# Inspired by Recent Events  When John Michael David was walking down the hall and out on the the concrete driveway of his two story home he looked back at his wife Cathy Marie and his two little daughters Esther Marie and Judith Mae following behind him. Outside on the front steps John Michael knelt down in front his two little daughters. They each ran in to an open arm and he curled them around, pulling them in close for a long embrace. He kissed the tops of their heads. John Michael stood up to face his wife. Cathy Marie's eyes were already swollen red and puffy from their last night together. They had laid together, wrapped in each other's arms, reminiscing about the day they'd met and the day the girls were born.  "You girls go inside. Daddy will see you both real soon." John Michael said.  Two more quick kisses and the girls turned away and ran through the open door down the hall in to the living room. Cathy Marie stepped down to John Michael's level and wrapped her arms around him.  "I am going to miss you so much John Michael. Do you really have to go?" Cathy Marie said.  "You know I do Cathy. These people need me. They need the Word." said John Michael as he embraced Cathy Marie. "I'll call you every step of the way until the last one."  "I'll keep you in my prayers, and so will the girls. Every night at 7:30 our time, you'll know we're thinking about you."  "Every moment from now until my return, I will be thinking only of you and the girls." John Michael said.  38 hours later, after a night in a suite on the South American coast, John Michael walked the unpaved streets of Moheca in search of someone willing to pilot him as close to the island of Zaheca as possible. No one would take him up on the offer. He would have to spend another night in Moheca.  That night he slipped out of his room and stopped in at a few bars on a tip from some of the locals. On his third he found a man and his son seated at the bar. He approached and took a seat next to them. He asked if they were fishermen and both nodded. He asked if they would take him to Zaheca. They were reluctant until John Michael pulled a wad of cash out of the inner pocket of his vest. The father and son looked at each other and made a few head motions. The elder turned toward John Michael and reached out his hand. John Michael took it and they shook.  "Tonight."  The father looked at John Michael, then at the cash.  "All for you if tonight."  The son elbowed his father in the ribs.  Less than an hour later the three men were in a small fishing boat with an outboard motor cutting through the bay. After they had been traveling for nearly an hour, in the farthest distance, a speck of daylight could be seen, and about a half mile out, the dark outline of Zaheca. The father cut the engines and told John Michael they could take him no further. When pressured the father conceded that the law prohibits getting any nearer to the island, it is forbidden, and that he had heard stories of people getting too close being shot at with bows and arrows. John Michael, knowing ahead of time this was the case, had hitched a seafaring kayak to the fishing boat. The father and son helped John Michael load his pack and provisions in to the kayak. He told them as he boarded that if they returned for him the next day he would pay them again.  John Michael detached from the dinghy and began to row towards the dark and looming island before him. Within a few hours he had reached the shore. He got out of his kayak and drug it up the sandy banks and parked it on the shore. The sun was up and the water was cold. He threw his pack up on to the sand and walked up and down the beach for a moment stretching his legs. He returned to his pack. He put his hands around his mouth and hollered in to the line of trees about 40 feet from the shore.  "My name is John Michael and I am here in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!"  No sooner had the words left his lips when an arrow tipped in a barbed iron arrowhead hit him in the shoulder. Then another in the leg. John Michael looked down at the shafts of arrows buried deep in his flesh and fell to his knees. He gazed in to the bluest sky and considered a verse, forgetting now from where in the Gospel it came: **Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing**. With tears in his eyes he lifted his arms to the sky and as the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth...arrows hit his body, the last thing he would ever see as he fell to his side in the sand, were the dark, naked bodies of the Zahecans emerging from the treeline.


I hated art. No, not myself. Well, not totally, at least. I’m Art Eldridge, a guy who could never understand what was so fascinating about a picture of something not moving or doing anything entertaining. “Lazy movies” is what I called them. She never thought so, and maybe for a moment, that’s why I liked it. My wife, Amelia, was always in art galleries, excited to tell me about all the new pictures she saw whenever she went. The way she talked about them was more interesting than the pieces themselves. She was enthusiastic and encouraged me to go with her incessantly. There was this one piece she told me that I had to see. It was new to the museum and hadn’t yet been revealed, but she got special permission to show me whenever we went. We never did. If I could have had one more day with her, we would’ve spent it together doing what she loved most. That’s why I took this stupid job in the first place. Something you won’t believe happened that changed all of that for me. Time for work. In my navy blue uniform, complete with a name tag, flashlight, and keys, I headed over to the art gallery for my night shift that began in the afternoon. It was my only all-nighter. There wasn’t much going on, so my