I am not pretty. I am ridiculed by you and your peers. If you do not like me, why must you continue to keep me around? I do not cling to you too tightly, as a matter of fact, I rarely even see you. I am always honest, and I bring out the real you, whilst your other friends shape and shift you to the point the real you is unrecognizable. I try my best not to stand out and you try to hide me from the world. If people see us together, they may laugh, they may judge, they may show hatred, but I love you and never get to express it. I dress bland to perfectly counteract your beautiful style, even though our time together may be brief. It may be taboo, but I don’t care. I love you, and our relationship will always be able to rekindle, whenever that next time may be. You push me to the back, but I always will be there when you need me. I am happy to call you my woman, and you should not be ashamed, to admit you wear laundry day panties.


My girlfriend stole my dog “Follow that car,” I yelled in the taxi driver’s window, pointing to the maroon mustang driven by my now ex-girlfriend. I jumped in the back and explained to the driver as we pursued. “That’s my ex-girlfriend, she came to the house to collect some of her things, but she left with my dog.” I pointed to the back window of her car and said to the driver, “See the dog in the back seat? He’s mine.” Nodding, the driver said, “Do you want me to try and cut her off?” The driver was probably hoping for a bigger tip, but anticipating some accident, I said, “No, we’ll just keep her in sight, and when she stops, I’ll grab my dog.” Leaning back into the seat, I pictured myself riding in that yellow Prius as a noble chariot driven by a courageous savior out to rescue my dog. Looking back, though, I see the taxi driver may have simply may have pulled over thinking my arm was on fire because I was waving it so intensely, and I’m sure he didn’t leave the house, thinking, ‘I’m seeking adventure in the form of rescuing some random dog today.’ It was so long ago now; I don’t even remember what that argument was about. It was some minor detail that turned into an immovable mountain that led to her moving out of our home a few days later. Eighteen years ago may not seem very relevant, but so much of my life is a duplicate of that event that going over an event from yesterday or re-living an event from eighteen years ago is the same to me. I remember it was a beautiful sunny day in May, probably around 80 degrees. Every tree was showing lots of green. Green was perhaps the scent in the air because everything was alive in the neighborhood, so all was probably perfect for me too. Looking back, I seemed so happy, but maybe I was just naïve not to expect the natural learning cycle that was to come. I remember getting ready on that day to go to the beach. I can see my pretty girlfriend putting a few towels in my beautiful antique Volkswagen next to my friendly Labrador. Everything pretty or beautiful; I called mine for some reason. I don’t remember doing it consciously. I don’t think anybody would. I loved that antique VW because it proved to the world that I was a magnificent mechanic, and I loved the girl probably because she was pretty, and that proved to the world that I was, in turn, attractive and loveable. My dog was beautiful, soaking up the sun in the back of my VW on that day. I loved that dog, I think, mostly because I thought the dog felt the same way. Now, I’m not saying I can’t LOVE, or my LOVE is insincere; I’m just saying that the most significant part of my loving things in those days was self-absorbed. As we pursued the mustang, I’m sure I was thinking about what I’d lose if my dog weren’t recovered. The lesson of fighting for ownership of that dog may have been discovering the importance of genuinely loving something. The most significant loss would have been the unconditional love that I couldn’t do for myself. If I’d had any wisdom on that day, I would have seen that I was pursuing unconditional love in the form of the dog. “She’s slowing down; I think she’s getting ready to pull over.” “Just pull up behind, and I’ll step out to retrieve my dog,” I said because I’m sure the driver was anxious for this little adventure to be over. The mustang stopped in an apartment complex I hadn’t seen before, and I stepped out of my chariot to the back door of the mustang. Opening the door revealed two things: a surprised dog in the back seat that looked like mine but wasn’t, and a surprised driver that was not my ex-girlfriend. I directed a hurried, “Sorry, thought I knew this dog” over the front seat and shut the door. I’m sure she thought I hired a taxi to stalk her and her dog. Gloomily returning to the Prius, I said, “It wasn’t them. You can take me back.” The notion that, years ago, I was pursuing something that displayed true love but wasn’t true love has always haunted my aspirations of love. When reflecting on a lack of love, I immediately go back to that moment chasing my dog. I’ve contemplated some unconscious piece of me that may be monitoring my best possible potential, telling me that I don’t love enough. Somehow, I mistakenly interpreted that message as if I should fight for ownership of my things. Ownership of love is impossible, so I did the only thing I could comprehend, which was to fight for something that most closely resembles love. The yellow chariot stopped in front of my house, and I got out to walk up the steps. I glanced in the window next to the door as I opened it and noticed what I thought was my dog coming to greet me. I quickly opened the door and dropped to my knees to hug him. Petting him softly, I said, “Hey you! I thought I lost you.” Just then, my ex-girlfriend’s voice came from the nearest room and said, “I just came by to grab some of my stuff.” Maybe not wanting to reveal the weakness I now see as loving her, I told her something casual and utterly obvious, like, “I see. Do you need any help?” “No, I have friends coming over tomorrow to help me move the big stuff.” I know I wanted her to stay, but somehow couldn’t muster the courage to tell her, so I said , “I can lend a hand with the big stuff.” I can see that chasing after my dog was simply pursuing some model of love right in front of me.


I tried to force a smile, glancing her way to see her reaction. It was fear. Subtly enough displayed, as she was trying to continue leading the swing dancing class. But for a split second, she had the look of pure fear. The kind of fear you feel when you realize that the person in front of you has either has no shred of human empathy or just does not care, and will tear you into pieces without a second thought using the box cutter in his hand. All I did was ask a question. About what she should do with our hands after she turns. But she felt I was off. She knew something was up. She knew something was up from the moment I walked in, kindly letting the class know that nobody had to dance with somebody they were not comfortable with. I took off my sweater as I was starting to sweat. “Now, there are also INSIDE turns, which are just like you imagine,” she said. “[... something something something, something something something...].” I was too whirling(?) to pay attention and the details of what she said don’t matter for this story anyway. I slipped the box cutter out of my back pocket. Soon enough, large cracks began forming in the ceiling. The floor began shaking and the walls began breaking. People started sliding, begging for their pathetic lives, complaining that the free popcorn was making their pathetic stomaches aching. Now was my chance. I dashed right through the crowd, right to the unopened box. Opened the box to reveal a chocolate cherry cheesecake. Used the box cutter to cut myself a slice. Got some cake on my hands because box cutters are short. Why does my mere existence cause people to tremble in fear? To cause the life to vanish from their eyes, to resemble those of my own? To lose the warmth from their bodies, resemble the coldness of myself? Because I am awkward, and terrible things follow me everywhere. Because I am hungry, and wanted some cheesecake. Because I live life as a truth but believe in a lie, and I’m paranoid of the things people want me to try. Because I’m as degenerate as the stories I write. Because I’m addicted to rhyming, but I can’t even do that right.


Sir Johnathan rushed through his chambers door slamming it behind him. Blood rushing down his arm he slams a shelf down across the door. You can hear loud footsteps slamming on the ground, Johnathan continues to fortify the door with another shelf as the steps pass by the door. He throws his helmet to the ground and grabs a bandage from his medical cabinet. As he is treating his would he hears the voice of his wise adviser George "Johnathan what is going on? Is the castle under attack". Johnathan still in great pain from his wound replies "The beast has returned, I wasn't able to escape safely this time. It was too fast and viscous". "Perhaps we should wait, the guards should be here any second to banish the beast again" George says while Johnathan is sitting with his back against the shelves. Screams can be heard from inside the castle walls. The beast shakes the floor with every step it takes. Johnathan begins to stand up "I'm not sure how much time we can wait. The others are not safe right now and they are no match for the beast". A loud slam is heard followed by an ear piercing shriek. Johnathan puts his ear to the door but can only hear sobbing. Then he hears it again, the beast grunting as he walks down the hallway. The steps get louder as he approaches the door. Johnathan can hear the beasts deep breaths right outside his door. He backs up towards George and grabs his helmet once again. BOOM, the door shakes as the beast grunts louder. BOOM, books fly off of the shelf onto the floor. Johnathan knows this will not hold. He puts his helmet on and prepares his sword. BOOM one shelf falls smashing to the floor. Dust falls from the roof as the beast continues his assault. BOOM, you can hear the door cracking as the beast becomes more angry. A loud scream echoes within the castle, the beast jolts away from Johnathan's chambers down the hallway. Johnathan hugs George and thanks him for being the best adviser a knight could ask for. He pushes the shelves out of the way of the door. The broken door creaks open to a dark hallway. In the distance he can hear the beast roar as it continues its rampage. Johnathan makes his way down the hallway with his sword at the ready. The beast is getting louder and louder as he nears the castle staircase. A loud slam can be heard on the castles gate. The guards must have arrived. Johnathan rushes to the stairs trying to see his way through the dark castle. The walls are torn open, the doors to other chambers all shattered. As he nears the stairs he can see a path of blood down the stairs. As he descends the stairs it is pure silence. He reaches the bottom of the stairs to see the Queen sitting crying. He asks if the beast is gone. The queen wraps her arm around Johnathan and says " Don't worry Johnny he is gone". As Johnathan looks out the gate he can see flashing red and blue lights. The Queen wipes tears off of Johnathan's face and says "This time the he wont be coming back". Johnathan sits on the steps and he can see the beast. Sitting in the back of the guards wagon he finally feels the castle is safe again. The guards drive off and Alexandra says to Johnathan "Go grab a pillow and your bear we're going to be staying the night with my sister." The brave knight walks to his room to pack his bag. He picks up George and carries him down the stairs. As he walks through the rubble and broken house his mother grabs his hand and walks him to the door to freedom as the beast has finally been slayed inside his own castle.


