Memory used to be my “superpower.” I could close my eyes and rattle off any facts or trivia I had learned at any point in my life, almost always as though I was reading straight from the source I had gained said knowledge from. I would astound my parents’ church acquaintances with my ability to accurately quote scripture from any holy book, needing only to know the general topic before spieling off with the exact chapter and verse they were looking for. And I aced every standardized test the teachers could set in front of me; especially helpful when I was pregnant, high, and trying to get my GED. In a world of lies, misinformation, and “fake news,” my memory felt like the best asset an autistic adult like myself could have. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who saw my memory as a major asset; and the others who did, had no qualms about treating it like every other asset they have ever acquired. In other words, they used and abused it until it was no longer working properly, then they tossed it aside with the other garbage. Not really shocking, I suppose, to be used then disposed of by one’s government; still feels like a slap in the face when it happens to you, though. My memory issues are somewhat difficult to explain, but I will try my best to give you the run-down. You might be familiar with brain damage from traumatic brain injuries, or strokes, or seizures. Maybe you knew/know someone with dementia or Alzheimer's. Those disorders are, sadly, more straight-forward than what I’m dealing with. (Not to imply that these disorders/disabilities are straight-forward, or easy to deal with! Just far more well-known than what I am currently going through.) My memory isn’t spotty, I’m not confused about what year it is or who my loved ones are. I’m not a danger to myself, my confusion is not likely to lead me to wander unfamiliar streets thinking I’ve found my way back to a home that no longer exists. My issues are more along the lines of; was my childhood the one spent with 8 other siblings in a 1 room shack with a dirt floor, in a neighborhood so awful the cops wouldn’t even drive past it? Or was it the one where I grew up in a mansion, summering in the Hamptons, skiing in the Alps? Was I the refugee from a war-torn country, bullied for my accent and lack of cultural knowledge? Maybe I was the average, all-American child, who went to summer camps and applied for scholarships and student loans; maybe my childhood was nothing like any of these experiences. You see, my memory is still as strong as ever; I just have too many lifetimes of experience strolling around in there. And none of these experiences feels fake, or enhanced, or anything. They all feel equally real, equally mine. Maybe because there are certain threads that seem to run through each set of memories, marking all of the experiences, indelibly, as mine. For example, every single lifetime contains a government agent recruiting me for a new project; each time, due to said agency hearing about my unrivaled memory capabilities. Every childhood I can recall, included religion as a major portion of the family culture. These, and other minor similarities, seem to suggest that there must be some kernel of truth in all of these memories, but there’s just no earthly way I could have had 15 different childhoods! Okay, I’m breathing normally again, and now that the panic has subsided a bit, I think I know how to start putting some pieces together. I woke up this morning (in my house? A stranger’s house? Where even am I?) and saw a huge, overstuffed manila envelope sitting on the nightstand. I was so concerned about the number of childhood experiences (and entire lifetimes) bouncing around my brain, I didn’t bother to start trying out my short-term memory. My last memory from any lifetime in my head is being recruited by the United States (or equivalent country, depending on timelines) to be a part of a time-traveling project. Well, experiment, really, but that wasn’t how they phrased it during recruitment. At any rate, I have no idea what happened to me during my time with them, and that overly full manila envelope seems like it might just hold some answers to all of the questions swirling around my noggin. What’s that saying everybody declares when things don’t go the way you hoped? “Be careful what you wish for; it might just come true,” I believe is how it goes. Well, that cliche definitely seems to fit here. Five years of my life are documented in these files, but according to the newspaper on my doorstep this morning, closer to 10 years have passed since my conscription. Five years undocumented, aside from a minor note - “subject has missed 3 consecutive check-ins; assumed dead.” To be fair, it’s not like they would have had any way to find me, even had they wanted to; it just seems cold to have put it so bluntly. Not that they were necessarily wrong, though, if I’m understanding the rest of this correctly. While I was brought aboard for time-travel, it turns out there’s more steps involved than just, “I want to visit precolonial North America.” In order to travel to a point in time that is not your current location, you have to find a place for your energy to exist. The universe abhors a vacuum, which is what would happen if you tried to introduce a brand-new energy out of nowhere. But, you also can’t just “swap out” energies; you have to hit a sweet spot of somebody matching your energy dying or (far less likely) also traveling through the space-time continuum. But they literally have to be in the process of dying/traveling, otherwise you have to find a different time. Which, I think, is why I have so many memories of so many lives - the people whose bodies I inhabited, and those who inhabited mine while I was out. Then you have to factor in the reality that once you have traveled through time, you no longer truly belong to any time period. Even if you travel to the future, just by leaving your original timeline, you have irreversibly lost your place within it. So many things happened in the last decade, when I basically didn’t exist on this plane. I may never know if I even made it back to my original world, or just one that is remarkably similar. I think there are some minor differences, but how would I prove that they aren’t just things I’ve misremembered? And it’s not like I have anybody that I could bounce ideas/memories off of. All of my family and friends were notified of my death 10 years ago, when I joined the program. I haven’t exactly been making a plethora of new friends in my line of work, nor starting my own family, so I’m on my own now. The only people I even vaguely know are my latest handlers, and they aren’t exactly people you can just track down to reconnect with on a whim. Where was I? Oh, yeah, trying to figure out when and where I am, if not who I am. Well, this timeline seems a lot like the one described in the most detail in my file, so I guess this is where I’m from. This house seems as though it was custom-made for me; knowing our government, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, to try and keep me at least somewhat compliant. Obviously, they don’t want my story getting out; out of 100 fellow recruits, I was the only survivor, according to this paperwork. The house is 100% mine, no mortgage, no financing headaches. I will be getting a generous government stipend each month - more than enough to cover bills, expenses, and a reasonable lifestyle. I won’t be buying designer clothes anytime soon, but I can putter around the house without needing to try finding work, or assistance. That part is probably so they wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of providing me with a real identity. And there’s the kicker. I can do (almost) whatever I want, but I don’t officially exist anymore. The bank account where my money will be deposited each month is listed under an old, old alias of mine (fine, a childhood nickname that nobody alive knows about), I have access to that account via checks and an ATM/debit card. I can’t open a social media account (they hack every single one I try to create), I’ll never be able to fly or travel internationally. I never have to pay taxes again, though! As though that can make up for literally having no life. According to my files, I spent five years as an active operative. Meaning, for five solid years, I was hopping from timeline to timeline, reporting my experiences back to my handlers whenever I would “wake up” back in my own body. At the start, all of us were returning very regularly; after about a year, though, people slowly stopped “waking up” in our safe house. In that second year, maybe thirty people altogether stopped showing back up; after three missed check-ins, they would be presumed dead, their bodies disposed of. I vaguely recall hearing something on one of my check-ins about the disposing of seemingly alive bodies being a difficult pill to swallow, and maybe there’s a better way to be certain the person is actually dead before getting rid of the vessel permanently. I can only assume that this is what happened for me, since obviously I eventually got back here. In the third year, everybody else disappeared; within six months, all the operatives that were still with the project had missed at least three check-ins. For the next year and a half, I managed to make all of my check-ins, for fear of not having a body to return to otherwise. I still don’t know for sure what kept me from checking in for almost five whole years, but I have been trying to put together what pieces I can from my file. Not that there’s much to go by here; each trip is kind of a one-time deal, given what it takes to get there and back. I didn’t expect any clues to lie in the intel I gave them from my destinations; I went looking for clues about my last handler/s. Again, I didn’t expect to find much; ever try to look up a Secret Service agent? How about a CIA handler? Yeah, they don’t tend to come up on a Google search. Quite honestly, I would have preferred to find a fellow operative. Even if anyone else was still alive, though, I assume they would be as hard to find as my handler, or as I am. Since I no longer have an identity, or any social media presence, or really ANY online presence, the only people who would be able to find me would be whoever set me up in this house built just for me. Right now, there’s one thing that I know for sure - somebody knows that I am alive, that I am here, and that I have a story. They have no reason to simply discredit a woman who is already dead; if I make my story public, they probably will just kill me. There’s also one thing they don’t know, though, and that might just save my story, if not my life. You see, one of the lives I lived, was a software developer by day, hacker by night. The past five years are starting to come back to me now: I know how to force my story onto every newspaper’s headline; how to make my story trend on every single social media platform; how to turn my story into an integral part of the current zeitgeist. All of this is triggered the moment my energy leaves this plane; they can’t even force me to travel anymore, or they lose all control of the narrative. I don’t need to find the mountain; I know how to bring the mountain to me.