job was picking up a few crumpled napkins on the floor. This place used to buzz with people worldwide, but since we had to send our famous pieces away, the people dwindled, too. A few kids ran around, and I had to tell them to be careful. They listened, but boy, did I get a nasty look from the parents. Hey, it’s not my fault they weren’t doing their job. A few people approached me and asked me what I thought of so and so piece, and I always told them the same thing. It’s art. It’s up to interpretation, so whatever you think it is. While walking to the darker part of the gallery, I spotted a structure of art I had never seen before in my year of working there. An older Asian man walked up to me, “What is that piece called?” He forgot. “Not sure. Never seen it before.” In the middle of the room was a triangular Prism made from crystal that slowly spun on a turntable. There was a skylight overhead to let some light in. On the label, it read, “Prism of the Moon. The beams of light give life.” No moon. Who comes up with these names that have nothing to do with the piece? What I thought had nothing to do with the piece. “The paintings... they’re alive, aren’t they.” This guy must’ve been on something pretty good that day. “Artwork usually isn’t. Why?” “Do you hear that?” If he referred to the crackling sound from the lights and the wind from the big fan, then yes. Heard and noticed. He wasn’t talking about that, though. “I don’t hear anything,” I said. “The cries! My gosh, the cries! You have to help them!” The only one that needed help was this man. I told him we’d be closed soon and that he had to see a certain exhibit I thought he’d appreciate before he went. As he left, I looked at the paintings and closed my eyes--no sound from them. Once my eyes were opened, nothing moved either. A few hours later, it was time to close and lock the doors. Once that was done, I stood in the entire gallery alone with only a few emergency lights to provide some sight of the place. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit eerie. The only sounds were my footsteps and periodic key jangles. The structures and paintings were shadows now that seemed to grow and shrink with the illumination of my flashlight. I couldn’t help shaking the idea that with the Prism of the Moon, there was no moon involved before. I realized that was now a possibility with the promise of night. Back in that part of the gallery, the prism stood invisible as nothing could illuminate it. Did someone steal it? With a flash of my light, it revealed itself to still be there. Turning. The skylight looked up into a deep blue sky with a few stars shining overhead along with the ruler of the night--the moon. The pictures were motionless and quiet. What was that crazy guy talking about? Still, I felt compelled to stay there and find out. What happened next could only be described as magic. Whether it was the light or dark kind, I'm not sure. The light from the moon seeped into the gallery and hit the prism in the center of the room. A stream of light came out of each triangle, and as the prism turned, it eventually reached the three pieces in the room. I was no longer alone. The art became like that of a motion picture and teemed with movement. It was strange, though. Closer to the artwork, I could now even feel each piece. The first was a pirate-like ship out in a stormy sea, the second looked like a woman in distress, and the third had a curtain over it. I had no idea what it was, but I’d find out. The wind blew from the first painting, called Sea of Rigidity, and shook the other art pieces in the exhibit. As ice-cold water splashed onto my face, voices suddenly cried, “Help us! We’re gonna drown!” Am I supposed to respond? What was I supposed to do? This was insane. “Um, hello? Can anybody hear me?” “Yes! Please help us!” “I’m not sure how--” “Jump in.” They couldn’t be serious. I was supposed to jump into what, a picture frame? There was no way my six-foot self would fit into that one. This wasn’t Alice in Wonderland. “Wait, I have a better idea,” I told them. My wife said, if you don’t like the situation, paint a new picture . I’ll be the first to admit it, but I’m not an artist. These voices seemed as real as any, and they needed my help. A paintbrush and paint were nearby, so I snatched them and approached the canvas. With my paintbrush dipped in orange and yellow, I began making a circle in the top left-hand corner, right on top of the clouds. If you saw it, you’d guess a third-grader did it. I’m getting fired for that, but I felt for them. Once it was complete, my little addition to the painting took on the same texture and substance as the image already there, as if it had been absorbed. The sun shined and parted thunderous clouds as Moses did to the Red Sea, and the ship returned to a gentle sway. The wind stopped, and a clear blue sky lay in the background as calm waves rolled. There were cheers from the boat and lots of “Thank you! You saved us!” “Ah, you know... you’re welcome,” I replied. No way that happened, but it did. I swear to you, it did. The second piece was titled Confusion at the Canvas , and it was a painting of a woman who looked like she was trying to create art but wasn’t sure what to paint. She sat in a chair with her head in her hands while her paintbrush and easel lay on the floor in a mess. “What am I to paint?” She cried. “There are so many things, but how do you choose one? What do people want to see? What will become famous someday? So much pressure! So much pressure!” I cleared my throat and decided to help her. “Um, excuse me.” She turned towards me and revealed her middle-aged beauty. She had long black hair and a forest green dress on. The canvas she sat before was pure and untouched. “Ah, yes, maybe you can help. What do you think I should