A new short story that I am working on. It is meant to be an allegorical piece of science fiction. It is my first draft of it so there is more to be done, but I would like to receive any general impressions. \ I regret the day I ever step foot on this planet. I regret ever thinking that there was anything worthwhile to explore on its surface, or within the geological cavities that lead to its deepest depths, I regret ever advocating for a voyage to this damn world, but most of all, I regret all circumstance that brought me into contact with the native, humanoid population of this planet. It happened not three days ago that we (my partners and I, two others) were captured by them after they had found our camp. They must have followed the sounds of our equipment through the dense jungles of the area. We had captured a young boy to study him, taken from his small, sleepy village of huts made of straw and wood. Admittedly, it was perhaps not the most propitious method at obtaining information when one reckons the predicament that we would find ourselves later on, but a young boy would offer us little resistance, and at such a young age it was reasonable to think he did not occupy any grand position, yet, within the group. We sedated him so that he would not feel any pain, and we took him. No parent would ever consent to their child being taken away, of course, but we did so nevertheless without their knowledge on a commitment to return him without harm. The extent of his utility to us went no further than the DNA we wished to extract, which was of itself not at all an invasive, or lengthy procedure. He was to be returned before the day’s end. They had us quickly surrounded. I went out for a breath of air and to enjoy alone a moment of solitude. The procedure was underway, which would have ended almost as soon as it began, but no sooner had I stepped out that I realized that the villagers were suddenly among us, observing our camp from within the forest, all of which were hidden behind the thick trunks of the large trees. My partner Cognitus - a young, handsome scientist always sought after by his younger, female students - emerged from the station-camp to tell me something of the extraction, but before he could deliver the news, he was struck by an arrow that penetrated his shoulder. Emboldened by the attack, they all came forth from the dark interior of the forest and into the light of the sun to ensnare our camp. Not long before the incident, I was saying to my partner - the one who laid injured before me - that the course of human history was on the verge of a great revision. I had even considered abducting a live specimen to bring on our return back home, to expose to the world the follies of human thought, moreover, to prove that I was right. I stood a petrified statue as they walked around the camp, almost sniffing the place like wild beasts would when searching for familiar scents, and I caught a glimpse of their faces in those frightening moments. During that brief exchange, they looked to me rather dumb, bovine even, primitive, their clothes simple, practical, uninspired. Sounds came out of their mouths as words held together loosely by a tenuous grammatical structure. Theirs, it seemed to me, was a society that was more tenuous than its speech. There was no hierarchy; there were no real leaders, only random voices among them that sprang up from time to time, louder than all the others, and it was by those voices that the rest of the unconscious herd conducted itself. Quick visual surveys of them immediately suggested to me that they always lived in large groups. It was a necessity for them. We were kept in cages for 2 or 3 days thereabout, and during that time they would constantly look to one another for approval. They sought a nod or an approving glance from another member, and that member had the tacit expectation of receiving confirmation for his confirmation. Never would they act without such consents and approvals. They were incapable of doing so it appeared, so they would always visit our holding cells in pairs, sometimes more if the occasion required it thus. They had a common, peculiar red and blue sartorial style that varied little from one individual to the next. They searched for the missing child until they found him beneath a web of machinal arms and a glass shell amid many other examples of complex machinery and lights that were, I would imagine, beyond their comprehension, so they ignored all else and walked toward the slumbering boy. To release him, they broke our equipment with clubs, stones, and by pulling on anything they could with their bare hands. I saw the strangest image then: a version of man, much more primitive, holding pieces of broken technology in his calloused hand as he turned to me. “My God,” I murmured. We were not spared, no matter how much we had hoped that they would have pitied us and our grave mistake. We were subsequently captured and taken back to their village. My friend was carried there, hanging from a long wooden stick, while my colleague who went by the name of Logicus and myself were made to walk back the long distance of about fifty to sixty miles. Logicus, to whom we would endearingly refer as simply Log, said to me that Cognitus was badly hurt and that he required medical attention immediately. It was only a matter of time, he added. The moment I spoke, I was whacked, and hence I never again spoke the rest of the way. My friend would make it to the village, teetering, however, upon the edge of his life. "I wonder who will come for us now?" I said to Logicus, to which he replied with The uplifting news of his sending a distress signal into space which could be received by a ship as far as the orbit of Jupiter, although he warned that it was possible that no ship was near enough to receive the distress call sooner so that a rescue vessel might take some time to reach us, about which I sighed and nodded my head. By evening of the same day when we, at last, had arrived at the village, our friend Cognitus was nearly dead. His body was transported to a large open space within the village - a public square of sorts - and I called out to those that carried him to leave him be, but my effort was quickly thwarted, and again my voice silenced. They made us watch the grotesqueries of their customs. In the middle of that large space were wooden logs arranged near one another in a small cluster, and from within this pyramidal stack of logs, a tall wooden staff stood. Tied to the pole, a member of the tribe set fire to the logs by the flame of a torch. What I concluded to be some sort of mystical shaman, a great magical man of the village, stepped forth prominently to regard the flame and began waving his scepter around and around, chanting meanwhile. A ring of dancers had afterward formed around the burning wood, and those that had carried my friend watched as his body - nearly a corpse by then - burned in the fire. I cried out, begged them even, to stop the madness, alas not a word of mine was heeded. Logicus averted his gaze, but I could not stop looking into the world of those small, red embers that were thrust into the air by the flame. It was hard to imagine that his body would eventually become one with the plume of black smoke that rose up from the fire and into the air. Meanwhile, the magical man chanted, and the dancers danced, and the celebrations began. There was jeering, hissing, screaming, and shouting of all sorts of things at his burning flesh. They beheld the charred remains of my friend and their faces glowed and were fat with satisfaction, after which they took us to our quarters where we would remain for the night. They were the queerest things their customs, one of which, I supposed it to be thus, was for the aggrieved party to enter the detention quarters of the accused and scream at them as loud as was physically possible. My partners and I sat there, silent, unable to comprehend the meaning of such an act. I deduced that it gave the woman, the parent of the poor abducted child, some consolation to see me locked in a cage as if it were cathartic to witness before her my sufferings. She spoke to me in that proto-language of theirs as well, but her speech was too laconic for me to understand completely. All I could gather from her simple, emotional, monosyllabic words was a general impression of hatred and disgust toward me and my partners for taking her child in the name of science. I attempted to apologize to the woman and I stuck out my hand through the gaps of my cage hoping that she would take it, but she quickly ran for a nearby rock and then threw it at the two of us, and then she again continued to yell. She roared like the beasts that lurked the darkest crevices and corners of this untamed world, and her dark complexion grew darker when her yelling reached greater heights. Once her voice gave out, she retreated with her child and we were alone. I’ll always remember it: her eyes welled with tears rooted in the hate she felt for us. Forgiveness had become something foreign to her, something to her as unfathomable as the infinite is to the limited human intellect. I wondered if their culture even knew of it at all. 3 days had passed, and these that had captured and held us as prisoners had tied me to a wooden pole like a mule, in the same public square, while a few others among them dragged my friend to another pole some feet away, one of two that stood adjacent to each other and rose many times taller and more imposing. They dragged him by grabbing on to tufts of his hair and pulling on these, while the others, having formed a long corridor of bodies along the path of his escort, threw wild screams and spat at him as he was dragged on through. One among them broke loose from the rank that the group had formed to give him a good kick in the stomach. A cowardly strike that was almost impossible for my partner to avoid, and when he did try to shield himself from other attacks, his hands were held back which left him exposed to more heinous beatings. A few more joined in the punitive frenzy, and, by the end of it, he had reached the large wooden pole a beaten and bruised body, nearly identical in resemblance to a cadaver. He had almost died before they were able to kill him. “We’re sorry, we are truly sorry!” he yelled, supplicating to them for mercy, but they ignored him. His mouth had become another bloody orifice, his teeth turned red from the blood that would not stop trickling from his lips in small, intermittent streams. His cough sometimes would carry with it globs of blood that he spat unto the dirt floor as he was moved toward the wooden pole so that left in his wake was a trail of little red droplets. Hatred was their master, and it suppressed what little humanity they had, if they had any to begin with. All they wanted was blood, and they were not going to stop until it was well and spilled. “Help me, Zará, please!” He instead cried out to me, but there was nothing I could do. We were sentenced by their improvised, rudimentary tribunal to death on the second day of captivity which had afterward dissolved just as quickly as it was formed once judgment was passed. The pole to which my partner was taken rose from the ground about ten feet and adorned at the tip by a large bird head, its beak piercing the skies like the tip of a spear. My partner was put up against it and his hands were then tied behind him and his feet wound up by the ankles. He had before him the entire crowd eager to eviscerate him. Then appeared a man who interceded and produced a small slip from his blue loincloth. He read the contents of the slip out loud to the others, and to my partner. “Stranger, bad,” he began, “he offend us. He commit crime. He must pay. Strangers no good. Some say death to them. We listen to those say death.” A collective war cry followed the brief declaration and the tiny brown man with the slip walked away. There was nothing now that stood between my partner and his fate. The crowd moved to encircle my whimpering friend. I was no longer able to see him directly as my view of him had been obstructed by the bodies of the ravenous crowd that