The world of Aetheria flew high over the heads of the Terrans. It was home to many creatures: the majestic fyrons, the proud dragons, and the simmarins. The most intelligent of all these creatures were the Aethins. They formed a civilization of Aethins on Aetheria, worshipping the wind and waves that made up their home, created festivals of lights and tournaments, even created legends of heroes and villains. Everything was magnificent and glorious in the heavens as they drifted across the skies. Everything was glorious, that is until they fell. For the first time in their lives, these glorious creatures experienced what it felt like to fall, and fall they did. Crashing into the earth below them they had lost their home and was thrown into a new world. This was a time of great confusion for the great Aethins, and even more so for the Terrans they landed upon. The Terrans were very different from the Aethins. For one, they didn't have feathers and wings. Instead they had strong arms and big hands that they used to shape the earth. The Aethins had strong wings that carried them for miles and strong talons that allowed them to hunt for their food with ease. The Terrans used tools that allowed them to thrive on the earth. They saw the Aethins as gods and treated them like such. After many generations passed the Aethins grew spoiled on their new home. They became prideful and forgot where they came from. Some fell in love with the Terrans while others demanded more from the them. They became selfish, greedy, and lustful demanding that the Terrans provide them with more. They wanted sacrifices and slaves, riches and food. In return the Terrans suffered harsh beatings. A wise Aethin was horrified at what had become of his people. He flew up into a mountain and prayed to their forgotten gods, asking what should become of his people. It was revealed to him that they would need to become one with the sky again lest they should be smitten for their greed. He implored them to follow the counsel of their gods and become one with the sky, but they scoffed and scorned the young Aethin. They sent him away from their homes leaving him to fend for himself in the earthen wilderness. For many nights he wandered, on the edge of starvation, until a kind hearted Terran found him and nursed him back to health. Her family had much distaste for the Aethins, for they were taxed heavily to support the Aethins luxurious lifestyle. The wise Aethins weeped when he heard of their dire circumstances and his people's cruel greed. He taught these Terrans all of what he knew of his legends and myths, in return the kindhearted Terran taught him of all of her myths and legends. That night he flew up into the mountains and asked the gods what they should do about his brethren, hoping that they would spare them. They told him that few would return to the skies and that they must purge Aetheria of the Aethins. The gods turned their backs on the greedy Aethins and knew them not. They had forgotten themselves and became something alien to even their own people. The wise Aethin sadly flew down the mountain knowing that the gods were right. He planned with the Terrans that evening on how they would dispose of the Aethins. The wise Aethin begged for one last chance to call his people to the skies, and the Terrans agreed. They would give the Aethins a chance to leave earth of their own free will before destroying them for good. It saddened the wise Aethin to lead the Terrans to battle, but he knew that the gods would give him strength. They traveled the long way to the city of the Aethins and there, the wise Aethin addressed the entire city. He called them to return to the skies, recalled their great stories and legends of who they once were, and reminded them of who they once were. He spoke with such power and authority that some of the Aethins took to the skies, ashamed that they had lost sight of who they were. Other greedy, wicked Aethins were outraged with the wise Aethin. They hurled insults and threatened him with death. The wise Aethin sadly shook his head before he attacked the city, the kindhearted Terran right behind him. That was a day bloodier than any other. The city ran red with the blood of gods, spilt by their angry worshippers. Most see that day as a bloody victory, the wise Aethin saw that day as a grim defeat. He could not save his people and that fact would haunt him to his dying breath. When the battle was over and the city of Aetheria was destroyed for good, the wise Aethin took to the skies and addressed the few Aethins that survived. He told them of the battle and sore afflictions that was bound to come. The Aethins were terrified again, now that their home had been destroyed where would they go? The kindhearted Terran called to the wise Aethin and offered them a home on the high mountains of earth not as gods, but as equals. The wise Aethin accepted the offer and led his people to create the city of Malithia, a city where Terrans and Aethins lived as equals. The wis Aethin and the kindhearted Terran became the first leaders of the new world; Malithia. They led their people to greatness and worked side by side all of them. They led not as kings and queens but as the baker, the monk, the worker, the child, and the leader. They led their kingdom with the gods at their side, teaching a new way of respect and honor. Every king and queen ruling Malithia in their wake has vowed to honor their people and their gods just like the first rulers. The story says that the wise Aethin and the kindhearted Terran became gods when they died. The gods of diligence, faithfulness, honor, and equality. I share this story with you, the same story that my fathers have shared with me and their fathers shared with them. It is shared this way so that we may never forget were we come from and the dangers of pride, greed, and selfishness. We share these stories with the next generations to ensure that our legacy of honor and faithfulness is upheld, so I implore you to learn the story well. Keep it in your hearts. You hold the future of Malithia, keep it safe.


(~1600 words) It was a spell she cast; a beautiful enchantment that slithered towards you from the cracks on the trunks of the ancient oaks, and from the petals of the innocent chamomiles rooting into the rich earth. It fell from the fluffy clouds above like the finest of rains, gently, as if through a sieve which stretched above the blue sky. It came from the sun too, travelling along the beams of light, hot and bright and intense, but it was the strongest around her, radiating off of her form that was even more mightier than the sun itself. She was a new celestial body, proudly challenging the sun, the mother pf gods and men, and all the many-storied stars with her divine halo of golden locks. She stood there, gently swaying like a strand of reed in the warm breeze of the glade, as if her legs were ready to be swept into a carefree dance any moment. She stood there, soft silks of her dress hugging her thin figure, sunlight reflected and broken by fine jewellery on her long fingers. She stood there, looking at you, her black pupils focused on nothing else but yours, and not even the peculiarly colourful flowers yearning to be picked up by her soft hands or the melody of birdsong could snatch her attention away from you. The spell and all its thin threads found their way to you. Their scent was heavy with spices and herbs, but they weighed comforting on your shoulders like a thick blanket. The spell touched your skin, so feather-light at first you believed it to be the wind, but the touch was there, soft and cool in the burning sun. A true blessing. The spell wiped the beads of sweat from your forehead and tucked back a stray strand of hair. It was calm and relaxing, a touch of innocent love you’ve experienced way too long ago. The thought of closing your eyes and leaning into the touch was tempting, but her gaze held you tight, leaving no other option than to gaze back at her. An air of something ethereal lingered and stirred around her, something your mind failed to get a firm grasp on, and so she cruelly left you abandoned in the labyrinth of instinctive guesses. Her fine nose was one of a Greek goddess’ sculpted by masterful hands with generations worth of knowledge combined in the hand which held the chisel and hammer. As she swayed her muscles tensed, strong and lean like an African huntress. Her nude lips, on them the remnants of lipstick long faded, were small but full, and a mischievous smile tugged at its corners, but she had the grace to refrain herself from a childish giggle escaping her mouth. The idea to pick some flowers and weave them into a wreath to adore her beautiful face came with a sudden gust of wind, but her muscles tensed again and you did not dare to move. And besides, for a moment it seemed like a grandiose crown of flowers already rested atop her head. Tiny freckles were speckled across her nose and cheeks, as if the creator had accidentally tipped some paint over while creating this masterpiece. And still, her spell persisted, getting firmer around you by the moment. It was a faint mist hiding the glade with all its nature away from you, leaving only her to be seen and observed. It was like honey surrounding you, every move slow and a great effort to execute. A faint whisper travelled through the ether of the spell and you could only guess if it was her, the wind, or your mind playing a cruel trick on you. The whisper sheepishly asked you to stay and lured you in with promises of eternal love and peace, and so you stayed, feet slowly starting to root into the ground. The gluttony for something unconditional was greater than any sense or logic, and she was the kindred spirit who could deliver that. She was still watching you, eyes round and curious and so filled to the brim with fondness you were afraid it would overflow and stream down her rosy cheeks and into shimmering puddles which you wished to drown in. But she held herself with such poise, such an awareness that your eyes were on her. Her gaze mirrored a look of unshakeable duty and feel of purpose that you only could get a taste of in your dreams. The thread of her spell thickened, soft ropes sliding over your legs and arms, and you wished for that soft peace never to cease. And she obliged your wish, gaze following as you got drunken on her affection, her body still, but eyes very much alive, unwilling to break the stare with as much as a blink. It was a spell she cast, one which creeped up your arms and chest and started to seep through your skin, wishing to gift her inner warmth to you and to see inside your very being, to truly fall in love with the person found in the woods. And you welcomed the warmth, let it to widen your pupils, make your skin prickle, and to sharpen your senses. She stood there, in the inky sweetness, the flowers and the trees long gone, only the sun shining weakly through the spell which placed everything out of focus except her elegant figure. At last, she sent you a faint smile which passed as quick as it came and you doubted whether it really was a smile or just an illusion. She was a mirage, and you none else than a weary traveller. She held her chin high, and you could see a majestic golden crown glinting sharp against the haze of the spell. It was a spell she cast, a spell whose claws dragged across your skin, whose ropes bound you in love and weighed you down. For a fleeting moment her light dress morphed into an armour, her hands steadily wielding a sword, but you blinked, and once again it was just her, loving you, adoring you. Her head tilted, eyes glittering with the curiosity of a young scholar in ancient Alexandria, wishing to discover and understand the human psyche. The dizzying scent of her spell travelled down your nostrils and filled your lungs, and you didn’t want to exhale in fear of losing that feeling of pure bliss within. A cloud passed overhead and in the momentary dimness you spotted a rare and courageous fire burning behind her iris, one which belonged to a Valkyrie. It was a spell she cast, one which held you motionless, one which was keen on exploring your body and mind, and one which you happily let to. Acceptance, at last. She smiled once again, this time longer, and her perfect innocence assured you that all will be right. You exhaled, letting out the air of herbs and spices and the next breath you took was also hers. The air was filled with an ever faint hum of love, of pulsing blood of the heart and of what reminded you of the womb. And you still held the eyes which belonged to a sorceress. She thanked your unconditional trust with a flash of wisdom, and now she was a druidess from the misty woods of the Irish highlands. And you let her wisdom to do as she wished. The ropes of the spell dug into your skin, tightening. It was a spell she cast, one which grew hot and heavy, and you felt it crawl under your nails, filling your nostrils and flowing into your ear, burning the promise of peace into it like molten lead. You felt as it crept further under your skin, slowly, and you were unable to tear your gaze away from her figure of the sorceress. She smiled, one of faked sympathy but still very true fondness. It was a spell she cast, and it seeped deep, like beautiful, shining, silver mercury mixing with the blood rushing in your veins. It was a spell she cast, one which filled your mouth with the sweetness of poisoned honey. The flow of mercury crept further up your legs, and you noticed just how joyous those freckles of hers were. She loved you, and that was all you needed. Her full lips yet again curved into a careful smile, one stripped from all kinds of sympathy and replaced with pity. The glinting river of mercury rotted away the redness of your blood, ate it up, wanting to have all the place for itself, wanting to have you just for itself. Her golden locks swayed in the breeze, and truly she must have been an angel. Your fingertips numbed, losing their sense of touch, but at this point it didn’t matter, because this bliss was within you, filling your every cell, and now you could carry it. It was a spell she cast, a spell which surrounded you like a soft and airless cocoon. The blood in your heart was banished, its place taken by the mercury sitting heavy on the faint scarlet throne, coating it with a layer of metallic silver. Her lips parted slightly as if wishing to say something, but all you could hear was the sizzling spell of molten lead in your ear, slowly dripping into your brain, and you could fell your sanity leaking out the back of your neck, vapouring away. It was a spell she cast, one of beauty and love, one of an enchantress, one of lethal poison and eternal bliss which you refused to let go off. It was a spell she cast and the last thing you saw before the whole world went out of focus was her form elegantly swaying as if ready to be swept into a dance, eyes peering into your soul, nude lips curled into a smile.