paint?” “Whatever you’d like to.” “But what if the people don’t like it?” “Oh, I’m sure they will.” “What if they don’t?” The right words escaped my mind, so I thought about what Amelia would tell her. “You’re the artist. It’s a piece of yourself you’re sharing with the world. Not everyone will relate to it, and it’s okay. We all have different tastes. It’s what makes us human.” “I want it to be perfect.” “Perfect? It never will be. We can’t connect with perfection, but imperfection? Now that’s something we all got,” I told her. “What’s meaningful to you?” “Hmm...my daughter. She grew up too quickly.” “Paint her. What’s her name?” In the woman’s time, this painting had not yet been done, and she would beat its currently-known artist to the punch. Besides, he had plenty of other things to be famous for anyway. I thought about telling her that it would become the most renowned painting in the entire world someday. Still, people sometimes need to discover things for themselves and trust their abilities. She thanked me, dipped her paintbrush in an array of dark colors, and began to paint what she called the Mona Lisa. My attention turned towards the third painting, and my curiosity got the best of me. It was the only one that didn’t seem to move. Was it not affected by the moon? Reading who painted it, I nearly dropped my flashlight. A Perfect Picnic by Amelia Eldridge. Why didn’t she tell me she was into painting? I knew she loved to go to these places but never mentioned she contributed to them. Now, I had to see her idea of this so-called perfect picnic. She told me on our first date, but it was so long ago that I forgot. It’s not easy getting old. If anyone asks, the curtain just slipped off, okay? Anyway, the third picture revealed itself, and what a beautiful scene it was. I had no idea my wife had it in her. A young couple was having a sunset picnic underneath a tree resembling the Tree of Life at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. This tree didn’t have animals, though, that much I saw. I couldn’t tell what was in the tree from a distance, so I moved towards it. I’m positive the moonbeam hit it before, yet there was still no motion. Maybe because it’s newer? Since the prism seemed to control everything, I pushed the turntable to send another moonbeam toward the picture with the curtain now off. My eyes shot open, and anticipation built inside me. What would this painting’s movie be like? It was my wife’s and I wanted to see it. I wish I had paid more attention to her. A few tears fell as I looked at this picture before me. I miss her. “Cheer up. It’s okay.” A voice that seemed familiar shook me out of my current state. If it weren’t for the warm summer breeze from the painting, I still would’ve thought the voice was in my head. “I forgot the sandwiches. The one thing that makes a picnic a picnic. This was supposed to be perfect. What a disaster,” a younger man said.” The woman smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. Really.” She patted him on the shoulder. “This will be the world’s first picnic without any sandwiches. How interesting!” “Anyone told you you’re great at that?” “Great at what?” She said, intrigued. “Making people feel better.” “Let’s see what else you forgot,” she said, teasing. They went into the picnic basket, pulled out some fruit and crackers, and ate that while they looked at each other like they were the last two in the world. “Oh, the sunset! How beautiful!” The sun never sets for them, and they could always enjoy each other’s company--a perfect picnic. This girl in the painting reminded me so much of my wife that I started to talk to her. “I’m so sorry!” I cried out. “I wish I would’ve... could’ve... there’s so many things I wish I had done differently, but it’s too late. I should’ve gone to more art galleries with you! Asked you about your painting.” The man in the painting said exactly what I did to the woman, using the same motions and everything. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. “What are you talking about?” she said to him and seemed taken aback. “You, okay? Practicing for an audition or something?” To this day, I still think the younger man looked at me and gave me a subtle nod, “Yeah, sure am.” “Well, in that case, I’d say don’t worry about the past. It can’t be changed anyway, so what good is it to get upset over it? Think of the good times and all their little moments. The times we present. That makes life special--those moments and all their imperfections.” She finished her mini monologue. “How was that?” “In a word, perfect.” They kissed underneath the tree, and as they did, I noticed that the tree was made up of details from their life: their first movie stub ticket, a picture that he drew for her, and their names carved into the tree above an I Love You . I wanted to stay with this couple, but just because their sun doesn’t move doesn’t mean mine didn’t. The moon had almost disappeared, and it was time for the sun to rejoin the world. The beam vanished as the paintings became still and peaceful once again. I looked at these paintings, which were back in their original state. The older Asian man from earlier walked by the window and gave me a smile and wave. I returned it. I never found out how or if those pictures came to life, but I guess that man knew something I didn’t know about before. I quit my job that morning. It was time to move on. I headed to the park for a picnic at my shift's end. It was a beautiful day, and though I was tired from the night’s events, I was more excited to go out and get some fresh air. I sat down at the park bench underneath a tree and opened the picnic basket that I brought. The food lay before me: fruit, water, chips, and as I was about to get the last thing, I laughed. I forgot the sandwiches again.