In a bar, there was a lone patron sitting at a table with a small black book with symbols written with thin black ink and a half full glass of whisky. His beard was sticking out from the hood, black with long grey strands here and there. The bartender was cleaning glasses with a rag as the patron was writing in his black book. A small group of people in robes came into the bar, pushing past the doors. The oldest looking one looked around the bar, seemingly looking for someone, "Hey barkeep, you seen him?" he asked as two other people came to his sides. The barkeep looked up at him and smirked, "I haven't. Hasn't been here in a few days," He lied. The oldest, glared and narrowed his eyes, "You're lying." The lone patron stood up, finishing his drink in a gulp, "Leave that man alone," his voice was raspy and labored as he grabbed his things. The group turned to face him. The oldest scoffed and laughed until the patron looked up at him. The patron had a missing left eye and a long scar going across his face to the left side of his face. His skin was old and wrinkled, showing his age. In his left hand, he had a walking stick that went to his shoulder. The oldest looked at his face and smiled, confident. "Who the hell are you old man?" He asked as he tried to grab the walking stick. The patron had a very firm grip on it. "Just someone that doesn't like bullies," he tapped the floor with the stick. A large bolt of lightning came down and struck him. He screamed in agony as the others froze in place. The oldest one let go of the stick and his hand was charred and burnt. "What the hell is this?" He was scared and in shock. The old man smirked and tapped the floor again, making another bolt of lightning come down and strike the others. They screamed in pain and the oldest ran out of the bar scared. The other two followed soon after. The bartender was shocked, his mouth agape at this old man, "What the hell are you?" The old man sighed a little as he readjusted his stance, "You can call me Wotan. I am just a scholar," he smirked a little. The bartender was silent as Wotan walked out, his gait was labored. The market outside the bar was bustling with stands selling everything from clothes to food to toys. The air was filled with the smell of smoked meats and cooked vegetables. Wotan started to weave through the crowd to an alleyway, going into a door on the left-hand side. The room was messy with books, newspapers, and feathers of his raven, Artur. He removed his robes and cowl, showing a toned body. His torso was covered in multiple scars that crisscrossed. Artur was perched on his perch, he cawed as Wotan showed his face. He was wrinkled and old, showing his age of maybe seventy. "Artur, old friend. My eyes and ears. What did you see?" His eyes changed to a pale orange. Artur was flying around the main city, bustling and loud. On one roof was a large figure. It was about seven feet tall with dark clothing, his eyes were glowing softly. He cawed and perched on a chimney a few houses down from where the figure stood. "Ah, Mael. It's been so long," Wotan smiled a little as the figure looked at Artur, his eyes were like red spotlights. "Artur, is that you?" His voice was deeper, "Old friend Wotan, it's been a while," he pet Artur on the back of his head.


I tossed and turned in that limbo between sleep and lucidity - a grown man with a beard - giggling like a schoolgirl as I rolled over in my sheets. Earlier I had dropped onto the bed in blurriness and shame; even after four bottles of lager I couldn't shake the feeling of failure. I hadn't produced a single worthy paragraph all day. Ever since Sian left weeks ago, so had my inspiration. Though, in my current state, I was laughing. I knew I was dreaming, but I was so immersed that it didn't matter. Somewhere in the canvas of my mind, an unknown entity was typing out paragraphs for me on a Word document. I found this hilarious. It was just so indescribably weird to see my work get written out for me. And it *was* my work. Of that I was sure. The dream wasn't lucid enough to make out the sentences or the words, but I felt sure that whatever was being written, it was being done with the intention of helping me. I felt each sentence slot in so satisfyingly like the long-lost pieces to a beloved puzzle. It was kind of whispering to me too. Though, whispering isn't the right word. It was speaking to me silently; that is, I recognised the occasional specific set of letters, but the mood and feeling of the communication was more abstract. It was mischievous and intelligent. It seemed to really enjoy writing. I kept thanking it, chuckling as more words appeared. This is amazing! I thought. As the alcohol in my blood ran thinner, and the night moved closer to morning, I became more and more aware of the outside environment, yet strangely the dream became more vivid in my imagination. I could now picture the Word document much more clearly, and I could make out the individual sentences. They read: "I first came through the porch in the cold. No one was there, so I moved up the stairs. I opened the closest door and found a man. I took him away." And this was repeated over and over and over. Panic shook me from my hazy state. I shot up from the bed and darted eyes across my bedroom. The closest door to the stairs was my flatmate's room. "Danny?" I shouted. No reply. I walked out into the hallway with my pyjamas and knocked on his door. It was open, but I know Danny always slept with his door closed. I pushed it all the way. His bed was empty and curtains were flapping out of an open window. After searching the whole flat twice, I knew Danny was gone. I closed my eyes and imagined the Word document again. The ending sentence had changed, or maybe I just hadn't realised it the first time. My body filled up with dread as I realised the implications: "Tonight, I will try a new door.