hungered for revenge upon the poor man, and I knew that once they were done with him they would soon turn their bloodthirsty desires to me. I began to hear him cry out for me again, and yet there was nothing that I could do. My custodian - a large, muscular brute wearing a blue and red rag of a mask over his face - kept a vigilant eye over me and a hand on my shoulder. I suddenly heard another voice yell "stop." I could not determine the source of that defiant sound as it came from somewhere near the front of the group, nearer my friend. "Do not do," that soft voice said, "we must not do. Creature express remorse. We must not become them. Revenge this way not right. Revenge this way corrupts. Today, creature's blood, tomorrow blood-lake. Soon, blood-ocean. It no stop. This act, make more like this, and we fall sick. We must not do, or we become sick village. Healthy justice, not sick justice." A murmur began to grow amid the crowd, a word erupting finally as a loud roar, "kill! kill!" it cried, and the beast of a hundred fingers lunged after the lone soul that dared to intercede on behalf of its prey. The village had turned against one of their own with cold indifference, silencing the voice that went against the popular opinion of the beastly crowd. In two minutes thereabout, my poor crewmate had met the same end. The dispersal of bodies revealed a red and blue cadaver, bloody and badly bruised. There were stones at his feet; hands were covered red; drops of his blood dripped from the tips of dirty fingers. I was mortified not at what they had done, but that they had done it without remorse, and all I saw were empty eyes without the light of humanity within. These that attacked him appear as any other at first sight, but they soon reveal their true nature when provoked, one as wild and savage as anything I've ever met in my years as an explorer. No other species comes close to rivaling the savagery of these natives. They turned to one another with faces of satisfaction, smiles here and there smeared in the blood of another, one of them their own. I saw them rejoice all the more when one among them extracted an eye from his socket and held it up to the crowd. The man gave the eye to the woman of the abducted child and never have I seen such serenity, such tranquility come to another. It was as though the many wounds of her injured heart at once healed, simultaneously. Her child stood beside her, secure, under the dark arm of his mother. Their collective gaze casually shifted elsewhere until it had settled on me. The large brute behind released me, but still, I was not altogether free. He gave me a push to shove me forward into the clutches of the beast that awaited me eagerly. "You want to have at me?! Alright, then come at me, you bunch of crazy animals! You brutes have no humanity, you lack the compassion and understanding of a human being, so I should expect nothing less than for you to tear me apart! Go ahead, and do it quick! Do it quick damn it! Satisfy your morbid sanguinary desires with my blood. I was wrong to think there was anything worthwhile on this planet! There is nothing here but savagery and irrational brutes. Look at how you have murdered your own! Kill me. I deserve punishment for such an erroneous presumption. A fool I am! Kill me and then afterward burn in hell the whole of you!" After my impassioned speech, one hundred hands propelled themselves forward to seize me. I saw only the look of an angry animal before me, a behemoth begotten of that chemical affair between lust and hate. A light descended on us, followed almost immediately by a rain of rapid warning fire from a gun mounted on a rescue vessel I at once recognized as that which came from my homeworld; its name was emblazoned on its side: The Martian Logos. The beast dissolved into smaller components to avoid being struck, and I was thus suddenly alone as The Logos kept the irrational natives away with its mighty gun. A rope fell over its side whereupon a soldier of the elite rescue force -trained for all sorts of planetary rescue missions - thrust himself over and repelled himself down toward me. "We came just in time!" He said to me, struggling to speak loud enough to be heard over the sound of the ship's whirling engine. "Come, grab hold of me! I will take us back up!" I attached myself to that man and I hung on to his belt as we were both reeled in by the crew on the ship. On the ship, I was fortunate to be diagnosed by the crew's doctor with nothing else but the symptomatic consequences of sheer shock. No physical injuries, although a few seconds more and there would have been no body of mine to diagnose. The crew's captain approached me after my diagnosis and found me lying in bed. I beheld him for a moment: A grin that he desperately tried to suppress nonetheless appeared and ran the length of his face; his eyes danced like ballerinas and had a gay shine to them; and he obsequiously offered me anything I wanted, wringing his hands as he asked. “Forgive me Doctor, but when I got word that it was you whom we had to rescue, I “ “No need to worry, my friend. I am eternally grateful for you and your crew.” "H How are you feeling Dr. Thustra?" "I'm doing alright," I replied him. "It was a matter of seconds that separated you from death. Luckily we received your distress signal and the corresponding coordinates while conducting our scheduled drills in this area of the solar system. Otherwise, the nearest rescue vessel would have to have come from one of the moons - Phobos I should think - and that would have had you waiting a few months, minimum." "There were a few others with me. Two of them." His demeanor instantly began a transition toward regret, and a general sadness for the loss of my two fellow scientists manifested itself upon the features of his face until it affected even the tenor of his voice. "I am sorry for the loss Doctor. I wish we could have responded sooner to your call." "Not to worry," I assured him, "these men died wielding the banner of science. Their names will forever be remembered. Of that I will ensure myself on our return to Mars that it is so." "Well, that should be a simple task. I know of your work. You were the first to have posited the existence of humanoid creatures on Earth, and you were right! Tell me, do you think they truly are related to us in some way? Does this mean that the Great Cosmic Migration theory is correct after all?" "Don't speak of them! As far as you and I know, there are no humanoids living on that forsaken planet. As far as you know, I am a quack, a charlatan! I was wrong and deserve only the most brutal of scientific reproaches." "B but sir, as you can see I am trembling with excitement. I am a great admirer of your science and research. What I have witnessed would not only catapult your name into the great annals of history, but it would vindicate all those that were ostracized for believing the same as you. Even the old scriptures tell of a race - our ancestors no less! - that came from another world to Mars. What if these are they who came? Forgive more saying so Doctor... but you are mistaken on this." "No more! No more captain. I appreciate your interest in the subject, but, please, I wish to be alone, if you don't mind," I said in a fit of frustration, an adamant request which the captain politely obliged. "As you wish Doctor. Accept my sincerest apologies. Please excuse me." On his exiting the small resting quarters, I spoke to him this, "Captain, you and your crew would be wise to forget what you have seen and tell no one. There is nothing to concern oneself over. Nothing worthy of another voyage here. There is no intelligent life there after all. The scriptures, the sacred writings, whatever word was printed or spoken that spoke of our past, it is all wrong. If the people of Mars witnessed what I have witnessed, they would suddenly find themselves horrified, offended even, to have even the most remote association attributed to them with those... things down there. We are not like them, Captain. We are nothing like them. Whatever they are... I know they are not human.


A crowd of thousands had appeared in what seemed like minutes. At 18:19, all traffic was flowing normally, predictably, outward from the city center as people returned from their daily duties and labors. At 18:23, traffic regulation systems detected disturbance flows back into the city center, in front of the Imperial Civic Building, the city hall, and at major media outlets. From the air, Imperial drones observed the sudden change, like ants picking up pheromones to attack and entering a frenzy. The streets seemed to vibrate with heat. By 18:54, major traffic arteries were clogged, there were organized flows of demonstrations in public spaces, and slogans were being chanted so that their voices could be heard. "Freedom!" was the chorus to every chant, though the rest of the lyrics changed from place to place. "Take down the machine!" "Give us back our privacy!" "Sexuality is our right!" Signals intelligence reported a surge in social media recruitment to come to the center of the city. This demonstration did not have a permit. A female voice cut in through a loudspeaker system all over town. "This gathering is not authorized. Imperial Civil Guard units will be dispatched. You are ordered to disperse." Sirens sounded, social media was shut down. The insects attacked. The city was on fire by 19:00. But the Empire was ready for this. This was not a coincidence in timing. Over the past week a new system had become operational: CyCLOPS. Cybernetic, Control, Law-enforcement, and Online Policing Software. The culmination of over a decade of work, the world could now be policed through a single automated server. And after its successful first run on all smuggling networks, it opened to larger criminal acts. This morning, all pornography was removed from the internet, and anyone who attempted to upload any found their personal device locked. The local Civil Guard units had been reinforced to enable rapid response to any perceived threats. Today, however, no Civil Guard Sentinels lines were in the streets. Something was wrong. Three Agents of the Emperor's Royal Body Guard were dispatched to visit Colonel Anthony Salvatores, who was not responding to orders from the Office of the Emperor. When the agents arrived, in their royal uniforms with swords on their hips and glinting armor, they were greeted by four Civil Guard soldiers in tactical power armor at the gate. "Let us through." The officer of the group commanded, "We're here to speak with Colonel Salvatores." "I'll bet you are," a soldier replied wryly. "Let us through," the agent commanded again. "Hang on now, I can't just let people up to see the boss. Haven't you seen what's going on outside? It's a mess out there." "Sergeant, you will notify the Colonel we are here to see him, and escort us to him. Immediately." "I'll have to check on that." He went silent, communicating by his suit's internal radio. This kind of insubordination was rarely seen. An agent made a note. "Where are your name tapes? What are your names?" She asked. They only looked at her, matching gazes behind masks. "How about that, amigos? Colonel says you can go ahead and come up. Let me take you to him." The three agents walked through a completely crowded headquarters of armed Sentinels of the Civil Guard- yet none of them were out patrolling. This was an insurrection of abstention. They could see the tone in the way the Sentinels looked at the agents. Glares, smirks, and irreverent gestures. A week ago their mere presence would have commanded silence. Why, now that CyCLOPS was operational did they suddenly think they could get away with this? The Colonel's office on the top floor was cluttered with decorations and various achievements. Plaques of his success, trophies of every stage of his life, and large, luxurious furniture. He thought highly of himself. "Sir, the three 'royals' are here to see you." "Welcome." He grinned. He was just about to light a fairly large cigar. "Celebrating something, Colonel?" "Something like that. Come in, have a seat." "Want me to stick around, sir?" asked