As the day wore on, Madeline managed to keep limping forward. After a while, she became good at zoning out from the pain. The repetitive motion of just putting one foot in front of the other became almost mechanical. And of course, Billie’s voice through the walkie-talkie provided a near-constant distraction. Though they tried to hide it through mindless chatter and light-hearted observations, she could tell her friend was worried about her. Talkative as they could be, they normally liked to remain relatively quiet while on the move so as to remain alert to possible disturbances. The near-constant communication made it clear -- no matter what they were actually saying, it was obvious that they were checking in on her. In a way, their concern was a comfort. Knowing that there was someone there to help if she needed it was definitely reassuring. But it would have been easier to stop worrying herself if their worry wasn’t quite so blatant. With her injury slowing the pace, they had to keep walking later into the day than usual. By the time they reached the edge of the city, the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. Madeline was about ready to follow it. But she knew she couldn't. Not yet. “We can stop soon,” Billie said through the radio. “We’re less than a day’s walk away from the meeting, even at this pace. All we’ve got to do is find somewhere safe to sleep.” “Any thoughts on that?” Madeline replied. “The map says that this whole section of the city is pretty much just residential. I suggest you rest somewhere out of sight while I find a couple of houses that are easy to get into.” “Sounds good.” She glanced over her shoulder and the figure of her friend a few hundred metres behind her before dragging herself off the road and into a nearby garden, nestling in behind the hedge. “This hidden enough?” “Looks it. I’ll let you know what I find.” Madeline didn’t have to wait long. No longer having to match her pace, Billie was clearly moving much faster than they had been all day. “Alright. I found one just a few houses down and another around the corner. You take number fifty-three on this road and I’ll take number four on the next. I’ve left the front door open for you.” “Thanks,” Madeline replied. She picked a few leaves and twigs from her messy ponytail as she extricated herself from the hedge, and limped back onto the street and towards the chosen house. Once inside, she didn’t bother to check the rest of the building, certain that Billie already would have. Instead, she made her way straight for the sofa. She chuckled to herself when she saw what awaited her there: a bag of chocolate-covered raisins and a bottle of coke. She lifted her walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “Thanks for the gift.” “Oh good, you got it. I found that while I was searching and thought you might enjoy it.” After picking up the items left for her, Madeline settled down on the sofa. She scoffed the raisins a handful at a time before gulping down the soda. When she was satiated, she picked up the walkie-talkie again. “Alright,” she said, “I’m going to try and get some sleep now. Thanks again for the surprise snack.” “Glad you liked it. Now sleep well!” “How do you make a farewell sound so much like an order?” “Because it is! You’ve got to get plenty of rest if you want to get your strength back.” “Alright then. I’d best get started! Good night, Billie.” “Night, Mads.” She set the radio down, shifted her weight around until she was at least vaguely comfortable, and closed her eyes. \ The next morning, it was a hiss of static that woke her rather than the sun’s rays. “You awake yet, Mads?” Billie’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. Blinking her eyes to clear the sleep from them, Madeline stretched out to grab the radio. “I am now,” she mumbled. As she spoke, she noticed how dark it was in the room. She glanced over at the window and saw only the vaguest hint of dawn creeping into the sky. “Do you get up this early every morning?” she asked. “Of course. How do you think I always beat you to our meetings?” “Hmmm,” Madeline replied. “I thought it was because you practically sprinted there because you were so eager to see me.” “That too.” The light chuckle in their voice conjured up an image of their face creased in a grin. Madeline could picture the way their olive skin would crinkle around brown eyes full of light and warmth. The thought made a smile tug at her lips. “Anyway,” they continued, “sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep this morning, but I figured we should make an early start. Besides, it’s not like you need anymore.” Madeline groaned as she pushed herself up. She did it as slowly as possible, to ease her limbs back into movement. When she was seated, she pushed down the button to reply, “I’m afraid all the flattery in the world couldn’t make me happy to be woken up at this time. Though kudos to you for trying.” “It’s not flattery if it’s true.” “Alright, alright, enough of that,” Madeline said, though she couldn’t quite restrain the twitching of her lips upwards. “I should probably take a quick look at my leg before we get going.” “Good idea. Do you have plenty of first aid supplies?” Madeline cursed. She should have thought to take some of her own rather than relying on the shared kit in Billie’s bag. “No,” she replied. “But there’s probably something I can use in this house.” Though her search was hampered by her injuries, Madeline soon found a bundle of bandages and some antiseptic spray in a bathroom cabinet. She winced as she peeled off the previous wrappings around her thigh. Underneath was still a sticky mess of varying shades of dark red and rust-brown. She did her best to clean the wound before bandaging it back up, biting her lip hard to hold back the pain. When she was done, she slumped back, a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin. After a few deep breaths to calm the trembling in her hands, she rewarded herself with a handful of chocolate-covered raisins. “How’re you getting on?” Billie asked through the radio. “All done,” she replied. “I’ll start walking now and let you know when I’m going past your house.” “No need. I’m already outside yours. Leave when you’re ready and I’ll follow behind.” Madeline shook her head. Of course, they were already outside. Letting her walk around the corner by herself would *obviously* be far too great a risk. Once she’d collected her things, she headed outside, waving to her friend as she started walking. After so long in the countryside, it was strange being back in the city. The buildings lining the streets felt oppressive, hemming her into a narrow segment of the world. Even stranger was the feeling of being in a *different* city. Though she knew it was likely all in her head, the streets *felt* different. Like they weren’t *hers*. She tried to put the thought out of her head as she walked. After all, they were just streets and buildings. Lumps of concrete, brick, and mortar. One was just like any other. And all of them had fallen to the Poiloogs. Luckily, the day passed with little in the way of incidents. There were a couple of scares when the hum of a ship became audible, but there was plenty of time to limp into a nearby building to hide. Having started early, they reached the neighbourhood of the meeting place before the sun began to set. It was close to the town centre, which meant spending the night in an actual house wasn’t an option. Not if they wanted to set off after dawn and still make it in time. Billie settled on an old clothes shop for Madeline, and an electrical goods store for themself. Though she’d have liked a better vantage point, Madeline had to content herself with the ground floor. Her friend insisted that stairs were too much of a risk, given her injuries, if she needed to make a quick getaway. And they assured her that they would watch the streets for the both of them. Inside, she assembled a pile of clothing as a bed. Then, after a quick snack, she settled down to sleep. \ She was awoken the next morning by the familiar hiss of static. “Good morning, Mads!” Billie’s voice crackled in an almost sing-song tone. “Ready for the big day?” Madeline rolled over to grab the walkie-talkie. “As I’ll ever be,” she replied as she slowly climbed out of the pile of clothes. “Should we go over the rescue plan one more time?” “We can as we walk there.” “Do you... Do you think they’ll go for it?” There was a pause before the next hiss of static. “I think at least some of them will. I hope so, anyway.” “Me too,” Madeline murmured. “I-- I’m not sure if we’d be able to rescue Liam -- and Joe of course -- without them. Hell, I’m not sure we’ll be able to do it with them.” “I know,” Billie said. “But you were right. We have to try.