Tom can’t count the days of darkness. He’s been sitting in the middle of that room for what seems like an eternity. He cannot differentiate day and night. He can only feel the temperature change. He thinks it’s nighttime when his feet, tied to both legs of the chair, ache with the touch of the freezing floor and daytime when sweat drips from every pore of his body. There are no windows for light and air to pass through. He’s surprised he’s still breathing, taking in the stench of mold, sweat, and piss. He’s been in and out of sleep, he can’t even figure our dreams versus reality anymore. Sometimes he’d wake up from light vibrations from above. By that, he thinks he’s underground and the light rumble’s probably from a heavy vehicle. But he can’t be sure. After food-deprived days or weeks maybe, he couldn’t think properly. His mind is in spirals. Drought is taking over his throat. Death is on its way. He hears footsteps. Three or four persons, maybe more. He tried to guess. Keys rattle and the door opens. A sliver of light seeps in. Somebody enters the room and turns on the blinding lights. The plain white walls randomly stained by molds, shoe prints, and blood, peeling yet bright under the reflection of what seems a hundred bulbs over Tom add to the suffering of his eyes. Heavy footsteps head towards him and stop right in front. A strong hand grips his jaw. Tom opens his eyes and squints. He isn’t sure if it’s the light that blinds him or starvation. A blurred vision of a man slowly becomes clear, well built, huge neck, and wide-body in camo uniform and fatigue boots. Must be at least, three hundred pounds. ‘Just tell us where he is Tom, and you’re free.’ His big body matches his deep husky voice. He lets go of Tom’s jaw and slowly paces back and forth in front of him. ‘Come on boy. Just tell us where this little El Presidente of yours is and you walk outta here a free man. You and your little girlfriend. That’s a promise if you play along.’ He sounds like a gentle teacher trying to get his preschool student to draw an apple. Tom’s almost blind eyes open as wide as it possibly can. ‘Don’t touch her,’ his faint voice is not louder than the rodents at night. ‘Bring her in!’ This time, the muscle guy isn't gentle anymore. Tom hears a thud on the floor. ‘We vowed, Tom. We’d rather die.’ Luisa’s face is almost on the floor. Her wrists bleed from handcuffs. Her left eyelid, puffy. Dark purple circles cover most of her face. Death is also, on her way. ‘Shut up!’ Muscle guy in camo lifts her face and hits it with his right hand, so strong Luisa’s head could almost separate from her body. Tom utters a very weak, ‘no.’ Muscle guy comes back to Tom. ‘Whatdya say boy?’ He grins. ‘Let her go, please,’ Tom whispers. ‘Then bloody tell me where that El Presidente of yours is.’ Tom suddenly gets a heavy blow on his left cheek. Blood drips on his face. From where he couldn’t exactly tell. He isn't sure if he just lost a few teeth or got his jaw dislocated. But one isn't better than the other. ‘Say something, Tom. Don’t let me lose my patience. You tell me where he is and both of you,’ he looks at Tom and then Luisa and then back to Tom again, ‘walk outta here free.’ ‘Don’t tell him, Tom. You tell him and he’d still kill us. We cannot betray the organization. We made a pact. ’ Luisa looks like she’d already gone to hell and back. ‘Take her out!’ Two men in camo, smaller than muscle guy, quickly drag Luisa out clutching her arms as if she’s just some kind of luggage. ‘Don’t tell him, Tom. I’d rather die! We’d rather die! That’s our pact! Tom looks at her as they drag her out. He listens to her screams that later on turn into faint muffled wails. ‘Look here boy. You should have been at school. But you and your stupid little organization brought you here. You think you can fight the government with that?’ Tom glares at him. ‘I’ll give you one more day boy. Think about it. Or you and your cute little girlfriend will die.’ Muscle guy turned off the light and locked the room. Tom laughs at the idea of locking the room. There’s really no need for he couldn’t even move his finger an inch. His wrist bleeds from being handcuffed. His arms are tightly bound to the chair. His eyes adjust to darkness again and listen as the heavy footsteps disappear. He laughs. He laughs until his empty stomach hurts. Until his eyes squeeze out what little liquid is left in his body. He thinks about how he ended up in that dark dungeon. He was just a freshman at the university when he met Fred. He gave his speeches in front of their office organization near the university gate. He carried a megaphone and spoke about the struggles of the poor, capitalism, and democracy. His charisma was alluring, Tom wasn’t able to resist. He was blinded by Fred’s idealism. Luisa got blinded too. Tom brought Luisa into the organization and she became more hardcore than him. They, later on, dropped out of university and joined Fred full time. They themselves started recruiting innocent-eyed freshmen. Tom thinks about his father who died while working in a factory. The company did a cover-up. The hospital closed its eyes and ears. No suitcases were filed. A meager payment for his father’s life was offered by the company’s lawyer, in which, they had no way to refuse as his younger self and his mother didn’t know what to do. This reminds him of all the principles he fought for and why is he in that dark room. Tom thinks about his mother who by now must have been dealing with the mountains of debt she accumulated by sending him to university. He laughs. What a grateful son! This is how he repays her. She must have all her hair gray now, trying to get by with her life, old and alone. Tom thinks about Luisa, her bruised face, and the life they envisioned together before they both joined the organization. They could have finished their degrees now, working for capitalists, earning some money to pay their debts, living a seemingly normal life. They could have been married too. Who knows? By sitting in the dark, handcuffed, and tied to a chair, he will probably never find out. Tom thinks about Fred in his safe house. Probably sleeping comfortably in his securely guarded abode. Recruiting more and more freshmen into his idealistic organization and sending them to the front line whenever trouble arises. Tom, Luisa, and every member took an oath to protect Fred, their El Presidente, and the organization to create a better future for the next generation. They made a pact. There’s only loyalty or death. He’s wondering now why life wasn’t given as an option. And then life is all he could think about. He wants to live. He wants Luisa to live. He wants a life with her and his mom. He wakes up to the rattling of keys. Muscle guy comes in and turns on the blinding lights. Tom hears a thud and a weak, dying wail from Luisa. ‘Time’s up boy. Speak or die.’ 'No, Tom. No!' Luisa's hoarse voice is almost non-existent. "We'd rather die than be branded as traitors.' Tom gently opens his eyes and tries to adjust to the brightness. He looks at three guns pointed at Luisa and thinks of life. Traitors aren’t born traitors. They are raised by adversity.


Thirty-one years, one day, twenty hours and forty minutes my husband and I have been married. Not starting from when we exchanged ceremonious “I Do’s” at the altar on a heady summer day in 1980; no, starting from midnight that night, sipping cheap white wine in a cheap beige dress, the first day of my new life, the beginning of three long decades that would result in me waiting in the cold outside our favourite restaurant, a day after our anniversary, ten minutes late for the reservation. The sun was still lingering around the clouds on the horizon. It was the latest I had seen it all summer; especially in London. Not a single car passed and only the occasional pedestrian stepped on the other side of the street, but I still didn’t notice Joseph until he was standing by my side. It was something you got used to, depending on your relationship with him of course. I stubbed my cigarette into the ground and turned to him, staring with quiet but clear indignation. From the look of Joe you wouldn’t place him in his profession, let alone think he was one of the best. He was skinny, but not tall, content to wearing pullover hoodies and expensive trainers. Hardly appropriate wear. Apart from his wrinkled face and white hair, you’d think him juvenile if his stern eyes didn’t demand respect. He spoke with a deep rumble, betraying his age with a rasping echo, making everything sound intensely morbid. It was depressing for a moment that this man was almost ten years younger than me. “Your husband’s debts have been settled, Mrs McMahon.” It was a cold way to tell me Felix had just been murdered, even for him. “Perhaps we should go inside.” “You’re late, our table’s probably gone by now.” “My apologies, Mrs McMahon.” “*Miss*.