the large, metal man. "Thank you, sergeant, but I've got this." The door closed. "Why have your sentinels not deployed?" "I don't know about you guys, but it looks pretty crazy out there to me. Somebody might get hurt. Didn't seem worth it." "Worth it!? Who are you to decide whether the Emperor's orders are 'worth it'!?" "See, that's what you guys in the Crimson Garrison don't get. I gotta look out for my own here. And I do. My soldiers will go to the ends of the earth for me, because they know I won't abuse that. There's trust. And that trust... well lets just say you broke yours." "The Imperial Union looks after all," the second agent barked through her gritted teeth, and her mask. "The order and security of everyone is in danger if you do not deploy your garrison." "What has the Emperor done to violate anyone's trust? We've only guaranteed protection more than ever before. Statistical analysis of contributing factors has suggested the superior course of action," the lead agent articulated clearly. "Yeah, I'm not so sure about that. Porn? You really think the juice is worth the squeeze on that one? There's no point to it." "There are numerous convergent negative influences in the pornographic industry, not least of which is the connection to human trafficking, slavery, and-" The Colonel raised his hands with his palms outward. "I didn't invite you up here to argue about it. They're out there, burning down your civic center. They're the ones you have to convince." The three masked figures looked at him in unison, like dogs snarling. Without a word, two agents flanked the Colonel on either side, hands resting on their sword hilts. Royal Guards were infamous for their unilateral actions with their very functional sabers. "Easy, fellas. I see those swords of yours, but I've got a dozen heavy suits out there that could tear you limb from limb. These little scare tactics of yours aren't going to do you any good here." To emphasize the fact, he sat down in his seat, put his feet up on his desk, and lit his cigar to smoke it. "Point is, gentlemen. And lady who-ever-you-are. I see the writing on the wall. This is the final straw for these people. One in a long line of mismanaged decisions. The cameras, the drones, the relentless surveillance. The restrictions on music, clothing, internet content, and whatever else you've been up to... uncounted things, right? They're tired of it, frankly my sentinels are tired of it and I'm tired of it. We've got to live in this world, too. I'm supposed to raise children in this? I might as well throw my own family in prison forever. Who would want that? And you call it for our own good? No one's buying it any more. Most never bought it from day one." "These decisions are based on a statistical model created by the best minds and the Emperor himself. This is the best way for humanity to survive the crisis." "'The Crisis!' Not the Crisis! This perpetual crux of human issues you fucks use to excuse everything you do. This conglomeration of imaginary issues- how does a resource shortage excuse this? What does porn have to do with crime rates, or pollution? You have any idea how dumb you sound? You can use as many multi-syllabic words as you can, doesn't change anything. The writing on the wall is still there. This is the last overreach of a dying empire. And you can count me out of it." He puffed on his cigar, content with himself. The head agent leaned forward, pressed the speaker button of his office phone and began dialing. "You can call anyone you want, I don't feel the need to talk to them! I don't give a shit anymore, guys! It's done! You fucked it up! Good job." The phone rang twice, and then a panicked woman answered. "Tony! Tony is that you?" A bolt hit him in the gut, and he jumped forward. He dropped his cigar straight on the floor. "Rosa!?" "Tony, oh my god, are you still at work? What's happening? These agents from the Royal Guard came and got me and the girls. I don't know where Benjamin is. They said they found him but I haven't seen him!" "What do you mean came and got you!? Where are you?" "I don't know! They came and said things were getting dangerous and that they needed to take us somewhere safe. I don't know where we-" the agent gently and deliberately picked up the receiver and set it down again, cutting off the phone call. "Colonel Salvatores, as she so simply put it, things are, indeed, getting dangerous. And I don't know that we can guarantee that it will be safe for her release... any time soon. But thankfully, as you so perfectly put it, your sentinels would march to the ends of the earth for you. You have the power to make it safe again. You have a reinforced garrison, more than enough. You have power suits, tear gas, helicopters, and if you need them- guns." Each of his words were slow, careful, like he was tasting them as he said them. The Colonel looked different. His eyes seemed dark, his pupils wide. He gripped the arm rests of his chair with white knuckles, and sat hunched over looking at the desk phone. "How... how did you get to them already?" "The statistical models work, Colonel. CyCLOPS works. You'd know that if you were paying attention. You've been a weak link on our scopes for a while now. Nothing can be done to avoid your inevitable execution for your insubordination here today. But you can get out there and do your job. And it'll be safe for your family to be... released. Am I clear?" The Colonel tried to look him in the eyes, but there were none there. Just the cold, mirrored reflection of the eye pieces of the agent's ballistic mask. "Crystal." At 20:04, a line of several hundred Sentinels in full gear marched out to meet the crowds. Lights, sirens, and the blaring of orders over the loud speaker could be heard through the night. The crowd put up a fight, but ultimately, it was not to be. The tear gas was so thick some people died of suffocation. An armed resistance formed after raiding several gun stores, but was put down even more quickly by heavily armored sentinels. Tools and equipment no one ever had time to see left rioters blind, and easy to pick off of the crowd by individual sentinels. Over 5,000 were arrested, with many more identified by facial recognition for later pick-up. The agents left the Colonel's office with only a "Deus Vult," their capes swishing on the way out. Colonel Salvatores wept. The Orders of the Emperor are not easily ignored, no matter who you are.


There were very few jobs in Lindow, so no-one was picky about what jobs were available. You didn’t complain, you didn’t ask questions and you didn’t look too closely at the things that didn’t make sense. So when I found myself in a darkened factory, snowed in thanks to an unpredicted blizzard I resolved myself to be patient and wait until I was rescued. The factory was on the outskirts of Lindow and canned a variety of different vegetables and fruits from nearby towns. During the day it was a hive of activity with people bustling around almost constantly. At night there was a schedule of security guards, like yours truly. Normally I would have at least my coworkers to help me while away the hours but they hadn’t been able to reach the factory before the storm hit. So it was me, alone, in a dark empty factory with no other companion than my flashlight and an old paperback novel, The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer by Carol Hill. There were a great many old paperback novels stockpiled in one of the unused rooms. I had discovered this room on my first day at the factory before I was told that exploring was dangerous for my health. I started whistling to myself to break the deep silence. It didn’t help, the strange echoing made me feel like I was surrounded by something. Instead, I decided to start my rounds and explore more of the factory. My place of work was arranged as a large imposing cube with each of the four sides focused on a different kind of canning. In the very centre sat the administrative buildings, the offices of the upper management as well as storage and utility rooms. It was in this area which I found the mysterious room of science fiction paperbacks. According to the regulations of my position I made my way around the outside of the factory, slowly working my way in towards the centre. Some ‘fun facts’ as I go. The factory was built late last century by the richest family in town the Kirwin’s. They were not natives of the area, but they moved across from the old country with mysterious pasts and more mysterious wealth. Previously, the main industry of the area was slate mining before the industry lost its shine. They were met with suspicion and glee, as they rejuvenated the area and brought in much-needed money so people didn’t ask questions and those who did were shunned. So when some people disappeared and others were struck by a sudden and unexplained illness no questions were asked. It became something of a tradition to not ask questions but curiosity is a powerful thing, one which I am not immune to. This could be my only opportunity to have my questions answered, and I couldn’t let it pass me by. Completely alone and utterly bored I could think of no reason not to explore more of the hidden rooms. The power, and therefore the alarms were off, and there was minimal risk for me. The first room sat down the hallway from the manager’s office, it was locked but something of a misspent youth ensured that that wasn’t much of a barrier. At this point, you must be certain that there was something truly gruesome within this room, a collection of preserved human body parts or a collection of unique and disturbing sex toys. However, it wasn’t nearly as exciting as all that. It was, in fact, filled top to bottom in random order loose balls of all kinds. Baseballs, basketballs, golf balls, and several which I didn’t recognise. It was something of an anti-climax, to be honest. It felt like working yourself up for a trip to a theme park or a surprise birthday party, and how those imagined experiences never meet up with reality. I kept making my way through the rooms, and in each room, I discovered the following: a collection of historically accurate (but ill-kempt) medieval armour, pressed flowers and pinned insects, stacked blankets and other haberdashery, and lastly the aforementioned science fiction paperbacks. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to these collections. It felt like someone was writing words on a dartboard and them collecting these items based on what words the darts hit. It felt like they gathered these items at random, I had no answers simply more questions. There was one last opportunity to have these questions answers. It took me some time before I figured out how to reach the central room. As per city ordinances, the head office of any company can only be accessed through a series of complicated animal-themed puzzle doors and at least one secret passage. As a security guard, I was trained to navigate these barriers in case of emergencies. It was a simple but lengthy matter of collecting different keys representing birds of prey and slotting them in the doors in the correct order. The corridor hidden behind a bookshelf was poorly lit, I made a mental note that that was in contravention of current OHS regulations. Then I disregarded that thought as I wasn’t allowed to be here in any case. Almost as if it was summoned, I heard a distant crack of thunder outside. This town was many things, but to its credit, it was almost always thematically accurate. The pointlessness of this exercise had not escaped me and I wondered why I was making such an effort to assuage my curiosity. Boredom and opportunity I suppose. I could see the central office up ahead, finally, all my questions would be answered. Not just about the strange rooms filled with seemingly random items. But the deeper questions of who the Kirwin family really were, what was happening to my town, the answers to life the universe and everything. I pushed my way through the heavy wooden doors and discovered the deep, dark secret. A handsome and well-groomed dog pressing buttons and carefully watching monitors. Huh, I didn’t expect that...