Binny and Toody vs. The Monster A Short Story By Maura Morgan My backpack, loaded with books, nearly pulled me over. I hated it. It was uncomfortable on my rail-thin body and dragged on the ground even when it wasn’t filled. Mama said I should use it to help me fit in at school. I laughed when she said that: how could I, a googly, eight-eyed kid with four arms and a trunk for a body and legs with suction-cupped tentacles instead of feet that crawled, more or less--ever fit in at a school filled with humanoids three feet taller than me? I didn’t need to bring books to and from school. With an eidetic memory and the ability to recall anything I’d learned in the blink of an eye, even googly ones, it was just a lame attempt to fit in. I didn’t need to go to school; I only did so because the law of this land required thirteen-year-olds to attend, and I was obligated to follow the custom. Despite the load on my back and the slow pace with which I crawled along the concrete sidewalk, I enjoyed the sunny trek home from the sparsely windowed brick building. The sunshine was the best part of living here. I soaked it in every day. No one ever bothered me; I was too scary looking. Sometimes, I wished I didn’t look scary. My looks made it hard to make friends on this planet. I only met Binny because he was sitting alone in the far reaches of the cafeteria, and no one else, humanoid or alien, would let me sit with them. Binny was my only friend. He was reserved and shy and not the least bit scary. He was a big ball of orange and pink fur, with two short arms and two feet hidden beneath his four-inch fuzzy coat. I’d only been here a month, and already, I was aware of the pros and cons. The humanoids were awful, but the standard of living, according to my dad, was the reason we emigrated. In the old country, as we now refer to our homeland, we were as poor as the mud we crawled on. But here, our presence was valuable. My entire family was tailors: my mother could sew a humanoid suit by hand in half an hour. Of course, four hands and eight eyes helped, but the sticky mucus we secreted from our mouths removed the need for pins. I turned the next corner to the multifamily unit we called home--we occupied the entire building. I came upon one Michael Snead. He held Binny by the ruff of his neck, feet dangling off the ground. He was screaming obscenities right at Binny’s face. With his quiet, even-keeled, and reserved demeanor, Binny was no match for him. I couldn’t even imagine Binny going bat-crap crazy and scaring Snead away with a fit of hysteria. Since I met him, I hadn’t even seen Binny laugh. “You’re nothing but a furry balloon...I bet if I took a pin to you, you’d pop and splutter as you whirled through the air! I’ll have to try it sometime!” Binny tightly closed his eyes and scrunched his face. His fur rippled as his body shook, and he held his short arms against his chest, fingers clutched tightly. Poor Binny. He could not defend himself, even against horrible, weak humanoids. He didn’t need to be on the peaceful planet he came from, so his only defense was an ancient instinct to ball up and flee. I, however, had some offenses and defenses because I was not lucky enough to come from a place that believed harmony was the best path to a fulfilling life. I quietly sidled up to Snead and focused all eight of my googly eyes on him, a trick my father taught me, and I quickly learned unsettled our humanoid neighbors. I employed it whenever I got uncomfortable with two-eyed stares. The best part, which also amused my father, was that I could stare at them with my pupils in different parts of my eyeball. Such talent! My father had exclaimed. “Whatcha’ doin, Snead?” I asked him in a deep grumble, my most threatening voice. He jumped, dislocating both feet from the ground, and dropped Binny, who balled himself up and rolled away as fast as his instinct could take him. “Dad gummit,” Michael said. “There goes my vape money. Had to butt in, didn’t you toad-face?” “The name is Toody, and yes, I did.” I braided my arms defiantly across my chest. “Don’t do it again.” “Or what?” I flicked my forked tongue at him and then spit on the sidewalk, where my saliva foamed and discolored the concrete. Snead clenched his teeth, stuffed his hands in his pocket, and trudged away. I smirked. Snead didn’t need to know my spit was nothing more than sodium bicarbonate mixed with acetic acid. I had an upset stomach for which I’d taken sodium bicarbonate, and beings like me are known to have vinegary saliva on a typical day. As for the discoloration, well, that was from the chocolate candy I’d been sucking on. I found Binny at the elementary school playground three streets away. He was sitting on the seesaw. I dropped my backpack, crawled up the board, and sat sideways on the other end. Despite our different shapes and attributes, the seesaw balanced perfectly. It would only move with intentional movement from either of us. “You okay, Binny?” He sniffled but wouldn’t look at me. “Thanks, Toody,” he said, wiping his nose with his furry hand. “Snead takes my candy money every day. Can’t tell you the last time I had a Snickers.” “You gotta stand up to him, Binny.” I leaned in, and my side of the seesaw went down, landing with a gentle bump. “How?” Binny complained, spreading his arms. “Look at me. I’m nothing but a blob of pink and orange fur.” I studied him. He was right; at first glance, he seemed nothing more than a giant plushie. A thirteen-year-old girl would love to have him sitting on her bed--if he didn’t move or speak. “Got any specialties?” Binny cocked his head at me and leaned back on the seesaw. I rose in the air, wildly bouncing, nearly falling off, as Binny landed on the dirt. Binny gave a short, quiet laugh, but I felt good, having cheered him up. A short jolt struck me, like what happens when you drag your feet on a carpet in dry weather and then touch someone. “What I mean is, well,” I paused as a description of the word in this context escaped me. Instead, I used an example. “One of my specialties is I’m quiet. You saw me sneak up on Snead. And you saw me spew a nasty spitball. Anything like that?” Binny landed and pushed hard off the ground with his fuzzy, little feet beneath his round, furry body. I landed with a thud and let loose an oof. Binny laughed louder, and I felt the same jolt slightly stronger, like touching metal after dragging your feet. “I can tuck myself and roll away quick.” I slowly nodded, urging him to continue with what I hoped was a longer list, but then he shrugged. “That’s about it.” “Binny,” I said, rubbing my fingers together, my skin tingling. “How often do you laugh?” I leaned in again, and my side of the seesaw went down. I put two hands out to cushion my landing. “Same as everybody,” he said. I doubted him but sensed defensiveness in his voice, so I tempered my words. The last thing I wanted was for him to tuck in and roll because he thought I was threatening him. I’d only known him a month, but given we were two of only a handful of “monsters” in school, we became tight quick. We had lunch, study hall, English, Math, and Thwimba language classes together, and I didn’t recall him ever laughing. He was so mellow, so blasé about everything I started to think his kind couldn’t laugh. “Do you like jokes?” “I love jokes,” Binny said, his eyes brightening. “But my mom and dad don’t allow us to tell them to anyone except family. Mom says they’re dangerous.” “Has anyone ever told you a joke?” Binny shook his head. I didn’t remember ever telling him a joke or anyone else telling him a joke. I couldn’t say I saw him talking to anyone else at school. I realized it was probably because we all thought of Binny as melancholic and unable to laugh. “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?” Binny squinched his eyes together and shrugged. “Because the ‘p’ is silent.” Benny let loose with the loudest belly laugh I’d ever heard. In the same instant, electricity blasted through my body and blew me off the seesaw. I landed about ten feet away. I lie on the ground, the wind knocked out of me, staring into the bright sun. I heard Binny land on the ground with a thump, and I stayed where I was until he blocked my view of the local star. “That’s a great specialty, my friend. Let’s try it out.” I offered my hand to him, and he took hold of it with his fuzzy one and helped me up. We wandered through the neighborhood streets. I didn’t tell Binny I was looking for Snead. I didn’t know what Binny had taken away from the little incident on the seesaw. He hadn’t put two and two together, and I was sure he’d ball up and roll all the way home if I told him, not even wanting to try out his specialty. We came upon Snead threatening another kid from school for his money. Binny stopped walking and turned around, ready to ball, but I grabbed his arm. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise. Just go with me on this,” I reassured Binny. Snead turned around and saw us, probably sensing bigger prey. He let the other kid go and turned to us. The other kid ran away and disappeared around the block. “Hey, toad-face. I found out your spit was nothin’ to be afraid of. And I ain’t afraid of your weird eyeballs, so I’m only gonna say this once to you two: hand over your money, or I’ll make cat paté out of you.” “You caught us, Snead,” I said, bowing my head. “Maybe I could make it up to you with a joke?” I glanced at Binny, whose light bulb had suddenly gone off. He started doing a little wiggle and dancing in place. “Naw, nothing will make it up to me except your money.” “How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?” I waited a beat as though allowing Snead to answer. “Ten-tickles!” I braced for what was to come and wasn’t disappointed. Binny gut-busted a laugh, and I flew, landing on a plot of soft green grass. But I didn’t miss Snead as he soared through the air. He landed in a bunch of garbage cans across the street with a deafening thud and ended face-down on the sidewalk. When he looked up, his nose and his face were bloody. I looked at Binny, who was groovin’, bobbing back and forth to an invisible beat, pirouetting on his heels and waving his arms. “Hey, Toody!” Binny shouted, pointing at me. “It’s all fun and games--” “Until Binny belly laughs!”


When I was 18 there was a lightning storm. It lasted for hours, the sky flashing and light dancing around me. I could smell the electricity in the air. I thought, for a moment, I saw something in those clouds. A dark shape. A round disk. I was 17, and she was my first love. She laughed with total freedom - throwing her head back and losing herself. Her eyes sparkled and her whole mouth showed. She never covered her face and I could count the teeth in her mouth. It was not a light tinkling laugh, but one that came from deep within her, and consumed her. She snorted and chortled and roared. Her garden was overgrown and wild. I don't remember her moving in, but I do remember a time when she did not live there. The earth was barren and rocky. And then a time came when she lived there, and it seemed as though she always did - as though she sprang from the rock and clay fully formed, house, garden and all. She was no older than I, though I never saw any family. She grew tomatoes and cucumbers, Basel, thyme and rosemary, lettuce and squash. She had chickens. She worshipped the earth, and the sun smiled on her. She was not what you would call conventionally attractive. She was tall, and her eyes were slightly too far apart. he forehead was larger than normal, and her feet slightly crooked, but She radiated life and light. Her presence seemed to fill every space around her, and her force was magnetic. She captivated me, and I, with the sun and the earth, worshiped her. On our first date, I took her to the movies. I forget what we saw. She talked the whole way through, though I didn't mind. Her voice was overwhelming. I clung to every word. On our third date we went to a field and I watched in awe as purple flowers bloomed around her, moved by her touch into life. We lay in those flowers for hours, her eyes sparkling in the fading light. 'Sometimes I think I am not of this world. Sometimes I feel the earth and the flowers around me, the sun on my skin, and as though I am bound by my body and physics, lost in this world. One day I will remember my true nature and be free from this plane of existence. Unbounded' When I was 18 there was a lightning storm. It lasted for hours, the sky flashing and light dancing around me. I could smell the electricity in the air. I thought, for a moment, I saw something in those clouds. A dark shape. A round disk. The world seemed to change in some underlying way, and at that moment I felt as though I was suddenly falling, as though gravity no longer held me and the earth was no longer beneath my feet. When it passed the dark shape was gone. So was she. Her garden never wilted, and the sun seemed to smile on it always.