I really met my person - the one I get to call home no matter where we actually end up. He really wasn’t perfect, we both had our faults, but we always worked on them together. the petals to my rose - this man was going to be my husband, I was going to make sure of it. Quiet, never too outstanding, nothing above average, no matter what it was we were doing, he never did anything too brilliant, not wanting to be seen by others. And yet he took my heart; I was the social butterfly out of the both of us, chit chatting away at parties, but always making sure my significant other was close by and never feeling left out. I made sure no matter where we were, I did the most to make sure others weren’t giving him a hard time, always making sure that he wasn’t too far away. My favorite memory was our last date right before I proposed, I mean I felt I had to, I knew he would never have the confidence to do it himself, he could think of it as a personal favor to be repaid some day in the future once we share anniversaries or kids’ birthdays. That special day will always be in my memories As my proudest moment in our relationship. It was like something out of the movies; blossoms were budding on trees left and right, the grass was unbelievably soft, like a rug for when you have children, and the air was just right, I made sure of it. I waited for the perfect time: 6:15 pm, exactly when the blues in the sky began to deepen: orange, reds, purple, now. As he looked at me to speak, I bent on both knees (Feeling it was most appropriate) and I spoke those magical words that changed life forever , “Will you marry me? I can’t wait any longer to start our family together.” I’m met with silence, one second became a minute, two became three; his eyes turned dark, this isn’t right, this didn’t happen what’s going on? His mouth widens, a loud shriek, next, I’m awake. A dark room at first, shifting left and then right, not a single peep on either side, and then a light pops on, revealing a strange looking doctor. Large as a man, arms lengthy and slender, but built and large, like a character customization gone wrong. He waltzes in, confident that he intimidates me with a stupid, smug look on his face, a slight sneer appearing, revealing his cracked lips that I can’t seem to turn away from, ” Worms like you disgust me, be gone from my sight or I will make sure you regret it. ” A relief I wouldn’t have to see him again, I wasn’t scared, but the smaller details on his face disgusted me, maybe considering I couldn’t move, I wouldn’t have made sure it was the last time he ever saw me. And with that, everything went black, like I was being transported into a room polar opposite from the other, no feeling, no sense of time, like I was unconscious but awake and aware at the same time. There were cool grey, stone walls in the other room, sort if catering more to a dungeon rather than an experimental testing room for a hospital; whereas mine has soft white walls, wide roman style windows lay on each, creating a warmer and serene atmosphere, I’d assume all patients get nervous and this helped, I just think this is a waste of money for us “tax payers”. A large board sat front to me: Name : Lanpur Wills, Room : #2017, Nurse : All who dare, Notes : In responsive conditions, although delirious, can and will respond to any and all questions asked. Big letters scrawled in fast, nurses loud whispering in the halls, “ No, you deal with her! You have more experience and I don’t think I can do this anymore, after this, I might just quit! ” Fear stricken faces on each as I turn my head to face them all, not a single muscle moved, my face sat blank, I know it, expressionless to make it all the worse. My favorite nurse, Lyne, she stood in middle of the full group, she was the smallest but the fiercest, sometimes we’d talk, she didn’t really care, it was her job to make it seem like she was listening, but I know she just wanted to spot things that were “wrong with me”. She had the most terrified expression out of all the nurses, I got out once, the restraints failed and I pulled free, she was stuck in the room with me, I did nothing, but she still screamed and shouted for help. Loud silence filling everywhere, everyone is terrified of me, I never thought I could be this proud - everything went well, I know it did. If memory serves me well, which is should, even after all the testing to see “what was wrong with me”, I told him he mustn’t make mistakes, and yet all he did was commit error after error. He thought he escaped, he thought his secrets were kept well, no matter how quiet, I knew of everything going on. I knew he would meet with that girl, how he was planning all his savings to make sure of two things: 1, he could change everything about himself, and 2, he could move somewhere with her, somewhere nobody would think to look. how stupid of him to think so low of me, knowing full well I’d search even the farthest planets to make sure he was always with me and only me. The girl wasn’t even half of what I was, she was barely average, especially in running, or hiding - on another thought, poor girl must have been terrible at hide and seek, I found her no matter where she went. I didn’t even have much of a fair game with her, she got what she deserved, and he did too, forever miles apart and never together because death did them part. He knew he was mine and only mine, belonging to nobody else but me, and these doctors know full well I will play along until I get my out, nothing will keep me separate from his body for too long, he’ll miss me for sure.


On a long and steady road with nothing but tufts of grass and pebbles scattered across it, a man and a boy walk along its ongoing path while looking ahead just enough to see where they're gonna tread on next. "..." "..." "So, do you know where we're heading to?" "..." "Not a big talker, are you?" "..." "You know, we've been walking along this road for a while now and all we've seen is just bits of grass and rocks." "..." "Aren't you curious about what's around us? We're always looking at the ground." "..." "At first, it was okay looking at the small and colorful pebbles and the fresh green grass for a while, but I'm bored now. Why don't we do something different?" "..." "Let's play a game! I know a pretty fun game that we can do!" "..." "I'll pick a rock and all we have to do is keep it in front of us by kicking it! Sounds fun, right?" "..." "I'll start!" The boy found a random pebble and started kicking it. "See? Look how fun this looks! Don't you want to join too?" "..." The man never looked up and kept on looking at his feet as he walked along the path. The boy kept kicking the pebble by himself until he passed the pebble to the man. The man never kicked the pebble back. "..." "..." The boy went back to the man's side and continued walking along his side on the long and steady road. "Do you wanna play a different game? I know another game we can play?" "..." "It's a game you could be really good at! It's a game of who can find the biggest rock! You're always looking down so you could have an advantage! Ready? Go!" "..." "I'm going to find a rock more bigger than yours!" The boy looked enthusiastically at the ground looking for the biggest rock he can find. The man kept on walking without giving any pebbles a look of interest. The boy came back carrying a rock the size of his hot red head. "Look...at...this!" The boy dropped the rock in front of the man's feet just before the man was going to take another step. The man stopped. The man looked at the rock the boy dropped and stood there for what seemed like hours. The boy was confused because this was the first time the man stopped. The man slowly looked from the rock to the boy and stared at him with his dark brown eyes showing nothing in them. "I used to collect rocks like these and play simple games with them. It was a memory that I cherished so much. It reminded me of when I had no worries about the world and no responisbilities to take care of. I was happy and free. I felt like I was going to be loved by everybody and be friends with everyone I met. Now, I'm alone. Alone on this long and unending path. I wish I could walk back but I can't. I can't go back anymore. I have to keep moving forward through fields and mountains. I have to keep going." "..." The man sighed. He looked back at his feet and muttered one last sentence before moving on. "I'm sorry I can't go back and be like you again." The man slowly walked forward one step at a time down the long and steady road, tired and alone.