I added one more mark to the ever growing images of lines on the wall. Seven hundred days, that’s how long I had to stay here. That’s how long it would be before I saw the sunlight again. I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who had a cell with a window. The only view I got was the dark walls of my jail cell and the interior walls of the prison. Every once in a while I got a glimpse of light when the guards brought a new prisoner in, or took one out. But it was mostly just the same old moss-covered brick walls and cracked cement floor. One large light hung from the ceiling in the middle of the jail that did little to illuminate the cells. The first few nights here had been torture. I hated the dark. All kinds of hideous creatures came out in the dark. Beasts with fangs, claws, and a hunger for death. At least being in jail meant I was safe from those kinds of monsters. Meals were delivered twice a day, when they remembered. I learned early on to save a little food each day, just in case the guards didn’t feel like feeding us. Even when they did feed us, it was never enough. My stomach constantly grumbled for more food, but I had little to give it. I counted each mark on the wall three hundred and seventy-five. Halfway through with my stay in this rotten place. A mouse scampered across the floor, making me shriek. You would think after all this time, I would be used to the mice and rats, but I still found myself squealing every time one of the small four legged creatures raced across my cell. It was hard to keep track of the days when you lived in a place where you couldn’t see the sun or moon. I was warned to make a mark on the wall every day. If I missed one, the count would start all over again. Apparently, the wall was magical, and when your time was up, it would open the door automatically so you could leave. It was a good set up as long as you didn’t miss making a mark. Thankfully I had made friends with one of the lucky prisoners who had a view of the outside. He would stick his arm through the bars and wave when darkness came. As far as I know, none of the other prisoners knew what we are doing. The guards either don’t know or don’t care, it’s hard to tell with that bunch. An arm waved through the cell directly across from mine, and I made another mark on the wall. Every mark meant one day closer to leaving. I waved back to thank him. A jail cell door slid open, and the voice of a man crying with joy drifted to my ears. Someone was getting out. An older man in his late forties hobbled past my cell. His clothes were tattered and torn, faded and paper-thin as they hung from his skeleton of a body. It made me wonder how long the poor man had been here. The large wooden door that separated us from the rest of the world swung open, and a guard pulled the man through to the other side. I frowned as I thought about how they always knew when someone was at the door waiting. Maybe there was a bell that dinged when a jail cell door opened. I shook the image of the old man and the door from my mind. Best not to think about freedom. I still had a long way to go before I could achieve it. I studied the wall, counting my marks. Four hundred thirty. I was getting closer. The guards had skipped giving us our meals yesterday, which was unusual. They never missed giving us both meals in one day. Good thing I had saved that piece of stale bread from my meal yesterday. It wasn’t much, but something was better than nothing. I choked down the last of my bread and swallowed the last gulp of my water. I hoped tomorrow the guards would bring us at least one meal. My clothes no longer fit, I had lost so much weight. Hunger constantly gnawed at my stomach, and I wondered if I would ever be full again. A waving arm from across the large room had me rushing to make my white mark on the black wall. Five hundred and ninety-seven. I did some quick math in my head. Only one hundred and three days left to go. Joy filled my heart for just a moment. I could almost taste my freedom. What joy it would be to feel the warm sun on my face again or to see the stars shining in a clear night sky. I shivered with anticipation. I wonder if anyone will be waiting for me on the other side of that door. My mother, or father maybe. Or even my brother Jeffery. Even though we didn’t agree on much and argued more than we got along, I still missed him. I sank down into the squished worn-out pallet that was meant as a bed and pulled the ratty blanket up to my chin. Would my family even recognize me after all this time? I fell asleep that night with horrid dreams filling my mind. As I lie on my pallet, I watched in horror as the guards stormed in through the one wooden door and forced open a jail cell door with a silver key. What little food I had in my stomach almost came up as they dragged the dead body of an older man out of a cell and through the door that led to freedom. A tear slid down my cheek as I thought about how his family would never see him again. After all this time here, did he even have a family out there to miss him? The wave from the prisoner brought me no joy tonight as I made my mark. Six hundred and ninety-five. I was almost there. Fear knotted itself inside me, making it impossible to get excited about my upcoming release. I spent the next few days lying on my pallet, watching the mice scamper around looking for crumbs. On the last day of my imprisonment, I stared at the wall and counted, then recounted the marks. Six hundred ninety-nine. Tonight was the night the metal cell door would slide open, and I would walk through the wooden door to freedom, to the sun. I paced the small area waiting for that arm to wave at me from across the large area. When finally it did, I could hardly bring myself to strike the last white mark. My hand shook as I placed the chalk on the wall. Then with a deep breath, I confidently flicked my wrist down and smiled as the comforting white mark appeared. I stepped back from the wall and turned to face the metal door. Nothing happened. My smile faltered as I spun back around to face the wall. Only one mark stood out against the black wall. All the other white lines were gone! Dropping to my knees, I wailed like a baby. How could this have happened? What did I do wrong? A guard appeared at my door, startling me out of my self-pity. “You have cheated and used the help of another inmate. For that, the prison is punishing you with seven hundred more days.” He spun on his heels and left. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. Seven hundred more days felt like an eternity.


Halloween night in the town of Castle Falls is always one of the biggest events of the year, and this year should not disappoint. As darkness fills the night, children dressed as their favorite princess, witch or wizard, superhero, and ghastly ghoul begin infiltrating the neighborhood in search of the next door to knock and scream out “Trick or Treat!!!” for the delight of the next holder of candy and treats. The people of Castle Falls are a festive bunch and they take pride in celebrating their holidays, and it is not uncommon for neighbors to compete for each year in who has the most elaborate decorated yard or home. Halloween is among the top each year! “Here we are at the home of Jasper Jenkins, last year’s winner of the best-decorated yard,” Melissa Green of Channel 8 said holding her microphone in hand speaking to the people of Castle Falls in a live broadcast. “As you know Jasper won with his creative scene of skeletons and zombie rising from their underground crypts in the front yard,” she added. “What can we expect this year Jasper, are you going to retain your title,” she asked holding the mic to Jasper’s face. “Well, I hope to have great things in store this year, so we’ll see,” answered Jasper. “Well, there you have it, Castle Falls, we’ll have to wait until later to see who will hold this year’s crown. Until then, this is Melissa Green with your news for you, Channel 8,” she said smiling at the camera. She then directed her cameraman to grab some video of the activities going on around them. Unseen by anyone were two figures hovering high above hidden in the darkness of the night sky. Two witches, Lenora and Matilda, are sitting on broomsticks hovering and talking. “Where is Grace,” said Lenora hastily to Matilda. Matilda, gazing down and smiling at all the children, teenagers, and adults moving from door to door, replied with a shrug of her shoulders, “I don’t know, you know she’s never on time.” Just then with a woosh overhead came Grace swooping in on her broom laughing and cackling loudly as she circled her two friends so close it made Lenora lose her balance forcing her steady herself firmly. “Heedeehoo ladies,” cackled Grace. “Are ye ready for a bit ‘o fun tonight?” “Oh, you silly wart! Why are you always such a whacky git,” said Lenora. “Lennie, are you sure you’re sitting on that thing, or is it stuck up your butt again,” asked Grace laughing. “C’mon ladies... it’s Hall’ween night! This is our night, our grand night, and we’re gunna give this town an experience they’ll ne’er forget,” Grace said excitedly! Grace stopped circling her friends and came to rest and hovering next to Lenora smiling at her she gave her a little nudge on her shoulder and a wink of the eye. Lenora acted like she didn’t notice and looking out into the sky. “Lennie,” Grace said playfully. Lenora still staring out deep into space, gave a quick glance toward Grace from her peripheral. “You silly git,” said Lenora, also while breaking a slight grin. The three looked down over the town giggling and pointing at the townspeople. “So where are we anyway,” asked Grace. Matilda with eyebrows raised and a confused looked on her face said, “Falling Castle... no, Castle Rock... no, Rock of the Castle....” “Castle Falls you silly goof,” said Lenora. “Yeah, that’s what I said,” nodding Matilda. Grace and Lenora rolled their eyes and shaking their head at each other. Matilda