“Mom, bring it fast. I can’t wait anymore!”, I said. I could smell the pasta with the flavours teasing me, all the way from the kitchen. As my mom placed the dish on the table, she went on to say, “One of these days, you have to learn how to make this pasta. When I will be too old to cook, you will have to make it for me.” “Not so fast. But don’t worry, I have the recipe.”, I said. “Not the secret ingredient.”, she said with a smile. “I am going to guess it any day now.”, I quipped as I put a mouthful of the delicious goodness into my mouth. As I closed my eyes to savour it, the last thing I see is my reflection, in my mother’s beautiful eyes. I seem happy. I wake up with a jerk, realising it was a dream. It was the last good memory I remember before the chaos. Before that dreaded night, you left us mom, I think to myself. “Dahl, honey, you have to talk to your father. You need each other during these grievous times.” Dahl (short for Dahlia) that’s what my mom used to call me. I look up to see mom sitting on the sofa with a suggestive look. Everyone processes grief in different ways, I apparently do so by hallucinating about my dead mother. “We really don’t have to, mom. He is preoccupied with work and so am I with school. Everything is fine”, I said. Mothers, don’t stop looking after you even in afterlife! It has been 3 months. 3 months, since the night you gasped for air and I stood in shock as dad dialled for an ambulance. 3 months, since my dad lost the love of his life and I lost my best friend, my confidante, my mother. People say time flies by- it does, when you are living your life to the fullest. But for us, it has been a never-ending series of excruciating pain and wishful thinking. Every second thinking what could’ve been. At least I do. I think dad does too. I wouldn’t know, we haven’t talked much since the car ride back from the funeral when he limited his words to- “God, I hope she is happy.” Come to think of it, it is easier this way because every time I so much as think about her I drown in a cesspool of tears. I am sure he does too. And not talking about it, let’s us go about our lives normally, whatever that is. I rested on this plethora of thoughts like a pillow and drifted off to sleep. Next morning, I go downstairs to stop for breakfast before school and frown at a plate of sandwich. “The crusts aren’t cut off; I know but eat it. He is trying.”, Mom said. As I rush out the door, mouthful of sandwich, I see dad frantically searching for his keys. I look at mom who points to the drawer in the corner and take the keys out. “Give him two Krispy cremes too!”, mom says all excited. As I hand him the keys and the treats, he looks at me surprised. “Who told you I like to keep them for good luck before an important presentation at work?” I glance at mom, who chuckles and blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. “Mom told me.... I mean I saw her giving these to you”. Wow, lying comes easy to me now. Dad does what you will hardly call a smile and goes out the door. On the bus ride back from school, I tried guessing the secret ingredient. Basil? Cinnamon? Anchovy? Mint? All these guesses were met with mocking laughs from my mother and crazy stares from half of the children on the bus. As the night sets in, I complete my homework and go down to dinner automatically. As I walk down the stairs, I remember the times mom used to knock and beckon me for dinner. We both ate in silence. As I stuffed the store-bought pasta in my mouth, I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “What is this dump? Mom made it so much better.” “What did you just say? She is not here and all you care about is the food? I have not mourned my wife’s death and delved straight into work for you to sit here and gloat?”, he growled. I felt anger building up inside me. All those repressed emotions struggling for a way out. “Dahl, don’t say a word.” I couldn’t hear her anymore. “Really? This is you trying? Leaving for work without saying a word and coming back home to more silence!” I shouted. “What do you want me to do? Sit still while you throw silly tantrums? Even your mother’s death hasn’t changed you a bit.” He retorted. To say these words were stinging would be an understatement. As I opened my mouth, I knew I would immediately regret what I said, “I wish you died instead of mom.” These words hit him like a wave. He stared at me for a full minute and then stormed off to his room closing the door with a bang. I don’t know what came over me. I guess I wanted to hurt him more than I was hurting. “Is this what you really wanted?” mom asked rhetorically and went upstairs. As I went into the room, expecting to see mom, wanting to explain to her that I made a mistake, I was greeted by nothing. I wondered if she is upset and this is the second-last time I am going to see her. I called out to her a few times, but the one time I want my mind to go crazy and hallucinate, it doesn’t. Frustrated, I get up to go fill the pitcher and I hear sounds from the other room. Sobbing sounds. Stifled cries growing in amplitude by the minute. As it went on to become full-blown crying, I started to open the door. But I stopped myself, with a nagging thought at the back of my mind. He is finally processing mom’s death, finally dropping all things to do the most important one. Mom leaving me prematurely, has forced me to be more mature. With that thought and closed lights behind dad’s door, I retreated to my room. If the silence before was awkward, this was a notch higher. I had several missed moments, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologise. It is funny how easily you say the things you shouldn’t but need immense courage to say the things you should. These days were painfully lonely for me as well as my non-hallucinating, perfectly sound mind. After a lot of debate with my own reflection in the mirror, I came to the conclusion that only one thing could justify my apology and bring us closer- Our shared love for mom. I decided to try to make the pasta we loved a tad bit less than mom. As I dusted the pots and pans which the spiders had so lovingly called home, I heard shuffling of steps. Dad was standing there, looking forlorn. I smiled a little and that seemed to set him off to cooking. Foraging for the vegetables, he asked, “Do you have the recipe?” Oh boy, small talk. I tried to shrug it off. “I do but I don’t think I will be able to pull it off.”, I said. “At least try. We owe it to her.” He comforted. With her mention, I let out a breath that I didn’t realise I was holding in for so long. “Dad, I miss her and I know you miss her more. I spend every waking minute punishing myself for the moments I spent arguing with her which could have been spent enjoying and making memories with her. I wish she wouldn’t have left us so soon, I wish for a few more moments with her. Dad, you’ve been hiding it, but I know you cry at nights. The pain is unfathomable apart but sharing it will dull the ache a little.”, I said. “I am so sorry, kiddo. Grieving due to her untimely demise, made me overlook that you had suffered a much greater loss. We both are hurting and we both need each other during this testing time. We were too stubborn to admit it before but we are coming to terms with it now.”, he explained. “I am sorry too, dad. I need you to help me try to take on things one day at a time. And enough of the emotional outpour, mom would have laughed at our faces and called us- ‘SUCKERS’”, I said and we shared a laugh. “How do you know?”, he questioned. “I just do”, I said with a smile. “Let’s honour her by remembering the beautiful moments that defined her impeccable and humble soul.” I said as we resumed with the pasta cooking. “You’re right. Remember the time, our dog, Peggy, ate her garden foliage when she wasn’t looking?”, dad chuckled. “Got it! Dad, you’re a genius!”, I exclaimed as I ran to the kitchen. I took some leaves, cut them and mixed them to the pasta base. I sent dad to the dining space for the big reveal and finished with some last touches. “Bon Appetit!” I said as he took a mouthful. Suddenly, his face contorted into a smile. “This tastes exactly like your mother made it. I am so proud of you! How did you figure it out?” He asked. “I am her daughter”, I quipped never being surer. Tears brimming in his eyes he hugged me tight, first time in these months. I felt good for the first time in these months. As I took in the warmth of the hug, I opened my eyes to see my mother standing there, her beautiful eyes swimming in tears. “So, what was the secret ingredient?”, she asked curiously. “Love”, I said. “Dahl, do I look like a hipster to you? Love makes you feel like it tastes better, it doesn’t actually work.” She said annoyed. “I am kidding. Its thyme, the one you grew in the home garden.” I said confidently. She flashed a huge smile and said, “You will do just fine without me. Just know, I will always be there for you any-thyme! I love you!” Something in me changed, I knew I would never see her again but I was fine with it. As I let go of the hug, I whispered, “I love you!” and saw her disappear in the blink of an eye. “She’s gone.”, I realised out loud. “Oh kiddo, she might not be here but she will always look out for you”, dad quipped. “I know, dad. I know”, I said like I had experienced the realness of it all!