Chinnappa was considering himself as a lucky fellow. He somehow escaped the gang of hired men meant to join the rally and shout slogans and lend their support to the ongoing farmers’ strike. The strike initially was a big draw and drew attention of all alike. People really sympathised the ‘food-giver’ the other name of farmer. But when political parties interfered them with their vested interests it took a different turn --- an ugly turn. The agitation had neither farmer’s agenda nor political agenda. Certain unethical divisive elements also surged and usurped the platform. The police had a tough time to bring the mob under control. Chinnappa was lucky. He limited his participation to the first day and then he withdrew himself. He had come all the way from his small town in Kadappa to this big city Pune in search of better ventures. He was himself a farmer and when they were on call for a strike, he willingly and wholeheartedly supported them. But instead of joining them in the capacity of a farmer, he joined hands as a political party worker, which later got precipitated. His main issue was still hanging. A job if not a lucrative one, at least to sustain him with dignity was his urgent need. Even though he readily agreed to be a partner with his friend Munisamy in a self-employment plan, he still needed to strengthen himself with some more activities till his partnership venture picked up. He went back to Kittappa, an old friend from his village. The same man who assured him to get some work at his construction site. Kittappa took him to his boss who simply said that job could be offered only on leave vacancies. There was no roster for calling additional hands to fill the gap of absentees. Neither there was any agency to handle such issues. So, the only alternative was, jobless men hang around the mason on a daily basis and look for opportunities. Because Kittappa was aware of such happenings, he assured his friend Chinnappa that he too could be employed. Chinnappa went back to Kittappa to find out if any leave vacancy existed and he could be absorbed. Mason said the day’s work schedule and the required labourers for the work were already chalked out and there was nothing that could be meted out to him. Better luck tomorrow. At the same time, he said, “There is very good chance for next week as year-end festival is fast approaching and a few migrant labourers are sure to go on leave. Christmas is not like Diwali when all of us want to be with our family. But those labourers who are coming here for work from nearby towns and villages will surely go on short trips. Around new-year time we ourselves shut down everything and you will again find yourself left out. So be prepared for that also.” Kittappa then told mason, “This my friend Chinnappa is a very good drummer in our native place. His band ‘Dol-Tasha’ is equally popular during the Ganesha Festival. People come from nearby villages also to watch the drum beating. It is a big draw. We call it ‘mela’. In our good old days, we used to get ‘Laavani dancers’ also. Because of widespread poverty, these cultural activities are dwindling. I wonder if our children will ever get to see such colourful shows“. Mason looked at Chinnappa with an appreciative look. “Oh! very nice. Good. You are multitalented. Let me see if I can get you into Christmas Carols or Christmas parties. But many of them insist that the participants should be Christians only. So, I can’t promise you. But let me try.” Chinnappa instantly refused. “Sir, I cannot pretend to be somebody. Just recently I joined a rally where I was neither farmer nor a political party worker. But I will do that mistake again. When I am not a Christian, I shall not pretend to be one, just for the sake of being a drummer. I shall be what I am. No doubt that I enjoy drum-beating and I will love to perform. Even if I am not being paid, it does not matter. I will perform. Please make it clear to them also.” Mason was again struck with an appreciation. ‘Honesty is good, but not always. Call yourself Chinnappa Jacob and carry on. Who is going to find out?” Chinnappa did not agree. “Whether anybody finds out or not, Ganapathy Bappa knows all. Then how can I play for Him at Ganesh festivals? I will remain what I am. I am very clear about that.” “Then it is doubtful. But let me ask and find out. Here again it is a case of leave vacancy. All parties have their own troupes and normally don’t prefer outsiders. If only if there arises any shortage of artists, you get a chance.” So saying, he called a few people from his contacts. The problem with all performing artists was that when they approached others for chances, they got ignored and often paid lowly. On the contrary, if they were contacted by organizers for delivering a performance, the artists could bargain and hold their prestigious positions with dignity. Chinnappa did not carry any great hopes nor did he dismiss it totally. Mason lost interest when two of his contacts bluntly refused. Dol-Tasha had nothing to do with Christmas Parties. Most of troupes had their own artists. Even if one or two of them happened to be absent, the troupe would carry on with existing available crew members. The third one did not assure but neither did he say no. ‘Ok. Let us see’ type. Mason almost gave up. Then he suddenly remembered his own colony-man who was into innovative initiatives. This worked. “Oh. Yes. Send him. It will be a novel idea to try this method this year. Our colony people are already accustomed to local band bajaa. Last year they enjoyed film music. We played all-time favourite Bollywood film numbers. This year we plan to have an all-night show night-long event. He should come prepared for that. Before engaging him, I have to get his performance approved by our team-leader. If everything goes well, then he can be there with us for the event. Send him right now. All depends on his performance.” Mason smiled. “Chinnappa, you are lucky. Go and see him. Show all your prowess and prove yourself.” Kittappa also congradulated him. Chinnappa was not all that happy. He did not have his drums here in this town. He had come to Pune in search of job, not for playing drums. How could he perform without instrument? All hopes turned into despair. But Kittappa did not let him down. “Let me see if our colony Ganesh Mandal can spare their dol-drums. Since you are a total stranger here, I have my apprehensions. Let us see.” Chinnappa took the address from Mason. Later at the end of the day, Kittappa met his local headman in his colony and asked for help. He was a staunch caste-conscience man. He did not approve someone singing for other communities. Much less to talk of lending instruments to guys not known to him. He was showering advices on how a person needed to be proud of one own caste and community, particularly when people of other castes never encouraged artists from other communities. Kittappa tried another mandal of another locality, where he was residing earlier. Here too, it was same story but not that staunch or strong. He repeatedly requested and finally convinced him, but on one condition that first he should perform for his colony and one more condition was that whatever remuneration received, half of it belonged to the band owner. That was the charges for taking the drums on hire. Now Chinnappa was happy. He got a feeling that he was slowly marching towards success. He strongly upheld the fact if at all he achieved anything, it was all due to the concerted efforts of his friends, partners and well-wishers. He might be poor of money wealth or riches. But not poor on the count of well-wishers. Kittappa, Mason, Munisamy and other partners .... List would be long. He prayed to his favourite God Ganpathy Bappa for showering good-luck and always leading him on right path. He prayed. This time it was not for him or his family alone. His prayers gracefully included all his well-wishers. It will be so hereafter also.


It was Christmas morning, 1992. A gentle snow was falling outside idyllically. Inside, my siblings and I were nearly buried in an avalanche of toys, boxes, and wrapping paper. Like every other eight year old, I hardly slept the night before. I was so excited for Santa to come. I woke up early, around 6:00 am, and commenced to rousing the rest of the family. Gift opening was stretched far past breakfast time. Dopamine filled my body like a soaked sponge as I tore through the paper. As the gift opening slowed, all of those factors caught up to the whole family. Mom got up to make a nice Christmas breakfast for everyone and I was just lost in a sea of Christmas remains. Then my dad opened his mouth and set off that life-changing chain of events. "Let's get all of this cleaned up before breakfast," he said. A totally reasonable request, looking back now. But eight year old me just flipped out. I don't recall the stream of protests exactly, but my already short-tempered father was growing more impatient with each one. I remember how it ended, though. "You are treating me like a piece of crap!" I cried. "That's because you *are* a piece of crap!" Dad yelled. My world stopped.      My heart sank. It was hard to breathe. To dad it was just the culmination of being tired, hungry, and frustrated. He didn't mean it. To me it was confirmation. Even at eight years old I knew the feeling of being a disappointment to my parents. I was bullied at school then came home to be picked on some more. In short, young me had suspected for a while that I was a worthless waste of life. Still, hearing those words from dad, confirming my confused young anxieties, was like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to think of ways to get out of this situation and undo everything that had happened in the last few minutes. I felt the pressure on my eyes as tears started forming. My best coping mechanism for bullying was to pretend that it didn't bother me. Just laugh it off; they don't matter in the long run anyway. But what the hell even *is* "the long run" when you are 8? By then most kids have spent half their lives in school. The ones getting bullied have spent half their lives living in fear. This was just my life. I couldn't laugh this off. I couldn't. I tried. My lips quivered and the tears started falling down my face. In a situation like this, it's fight or flight. *Run away!* my mind thought. And run I did. With hardly a thought I found myself in the basement of our house, hiding in a closet. I wanted to get away and go start a new life, but there were only two ways out: through the back door, into the snow wearing just my Christmas pajamas, or back through the house to get dressed for the weather and pack some necessities. I was stuck in that closet. In the dark. Out of sight, running away from my problems just like a real piece of crap. Once I ran out of tears and it was clear that no one was going to come console me, nor was my dad going to apologize and see if I was okay, I determined to just leave. *No one cares about you* I thought. Emerging from the closet and climbing the stairs, I had some doubts. Maybe the cat would miss me. Or maybe my sister would be lonely. Of course they wouldn't. I made life a living hell for everyone around me and deserved to leave and endure whatever fate lie ahead. I looked back, sniffed once more, and opened the back door. The fluffy snow stung my bare feet as it squished between my toes and consumed me up to my ankles. It was a surprising texture, though not interesting enough to overpower the pain. I nearly turned back. But something did hurt worse than being cold: facing my father and living with the fact that he hated me. I trudged on. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, warming my body enough to stop the shivering. Eventually even my feet were warm, though my toes (and my fingers too) were bright red. I passed so many houses as I wandered aimlessly down the street. Most were decorated with their trees and lights. I could see happy families through some of the windows, enjoying their new toys and undying love for one another. Why couldn't that be me? Why did I have to be out here in the cold without warm clothes, boots, gloves, or anything? Oh yeah, it was my fault. I made dad angry. I ran away. I ran away without getting anything but the pajamas on my body. I turned south, finally deciding where to go live on my own. Clouds began forming again and a breeze picked up. After a couple of miles my feet and hands were freezing again. My toes had gone from bright red to pale pink and my fingers were starting to change color too. Every step stung. The fluffy, squishy snow I started with now felt like meat cleavers with every step. I shivered uncontrollably as I approached my "secret" place. When I reached that big pine tree at the end of a path through the forest, I collapsed. I couldn't cry anymore. I couldn't walk anymore. I wouldn't be a burden anymore. Sirens blared in the distance. "Someone else is having a pretty bad Christmas too," I mumbled. Snow fluttered between the trees. The whining sound of police cars made my head spin. I was warm again. In fact, I was hot. The tips of my fingers and toes were purple now. Was I turning into a monster? My heart raced again. I felt so hot that I tore off my shirt and rolled in the snow. Everything was spinning. Everything was changing colors. My skin was burning. Memories flooded my mind. My pets. My friends. My family. My school. Sirens getting closer. "Your are a piece of crap" were dad's last words to his little boy. Now he wouldn't have to be bothered by me any more.