was not always the sharpest knife in the drawer at times. “OK, so what we gunna do,” asked Grace with a menacing tone. “I wanna make a huge furry tarantula come out of the house there,” said Matilda pointing excitedly at the gray two-story house. Grace and Lenora looking at the house, and then at each other shrugged their shoulders and replied to Matilda simultaneously, “Ok.” “Yeah, go ‘fer it,” said Grace. Matilda reaching into her tattered black cloak, she pulled out a crooked wood wand. She begins to mumble a spell and waving her wand, “In this night may you be a fright, don’t be mean, but may you make ‘em scream!” And with a flick of her wand, a bright flash shot out towards the house. The witches leaned forward on the edge of the broomsticks tilting down in the sky, with their eyes wide open and huge grins on their faces, the waited in anticipation. “Mom, mom... look what I got” shouted a 10-year-old green Incredible Hulk as he opened up his trick-or-treat bag. His mother looking inside and sharing in his excitement. Just then they both felt the ground rumble and shake making a deep grumbling noise. The boy Hulk grabbed his mom around the waist. “What was that,” he said with a shaky voice. Mom, with her arms wrapped around her son’s shoulders, shook her head, “I don’t know Jake.” The two, along with everyone else in the immediate area who also felt the rumbling and shaking stood still looking around and waiting to see if it happened again. Everyone was thinking the same thing, “earthquake, here, in Castle Falls.” Suddenly, the ground shook stronger! And a loud crashing noise of wood and shattering glass erupted from the gray two-story home that Jake had just run from the front door, and he and his mom stood on the sidewalk knelt down and she covered herself over him. Just then a yell from a tiny princess a few yards down as four long, large fuzzy tarantula legs sprouted out of the top of the house... followed by two large spider fangs, shiny eyes, a fat plump body, and followed by four long, furry back legs as a tarantula perched on the half-destroyed house. Random screams rang out throughout the neighborhood in Castle Falls, and kids and parents ran away, some fainted where they stood, and some were frozen in place with their mouths gaped open and scream-less. “Ha... ha... ha! Good one Matilda,” shouted Grace. “Ok, Lennie, your turn!” Lenora sat on her broomstick, with a pondering look as she thought for a moment. “Oh, c’mon Lennie, give ‘em someth’n good you slow twit,” cackled Grace. Ok, ok... I’ve got it. Quit rushing me. You got somewhere to be ‘ye old bat,” Lenora shot back. Grace shrugged her shoulder and scrunched her face and shamefully replied, “Well, no.” Lenora, with wand in hand began to say a mumbled spell that Grace and Matilda couldn’t quite hear. And with a large circular swoosh and three flicks of her wand, three flashes shot out of her wand and soared into the sky above Castle Falls. Matilda and Grace sat and stared at Lenora as she sat perched on her broom as if nothing was about to happen. She gazed over at the other two witches and as if surprised she said, “What?” as shrugged her shoulder and put her hands up. “Welllllll... What did you do,” said Grace. Grinning deceptively, “You’ll see.” Grace and Matilda with eyes wide open looking at Lenora, and then turned quickly to the town of Castle Falls in excited wonder. Just then, a loud swoosh shot over the three witches heads with a strong wind that followed, almost knocking Grace off her broom. Three large black figures soared over the homes and townspeople. “OH MY GOD,” shouted a dad pointing overhead. “BATS!!!!!” And he quickly dove behind a row of evergreen shrubs, leaving his wife and kids to fend for themselves. Three black bats swooped down dive-bombing over the heads of the kids and parents scattering in even more directions trying to find cover and hiding places. Some found refuge as homeowners let some come into their homes. Others lammed their doors shut and locked them quickly as they ran to their basements or other hiding places. Some flicking their lights off as if that would help. High above, the three witches laughed out loud. Matilda was laughing so hard she was laying on her back on her broomstick nearly rolling off one side. With tears in her eyes from laughter, Grace looked over at Lenora and laughed even harder. “Oh my... oh my Lennie... did you see them! They ran like little chickens, ducking and hiding... ohhhhhh my!” Grace cackled out loud. The three continued to gaze at their creations, a large tarantula crawling from house to house, and the bats swooping down and then back up high into the sky only to swoop back down nipping at the townspeople with their fangs. Channel 8’s cameraman was hunkered down in his news van with one of his back doors partially opened as he broadcasted the horror live on TV. “Are you getting this,” shouted Melissa Green! The cameraman could only nod as he looked on in amazement. Melissa Green, still outside of Jasper Jenkins's home, ran up to his front door and banged loudly. No answer. She banged and kicked his door even louder. Jasper ran to the door, looked out, and saw her standing at the door. He quickly opened it, “Quick, quick, get inside,” he cried out. “Jasper, turn whatever this is off! You’re scaring everyone to death,” she yelled at him. “It’s...it...it’s not me doing th, th, this,” he stuttered and shaking in horror. Melissa Green looked back at this once joyful neighborhood and looked on in total shock. She quickly ran back to her news van. She climbed into the driver’s seat, turned it on, revved the engine and threw it into gear, and floored it tossing her cameraman out of the back door and dropping to the ground. The camera still rolling. “Ok, Grace, you’re up,” said Lenora. Rubbing her old, frail, warted hands together, she looked at both of her friends, “Just you wait and see this,” she said with one eye squinted. Perched on her broomstick, Grace flung open her dark cloak and displayed her old wand, and recited her spell. “The night is young, and the time is right for you to enter the fight. Of bones and steel, it’s time to make ‘em squeal, so from the ground below, rise up to fight ‘yer foe.” A flick of the wand and flash of light shot out and into the ground. “Ohhh.... Ohhh... I can’t wait to see,” giggled Matilda clapping her hands together. The ground began to shake and rumble, and the townspeople stopped where they stood and tried to find firm footing as the ground shook. They grabbed on to fences, and mailboxes, lampposts, and the nearest car to keep from falling over. Below their feet, the ground began to crumble and open as bony skeleton hands dug out from the ground. Quickly skeletons and zombie-like creatures began to rise up from the ground and battle each other. The skeletons and zombies began to attack one another, punching with bony and decaying fists. One zombie kicked a skeleton only to have his foot crumble and fall off its leg. A skeleton punched a nearby zombie and the bony fist pushed into the zombie’s gooey flesh and found it stuck in the zombie’s chest. A dad nearby dry-heaved into a bush as he watched. A mom picked up her young daughter and ran off to their home to escape. A small army of zombies and skeletons fought each other for the next hour throughout the neighborhood as they destroyed car windows, mailboxes, and stomped on plastic jack-o-lanterns scattering the candy all about. With a flick of Matilda’s wand, her tarantula attacked and ate a zombie. Lenora laughed out loud! Lenora flicked her wand and one of the large bats swooped down and gobbled up a skeleton. “Hey!” shouted Grace. “That’s not funny,” she said with a pouty face. “Oh, come on, it’s getting late,” said Lenora. “I think we’ve scared these people long enough,” she added. “What, you’ve got somewhere to be,” retorted Grace. “Well, actually, I have a date,” replied Lenora. “Whaaaaaa... wit who,” cried Grace. “Ohhh, it’s no one, just an old wizard I met,” she said. “Are you blushing, old wart fang,” said Grace. “Now... mind your business. It’s none of your old swamp wart’s business,” Lenora shot back. “I bet it’s that old crusty wizard Horatio,” said Matilda. “Horatio! That old swamp crust,” cried out Grace laughing and cackling! Lenora now red in the face from either anger or blushing, it was hard to tell, shot an evil eye at the two other witches. “You’re just jealous,” she said as the witches slowly started to fly away. “Jealous! HA!,” cried out Grace. “You can have that old goat crud. Him with old raspy gargle voice, and his wart crust. Why if he ‘wer the last swamp wart in ‘da bog, I’d rather kiss a newt’s butt,” claimed Grace. Lenora was silent. “What, I like Horatio,” said Matilda flying behind them. “He’s always nice to me,” she added. “Agh... and he always smells like old grims blood brew,” Grace added. As the witches flew off, the town of Castle Falls was in chaos with a tarantula eating zombies and skeletons, and large bats swooping down and picking off skeletons and zombies one by one. Most of the townspeople had fled indoors to their homes, garages, and basements for shelter. The channel 8 cameraman still laid in the road unconscious, the camera still broadcasting live. Many of Castle Falls watched on their TV’s, heads tilted to one side of the angled image from the camera. Matilda slowed down and looked back at Castle Falls, she giggled a bit. Raised her wand, mumbled a spell, and flicked her wand three times. Three flashes shot from her wand and scattered out above the town like a large firework when it explodes high in the sky. One by one the creatures they had conjured up began to fade away like the smoke on a freshly extinguished candle into the night air. The broken windows, homes, and cars slowly melted back together again in their original condition. The town of Castle Falls was silent and calm once more as if nothing had ever happened... but a Halloween they’d sure not to forget anytime soon.