He sat down for his coffee, an after-breakfast ritual that had kept him well over the decades, and he opened the paper, a local periodical harkening back to the days when every community had its own press, shared its own news, the days when you would not only know the names that peppered the front page but will have a personal familiarity with the owners of those names. He started at the front and wandered through, the old man meandering among the text, when he stopped, froze. In the silence of the kitchen, a single tear blazed a path down his cheek. In the stillness of the morning, a choked sob broke through the house, loud and piercing, reverberating past the faded wallpaper and wandering upstairs where it interrupted another morning ritual. Valerie sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair. She took her time these days, the days long after children fled the nest and moved on to build their own, growing into their adulthoods to make beautiful fledglings of their own. She hummed to herself a mix of mostly forgotten melodies as she readied herself for the long day; the day filled with the frivolities and indulgences of retirement when that broken sound found her in her sanctuary, this holy grotto where she began her days. "Stephen?" she cried out, concerned of the air wretchedness betrayed in that sound. But no answer came forth, save the sound of a screen door, closing slowly in the hiss of the hydraulics. She rose and found her way into the kitchen, empty save for the small wooden table which glowed white in the morning sunlight. On it, she saw the remains of her husband's morning, aborted and abandoned. Coffee, the color of milk chocolate, lay in the cup and on the saucer half-finished. The paper balanced precariously on the corner of the table, the chair shoved into the center of the room, emphasizing the loneliness of the scene. And, through the window, she saw Stephen, standing in the middle of the garden path, facing away from her, hands covering his face, spasms of sorrow wracking his now ancient frame. She picked up the paper, guessing that might be the cause of the disturbance, and glanced across the columns of the justified font. The obituaries were open. It was not something Stephen would typically care about, but today was different. Today the paper changed its layout, the editor-in-chief wanting to make it easier to read the classified section, a section Stephen loved, had moved the obituaries. Today the obituaries held unique content as well. On the top, in bold she saw, in a simple font, "Marylynn Anderson (76)." Then she understood. Years ago, Valerie and Stephen had known her. Well, Stephen knew her. She was his co-worker, a fellow teacher, though a different department. They worked together for years, and seemed close, for co-workers, but then, at some faculty event, Valerie couldn't remember which, she learned the young Mrs. Anderson left. She tried asking Stephen about the plain-faced math teacher, but Stephen had just shaken his head, saying he did not know. She couldn't say for sure, but Stephen had changed in those months. He was less active, older. She chalked it up to age, maybe a mild midlife crisis even. Not knowing what else to do, she gave him his space, guessing that he would recover on his own, that he would reach out if he needed. And he did improve, for the most part. His infectious, sometimes mischievous smile returned, that coy turn of the lip that she so loved. But he had changed, at least a little. Valerie didn't give it much thought in the years since. The change was small, subtle, but something that only tickled the back of her mind until now. Now she looked at the name, printed in black and gray, and understood what had happened, what she missed all those years ago. Now she saw, and understood. Stephen stood in the garden, hiding behind his hands, trying not to give in to the pain that flooded him, the sorrows that had built up over the years, the regrets and the longings hope kept alive, a light that intoxicated him with the memory of her smile, of her gentleness, of her touch and her smell. It was a flame he kindled and then hid away but never put out, a light whose brilliance shattered the darkness. But when it was discovered, an embrace, one thought to be in the privacy of an empty building, seen by another member of the English department, she fled and it dimmed. It still burned in secret, far in the background, unacknowledged and unpursued. It lay there, despite vacations and graduations, stayed there, despite achievements and failures, remained, through distance, sometimes greater, sometimes lesser. And finally, four decades later, and unknown to Stephen, Marylynn, or, for that matter, Valerie, only two blocks away, that flame flickered and went out. The smoke that remained left Stephen alone in the garden, in the dark shadows of his own hands. And it left Valerie alone in the kitchen, the dust in the air making sunbeams clear and visible as the late morning light. Both shed tears, not for what each lost, but what they never had. And both have never felt so alone.


This is a short story, and a true story.  I would like to preface this story with a warning. Tripping in public can get you into serious trouble, obviously. Do not try this at home unless you have some experience with psychedelics. That being said, I myself can't trip at home. When I try I end up leaving as soon as the come up is over because I feel the need to go out into the world and see it with new eyes. I had been preparing for this experience for some time, I had done something similar with a friend before. But at a small museum at a low dosage (of shrooms). This was a very different kind of place. This was the most popular fine arts museum in the whole region, and naturally, I was a bit nervous. I took the pills in the museum bathroom, for those of you who don't know what exactly 4-aco-dmt is, it's a novel psychedelic that converts to psilocin when ingested, so it's almost indistinguishable from mushrooms. During the come up, I walked around a part of the museum I had already seen (sober). They were mostly masterpieces by old European renaissance painters. Mostly stately portraits of stern gentlemen of status, which was why I figured this would be better to do before the trip actually started. When it did hit me though it hit me like a truck, I had never taken this much of the substance before and suddenly my attention shifted from the art to the other visitors. They seemed almost like wax automatons capable only of awe and nothing else, they slumped and staggered while they looked at the masterpieces which were the results of lifetimes of work by exceptionally gifted individuals that were far beyond a normal person's ability and understanding. I snickered quietly because well, first of all I was one of these beings, which was hilarious, but I also realized that everyone would be far too occupied with the pieces to notice that I was on another planet right now. This calmed me, I could do this. Now that the trip had set in I decided to go to a different section of the museum, one dedicated to the art of ancient central American and African cultures. For this I would have to go outside first, and it was raining. I figured I was no wuss and would not need to get my coat, the rain felt light and made me ready to go into the next phase. I only had to ask for directions on the way to the building once which I considered a great success. Upon entering I was first greeted by a section of art that dealt mostly with household items and furniture. I felt kind of insulted, I had not come here to spend time in a sort of glorified Ikea. It took me some time to find where the actual old, ethnic and religious art was located. But when I did, oooh boy. I stomped around a little because there was no one else in this section right now. A glass box with about 30-35 masks marked the crown jewel of the mesoamerican art exhibit and it made me think about the roles we choose to play in society, and a new appreciation for the antiquity of the idea of, say, different 'flavors' of people. In my mind, every mask represented an ancient equivalent to modern professions, or something like a cluster of Jungian personality types. But which one was I? What mask would I have donned in one of those ancient ceremonies? I did not know the answer. And it set me off a little. A looming aggression began to boil. Then I laughed at how obvious I was, the aggression wás the answer, clearly I would have been a warrior. With the warrior spirit in mind I walked into the next section, which was an African exhibit, mostly of wooden effigies but also of old black and white pictures of the people that belonged to the tribes where figures like this had been traditionally made. Now these men, they had been warriors, not by choice but by necessity, and the greatest of them had had their likeness carved into wood and clay, and their images and spirit had survived through the ages. I felt weak and ashamed. I used to be in better shape than this and at a time had been disciplined enough to have earned that epithet of warrior. But I had grown complacent, sedentary in my job, trading hard runs for sunny-day walks and grueling sparring sessions for doing a few squats and calling it a day. But I still felt a strength within me. 'I'm still young,' I thought to myself. 'There is still time to become a better, stronger and smarter me.' I felt liberated, I could see a clear path ahead of me. I had to stop eating crap, stop drinking every weekend, and dedicate myself to physical and mental training, for my own sake. Surely this had been the peak of the trip, surely this was the revelation of the entheogen. Little did I know, we were only getting started. I went back to the main building. Took a little break and drank some water, I was starting to feel a little more normal again. I passed a section dedicated to Chinese porcelain. There was a woman explaining the process of the lost art of true traditional porcelain making to an uninterested but polite teenager. She was at least seventy years old but she moved her hands when she spoke and everything she said was full of passion and vigor. I decided that she was, or had been, a teacher in some sort of capacity. To talk about a subject in such depth and to make others enthusiastic about an arcane subject requires a certain skillset that I was sure she had developed over a long career. She was almost comically short, but not because she was hunched over. She looked very healthy for her age and I'm sure she used to be a beautiful woman in her prime. She caught me listening in on her little lecture and she lost the thread of what she was saying. The look in her eyes said: it's been years since a man has looked at me that way. It didn't take her long to recoup and continue her story after a few umms and I left for the next exhibit, a little embarrassed, but also somewhat amused. The next exhibit featured more modern paintings, mostly from the last century, and statues as well. And I understood why people had made these things, to enrich their own lives and the lives of those who might enjoy their work. Some of the works held such passion that I found myself wondering what would have happened to the person that had made it if they had never picked up a paintbrush, would they have sunk slowly into depression and lived a life without purpose? Or were the people that had made these works so exceptional that they would have excelled at whatever path they might have chosen in life? It was an impossible question. I remember standing in front of a painting by an artist I had never heard of before for what seemed like hours, his name was E.J. Hughes. It was a scene of a grey beach with a stream and a treeline, there were all sorts of hidden treasures in the painting but I have not been able to find it on the internet, sadly. It was one of the best modern paintings I have ever seen and I could imagine myself stepping into the painting and living on a cottage besides that beach for the rest of my days. I was sure this E.J. Hughes and I would have been great friends. Sadly, upon reading the information next to the painting (which in my state was no small feat mind you), I found out the man had died in 2007. I exclaimed an audible 'FUCK' through the gallery. People were looking at me, including the floor's security guard. Part of me wanted to say: 'What, are you not moved by art? Then why do you come here?' But I knew that drawing more attention to myself than necessary would be a very bad idea. I moved on to the next exhibit. When I entered there was a recording of music by Mozart playing. And the leftmost wall was completely cluttered with paintings. I felt tired and sat down on the bench facing the wall so I could take it all in. Most paintings were scenes of Austria and Germany. A horse pulling a carriage through snow, a maid churning butter. The music and visuals of brilliant rays of sun that shone from the paintings lifted me above myself somewhat. It made me think of my youth and teenage years in Europe and the stories my grandmother used to tell me, I could feel myself slipping away and I think I even cried a little. THIS was the peak, of that I was sure, either that or I was about to trade the physical for the ethereal forever and die on the spot. I remember being afraid of dying but I did not panic because if it were to happen there was nothing I could do about it, and why waste my last moments on thoughts of panic and fear, why not enjoy the beautiful music and sights that reminded me of my home country that I had (perhaps foolishly) left behind? I remember thinking: 'Don't close your eyes, whatever you do, don't close your eyes, for as long as you can. Make the moment last.' An overweight Russian man and his family sat down next to me and the spell was broken. I felt relatively normal again and stood up to go get some water. I was glad I had survived. I went to do a last round of the classical paintings, one biblical scene was so intricate that all I could do was wonder how a person could make this with mere hands of flesh. A man my age who stood next to me seemed to share my opinion, we exchanged looks and for a moment I wondered whether he was as high as I was, but I dared not ask. Security came in and requested us to leave, the museum was about to close. I had been inside the museum for over seven hours, but to be honest it felt like I had been there for half a week. There is no good way to end this story. It's been a little over a week now and I still think about certain moments from that day sometimes. I haven't told anyone about it because I feel like no one would understand. They might think I'm a damn lunatic. So instead I decided to share the story on Reddit.