It was just like any other day; on the day it all went wrong. The bustling life of London city flourished. People, noise, cars. Everywhere. Tourists, all gathered around Big Ben and the London Eye, citizens rushing and pushing, desperately trying to get to work. There were the early risers, dotted on benches, observing the world around them as if they were not just as much a part of it. There were the late partiers, the elderly, the young, the families, the homeless, the businessmen. All of them living in the same place at the same time, and all of them completely unaware of the chaos that would shortly ensue. After the chaos, there would be silence, but not that of the peaceful sort. The silence would be deafening, in the similar sort of way to that of the screams and sounds of collapsing buildings minutes earlier. And then there would be the girl. Whose story will most likely never be told by anyone, except by the person who had betrayed her trust the most; the person who had caused everything to all go wrong ------------------------------------------------------ She sat behind the cold steel bars of the prison cell; eyes fixed blankly on the plain white wall in front of her. Beside her, three figures sat hunched over in the corner of the cell, whispering among themselves. A man stood outside the room, staring at the four. A short woman stood beside him; hair stretched into a tight bun, lips stained red, jewels adorning her ears. She glanced at the man, trying to read him, trying to understand anything about this unknown man who had just appeared, as if from nowhere. She got nothing. He was just as blank as the white walls of the cell in front of them. “I need you to understand sir, we can’t let this matter go unsettled.” “I know.” Nothing. Not a flicker of emotion. Not even for a second. His face revealed nothing about what he was thinking or feeling, almost as if he were feeling nothing at all. As if he were numb. “There will be a severe penalty for them, especially the girl.” “I know.” Face still blank, his expression solely fixed on the figures inside the cell. “ Sir, I’m not sure you are understanding the severity of this situation, they blew up seven buildings and killed forty-two people. They’ll be on trial, due to some conflicting evidence that has been found, but they are inevitably going to be found guilty; sentenced to life in prison. Or worse, if the court allows it ” “I know .” The woman sighed, her exhaustion seeping through. It had been a long day filled with endless paperwork and interviews. The last thing she needed to be dealing with was this mysterious man who was somehow linked to a group of possible terrorists. Or at least, a man important enough to be given high enough security clearance to be able to see them. “I’ll be back in a minute, you may talk to them if you so please, but there will be guards in the room at all times.” The woman mumbled, shaking her head slightly before leaving the room. The man glanced at the three huddled figures and the girl for a moment more before entering the room. The three immediately stopped whispering and snapped their gazes to him, while the girl remained staring blankly ahead. “Aria, what happened?” he questioned. No reply. He sighed. Things had changed a lot since the two had last seen each other, and things hadn’t exactly ended on the most civil of terms. “Sister, please I need you to talk to me so that I can try and help-“ “I need no help from the likes of you, brother.” She sneered. “I remember quite clearly where that got me last time.” Her eyes were filled with so much hatred, it seemed to seep into his soul, causing him to suppress a shudder. “Look, you know I didn’t mean for things to end like that.” “No. You look, I don’t want your help. Not now, not ever. And if that means that I shall die, then so be it. I would rather die than ever see you again. You are no brother to me; you lost that title years ago when you betrayed me. When you betrayed all of us.” “I swear, I didn't mean to. I was just trying to-” “In case it wasn’t clear enough when I said it the first time, I’ll say it again. I. Don’t. Want. Anything. To. Do. With. You.” “Aria,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t do this. I can’t lose my sister too.” “Just leave me alone, you brought this upon yourself.” She turned back to face the wall, her face warped with rage and annoyance. He glanced at the three boys in the corner momentarily, who looked at him with just as much hatred, before sighing in misery and turning to leave the room. The woman had returned and was waiting outside when he exited. “Do you know the girl personally?” She asked, curious as to who this man was, and how he was linked to the girl inside of the cell who had almost single-handedly brought down London. “I saw you were talking to her.” “I knew all of them,” he murmured. “At least, I thought I did. Once. A long time ago.” “Who are they?” His face was grim, a crumpled smile spread across his lips as he answered. “They were the people who were going to change this world. For the better.” He spared one last gaze at the people who were once his everything, before leaving the building. He was officially alone in the world; he had no one left. He had never meant for it to turn out like this, he had never meant to betray them. In his mind, it had been the best plan of action among many that would have led to an inevitable death for all of them. If everything could’ve just gone according to his plan all those years ago, none of this would’ve happened. His parents wouldn’t have died, the group wouldn’t be in prison and he would still have his sister. But no, things all just had to go terribly wrong.


Fated Delivery And in the front door of Efferty Drasso’s house, a letter is being dropped by the postman. Addressed to someone that Efferty doesn’t even know exist, but soon, he is going to find out more than he would bargain for. “Oh man, what a day...how dare he even say those things to me?! All the things I did for the company the whole month went down the river just like that! That asshole!”. These are his thoughts as he steps on his front door. “But the bills and letters keep coming no matter the crappy day you had to endure” he scoffed. And then, he sees it. A red envelope. Being the most different of all the letters, lying in his mat by the door. “What’s this? From Reeven Tally...to Linus Tally..” Efferty matters as he looks the words on the envelope. “Ah the damn mail boy again...mistaking my house like, god, doesn’t he checks anything when he delivers?” Efferty is mattering these words as he enters the house with the red envelope and his other letters at hand. “Well, what to do. Name doesn’t ring any bell...Do I have any neighbor called like that?” he thinks to himself while he stands still and looks the red letter. “Seems like a brother-to-brother letter huh...or perhaps some relatives.” He keeps making these thoughts while he turns around the letter checking it from outside to every corner. Then suddenly, he notices something. “Huh..what’s this?” he wonders. While he was peering at the paper envelope, he notices that some of its red colour starting to dissolve, revealing a symbol that Efferty had never seen before. “Well, let’s search about it!” he shouts while he takes a picture of the circle-like fluted symbol. *** After some research on his computer, Efferty comes across three words and a symbol that looks exactly like the one on the letter: ‘The Copper Scroll’ . “The Copper Scroll? What is that thing?” he mutters with a big, disappointed face. At that moment, his phone rings. The name Tony appears on the screen-Efferty’s best friend. “Yo dude, how you been?” are the words coming from the phone’s answered call. “Bro, they fired me! Said I didn’t do my job right. Can you believe this shit?” Efferty says to Tony while rubbing his forehead. “Yeah dude, I can. Cause you were going wasted half of the days in the one month they hired you! To me, I wonder how you even lasted for a whole month!” Tony replies to him as his starts making fun of the sad-faced Efferty. “Well, whatever, it’s their loss you know! Anyway, come over, will you? We gotta finish building my paladins’s gear!” (He is talking about the game he and Tony play at their free time). “Ok bro, coming right up” says an excited Tony. *** One hour later, the doorbell has rung, both kids have started playing their favourite game, talking excited over high-volumed metal music. Tony stands up and goes to grab a beer. “By the way, you got any bucks to lend to me? Electricity bill came and it’s like 350 bucks! Crazy shit, I am not even at home!” Efferty screams to Tony while playing his game. “How you managed that again?! You will put us in jail at the end, man! Where is the shit, gotta check what they charge you for” Tony says while holding and drinking his cold beer. He spots the letters and heads towards them. The red envelope is covering most of the other letters and it picks Tony’s curiosity. “Yo, who is Reeven Tally? Who is Linus Tally?” he asked Efferty after checking the addresses. “No clue man, mailman confused the houses apparently. Leave that shit, come help me to pick the best tunic here! I need a boost on defence, but I crave for some attack also you know---“are the words that Efferty keeps muttering while pressing his keyboard keys endlessly. “Why haven’t you check it out? Let’s see what it says!” Tony announced all excited as he tries to find a knife to open the letter without damaging it. “Tony, no! Leave it as it is. It is not ours!” Efferty screams to Tony when he notices what his friend is trying to do. “Like come on, aren’t you even a little curious?” excited Tony asks as he is about to open the letter using a kitchen knife. Efferty runs towards him, grab the knife and tries to take the letter from Tony’s hands “No, leave it be! Who cares, it’s not for me” he replies angrily to Tony. “Well, but it did come on your door. You have every right to open it!” Tony announces while making it clear that he doesn’t intend to let it go. “Would you like it if strangers just poked on a personal letter you wrote to someone?” asks Efferty . “Well...no” says Tony. “But we are the strangers here, so I don’t care whose secrets I find”. The two boys start fighting over the letter and they end up ripping it a little on its right corner. “Nice going, douchebag!” Efferty screams angrily to Tony. “You destroyed it!”. “What’s the big deal either way? It’s probably gonna be one of those lovey-dovey letters brothers send to each other over wishes or just to catch up with their lives. Just open it and we’ll just say it came to us like that!” Tony says with a smirk. “You-you..! Fuck...” Efferty starts opening the letter, unfolding it slowly so that he will not damage it anymore. He then starts reading out loudly: October 2, 2022 “Linus... I FINALLY did it! I found it, brother! The Copper Scroll is almost in my grasp! At last! We talked about it for so many years! And dad, he... he wouldn’t stop talking about the treasure. And I did it! God, I would LOVE to see his face! His assumptions and research were correct all along! I finished the map, Linus! All that’s left is to go there and claim the scroll. And then the treasure is going to be ours! We are talking about so much money...millions perhaps!”