I can count the number of times I’ve had a gun pointed to my head. This is my eighth occurrence since I started this trade five months ago. It’s not necessarily a fatal business, but people are desperate and you know that old saying about desperate times and desperate measures. I remember the first time it happened, it was a sweaty, hot August night up in the Bronx. I just finished my first delivery. When I got back to my truck a cold piece of metal met my temple. My brother, being the man who got me the job, felt it his responsibility to teach me how to stay safe in these circumstances. Just tell me what you want, I said. My brother was right - give them the goods. The gun fell from my head and the person sprinted off, but not before swiping the box from under my arm. I hopped in my truck and locked my doors faster than a speeding bullet. The second time it happened I was in Pelham Bay Park. Broad daylight. It was less than two weeks after the first incident so I was quickly rethinking my line of work... maybe I could make more money just working at Mickey D’s, right? This time the gun met the spot in between my brown eyebrows. Again, I followed my brother’s advice. I’ve got brownies. The man offered me a lump sum of cash, I counted it quickly and gave him what he wanted. The third time was quite similar to the second, gun between the brows, sun was out, just a different location. I’ll give you whatever you want at a discounted rate, deal? Instead of cash she pulled up a Venmo app, lowering the gun while I typed in my boss’s Venmo handle. I grabbed three boxes and shoved them into her arms. The fourth affair caught me by surprise because the drop off location was right in SOHO. It was ten in the morning on a Tuesday. Surely, no one is going to be caught with a gun in Manhattan, I thought. Wrong. After my drop off to the old lady in apartment 3B I was pulled into apartment 2B, the door was slammed behind my back, I was shoved up against a wall, the gun touched my temple. This is getting old. The man said I’ve seen you around, I want in on this. That - I was not expecting. So I hooked him up with the boss. The fifth gun-to-head incident happened in November. I was in the Bronx, I just dropped off at Mrs. Hamilton’s a couple blocks down from my apartment when I saw my boss’s car on the corner. The back window rolled down, a hand came out, the pointer finger rolling in, beckoning me. I opened the door to the blacked out Mercedes. Hi Benny. She purred in my ear. She cocked a gun, lifting it under my jaw. I did not see that coming. How are you so good at this job, huh? She knows I can haggle better than anyone else. My sister. My sister taught me how to make a good sale. She lowered the gun to the console in front of us. Thank God. If I was afraid of any woman it was this one. Keep up the good work, but don’t you dare make my twins look bad. The boss didn’t want me to be better than her daughters. I understood and nodded my head in reply. I gave her the cash I earned that day, and she returned my keep. I was selling more than a Girl Scout in front of Target. The sixth and seventh occasions were quick, handled with minimal effort on my end. Both happened in Williamsburg. I was being warned about territory. Which all leads me to today. Number eight. My truck is loaded with fifteen boxes, my eyes see dollar signs. This is my first time doing a full pick up, typically I just get small deliveries from my brother. December is our last round of distribution until May, so the gunman either wants some of the really good stuff for free or he wants the full truckload to make some cash of his own before our off-season. I had just closed the back of my covered bed pick up truck and got comfy in the driver's seat when I heard a gun click behind me. I have the extended cab so there is plenty of room for someone to sit back there without my noticing. I lift my hands up and off the wheel. “Tell me your name.” The voice belongs to a woman, which is pretty common in my experience. They are spectacular at sales. “Ben. Benny.” I feel a bit out of control considering she’s behind me and I don’t know what she looks like or who she is. “Hi, Ben. Want to open up your trunk for me?” I don’t respond. “Don’t make this hard, okay? You just open the trunk, I’ll take your shipment. You tell your boss it was stolen, you were held at gunpoint. You don’t even have to lie.” “I’m not letting you take my shipment.” “I’ll make myself clear. You open the trunk or” I feel the gun pressed against the back of my skull “I’ll do it myself.” “Tell me your name.” “I’m Liza.” She climbs over the middle console and slides into the passenger seat like my sister used to when she was in middle school. She has short chopped brown hair and her brown eyes look like melted chocolate against her light brown skin. She extends her hand out and we shake longer than typical. She’s beautiful, to say the least. “So, Liza. You want my shipment, huh?” “Yep. And maybe I’ll let you take me on a date afterwards.” “You like sushi? I know a spot in Harlem.” I’ll give this girl all my shipments if it means I get to take her on a date each time she wipes me clean. We hop out of the truck and she tucks her Glock back into her purse. I open up my bed as she opens up the trunk of her Volvo XC60. I can tell she must be good at her job just by her car alone. Blacked out windows, roof racks, she even has one of those diamond license plate frames. “I’ve got fifteen boxes... you can’t take it all.” She leans back against her car. “Date or no date, honey.” She winks. Come onnnn. “NYPD!! NYPD!!” Liza and I throw our hands into the air and look straight into the eyes of a male and female cop duo. “Don’t move! We’ve been following you, Benjamin Bryce. We have every reason to search your vehicle, keep your hands in the air and stay where you are.” Liza and I glance at each other then return our eyes to my truck bed and watch the male officer climb up. He rips open one large box, I know exactly what he sees but the only thing giving us light is a sliver of moonlight so when he grabs a smaller box from inside the first his partner still isn’t sure what he’s holding. He moves to the next box, slicing open the tape with a set of keys. The officer pulls out a few more small green and purple boxes, then continues to open those too. I hear his fingers gripping the plasticky film inside. “Officer Johnson, come up here. Open a box yourself.” The female cop eyes me and then Liza back and forth then lowers her gun, but not before her partner raises his at us just in case. She pulls herself up onto the truck bed and bends down to the box right in front of her, she cuts the tape and pulls out her flashlight. The light shines into the box and I see the confused wrinkle in between her brows. She picks another large brown box, pulls the flaps back and brings a small green box out. She carefully opens the green box as if it were her own, stealing her dessert from the freezer. She pulls out a roll. “Thin Mints?” She waves her flashlight into the other boxes of cookies, Adventurefuls, Samoas, Tagalongs. “Are you selling...”


Secrets are powerful things. They can offer hope, or destroy everything that someone has meticulously built. Everyone has secrets, and we are all fighting to protect this dark private corner of our soul. Hidden details affect every part of our existence, guiding our actions so that we can conceal that which lies in the shadows waiting to condemn. The problem is: what do you do when your secret is revealed? Does it defer its power to the person who now holds knowledge of your unspoken past? Does its power fizzle away, and you experience a sense of freedom in knowing that your burden is now being shared by another? Or do you act out in a rage of carnal violence, intending to destroy the evidence before it destroys you? ___________________________________________ I have hidden my share of secrets, and I have seen the secrets of those around me. It’s the beautiful irony of my life, me, a blind woman who can see secrets. I can’t see anything physical, but I can see into the depths of the soul. I lost my sight in a car accident at the age of 16, coming home from the county fair. On that cruel day, both my parents and my sight were taken from me. Now you are most likely not going to believe this next part, but please just hear me out, okay? I awoke in the hospital, staring into an inky abyss. I could hear the beeping of the machines, and the sound of people milling in the hallways, but my eyes would not allow me to perceive what my ears were hearing. Black. Just black. Nothing. Beginning to panic, I called out, and began searching with my hands; hoping in some way to orient myself through the sense of touch. My hand collided with that of my best friend Maddie. She was trying to comfort me, but her words were only a muffled noise. The instant our skin collided my field of vision illuminated; my sight had been restored! But something was off, Maddie was not her teenage-self, but only a child of seven or eight. She cowers in the corner as the silhouette of a large man blocks out the yellow beams radiating from the hallway sconce. I felt her fear and panic, as his hand raised above his head. I felt the blow as it resonated on her shoulder blade. Then it was gone. I was plunged back into darkness, and I heard Maddie’s voice as she tried to tell me that I was blind. I feel the moisture of tears flowing from my unseeing eyes. Agony and self-pity over the loss of something I had considered owed to me since birth, snatched away in an instant without regard for my emotions or petty desires. We sat in silence for quite some time as I processed my new reality, but there was a bigger question to be answered. If I’m blind, then what just happened? Moreover, I wanted to know if what I had just seen was true, or if it was just the pain meds. I turned my head towards the direction I assumed she was sitting and explained what I had just seen. Maddie stammered. She had never told anyone about her childhood abuse, so there was no other logical way that I could have known this about her. And until now, Maddie is the only other person who knew about my “talent.” At first, seeing secrets was fun, being 16 and all, secrets were the breath in my lungs. I longed to know people’s dirty laundry and watch it unfold like an episode of cheap reality TV. My touch had become a seeing-stone of sorts, showing me glimpses of people’s true identities. I can tell you all about the people who have committed petty crimes, those who are cheating on their spouses, and even all the kids who snuck a cookie before dinner. All I had to do was brush my hand against theirs, and their secrets would replay on a live feed in my mind. It’s been 10 years since the accident, and my ability no longer entertains me as much as it exhausts me. I wear gloves everywhere I go. Seeing is actually my disability. It’s emotionally draining living in the secret shadows of others’ lives. As we age, our secrets develop this deep darkness that can swallow you whole if you allow it. Even though I’m still young, most of the time I just stay home and work in my greenhouse. Plants don’t hold secrets, they are pure light from nature itself. Calm reality unjaded by shame and guilt. Anyways, last week Maddie convinced me that I needed to get out of the house and experience the real world. She chided me, threatening the impending fate of becoming a crazy cat lady if I didn’t get out of my house and have some fun. So, in a moment of pridefulness I donned my gloves, and got out of the house to prove to Maddie that I was still young and alive. The state fair is an odd mixture of smells. There’s the sweetness of fresh funnel cakes, blended with the sharp vinegar of large dill pickles, topped off with the buttery saltiness of popcorn. The music and general rumble of the crowd is overwhelming to my now sensitive hearing. But I throw caution to the wind and allow Maddie to guide me through the obtrusion to my remaining senses, all in the name of good, clean fun. From the sound of the crowd, I can tell that tonight the fair is packed. Maddie guides me to a bench and tells me to have a seat while she purchases us some snacks from the vendor. As I sat waiting for her return, my gloved hand got caught on something sticky on the rail of the bench. I gently removed my gloves and began to try and peel away what I’m pretty sure was gum, from the palm of my right glove. At that moment, a man who reeked of beer stumbled back and his hand collided with mine, and I saw. I saw a woman with blonde hair and green eyes lying on the floor, I saw the fear in her eyes as she pleaded for her life. I saw a man’s right hand plunging a knife into her writhing body, and I saw the jagged scar on his right thumb. I heard him angrily pleading with her “Elizabeth, why did you make me do this?! Why?” I saw him dump her body in the lake, and I felt his present fear that someone would find him out. And just as soon as it had started, I was bombarded again with the sounds of fair, haunted by the violence that I had just witnessed. Maddie saw the man bump into me, and she rushed to my side. But before I could explain what I had seen, the murderer had slipped into the crowd, unaware that he had just committed a crime in my presence. Which is what brings me to you today officer, I feel like I am obligated to share what I have seen with someone. Elizabeth deserves justice, and I am going to do whatever small part I can to help her killer be caught. Maybe she’s a missing person? I can give you her physical description, and I can describe the location at the lake where he dumped her body. I could recognize his voice if I heard it again, and Maddie may be able to provide a basic description of the man. “Yes, this is all very interesting, we definitely can check into what you say you have ‘seen’, and if we have any leads we can follow up with you. I’m unsure of how we can bring forward a blind, eye-witness in court, but we’ll deal with that later. Until then, thank you for your statement, and we will let you know if we find anything. Officer Martinez will escort you out.” I could hear the smile in his voice, he was trying to conceal a chuckle. He thinks I’m insane. No need to worry about being a crazy cat lady, now I’ll just spend the rest of my life in the psych ward. I take off my glove, thinking if I could reach out, touch him, and tell him his own secrets then he might believe me. I’m not going down without a fight. Before I can get up to touch him, I feel another man’s presence beside me. I raise my hand trying to wave him away so I can illuminate his colleague’s mind. Officer Martinez must have mistaken my gesture as a request for assistance, and he reaches down and clasps my hand to help me out of the chair. I recognize his voice as he says, “Let me assist you ma’am,” and as my thumb brushes the jagged scar on his, my vision is ignited by brilliant truth.