Jack’s bones were cold. He questioned his sanity, crouched down behind a log, his breath visible. He couldn’t feel his toes, and his fingers were numb. The snow had melted under him, and he sat in a puddle of wet grass. Snow clung to the rifle in spots, and it felt like he was holding an icicle. He watched the blanket of snow on the field before him, hoping he would see some wild game. It had been days since he had a proper meal. Silence covered the field and the woods around him. The birds huddled in their nests, too discouraged by the bitter weather to sing their morning melody. The wind blew through the trees, devoid of leaves, ringing the dormant branches like a dead wind chime. The crackling of the limbs came in waves with each gust of wind, cutting through him like a cold knife. The air burned his lungs as he breathed, chilling his body from the inside, and the cold peeled back the layers of clothes and stole his body heat. The weather was winning the battle of wills, wearing him down like the ocean beating against the shore. He knew defeat was close, and he would have to retreat to the warmth of his home. The shivering had stopped, and he knew his body had lost the fight. The field was two hundred yards across and just as wide, covered in snow. Woods framed it with a path to access on the right side, created by a long-dead relative he never met. Past generations farmed the field. Jack just used it for hunting. He was on one side, at the woods line, with a clear view of the field. He could see into the woods on the far side before the trees blocked his view. He hoped to see some wildlife, ideally a deer, but even a rabbit or turkey would suffice. He stood watch since dawn, discouraged by the lack of success. The sky was grey, blocking the warm rays of the sun. Snow would come soon, making it harder to move. Things were tough for the last few months. The virus started spreading in the fall, turning people rabid or killing them outright. The ones who died were fortunate; society began to break down. Cities lay in ruins, like battlefields laid to waste in an apocalyptic ending. Fortunately, Jack lived in a rural area, so rioters, looters, and gangs were not the problem. The virus infected animals as well, but the effect was different. It turned them into something terrible. Rabid and hard to kill, the mutated animals hunted humans now. Packs of dogs, coyotes, and mountain lions worked together to prey on humans. Jack got infected and thought he was going to die. When he recovered, he was different. He knew when infected animals were coming. That helped him avoid them and survive. He sensed them now, the feeling starting very faint; they were far away but getting closer. That was the final blow against his will. He prepared to make his way to the safety of his home, unsure if he would make it before the infected animals were on him. As he started to get up, he saw movement. It was too close to be infected animals. Maybe it was a deer running to safety. This presented a dilemma. If he shot a deer with the infected animals on the way, he would have to fight them for his kill. He had five rounds in his rifle and one spare loaded magazine. He would have difficulty getting the other clip loaded with his hands numb. As the pack got closer, he felt it was more than five. He watched the woods through the scope, catching glimpses of movement like a ghost flitting through the trees. Visible, then gone again, appearing and disappearing like a mirage in the distance. Jack realized it was not a deer as it emerged from the woods. It was two people. They were dressed for the weather, each carrying a large backpack. Both had a rifle slung over their back. Jack switched off the safety and used the log as a rest. He got in position and took a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself for what he was about to do. If the infected animals caught the people, they would tear them apart. If they were already bit, they would get infected. None of those options were a pleasant way to go. The people were about one hundred fifty yards away from him, running diagonally across the field when Jack saw the pack of coyotes. Infected coyotes were vicious and dangerous. Usually, coyotes were lone hunters; occasionally, a family group might hunt in pairs. They did not hunt in packs. Infected coyotes were different. They hunted together to take down prey, even people. They were closing fast and were about to break out of the woods and enter the field. Jack brought the rifle up and aimed the scope. The two people were running as fast as they could. Their progress was slow because the snow was deep. He wondered why they did not use their rifles to fight. It was a long shot, but Jack was very skilled at this sort of thing. He put the crosshairs just in front of the target, leading it, and took a deep breath. He slowly let out his breath and gently pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, and the lead coyote rolled up and fell in the snow, not moving. The two people jumped at the gunshot. They saw the first coyote lying on the ground and started running again. Jack cycled the bolt on his rifle and aimed. The coyotes did not hesitate at the death of their pack mate. They could see their prey up ahead. Jack took the second shot. A second coyote dropped in its tracks. Jack cycled the bolt again. He was in the zone now. Multiple moving targets needed to be taken down. He had been in this position many times in the past. His actions were ingrained from years of operation overseas. He led the third target, pulled the trigger, and did not even notice the gunshot. He was so focused on his task. The third coyote fell in its tracks, sliding in the snow. Jack cycled the rifle again, aimed, and a fourth one fell to his precision. He racked the gun again. The coyotes had stopped chasing the people and looked his way. He held his last shot. The remaining coyotes slunk back to the safety of the woods but did not retreat. Jack was unwilling to fight them for the meal lying in the field. Jack waved to the people, and they started making their way over to him. As they got closer, Jack thought they looked familiar. When they got up to him, he could not believe what he saw. It was Steve and Karen. He had not seen either of them since the war. I should have shot them instead, he thought to himself. Jack, Steve, and Karen served in the Army together. They were part of a task force hunting insurgent leaders. Steve was about the same height as Jack but was wiry as opposed to Jack's sturdy stature. Karen was fit and trim, a few inches shorter than Jack and Steve. She was a people person and a leader. She could motivate people to perform better than they thought they could. She and Jack had been lovers before she betrayed him with Steve. The three of them were top performers in the war. They had more kills than any other team and were selected for high-value targets. The last mission destroyed their bond. When the war ended, they went their separate ways. Jack hoped he would never see them again. “What are you two doing here?” “Nice to see you too, Jack,” Karen said. Jack gestured to the rifles on their backs. “Do you have any ammo for those? My dinner is lying over there.” He pointed to the dead coyotes. The pack was lurking in the woods, guarding their meal. “If we had ammo, we would have stood and fought,” Karen replied. “So, what do you want?” “We came looking for you,” Karen said. “I am not interested in whatever you have in mind,” Jack said. Steve looked at the coyotes lying in the field. “You were going to eat that? You must be hungry.” “I’ll manage,” Jack said as he moved past them, heading back to his home, abandoning his meal. “We have food,” Karen said. Jack stopped in his tracks and turned to the pair. “What do you want?” Jack asked. “Just hear us out. Let’s go back to your house, get warmed up, and have something to eat. If you're still not interested, we will be on our way tomorrow and leave you some of our MREs.” Karen always had a way to persuade someone to get what she wanted. Jack didn’t want to have them in his house for a day, but his stomach overruled his pride. “Fine, you have until tomorrow, then you leave.” Karen smiled. “Thanks, Jack; I knew we could count on you. Lead the way.” As Jack led them back to his house, he thought that at least he would finally get a proper meal out of this.


\*Just a little disclaimer for good measure, this piece contains topics of Religion and bodily harm. Feel free to be as critical as possible, it'll help me to become a better writer! Thank you guys! The sun beat down on his bare back as he crawled through the rough, hot sand. The wind blew slightly, not enough to subdue the pain of his burning and peeling skin but enough to toss some sand into his already dry eyes. He was stranded, placed there not by accident but to die. With him dead so too would die his sins, and the truth. The blisters on his back, arms, legs, and face were unbearable, however that pain was now his existence. As he crawled he could feel his hands melting into the sand around him yet continued, he had nothing more to lose and so would not give up. He muttered to himself. “Please god... please dear merciful lord if you are there, protect me. Shelter me. Save me.” But nothing. The wind continued to spit sand in his face mockingly, as the sun watched on unblinking. He crawled for ten more days, he wondered when the night would come but it never did, the sun frozen at its zenith in the sky. He prayed once more. “Lord, I beg of you please end my suffering. I crawl for days and days and yet I do not die. I starve, I burn, I melt, I beg dear Lord, please grant me a peaceful rest.” As he spoke he felt the sun burn deeper into his back as if it were right against his flesh. He screamed and wailed in anguish, but his cries fell upon deaf ears. He tried to move forward, however his frail arms gave way to the weight of his body. He was far too weak to continue. “Damn you! You cruel, evil creature! You abuse the power you possess! You do not deserve it! You are not my Lord!.... Please... someone... anyone... “ In the distance, through the waves of heat that surrounded him a figure rose from the sand. Tall, thin... too thin... as if it only existed in one dimension. Like a black string connected from one planet to another, it continued to stretch into the sky until it vanished in comparison to the blinding light of the desert sun. As he stared toward the entity something became clear to him, a voice rang out in the center of his mind. “I bring your salvation, child, be lost no longer. You are found.” He felt something swell up inside him, something deep within his chest. A chill. A freezing cold began to bite at his heart and crawl through his veins He felt a strength unlike any other as he stood for the first time in what seemed like years. His focus then returned to the string, he kneeled as he spoke. “Thank you-praise you my Lord. My will is yours, tell me what would you have me do?” He watched as the string quickly slithered under the sand and began to move. The man followed as its trail stopped at large sand hill. The sands shook and parted revealing a small cave. Inside the man saw nothing but darkness as well as two small blue eyes that stared toward him. The entity held out a burned and withered had, the man took it and slowly entered the cave. “What happens now, Lord?” The man asked the pair of sparkling eyes. “Now we prepare, my child. Now we prepare for war.” The sands fell back in place as the two walked deeper into the darkened cave. Free from the burning light, and into the cold embrace of what lies deep below.