. At this point, Efferty lift his face up, started shaking and looked at Tony completely frozen. “What did you just....?” asked Tony. “Let me see!” said Tony, while approached the frozen Efferty. “Dude, what’s going on? Did we just...read a letter talking about treasure?!” Tony started to scream happily and jump around all over the kitchen. “Wai-wait! Tony, this can just be...a scam. Hold on, there is more written here...” Efferty replied. He then continued reading out loud while Tony stepped by his side trying to also look at the words written: “...But I’m gonna need your help. You must follow my instructions and go get the map. I don’t want to frighten you, but we always knew that we were not the only ones searching for it. In my despair, I need to inform you that some of them learned about the research and found me. But not to worry, I am alive and have escaped them” . At that line, both young men looked each other with a face filled in terror. Efferty gulps and continues reading: “But the map...and the research...you must not let them obtain anything! Follow my guidelines so we can get the scroll. WE DESERVE IT, LINUS! US! We waited so many years! I am leaving you with some clues because I don’t know who to trust anymore. Baias has betrayed me, and I don’t even know if this letter reaches you. Just to be sure, everything I include in this letter can only be interpreted via specific paths and methods that only us, (hopefully), know about. I am counting on you, little brother. Remember this, trust NO-ONE even if they tell you they know me or being my friends, and don’t go to the police. I can understand that you may not want to be involved, but only you can do it now, Linus. Don’t let our dream end out of fear. We deserve it. For father. With all my love, Reeven” There is a small moment of silence. Tony and Efferty stare into the space of the room and manage to breath slowly. After a while, both start to speak simultaneously: “The fuck bro?!” is the first common thing the two boys shout out loud. “Dude, did we just...” Tony tried to find which words to say to complete his sentences and Efferty, puzzled, continues the talk: “This...was written about a week ago...but... what the heck?” Efferty cannot seem to find the words that he wishes to say. Then, he adds: “Should we just...go to the police...? Or just...ignore it?” he muttered at the end. “Are you crazy?!” Tony screams both in an angry manner but also with a shadowed excitement under it. “Type this ‘Copper Scroll’ to see what this is about!” Tony suggests as they run towards the computer, instantly shutting down the game and typing the words in the search bar. Then, after few clicks, they start reading: “The oldest treasure map in history, the Copper Scroll...found among the Dead Sea Scrolls, containing detailed instructions on how to find buried treasure”. Efferty and Tony paused at that moment. Staring first at the screen and the words they had in front of them, and then staring each other. “Dude, this is...is that even real information? Can we trust this?” Efferty says and keeps staring at Tony. “Let’s go. Come on!” Tony suddenly stands up from the chair with determination. “Huh? Where to?” “Let’s go to the public library! They have got to have something for this on some book or something!” says Tony as he makes a fist out of his hand, determined to exit the house. Efferty grins. “The fuck Tony? You are gonna believe this shit?” he looks at Tony with a disappointed face for believing so easily a scrap of paper. “Aren’t you even a little curious? What if this shit is real?! What if it exists and it is INDEED a map that can lead to a treasure?!” Tony starts talking like an obsessed researcher who just found out that his theory could be valid. “Are you serious right now, Tony?” Efferty starts laughing at his gullible friend. Then, when seeing Tony serious, he continues: “Are you for real? Are you believing all of this?” Efferty tries to reason with Tony who keeps insisting on his thoughts. “Why not? So many things haven’t been discovered you know! People... archaeologists... historians...many have been searching for clues about so many things that haven’t been unravel yet! Every day, something, somewhere in the world, is being discovered! What if this Copper Scroll could also”--Tony gets rudely interrupted by his friend. “Tony, please. Get serious! Let’s just forget this shit and go back into building my paladin, ok?” Efferty turns his back on Tony, approaching his computer and starting up his game again. He looks at Tony, who gets a hold of the letter and checking the other pages. “Tony, for god’s sake!” then he stops, seeing as Tony doesn’t pay any attention to him. “Okay, whatever. Finish with your daydreaming and come play with me, alright?” he says as he starts playing his game. Tony puts the papers in his pockets, grabs his stuff and exits the house. “Tony, what the hell!” Efferty shouts and thinks if he should follow his friend or just leave him be. “Fuck!” he shouts and grabs his keys and exits his house. He spots Tony who walks rapidly and starts running in order to catch up to him. ***(Eventually, Efferty catches up to Tony) “Tony! Ok pal, look. Let’s just go to the library so you can get it out of your system. And then we go back to our game and forget this ever happen, ok?” Tony doesn’t give him any response and keeps checking some papers that the envelope contained. “So, um... what are you checking?” Efferty tries to have a conversation with his friend while they are headed towards the public library. “This was included with the letter. I wanna check what it shows. Looks like some weird language or something. And a code too, there, see?” Tony replies as he continues to check the papers without even looking at his friend. The two boys eventually reach the library and after asking for the librarian’s help, they are sitting on a table, checking the pages of an old, blue, ripped book. Then, Tony talks first. “There, see! It has the same symbol. It is the Copper Scroll’s symbol. Or something like it” he says while comparing the symbol written in the letter with the one in the book. “Unbelievable, right?! Oh man, it feels like a movie! A treasure hunt! And we will be on it!” Tony cannot control his excitement and the people around them look towards them angrily at annoyed for being noisy. “Tony, look... ok. We came here to satisfy your curiosity. But this is going to stop now, ok? There is no treasure hunt. There is no relic and no map to guide you there. Perhaps it’s a prank or somebody’s fantasy, but we don’t have to be idiots like them, ok? Let’s just drop it, come on!” Efferty starts feeling worn out for having a discussion of something that sounds like a pipe dream for kids. “Why are you so negative about it, Effer? You waste your energy and time playing a fantasy game. And now, we may came across something that could be 100% true and could make us filthy rich and you cannot give it a damn chance?!” Tony replies to him angrily. “Are you hearing yourself, Tony? That is A GAME. We know it’s not real, but it gives us fun times. Someone writes a bunch of crap on a piece of paper, and you suddenly feel like Indiana Jones? That you are going to unravel a mystery and find a lost relic?! This is more imaginary than any fantasy game we play, you know!” The tension begins to rise between the two boys. Eventually, the librarian steps in and stops them. “It’s nice that you boys are lively and enthusiastic, but here is a library! You must be dead silent. And, please, leave. We are closing in five minutes”. “Fine” both boys muttered. ***(Towards the alley and Efferty’s house) “You feel alright there Tony?” Efferty asks with a concern for his friend, thinking they haven’t exchanged any words since the dispute at the library. “I just don’t get why you are so negative. I didn’t say we abandoned our homes right now and start searching for it. I just wanna talk about the POSSIBILITY of it being true” replies a lost in deep thoughts, Tony. As the boys take the turn that leads to Efferty’s house, they suddenly hear a gunshot. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” both boys instantly freeze. “Effer...it..it sounded like coming from close to your house...right?!”. “To-Tony...that way...” Efferty manages to get a hold of himself and the two boys turn around, trying to find another way to approach the house so they will not be spotted. From some distance, as they hide behind some huge barrels, they managed to see that the door of Efferty’s house has been breached and they hear several voices coming over from inside the house. Between the sounds of things falling apart, yelling and fighting, they manage to hear these words: “WHERE THE HELL IS THE LETTER, BAIAS? YOU SAID LINUS WOULD RECEIVE IT TODAY”. Cold sweat is running down the boys’ faces. They try not to make any sound. “Lower the gun, I told you already! I followed the guy but lost him. I know he didn’t deliver it to the designated point. I don’t know who informed him, but I’m sure he didn’t deliver it to Linus directly. Someone else must have gotten the envelope. Either by accident or on purpose” said the person who seemed to be the so-called ‘Baias’. “You better be right about it because I don’t see what else you can offer me, Baias”. “Let’s search the whole neighbourhood around” ‘Baias’ replied. “If what you say it’s true, the delivery point was changed, and somebody got the letter incognito”. “Yes” ‘Baias’ replied. “Okay men, listen up! We have some ‘cleaning’ to do. Find the receiver and make sure he ends up buried” said the voice that seemed to command everyone. That was what, Tony and Efferty, two simple young men, heard that evening. And their lives would soon change from simple to complicated.


Hawking couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. Due to the bio-synthetic technology powering his failing body he was now the oldest living person, despite the incurable disease that he suffered from since the 1900s. He remembered Roger Penrose funeral best, despite it being so long ago. Roger and himself had worked together on many problems in physics, but there was one issue on which they never had agreed. It was about the interpretation of quantum mechanics. Hawking smiled at the thought that Roger probably wouldn't have liked the new variant of the many-world interpretation that he was now working on. "Or, perhaps he likes it now", Hawking thought, "when it gives him eternal life". . . . . Penrose couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. The most notable of them all was of course that of Stephen Hawkings, his dear friend and colleague, who had fought his disease for so many years. Roger had managed to stay healthy, but to his great grief he had seen his children grow old and die. Penrose had started to suspect that his friend had been right regarding the interpretation of quantum mechanics. The inner workings of physics stated that particles were in many alternative locations simultaneously, unless you tried to find out where they really were. Some physicists, among them his friend Stephen, had claimed that all alternatives really existed, and gave rise to parallel worlds. Penrose had long had a different view: "If there are multiple worlds then there should be multiple copies of Roger. In which of them, then, is my true self?" . . . . Albert couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended...