Sky spinning, trees leaning in and one bird swoops through all the crooked wood. I am lying here in sunken dark and death kneels over me, whispers penance in my left ear, pounds smartly at the throb of 2 a.m. blood on my knuckle. A long time ago you could have shown me how the sky looked catastrophic as the sun slipped away breathing fire. A long time ago you could have let me fall in love with your angled good looks, your swarming lies of art and people and pale, tortured love stories. A long time ago you could have found me chain smoking behind the library and told me my eyes made you weak. Instead I found your breath at the back of my neck, cool against my skin flushed with other people's body heat. You sank into the cozy sway of a crowd dancing. Said two words. A along time ago you could have kissed me on the top of my head, laid me down carefully and listened to the whistle of my breath as I slept. "Hey you" and I was tucked into the curve of your jaw, I was singing cheap rum and silence packed your smile. I was kissing brick and you cradled me well like I fit into you naturally. All I could see was road slicked mercury light and a dim sketch of your face straining, the feeling drained prickly numb from my legs, sky hopping up and down, up and down in your soft, strange rhythm. And after everything you brought me here, where I've spilled blood before: my skinny eight-year-old knee on a sharp shock of ground; climbing trees cat-like at twelve, reaching up then shaking at the height; sipping beer cross-legged on a log trying to impress a boy. After everything you stood useless at the foot of me, eyes shifting like two hands moving in perfect sync, like two hands clasped in prayer. An ease in your quiet. Everything swallowed in black, all wrapped up neat in night blindness; it's winter so there is no green to frame your face, nothing to soften twitching branches needling up and out. You are on holy ground now. Don't let the trees bite you on your way out; don't see my glazed eyes in yours as you make a mirror check. Don't notice the murmur of me in the dead air of your apartment, microcosms of dust swirling like small galaxies or flecks of ash falling. *Better to have never loved,* you might say. You don't want that hurt clinging in you.


I miss the night. It belongs to them now. I miss looking at the stars with Dad and him pointing out different constellations. I miss the way the night air kisses the skin in that sweet, delicious way daylight just can’t. The world has changed so much since the vampires took over. They rule the night, and we, the remnants of humanity, are forced to huddle in bunkers when the sun goes down. Today, though, I’ve decided to defy the curfew. The longing for the stars, the memories of those nights with Dad, have become too overwhelming. I sneak out, my heart pounding with anxiety and excitement, and I move through the desolate streets, clinging to the shadows as not to be seen. The streets look different now. As I make my way downtown, I remember how the streets were once vibrant with nightlife. Now they are hauntingly quiet. I reach my destination and look up. My old apartment building. I climb the fire escape like I used to with my best friends Jenny and Kyle. As I climb, I remember a time before the vampire uprising, when the three of us would climb to the roof and sit there talking for hours. I reach the roof now, panting from exertion, and lay on my back, breathing in the cool night air. The stars are vibrant tonight against the purple-black sky. They twinkle, mocking the dystopia we live in. My eyes well up as memories flood back. My friends. My Dad. I try to remember what Ursa Major looks like. I wish, not for the first time, that Dad was here. I whisper to the stars, hoping somehow he hears me, “I miss you, Dad. I wish you were here.” I hear something to my right. Panic fills my chest and my breath catches in my throat. I turn my head towards the sound and everything goes black. When I wake, I am no longer on the roof. I am lying on a concrete floor inside a building, a warehouse perhaps? It is dusty and several of the windows are broken. There is an overhead light, far too bright, shining in my eyes. I blink and try to focus on the figure standing before me. I sit up slowly and hold a hand up to my forehead, trying to shield the light. The figure moves towards me. “Why were you out there?” the voice demands. It is deep and raspy and belongs, I can now see, to a man in a dark trench coat. His hair is dark and falls around his shoulders. His eyes are almost black. A vampire. “I...I just wanted to see the stars,” I manage to stutter, my voice barely audible. I feel my face flush. Suddenly realizing how ridiculous my idea was. “Stars,” he mutters to himself. He pauses, a flicker of something crossing his face. Regret? Longing? It’s hard to tell. “It’s been so long since I’ve looked at them.” Confusion replaces some of my fear. “You miss the stars, too?” He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he seems lost in thought. Finally he speaks. “Have you ever heard of ‘Dry January?” he asks. I cock my head to the side, even more confused. “Dry January?” I ask, “as in abstaining from drinking alcohol?” He nods slowly, “more like abstaining from feeding on human blood. A group of us are participating in it. The human supply is dwindling and we are looking into alternative blood sources. If humans disappear...” I get where he is going with this. “Then you disappear, too.” I say He nods. “We are following a program similar to human 12 step programs. Right now I am on Step Eight: making a list of those whom I’ve wronged and making amends for the harm I’ve caused.” I raise an eyebrow. Vampires with a moral compass? It sounds absurd, but as I look at him, I sense a genuine struggle within him. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, warily. He hesitates. “I needed someone I could tell my sins to. A human. When I saw you tonight, I figured it was my chance.” A thought occurred to me. “Are you the vampire who killed my father?” He shook his head slowly, “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s possible. I am ashamed to say that the faces of my victims have blurred together. I am not proud of what I have done.” I stare at him, the revelation sinking in. A mix of anger and grief swirls inside me, but there is also something else- a glimmer of hope. Dad always believed there was good in everyone - no matter how bad they seemed. I wonder if Dad would extend that grace to a vampire. “So, what now?” I ask, my voice more steady than I expected. “Now you decide,” he says, his gaze sincere. “I can take you back to your bunker, or you can stay, listen to my story, and see if vampires are capable of change.” I weigh my options, torn between the world I’ve known and the possibility of something different - possibly better. The stars twinkle above, indifferent to the choice I have to make. I consider his words, my mind racing with conflicting emotions. The night air blows in through the broken windows and hangs heavy with the weight of my decision. “How do I know I can trust you?” I ask. He nods understandingly. “I don’t expect you to trust me right away. But, if you stay, you ight see that not all of us are monsters. Some of us are trying to resist our addiction - trying to find a way to co-exist.” Reluctantly, I agree to stay - for now. As the days pass, I find myself caught in a strange alliance with my vampire captor. He introduces me to a group of vampires participating in ‘Dry January’, each with their own tales of regret and redemption. The abandoned building becomes a makeshift haven for this unconventional support group. Vampires from different backgrounds and eras, united by the common goal of breaking free from the endless cycle of feeding on humans. They share stories of lost loved ones, of the pain they’ve inflicted, and the remorse that haunts them. As I listen, I begin to see the humanity buried beneath their supernatural exterior. It’s a revelation that challenges the very core of my beliefs. In the midst of our uneasy coexistence, the vampire who brought me here - whom I’ve come to know as Marcus, tries to make amends in his own way. He teaches me about the constellations, pointing out stars and sharing stories from a time when he was still human.The night, once a source of fear, becomes a canvas for shared memories and whispered confessions. As the days turn into weeks, I navigate this new world with cautious optimism. The vampire support group, against all odds, becomes a fragile beacon of hope in the darkness. However, the outside world is relentless, and rumors spread of a rebellion among the vampires who reject ‘Dry January’ and continue to hunt humans. Caught between two conflicting worlds, i realize that the choices I make will not only shape my destiny, but also influence the fragile balance between humans and vampires. The night, once lost to creatures of the dark, now becomes a battleground where alliances are forged and tested. In this unlikely alliance, I discover that redemption is a complex journey, one that requires courage, understanding, and a willingness to defy the established order. The stars above bear witness to a changing world - one where the night may no longer solely belong to vampires, but to those who dare to challenge the shadows and seek a path toward coexistence.


Joyce had just put her pan in the oven when there was a knock on her door. “It’s open,” she called, as Paisley, her tortie cat, wove between her legs. “Hey,” Kenny said, coming on in, carrying a six-pack. “Something smells good,” he said, helping himself to a beer then sticking the rest in the fridge. “Want one?” he asked, his hair still damp from his shower, falling in his face. “Maybe later,” Joyce said, wiping down the counter. “I’m making brownies.” The TV was blaring Jeopardy, so Kenny plopped in the well-worn recliner. Joyce kept the old chair around because it had been her dad’s favorite, and now it was Kenny’s. Joyce poured a healthy glass of wine and took her place on the couch, tucking in her feet, and patting the couch for Paisley to hop up. The cat ignored her. “How was your day? she asked, Kenny, as they watched the game show and sat in companionable silence. “Crap,” Kenny answered, taking a big swig of beer, and putting his feet on the coffee table, since the recliner no longer reclined. “Manager has it in for me.” At 54, her long, wavy hair was still her best feature, so she usually wore it down. “I told you I’d help you find another job,” Joyce reminded him. The one thing Kenny disliked more than his boss was computers. He refused to look for another job because everything had to be done online now, so he stayed at the garage and complained instead. Jeopardy gave way to a new episode of NCIS. When the buzzer went off, Joyce quickly put the dessert on a hot plate and returned. “They’ll be cool in a bit,” she said, picking her wine back up. “Think this’ll be the last season? Kenny wondered. “Naw. This show will go on forever. I bet it has a cult following,” Joyce murmured. On the next commercial break, Joyce got up to cut the brownies. “You want ice cream with it?” “Sure,” Kenny nodded, getting up to grab another beer. “My daughter is coming to visit soon,” Joyce said, scooping out 2 large helpings of vanilla ice cream. “How is Jodie doing?” “Good. She really likes her new job. And I think she wants me to meet her new boyfriend,” Joyce said, setting the heaping bowls on the coffee table. “This looks good,” he said, putting down his beer and