It was a gunshot. Probably. It probably was a gunshot. Look, I want to be up-front about this, but the truth is that I am a liar; I lie about stuff like this all the time. But seriously though, this time I am telling the truth. I mean, like, fuck Epimenides--he was probably a great guy, but I mean damn... It was a gunshot. Probably. A weighted hammer cocked back with priming pin content on making it to first base with the back-end of a hollow point; a hollow point extending its business card into... Fuck. It was a gunshot. What did you expect? Fluffy bunnies and pancakes? Raindrops on roses and such? It ain’t exactly the sound of music now is it? And I am not lying either. Who’d lie about something like this? A gunshot? Probably was. I mean, it might as well have been. Blood never had an attractive state: doesn’t look good, doesn’t smell great, doesn’t feel particularly grand either--especially if it’s yours. I mean, your own. I mean, curb the second-person bullshit for a moment and go first person in someone else’s shoes. Tastes even worse. I ain’t a liar. Nope. Well, I mean I am. But not this time. It was a gunshot. A knife wound. A hack-saw to the calcium cupcake. Fuck. “The things we do to ourselves.” “The things we do to each-other.” “The things we do to each-other, without even knowing.” “The things we do to each-other, without ever knowing.” I’m not a liar. Typically. I mean, I guess I technically am. But... I’m not lying. It was a gunshot. I mean, it hurt. A lot.


1. Despair The soldier's hands shook. He trembled. He wept. Conscious thought eluded him at that moment, eclipsed by the paralysis that seemed to have seized control of his functions. He stood there, amidst the bruised soil and the shattered, red-rimmed skies. Tears wept down his face - a muddied river of rust and salted loss. The grit and grime of the past few years still clung onto him, coating him in a visceral reminder of his own sins. His feet ached, chest burned, and the fist around his heart a tight choke-hold that drained what little strength he is still possessed at that moment. The lands wept red alongside him. Like him, like all of them, it had been irreversibly changed - wrenched flesh and chunks of sanity ripped apart, marked irreversibly by the darkness that had suffocated the lands during the events of the war. Winning or losing, it didn't matter. It felt like choosing between a path of thorns and a path of needles. Both still tore him up. It felt as if victory mattered not, not when bought with this sort of sacrifice. What terrible loss, his heart grieved. Staring out at a ravished field, his fingers curled around a single seed of salvation - a token that he had found on one of the many beaches invaded during the course of the fighting. Amidst the sprays of blood in the air, among the cries and screams and thuds of bodies and dismembered chunks, huddled in a singular trench nearer to the main inland, by chance or by fate, his hands had closed upon a singular acorn. He had kept it, unsure of why. Now, he thinks he knows . He fell to his knees. The soil drank in his tears greedily. He crawled, flesh pressing against cracked mud and living layers of rust, all strength fled from his weary frame. Making an indent in the ground gently, he pressed the acorn into the embrace of its arms. “Take it.” He says aloud, rasping, and unsure as to why he was even speaking aloud. For, who was there to listen, but the lonely wind? Body bent, he stood, amidst the weight of the world crushing in his shoulders. The soldier wore a coat of blood, the flesh of the nameless and bones of despair. He was inconsequential, he knew, and as the haze began to descend once more onto the plateau, he breathed, and faded into the mist. -**- 2. Grief Karen loved the stars. The old gardener remembered that much about his late wife. He missed her so much, that it felt like he had already lost the world. He breathed without air, and moved without life. He found himself lonely. It was much worse lately, with his own fading memories slipping away as his mind began to deteriorate with age and grief. He couldn’t remember her voice, or how she looked. He remembered her wrong, he knew, sometimes with the nose just the slightest bit crooked and the eyes always the wrong shade of green. It hurt, so much more than he could ever imagine. Photographs were useless - old and worn and too still and lifeless - and the physical reminder of it picked too hard away at the floorboards and walls of his guarded mind that he soon found himself locking everything away. The house was empty, and his heart even emptier. He came to a rest in front of a familiar plot of land. Near his and Karen’s house, just at the outskirts of the town where they lived. Like a clutch, he used it to ground himself. Bitterness and melancholy swelled in his heart, swamped by the tenderness of being scraped raw, and he lingered there. He knelt there, as if in front of an altar, and reverently pressed his fingers against the mound of soil ensconcing a lithe, green sapling. The ever-present buzz in his head receded, and he let training and experience take over in a rhythm of motion. He tended to that plant until the sun had fully set and his eyes stung from the encroaching darkness. He came back to himself hours later, blissful from the task of nothingness. He paused, before turning away. “I miss you.” He said, voice barely audible. The wind stole his words away. Below, his wife’s ashes shivered in the soil, from where he had buried her. -**- 3. Glee “And then the good guy’s plane swooped in,” The ten-year old babbled excitedly. Samuel sat atop the bulging stump of the roots, from where the wood panned out on its own as if to create a seat all for him. The thought excited him, and with renewed vigour, he smashed the two toy planes clutched in both hands together. A plastic thud rang out, and with added, dramaticized sound effects, Samuel fell backwards laughing, along with figurines. A gentle layer of twigs and fledglings leaves cradled his head from before it could smack against the ground. Samuel felt safe here. It was a nice place, where nobody would ever bother him and he could do whatever he wanted. He wrinkled his nose, and then grinned - he didn’t have to do any chores or homework! “I love you!” He told the burgeoning tree happily, from his spot upside-down. “We’re going to be best friends forever!” The sunlight beamed back at him, and the leaves patted his hair. From the distance, his mother watched him play. A small smile lingered on her lips, tired and worn, but oh so bright . She thought about that kind old man that had sold them this house at such a low price, and saved her and her son from wandering too far from her family’s hometown. Lord knows that they had desperately needed to save that money. God bless that man’s heart. -**- 4. Greed The thief stole into the night, a duffel of his ill-gotten gains thrown over a shoulder haphazardly. Like a shadow, he crept along the darkness, among and through the many winding paths of the small village. He ran past the quaint little houses and shops, and further into the depths of the denser thicker. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, a rather jittery, skewed sense of excitement that kept him moving fast. Foliage slapped itself against the side of his legs, and dark grass lapped hungrily against his bare ankles. He kept to the side of the village, just at the outermost border of civilisation and wilderness. An idea came across him at once, just as he came across a stroke of good fortune. He spied a small property nearby, cross-haired just at the edge of the woods. He headed for it, almost drunk on the mischievous gaze of the moonlight and the success of that night. What good fortune! Almost immediately, he tripped. There was a moment of stunned weightlessness, before the ground rushed up towards his face. His sight was filled with the vision of rather pointy rocks and sharp sticks, and a split second of sheer panic, before the actual impact took place. Curses slipped out of his mouth, harsh and bitingly guttural. Pain stitched itself across his skin in waves, throbbing like hell . “What the f -” The small, stunted tree in front of his face twitched in annoyance at the crude language. It’s leaves dipped and swayed irritably. The ground beneath the rude, little thief yawned open and swallowed him whole. -**- 5. Friendship The scent of wet cat was strong in the dog’s nose. The animal shuddered in revulsion, lingering only slightly before bounding up beside its human-friend. Human-friend smiled nicely and patted the dog’s head, rubbing that spot that was just so in between his ears. Cat-grievances pushed immediately aside, the dog started panting in a grin, flopping bodily to his paws before nudging a pointed snout under its human-friend’s touch. It had only a moment to enjoy the contact, before the smell of disgustingly wet cat filled its nose. A low growl welled up in the dog’s throat. Giving his human-friend an apologetic grunt, the dog bounced back on its haunches, before launching itself after the source of the smelly cat. It followed the path, led by the stench itself, and found itself screeching to a halt in front of a large tree. The evil was strong here. The dog barely had a moment to properly scent its surroundings, before a thoroughly displeased cat yowled itself into existence. The little furry demon leapt straight at him, with the audacity to actually attack! For a moment, the dog was stunned. He almost didn’t move, but the abrupt dig of claws scratching into his back - the demon was marking him! - pushed him to retaliate. Growling, he snapped at the little fiend, baring his large teeth and drool and wicked tongue. The two animals snapped at each other, a flurry of furred bodies scrabbling at each other, as the air was filled with the grunts and battle-cries of the two very displeased animals. It seemed like hours, before the fight drew to a halt. Energy completely sapped, they sagged to their sides, on opposite directions, but still facing each other warily. The cat began to lick itself clean. The dog harrumphed, before doing the same. Both were satisfied. I won, the cat thought with a purr. I am the best winner! The dog thought with a happy rumble. In a good mood, the dog limped to his feet, before cautiously padding over to his defeated foe. The cat hissed at him, with one warning claw swiping over his wounded nose. Sticking out a wet, pink tongue, the dog licked the cat. Deliberately, and slowly. A heartbeat later, the two animals were racing against, but side-by-side this time. Their first course of action? The cat rubbed its face against the bark of a tree. The dog twitched, before lifting one leg, and then smugly marked its territory over the cat’s against this nice-smelling tree. Mine , they both thought loudly. A small crack. Two sticks dropped themselves warningly on each of their heads. The animals yelped, and raced away. -**- 6. Faith “Oh, Lord,” The pastor hummed beneath a canopy of shaded leaves and warm, gentle light. ”You are my God, and I will ever praise you.” He knelt there for some time, bowing his head in prayer. I thank you, Lord. Things have been hard lately, and there’s so many things that I’m struggling with, but I’m going to trust in you. Thank you for always being there with me. I need your help, Lord. Guide me in everything I do, and reveal your Word to me, so that I can go out and share your Message. Thank you. For everything. In Yeshua’s name, I pray. Amen. -**- 7. Passion The paper was white and glistening. Her hand moved on autopilot, dictated by the pulse and rhythm of the forest around her. Smears of contented blues and glistening yellows painted themselves amidst the parchment, and the artist inside of her felt more at peace than ever. Inks spread themselves out as the sunlight illuminated her face and work - the brilliant setting scene of a gentle cadence. A giddy shout from the edge drew her attention, and she turned at once. Her heart ached with joy and equal disbelief. Her sister and mother raced towards her, twin-suns of beaming adoration and love on their faces. Behind them, strolling at a steadier pace, but the calm, steady figure of her father. She hadn’t seen them for over a year. Her hands shook. Her eyes glistened. She had thought... She had thought that they had been too busy to come, but the evidence presented to her said otherwise. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The artist stood strong beneath the proud, arching oak tree, and waved back at her family. -**- 8. Epilogue There are things that yet remain hidden from the gaze of humanity. This does not mean that humanity has not part to play in shaping them, however. Birthed from the blood and tears of a despairing soldier longing for home so long ago, amidst a sea of despair and suffocating anguish, was a small seed. In the ground, the acorn went, and the tree grew accordingly. Nurtured by the grieving gardener and the joyful child, hardened by the greedy nature of the thief that stole at midnight, further confused by the contradictory yet clear nature of animal companions, supplemented by the faith and unyielding belief of the preacher and softened by the beauty of the simple things in life, the love of the artist and her passion - from all of these things was brought forth a tree spirit. Born from the blood and tears, the greed and love, of humanity, they grew. Now, the wizened little creature sits atop the highest branch of its tree. Their legs sway and swing in the rhythm of the breeze, and their head of curls sweep across their face like leaves dancing in the suspended air. At peace at last, they smile. A bird curiously walks over, one day. The creature beams, and mischievously nudges a small, glowing acorn across the span of the branch. The bird tilts its head, and understands - it picks the innocuous-looking thing up and with a mighty flap of wings, flies away into the purple-yellow sunset. The end.