I’m surrounded by his things. That’s what he’s left behind, things. Well, things and me, I suppose. There weren’t a lot of people at the service. Some neighbors, a couple of old friends, a smattering of relatives. Small but respectable. At least that’s what I told myself when the last of the guests arrived. It wasn’t at all like when Mom died, when the church was packed, standing room only. She had the advantage of dying young, young enough that the sheer tragedy of it compelled people, her people, to converge in their grief. I guess the funerals are always bigger for those who die young, their friends and family not yet aged and dispersed, not yet accustomed to the natural cadence of life. It’s a strange silver lining. Mom’s funeral was big, though, even by those standards. She collected people, always had. She had a knack for making everyone feel special, because that’s how she saw them. Dad didn’t collect people. He collected things. A lot of things. Photos are among them, particularly photos of my parents together. They hang everywhere in my childhood home, they rest on every shelf and every end table. If there is anything discernible from the decades strewn across the walls, it’s that they loved each other. I suppose they did, even though it didn’t always feel that way in the moments between the clicks of the camera. Those images aren’t on the wall. I walk into his office, the chaotic nexus of his collections, the spring from which the stuff seemingly bubbles up and spews into the rest of the house. Even Mom couldn’t control this space, fighting as best she could to prevent the peculiar assortment of items that lay within from bursting beyond the room’s narrow confines. This space is all him, uniquely him. His spirit, his very essence, feels present in this crowded room, far more than it did in that musty funeral home. I look around, It seems to me that everything anyone has ever thought to collect is here, and likely things people never thought to collect at all. There’s the usual stuff: stamps, coins, books, figurines, trading cards, toys... And there are things more unusual: garden gnomes, decorative soaps, hotel match boxes... I open a drawer, only to find it full of zesters. There’s dust everywhere. The air is thick with it, my nostrils itch with each inhale; it swirls in dancing torrents, glowing in the shafts of evening light slanting in through the windows; it blankets everything, coating the myriad of strange surfaces my dad left behind. I feel suffocated as I slam the zester drawer shut in frustration. Overwhelmed, I wander over to the printer where I see some pieces of paper still resting in the tray, I pick them up. A receipt for a button, a $75 button to be precise. It supposedly came from the uniform of a British soldier in the Revolutionary War. The other pages are directions to some antique store in Maine, a four hour drive, five with traffic , reads my dad’s tidy handwriting in a characteristic critique of Google Maps’ assessment. I roll my eyes in irritation, I can’t help it. It was so like him to buy a $75 button and then drive eight hours round trip for it, ten with traffic. By some miracle I find the button collection, sandwiched between a crammed bookcase and a shelf full of glittering geodes. It is surprisingly complete and well organized, the buttons resting neatly on a bed of felt, a small card beneath each denotes the war from which it came. A quick scan suggests It spans the whole of American conflict, no small history. The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WWII, Korea, Vietnam... Even wars I have never heard of, or have long since forgotten, are represented by a meticulously assembled collection of buttons. I notice one is missing, presumably the one pictured on the receipt still clutched tightly in my hand. I can’t be in the office anymore, it feels too strongly of him, the dust is making me dizzy. I try halfheartedly to sort through other rooms in the house, but as my hands busy themselves packing dinner plates and folding spare linens, my mind is stuck in his office, stuck on those buttons. The day has been punishingly long, I feel the exhaustion in my bones. I let it guide me to my childhood room, still unable to bring myself to sleep in my parents’. I lay down on the rickety twin bed, the old spring mattress digging into my back, though I barely notice. I close my eyes and let the weariness drag me into a dark, dreamless sleep. I wake at some point well past mid-morning. My back is stiff. I wander down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I trip over a forgotten cardboard box I’d haphazardly packed the night before. I swear under my breath as I return to Dad’s office. It’s just as I left it, just as he left it, both of us apparently unable to sort through the mess. I’m staring, again, at the buttons, at the gap left by the one that’s missing. I’d tried to forget it, knowing it was better to let it go, to pack up as much as I could, as soon as I could, to return to my own house, my own life, my own things. But I couldn’t, I can’t. When I close my eyes I see him diligently placing each button in its place, imagining that smile that always snaked across his face when he procured some new worthless treasure. I sigh in resignation to what I’ve known was inevitable since I found those cursed buttons. I grab the directions, I grab his keys, I grab him, or his ashes anyway, and head for the door. The car still smells like Dad, like aftershave and spearmint gum. What a strange thing to linger, to remember, the smell of a person, just invisible particles floating in the air. I pull out of the driveway and head north. I have my GPS running and can’t help but think of the exacerbated comments he would've made at each robotic direction. Oh don’t take that exit, there’s construction... traffic will be hell on the freeway at this hour. I brought the directions he printed out though, just in case. They’re sitting on the passenger seat, below the urn. It’s summer and I have the windows down, the wind is whipping through my hair, the hair Dad always told me was too long, listening to music he would’ve hated. The scourge of the modern musician is the small revenge I exact for subjecting me to this long journey, all in pursuit of an overpriced button. We used to do drives like this all the time before Mom died, when I was young, crammed into the backseat next to camping gear or coolers or suitcases. I felt so safe then, watching the trees blur together as we sped toward some fresh adventure, my parents singing the melody to a song I wouldn’t remember, something from their time together before me. Those stopped when she died. Sometimes I wonder if she was the glue that held us together. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if he’d died first, not that I ever wished it, just wondered. He retreated into his collections, I ran from her ghost, full speed into adulthood, into my new life. He never said if he felt abandoned, he would've never said something like that, but sometimes I wonder... I pull off at a familiar exit, one I haven’t thought about for years, but recognized the second I saw it. I’m awash in memories of summers long passed as I pull off the main road and head down the winding gravel toward the woods. I turn off the music to listen to the trees which are rushing with excitement as I roll past. Perhaps they remember me too. The lake is just the way I’ve held it in my mind all these years, still and dark, more green than blue, reflecting the thick canopy that surrounds it. The air is buzzing with the cries of a million insects. I grab Dad and sit with him at a picnic table overlooking the place he’d taken me a hundred times. We sit quietly together, enjoying the peace of it all, ruminating on the lazy days that passed here. They blur together in my memory, like the trees rushing past the window on those drives from before. I’m suddenly struck with the thought to scatter him here, but something doesn’t feel right. We have hours left to drive, and I can’t bring myself to let him off the hook so easily. We get back in the car. We’re making good time. That’s the sort of thing he would always say, as if time is a thing one can make. Looks like we’ll get there in closer to four hours than five, then again, we didn’t take the freeway. Even still, the drive is starting to feel long, my back aches and my stomach rumbles. I pull off at a drive through and eat something greasy and deeply satisfying. I’m watching a young family struggle with a car seat across the parking lot, a little girl watches as her parent’s gesture dramatically at each other in apparent frustration. Dad used to blow up over things like that. He’d boil over in a second, without warning, at the little everyday inconveniences that build one on top of another. I’d make myself small during those moments, trying not to inadvertently add to the pile. His outbursts would usually pass with a creative string of expletives and a sullen resignation to the way of things. I pull up to the store at the edge of a sleepy coastal town. My GPS announces my arrival approvingly. Dad is silent. No one greets me when I walk in the store, just the faint ding of a bell which fades quickly away as if embarrassed to disturb the quiet of the place. For a moment, I’m transported back to Dad’s office as I wander through the store which is bursting with an endless selection of the most curious objects. The place is silent, reverent almost, as I walk through the labyrinthine paths left between seemingly random piles of stuff. A ponderous little man greets me when I find my way to a desk. He barely looks up from the tome over which he’s hunched. I manage to catch his gaze, however, when I mention the button. He surveys me strangely as I pass the receipt across the counter. “I don’t know about this,” he says with suspicion as I explain my strange quest, as if anyone would go through the trouble to invent a dead father and forge a receipt to pick up a $75 dollar button from a junk pile at the edge of the world. Then again, what do I know of antique dealing? Perhaps this man’s days are filled with sufficiently duplicitous intrigue to warrant such skepticism. “Well feel free to talk to Dad about it if it makes you feel any better,” I say, plopping the urn down on the counter between us. The man blinks at me through his glasses and then looks at the urn before him. “Very well,” he responds, apparently convinced, at last, of my legitimacy. “Wait here.” I do as I’m told. I’m not sure what compelled me to bring Dad’s ashes into this place. It just seemed like he would’ve wanted to come in. I’m glad he didn’t live to see it though. He would have taken the whole of the inventory if he could, willing it to fit in his small office back home. The man comes back with the button and hands it over after just a moment more of hesitation. “Enjoy,” he says, “it’s a good little piece of history, that.” I nod my thanks, stuffing the button into my pocket. That’s the type of thing Dad would’ve said, as if the history of an object lives forever within it. Maybe it does. I’m back in the car, driving south along the coast. I let my thoughts wander as the road winds along the jagged contours carved by the sea. I pull off at a scenic overlook and clamber down a short trail, suddenly compelled to stop and quietly watch time slip away someplace beautiful. I sit on a bench, watching the cliffs before me plunge into the sea, the waves crashing riotously against the steep unyielding stone. It does yield eventually, I suppose, over the course of centuries, millennia. That’s the type of history you can't find in a store. The sun is sinking lower and lower to my back, the sky above is painted orange and pink as an advancing darkness creeps over the horizon. It’s beautiful, the cliffs and sea so ancient and powerful, the sunset just a fleeting moment of gold. Suddenly compelled by something beyond myself, I pick up the urn and scatter the contents, this place and time as good as any. The sun is gone, the gold has surrendered to inky black, the cliffs and sea endure. I get back in the car and head for home. The office is, of course, unchanged as I open the door and step in. It is still bursting with stuff and yet feels emptier than before, like Dad’s spirit has at last departed from it. Maybe I’m imagining things, tired from the drive. I take the button out of my pocket and run my thumb over its tarnished surface. I fasten it securely in its place amongst its peers. I feel the smile as it snakes inadvertently across my face. So this is what he felt then, when he procured some new piece of worthless treasure. I guess I see the appeal. I sort and pack the house in the days that follow, a hard and mournful task, though therapeutic in its way. I discover some strange new piece of him with every object I uncover. I found a small historical society to take the button collection, it’s hanging up in a place of prominence beneath a small plaque that reads, “donated by a generous collector.” It was harder than I expected to hand them over, but they should be somewhere with people who appreciate their legacy, who appreciate his legacy of bringing them all together, mine too now, I guess. I’m holding one of Dad’s old sweaters, the blue one Mom bought him so many Christmases ago. He wore it all the time, the fabric is worn and stained. I take a pair of scissors and cut off a button, a fragment of his life to carry with me as I return to mine. A good little piece of history, I think to myself as I slip it into my pocket, at least it is to me.