snatching up his sundae. “I just had a skimpy frozen dinner tonight.” “So, what’s new?” Joyce teased. “You never cook. I told you to come earlier. I never cook for just one,” she reminded him. “Stubborn.” “So, when is Jodie coming?” “Weekend after next.” “Are we still on for cards this weekend?” he asked. “Is the Pope Catholic?” she replied, sarcastically. Kenny chuckled as he scooped up a large bite of brownie. At 10:00 they watched the news and complained about the local politicians, while Kenny popped open another beer. “Cheers,” he said, holding up his last beer. “You want a brownie to take home?” “Sure,” he said, taking a slurp, feeling very relaxed. “Good thing you live next door,” Joyce told him. They’d been friends for 20 years. Way back when they were both married to other people. The four of them occasionally partied together. Then Kenny’s wife left him, and Joyce and her husband still tried to include him. When Joyce got divorced one night they got plastered together and commiserated over their marriages. Then they just started hanging out together. It was better than being alone. Now they mostly watched TV in the evenings. Joyce helped Kenny with his taxes and any paperwork, while Kenny could fix anything. They never verbalized their feelings, but they became much better friends since their divorces. At 11:00 on the dot, Kenny headed home. They both got up early for work. “See yah tomorrow,” Kenny said, heading for the door. “Dinner’s at 6:30,” Joyce commanded. “I’ll see you then.” “Fine. What can I bring then,” he asked, sounding annoyed, yet not really? “Nothing. Just your charming self,” Joyce snapped. “Humph,” he muttered and left. Over the next week they ate dinner together each night. Generally, Joyce cooked, although Kenny brought take-out one night. Neither one of them was interested in dating, so this arrangement suited them. Mutual friends tried to insist they were dating but after each of them had been burned in divorce, they knew otherwise. Their friendship was less complicated with mutual respect. The following Tuesday, Kenny showed up spitting mad with a case of Coors - his beer of choice. “What happened to you?” Joyce asked, the minute he walked in red-faced and swearing. “Don’t ask!” he snapped, continuing to mutter under his breath. He popped a cold one and downed it while he leaned against the countertop. “Work again?” Joyce guessed. He nodded with another swig of beer. “You’re a talented mechanic, Kenny. You can find something better, if you want,” she suggested, softly, not wanting to piss him off further. “That’d serve him right,” Kenny spat. “I just might!” “All right then. When you’re ready I’ll help you,” Joyce assured him. “Damn fool. He’s gone too far this time. You know he reprimanded me for something I didn’t even do, and in front of a customer? Can you believe that?” “I know you can do better,” Joyce said, placing her piping hot casserole on the table. “Damn right I can.” “On a happier note, Jodie will be here this weekend,” Joyce told him. “I’m cooking pot roast so mark your calendar.” “That’s a family thing,” he said, his mind temporarily off his problems. “You’re family,” Joyce scolded. Kenny frowned with a look of confusion. “Won’t Jodie wonder why I’m there?” “No,” Joyce answered. “Jodie has known you most of her life. She knows you’re a fixture around here.” “Well, I...,” he hesitated, at a loss for words. Joyce laughed it off. “She knows we’re not together like that,” she pointed out. “Well, I know, but it’s not like we’re family.” “It’s not?” Joyce asked, irritated. “Family doesn’t have to be blood. I’m closer to you than most of my family,” she stated, taking a deep breath. “Well,” Kenny stammered. “It should just be you and Jodie, that’s all.” “So, you can hang out with me every night, like a family member, but when my daughter comes to visit you get the heck out?” “Yeah,” Kenny said, losing his enthusiasm. “That’s ridiculous! We’re more than friends. Why can’t you admit that?” “Look, I don’t want to argue,” he said, setting down his beer. “So, you’re not coming and we’re not “family,” she air quoted. “Something like that,” he said, with a sigh. “You can’t admit I mean something to you, is that it?” Joyce fumed. “We have a nice thing going,” he defended. “It’s simple. Why complicate it?” “Because you matter to me,” Joyce told him. “I’m with you more than I am anyone, and if you can’t admit we’re more to each other, maybe you should leave.” “Dammit, Joyce,” he fumbled for words. “Fine then,” he said, and got up and left, slamming the door behind him. Kenny wasn’t one for sentiment. He hated being vulnerable. Joyce spied his case of beer sitting on the counter and she knew he had too much pride to come back for it. Stubborn fool, she muttered to herself. There was no need for all this drama, she sighed, flopping down in her seat. Who needed this crap anyway, she thought, throwing her hands in the air? What? His ego couldn’t handle needing her. Joyce had had enough of that when she was married. The rest of the week, Joyce ate and watched TV alone, often wondering if she’d pushed too hard. They had a good thing going, without all the expectations of a romantic relationship, so why had she gotten so mad? Why was it so difficult for Kenny to be vulnerable? Teresa, his ex, had sure complained about this over the years. So, he didn’t want to acknowledge that they were their own kind of family. So what? Why hadn’t she left good enough alone? Joyce knew what Kenny was like. He once told her his dad had really hurt him and he'd never been able to let it go. That was the most he would tell her, and he has never referenced it again. That was the thing about their relationship. They accepted each other the way they were - flaws and all. And then she'd gone and pushed him