A thump, twin shouts of surprise, and the sight of a lone ski continuing on after it had escaped its owner. It all culminated in Amy laying on her back in the snow, staring up at a blue sky. After a moment, her vision was blocked by the helmet of the other skier she’d run into. “You alright there, hun?” Amy lifted one hand in a thumbs up, “right as rain. You?” The other woman let out a snort, “a sight better than you I think. Let’s get you out of the snow before you become an ice cube.” Amy let herself be pulled upright and steadied as she glared at her runaway ski while the other woman brushed some of the snow off her back. “I take it you’re not a snow bunny?” Amy huffed, “how’d you guess.” With a chuckle, the other woman pulled off her helmet, revealing short, side shaved, grass green hair and a freckled face with the cutest button nose Amy had ever seen paired with beautiful chocolate brown eyes. “Just got lucky. The name’s Jessie, you want a hand with that?” “Amy, and I’d love one.” She replied, running a hand through her own short jewel purple hair, “I like your hair.” “I like yours too.” Jessie said, giving her own a little flip with a bounce of her head. “You want to try again, or are you heading back to the lodge?” she asked as she grabbed Amy’s ski. “I’ve fallen twelve times and I haven't even made it to the rope for the beginner slope. I think I’m ready to head back to the lodge for some hot cocoa.” Jessie’s laugh made Amy smile. “Can’t blame you. Here, I can walk you back if you like?” “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Amy hurried out, “I’m a klutz but I think I can manage walking.” “It’s no biggie, I was on my way back anyway.” “Well, if that’s the case,” Amy said as she took her ski back. “Lead the way.” A twenty minute walk later found Jessie laughing in the lodge's lounge. “So, your friends told you to try something exciting and new and you, in your infinite wisdom, and despite your hate of all things cold, chose skiing?” Amye sighed, “I know I know! But it was the best thing I could think of and it wasn’t booked for months.” Jessie smothered a chuckle in her cup of coffee,” why did your friends think you needed to do something anyway? Bad break up?” Amy snorted this time, “ hardly. My lack of love life is probably part of the reason, but they knew better than to tell me that. No, apparently I don’t get out enough, in other words, I’m boring.” “Boring?” “Yeah,” Amy shrugged, “they think I spend too much time in libraries and on my computer.” Jessie tilted her head, “yeah?” “Yeah. They mean well, but I think they forget that my writing is my job and it requires researching.” “woah, wait, you’re a writer?” The wonder in Jessie's voice made heat rush to Amy’s cheeks. “Oh, yeah, yeah I am. Well, I freelance anyway, little things, nothing big just, you know, until I get my first real book done, you know?” “No way, that’s so cool!” After a moment of digging in her pocket, Jessie produced her phone. “You’ve got to tell me the name of some of your stuff, I need to read it.” “Well, I mean, I haven't done anything big, I told you that.” Jessie shook her phone, “alright alright, I did some writing for a food blog a few years ago, here, let me pull it up.” That night and the two days after seemed to race by after that, every morning after the first night Jessie would meet Amy and help her up the slopes. Between the impromptu lessons they talked about everything. They talked about how Jessie used to have a crazy little dog named princess who would try to gum people to death even in her old age if they got near her when she was napping. They talked about Amy’s first ever story for school being about the life of a piece of popcorn, about Jessie’s inability to cook, about Amy’s irrational dislike of spaghetti. Jessie's dreams of living with her little family in a little house with a little corgi named Gurgi, of Amy's, to own a tiny flock of chickens in a tiny blue coop in her own tiny yard. Before Amy knew it, three days had passed and it was her last day. The pair stood beside Amy’s car, Jessie having helped her load her baggage in its trunk. “So, I guess this is goodbye then.” Amy said with a shrug. “Hey, don’t say it like that.” Said Jessie as she put a hand on Amy’s shoulder, “I mean, we have eachother’s cell numbers don’t we? We’re just a text away.” “Yeah, I know.” Jessie smiled and before Amy knew it, she was being pulled into a bone cracking hug. “You better text me when you get home, okay?” Amy giggled as she returned the hug, “yeah, I will.” Only, she never did. She never got the chance. It happened while she had stopped to fill up her gas tank. It was nothing but a spat of bad luck that had her cell phone fall from her pocket as she passed a backing up car. By the time the driver had stopped, it was too late, the phone was ruined, along with all the everything she’d had on it. Along with a number she hadn’t been able to memorize yet. That had been four months and a move to Maine ago, and Amy still found herself scrolling through her contacts for a name that wasn’t there anymore to tell her about the newest book she was picking up. With a sigh, Amy shoved her phone in her pocket and stood from her crouch as she added a fourth book to the growing stack in her arms. As she turned to move on, there was a thud, and a yelp, and a lone book bouncing away as it escaped its owner. “I’m so sorry, are you.... Amy?” Amy looked up, and met a pair of beautiful chocolate eyes, paired with the cutest button nose she’d ever seen, a freckled face, and grass green hair.


Planet of Corrigan, home to the World Order Western Fleet. Grand Admiral Lim awakes from his sleep. While washing up, he has an uneasy feeling. Being a veteran of previous conflicts waged by and against the World Order, he knows what caused these conflicts and currently the galaxy looks like its heading towards another war. Recently, the World Order joined the Galactic Alliance, partnering with its former enemies the Cryo Federation and Hermer Union in response to the growing aggression of the Holy Solar Empire towards its neighbouring states. Immediately after the creation of the Galactic Alliance, the Holy Solar Empire created the Holy Solar Alliance with its allies. 'With skirmishes across the territory occupied by these superpowers, it won't take much for a galactic scale conflict to occur.' Grand Admiral Lim thought. The Grand Admiral then headed for breakfast. 'Hurry up you maggots!' screamed Sergeant McKenzie. Sergeant McKenzie was also a veteran of the Hermer Union-World Order War also known as the Farragut War because most of the conflict was fought on the planet Farragut. Sergeant McKenzie served in special forces and now leads one. Sergeant McKenzie then took his team for breakfast after this routine training session. Meanwhile in deep space, the cloaked missile frigate WSS Archer was secretly monitoring activity at the space border between the World Order and the Holy Solar Empire. The captain of the WSS Archer, Captain Flynn was monitoring his screen when suddenly the screen began shouting at him and his crew. 'MULTIPLE VESSELS APPROACHING' the screen said. 'All hand battle stations!' Captain Flynn said to his crew. He then asked the screen to identify the ships. The screen then responded with 'HOLY SOLAR EMPIRE WARSHIP' Captain Flynn turned pale white when he saw his screen, before immediately shouting at his communications officer to send a message to Fleet Command. The war had just begun. Grand Admiral Lim was having his usual plate Nasi Lemak before being abruptly interrupted by Lieutenant Nagara who then ask the Grand Admiral to report to the command centre immediately. The Grand Admiral hesitantly stood up and began walking to the command centre. Sergeant McKenzie and his special forces team consisting Krueger, Miller, Mira and Andersen are trash talking one another as they have their breakfast. Then Mikhail, an ace pilot joins them as the Grand Admiral leaves the cafeteria. As Grand Admiral Lim enters the command room, he is immediately informed about the WSS Archer's sighting. Soon distress signals began pouring in from outposts near the border. Colonel James bursts into the room and informs the Grand Admiral that the first line of defence has been breached and that Holy Solar Empire forces are headed for the planet they are on. Grand Admiral Lim runs to his office and hits the hidden button and calls World Order High Command. The base alarms go off as ground crews prepare fighters and crews return to their ships. The World Order Western Fleet flagship WSS Invincible powers up and do its escorts. Soon Holy Solar Empire forces enter the atmosphere of Corrigan and begin their attack runs. World Order fighters begin shooting them down and engaging in dogfights. Point defence cannons on ships roar on as more enemy ships appear. The air defense frigate WSS Hope blows up after taking 7 torpedoes to its hull and losing its entire crew complement of 250 men and women. The aircraft carrier WSS Defiant and heavy cruiser WSS Riga takes three torpedoes hits. Soon most of the fleet is in orbit and begins engaging with Holy Solar Empire warships. Soon the Holy Solar Empire fleet withdraws. Grand Admiral Lim calls a meeting to discuss further action. 'We to have initiate Operation Icarus' Grand Admiral Lim said. There were gasps in the room as Operation Icarus would be a massive undertaking. Grand Admiral Lim heads towards the phone and calls World Order Space Command. 'Prepare the Grand Fleet and transfer it to my command. Initiate Operation Icarus.' said the Grand Admiral.