As soon as I saw the tunnel, I knew that it just had to be mine. I knew why and wherefore I wanted it - I knew I would even sell my tiara to obtain enough funds, if I had to. But of course, I wouldn’t have to. Of course not. My mother had always told me about “the light at the end of the tunnels” and she was being her usual ambiguous self. Yet, here it was, in Glorious Technicolor - or as much as an underground tunnel could be thus - and it was what I had visualised all my life. You know those Road Runner cartoons, where a lightbulb switches on above Will E Coyote’s head? Well, a similar enlightenment came to me when I saw this light at the end of this tunnel in Bracknell, Austin territory. I have always been captivated by Great Leaders: the ones behind such fascinating communities such as Aum Shinrikyo, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Divine Light Mission, Hare Krishna, the Order of the Solar Temple, Sahaja Yoga... too many to mention them all. I read all the biographies of the holy and not-so-holy originators of these groups, jotting down salient points in my journal. I still believe in good old pencil and paper. I learned typing when I had chilblains, and I could only use my indices. In the peak of my youth, I could nonetheless type 100w.p.m., so I never bothered to learn how to touch-type. If you use a ballpoint to write in the dark, it can let you down; but if you have a clutch of pencils at the ready, all you have to do is feel whether they have a point, and take it from there. You don’t have to switch on the light and annoy whoever is in bed with you, or attract the mozzies. Ignorant people call them cults, but actually they are not all cults, because they all contain truths that are inherent in other... well, beliefs. But I digress. I knew that if I wanted to get rich, rich beyond dreams of avarice, I would have to invent a religion. A religion that would be, of course, The One True Religion for my followers. I wanted a place to be, a place to call my own, unlike no other. I didn’t want a palace, or a compound. I didn’t want a village, or a castle with a moat around it. Actually, I knew what I didn’t want, but I didn’t know what I wanted - until I saw the tunnel. That was the place of my dreams, the just-what-I-always-wanted-but-didn’t-know-it scenario that made me crave to put my signature on the dotted line, as fast as possible before someone else started a bidding war. So, as I was saying, my tenet being If you want to get rich, invent a religion, that is just what I did. It’s logical and financially sound advice. However, for some reason, my instinct told me to refuse the hackneyed “I saw God and she was black” blueprint. And of course, a person of my exquisite intellect would never expect the hoi polloi to fall for that spiel; it’s been done too often - I’ve even got the t-shirt. Knowing that where I live, there were many people who were disillusioned with the paternalistic, male-god religions, whereas at the same time desperate to hold on to the traditional monotheistic waffle, I did my homework. The fact that I had, as I assumed at the time, not gone through any process of enlightenment or revelation means that my detractors cannot accuse me of faking it. My concepts are exceptionally multifaceted with infinitely bourgeoning twists. How can an ordinary person hope to understand my core dogmas, if sometimes, albeit rarely because it is too much trouble to edit my Tome, I make them up as I go along? In my country, there is a legend which tells of how the Earth Mother let her Tears of Loneliness drip into the Great Meniscus of Nothing. Students of physics would know that when droplets fall on a stretch of water, they engender back-jets. Ordinarily, these columns of the liquid shoot up and then fall back into the water, creating concentric ripples. However, this was In the Time of Before, so each back-jet became a Land Place. I decided to work on this myth in order to create my religious group, which would be unlike anyone of the silly cults from which I stole ideas, and transmogrified them to into something totally plausible. And then, ironically, I found out that what I had envisioned and envisaged was nothing but the Truth. Mum spoke to me. It was not a trance, not a vision; she was there, on the beach, wearing a bandana, an aquamarine kimono and flip-flops as the ultimate disguise... my inspiration, incarnate. There are many pictures on the internet of multi-tasking women holding brooms, babies, pots, feather dusters, and more. Kuan Yin is The One with a Thousand Arms - and she has eyes in some of the palms of her hand, with which to see those who need her help. However, please note that I did not make the mistake of others who thought they knew it all - for I really do. I am as genuine and unpretentious as they come. I forbore to give Mum a consort. For had I done so, it would have meant that I had to give her a whole hagiography, philosophy and mythology (and history!) of rivals and offspring - including the equivalent of Nephilim...and, obviously, a couple of bastards to boot. I know on which side my bread is buttered, just as I know that margarine is bad for health. That is why my religion is all things to all men - and women, and children - about which, later. To recruit my first batch of Faithful, I took out innocuous advertisements in the press, peppering them with words like peace and kindness and happiness and every other positive word I could think of. I never mentioned the word ‘religion’ of course, because the people who were silly enough to swallow my bait did not deserve to be told the truth, and in any case, it was beyond their scope. I never asked for membership fees; but I accepted donations. Because people appreciate my humility and my razor wit, and my wish to share what I have extracted from the Universe. I tell them that “of course” they can keep their old religion and believe in Mum, since she is a benign immortal, and not actually a deity. It goes without saying that I had to make a couple of concessions to popular culture: I have included some buzz-words such as spiritual enlightenment, incidental infinity, higher consciousness, mystic wisdom, and more of that ilk. To counteract this, I also use jargon to re-name some common things. Midway along my mission, however, I discovered that money (by this time I was rolling in it) was not really important - and therefore I continued relentlessly in my chosen path, mowing down everyone who tried to nit-pick my theories. After all, Mum is for real. My Faith could run on Automatic Pilot. I devised a computer programme that takes care of the correspondence of my faithful. Every so often, I make a scheduled ‘casual’ appearance at the supermarket, where I sign autographs and hand out baby-teething amber necklaces that are even worn by grown-ups. They come with a certificate of authenticity and exclusivity - because amber beads are not all the same colour, size, and shape and so no necklace is like any other. And then, the Tunnel popped up in a sidebar on my Facebook feed. Oh, with a couple of million €uros of fixing, it was as close to Heaven as does not matter. Serendipity? Happenstance? Fate? Luck? Karma? Who knows? Most people know the story of Noah, and how now it has been proven that the Great Flood did not cover all of Earth, because several peoples flourished at the same time they were supposed to have been annihilated. Well, I come from the Orowignarak of Alaska, and we too have a story of how an earthquake, a storm, and a tsunami, occurred together. Only a few of my ancestors escaped in their skin canoes to the tops of the highest mountains. They didn’t need an Ark. Other Tribes have Great Floods in their history - the Anishinaabe, Choctaw, Comox, Cree, Hopi, Menomini, Mi'kmaq, Nipmuc, Nisqually, Ojibwe... to name but a few. But none are as drastic as ours. I was playing Chuck Stones with some crystals, to while away the time... but suddenly, I froze. The configuration of their positions made a formation that could only mean one thing: a tsunami was Tripartite Tragedy like the one in my Nation’s annals was in the offing. It was All Systems Go. I over-rode the computer systems and broadcast the news to all Believers, and all Media Stations. Some did not believe me, and cut me off in mid-sentence. Many perished, but many were saved - most of them from my Faithful Fold. It goes without saying that many of us were sealed inside The Tunnel, and we could hear the waves pound against the walls. To cut a long story short, the religion I had thought was my invention, but which in reality I was enlightened to discover, saved the lives of millions. Governments the world over fell over their feet to contact me about how they may accommodate Mum and me. So here I am, facing a barrage of cameras and monitors, preparing to preach to the almost-converted. I go live on the count of 10, 9, 8, 7...