Annabelle vs. the Monster Under the Bed “OK, Belly, it’s time for bed.” Mommy closed the book she’d been reading and stood up, plopping Annabelle on her feet. Annabelle really wanted to hear the rest of the story, but she yawned before she could complain. Maybe Mommy was right. Annabelle started to skip down the hall to Mommy’s room before she remembered. *“Big girls sleep in their own beds, Annabelle,”* Mommy had said. *“Don’t worry about monsters. I’ll check under the bed and keep you safe.”* Annabelle had pinkie-promised Mommy that she would sleep in her own bed tonight, and everybody knows you can’t break a pinkie promise. Annabelle had only made that promise after Mommy said she would let her wear her Batgirl costume to bed instead of her jammies. Batgirl was brave, and Annabelle wasn’t afraid of anything when she was Batgirl. At the end of the hall, Annabelle took a deep breath and turned into her own room instead of Mommy’s. She glared at her pretty, white bed with its fluffy, pink comforter. “I *am* a big girl,” she grumbled. “Yes, you are.” Mommy came into the room behind her. She smiled and gave Annabelle a hug. That always made her feel better. “I’m so proud of you.” Annabelle smiled. She liked making her Mommy proud. She took off her hearing aids, or “ear buddies,” as she and Mommy called them, and brushed her hair. Mommy tucked her in, and they said their nighttime prayers. Then it was time for Mommy to check under the bed. Annabelle’s tummy gurgled, and she shivered. She snuggled deep under her covers and refused to be scared. Even if there was a monster under the bed, her Mommy could take him. “No monsters under there!” Mommy announced. Annabelle was happy at first, but then she remembered something. Benjamin at school had said that grown-ups can’t see monsters. She pouted, and Mommy laughed. “I promise, Belly, no monster is going to get you.” She kissed Annabelle on the forehead and tucked the covers more tightly around her. “Love you, Princess.” “Love you too, Mommy.” Mommy turned out the light and shut the door, leaving Annabelle alone for the night. The room looked different in the pink glow of her nightlight. Shadows seemed to dance on the wall, the floor, and the ceiling. Annabelle felt her tummy gurgle again. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. “I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid,” she whispered to herself. She pulled her blanket over her head. Then she heard it. There was a soft rustling noise under the bed. She tried to ignore it. Mommy said that sometimes when we’re scared, our imagination tricks us. Annabelle didn’t think that was very nice of her imagination. She tried to force herself to fall asleep, humming “Let It Go” over and over in her blanket cocoon. It was no use. The rustling kept getting louder. Suddenly, Annabelle was angry. This was *her* room. Who did this monster think he was? She was a *big girl*. More than that, right now, she was *Batgirl.* Annabelle kicked off her covers and hopped onto the floor. She crouched down and glared into the shadows under her bed, hands bunched into angry fists. “Hey, turd-butt!” she hissed, not wanting to wake Mommy. “This is *my* room. I’m not some baby you can scare off. I’m FIVE!” She thrust her palm forward, fingers spread wide. “You have to leave, right now. I’m not afraid of you!” Big, orange eyes blinked open in the dark, and Annabelle jumped back. She didn’t scream, though. She was startled but not scared, because the eyes weren’t actually scary. They...they looked like a cartoon! “You’re not?” A small voice whispered. At least, that’s what Annabelle thought it said. It was hard to tell in the dark, when she couldn’t see its mouth move. She told the monster to *wait there* and ran to the dresser. She popped her purple, sparkly ear buddies into her ears and turned them on. “What?” She asked. “You’re not afraid of me?” “Oh! Nope!” Annabelle popped the ‘p.’ “I’m a superhero. So you better go scare some other kid.” “But I don’t want to scare anybody,” the monster grumbled. Annabelle sighed, exasperated. “Look, can you just come out here? I’m having a hard time hearing you in the dark.” There was a shuffling noise. A bright green hand flopped out from under the bed and then another. They almost looked like paws, Annabelle thought. They were fuzzy, with four stubby fingers tipped with tiny claws. She saw its arms next. They were long and yellow, skinny like noodles. He pulled himself out from under her bed. The monster stood in front of Annabelle, orange eyes blinking owlishly in the pink light. He was shorter than she was, with a fuzzy red body shaped like a big potato. His arms reached all the way down to the floor, where his green hands rested next to his bright green feet. Annabelle couldn’t even see the monster’s legs through his fur, he was so short. She burst out laughing. The monster frowned. He turned to go back under the bed. “Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me...” Annabelle felt bad and stopped laughing. She didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. She grabbed his soft, green paw to stop him. “No, don’t go, I’m sorry!” she cried. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Benjamin just said monsters were big and scary, and that they ate little girls because they have cooties. But you’re not scary, you’re cute!” Annabelle thought the monster blushed under his fur. He even seemed to smile a little. “Who’s Benjamin?” he asked. Annabelle shrugged. “A boy at school.” “Well, Benjamin sounds stupid.” Annabelle giggled and clapped her hands over her mouth. She wasn’t allowed to call people ‘stupid,’ but maybe the monster’s Mommy said that was okay. “What’s your name?” she asked. The monster looked confused. “I don’t think I have one of those. Do you?” “Of course! I’m Annabelle,” she said. She had never heard of somebody not having a name.“If you don’t have a name, what do your parents and your friends call you?” “Oh, I don’t have any of those either,” the monster said. That made Annabelle sad. She wanted to give the monster a hug, but she knew it wasn’t polite to hug people without asking. She guessed the same was true of monsters. Then, she had another idea. “I can be your friend, if you want,” she said. The monster perked up at that. “Really?” Annabelle laughed. “Of course! We can play games and tell each other stories.” The monster grinned. He had two big teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom. “That sounds like fun!” “You’ll need a name,” Annabelle said. Annabelle loved naming things. She had named her puppy, Leo, and all of her stuffed animals had their own names too. She looked at the monster for a few seconds, thinking hard. “I think you look like a Roger!” Annabelle did a motion with her hand when she said it, her first and second fingers crossed. The monster looked confused. “What is that?” He made the same motion with his paw. “It’s your name!” Annabelle did it again. “Roger, in sign. Sometimes it’s hard to hear people talk, so I use my hands to talk too. Like this: Your name is Roger!” The monster watched her hands move with wide eyes. “That’s so neat!” he said. “Is there a sign for Annabelle?” “Yeah, I’ll teach you!” She showed the monster how to sign her name. He grinned his two-toothed smile. “You’ll have to teach me how to say more things in sign!” Annabelle smiled. “Of course, Roger!” She suddenly realized she hadn’t asked the monster if she could call him that. “Is that OK? Do you like that name?” “Oh!” the monster exclaimed. He’d been so interested in learning the signs that he had forgotten. “Yes, it’s a very good name. Roger. I can be Roger.” “*Awesome*.” Annabelle said, emphatically. “I’m glad that you’re not a scary monster, Roger.” Roger laughed, a low, pleasant, rumbly sound. “Me too!” She and Roger stayed awake for a little while longer. They sat on the floor and played with Annabelle’s stuffed animals. She showed Roger her ear buddies, and she taught him how to sign more words. She told him all about kindergarten, and her Mommy, and her puppy, Leo. Before long, her eyes started getting heavy, and she leaned more and more to the side. She almost toppled over, but Roger caught her with a noodly arm. “I think you should go back to bed, Annabelle.” Annabelle pouted, but she knew he was right. She couldn’t stop yawning, and she had to get up early for school tomorrow. “Will you come back tomorrow night?” she asked, hopefully. “Of course! Now that I have a friend!” Roger said. He helped her stand up and tucked her back into bed. “That’s good,” Annabelle sighed. Her eyes were already closed. “I’m glad I met you, Roger.” “Me too, Annabelle,” he said. “Sleep tight!” He patted her hand with a big, fuzzy paw. Annabelle smiled, and Roger slid back under the bed, to wherever monsters go to sleep. Annabelle couldn’t wait to tell Benjamin that he was wrong at school tomorrow. And Mommy would be proud of her for making a new friend! No longer scared of monsters or the dark, she drifted off to sleep to dream about new friends and big, orange eyes.