for more. Joyce knew Kenny loved her like family even if he couldn't say it. She should have let him alone. By Saturday, Joyce still hadn't heard from him. She'd picked the phone up a half a dozen times to call him but chickened out. He knew how she felt, she told herself. Why did she have to be the one to make overtures? Simmering pot roast and potatoes filled the air while Joyce set the table. She set a place for Kenny just in case, but she doubted he would show at this point. Jodie was due any moment. It would be good to see her and meet her boyfriend. Joyce nudged Paisley with her foot, who was sniffing around the table. “You have your own food,” she scolded. There was a rap on the door, and Joyce tidied up some more while she went to answer it. She thought Jodie still had a key and wondered why she was knocking. “I thought you had a key,” she said, swinging the door open. Kenny stood on the stoop with a sheepish grin on his face, holding a bottle of her favorite wine. “Hey,” he said, handing it to her. “Am I still invited?” “Of course,” Joyce said, letting him in. “Jodie should be here soon. Dinner is almost ready.” “Wow! You went all out,” he said, admiring the nicely laid table. “I don’t see my kid that much these days,” Joyce reasoned. “And apparently this new boyfriend is serious,” she confided in Kenny. “Beer?” “Sure,” he said. “It smells like Christmas dinner,” he praised. Joyce knew it took a lot for Kenny to show up. It was his way of apologizing, she knew. Joyce didn’t bring up their argument and she knew he wouldn’t either, and just like that they were okay again.


My human stirred at last! It felt like an eternity as I waited at the foot of the warm bed. This was all new. Usually, it was just the two of us, meowing for breakfast and her shuffling around with her sad, tired eyes. Not today though! Something shifted. This morning, her movements held purpose, a flicker of the old bounce I remembered when I was a kitten. The sunlight was blinding as we stepped out. She hesitated, holding onto the doorframe like a lifeline. My whiskers twitched. I knew this world outside, the noises of big metal things whizzing by and the many strange smells, and it was time she faced it again. Time she remembered that there was more to life than our small, quiet apartment. “*Alright, Duchess*,” she said, her voice a bit shaky and hesitant. “*We’re going for a walk*.” She sounded surprised by her own words, even I could tell. I gave a headbutt to her leg, a gentle encouragement. I knew the boys would be next door already, and I knew they needed to join us for our walk today. Finally, we were moving! Slowly, like the little humans learning to walk, the familiar smells of pigeons and salty air filled my nostrils. A hopeful feeling stirred in my furry chest. Maybe today would be different? I called out to my mate and our boys, rousing them from their lazy sprawl on the nice old lady’s stairs. They perked up when our human appeared beside me. They cheered and came bounding over. Nibby, my mate, walked close to her, his tail held high, making sure to show her the way to our paradise. She hadn’t been there with us, so he wanted to be the guide. Then, we saw the green! The small park with its big, welcoming trees. Me and my boys, we knew this would be exactly what we all needed. My human even smiled, just a tiny bit, as we made our way to a quiet bench. We sat there for...forever! My eyes got heavy, basking in the sun’s warmth, comforted by her rhythmic strokes on my fur. It had been so long since we’d enjoyed the sun together like this. I purred from sheer enjoyment. The boys did what they always do: climbed the trees, and, chased little birdies and those other things with bushy tails. I don’t do that so much anymore. My human says there is something wrong inside me, an invisible hurt. Some man in a white coat took one of my toes and its claw last year. So I get tired sometimes, and I don’t bounce as high as my boys do. But I so enjoyed sharing our little paradise with my human! She brought us our water bowl and filled it from the cooling fountain, which cooled us off in the heat. She forgot her own, so I will remind her next time. Squirrels scampered, birds chirped, and even children laughed nearby. She watched them, not flinching the way she used to. The noises that used to send her scurrying back inside... seemed quieter now, maybe even softer. A hopeful meow rumbled in my throat. On the walk home, her steps were steadier, her breath lighter. I purred as loud as I could, weaving between her legs in a dance of encouragement. She laughed at me and said “Be careful now, so we both don’t fall over!” Back in our apartment, as I settled into my favorite sunbeam, while I waited for my lunch, I felt a contentment I hadn’t in a long while. My human was sad, still hurting, that much I knew. But this morning, on our simple walk, I saw a glimmer of the woman she used to be. Maybe, just maybe, she was remembering all the good things outside our door too... Just a very few days later, my human surprised me again. She put on those funny coverings on her feet, the ones we cats don’t understand, and headed for the door. The morning air held a hopeful smell of fresh rain and those sweet little flowers that grow at the park’s edge. Our walk was like the last - slow and steady, with me and the boys weaving in and out of her legs. Maybe she was getting braver, or perhaps she liked those tree shadows as much as I did. As we entered the park, I felt her stiffen for a moment. My ears pricked up. Trouble? But no, her eyes widened with a different kind of look. Across the green, under one of the big, old trees, sat another human. A female human. She was laughing at something and waved when she spotted my human. My human hesitated for a second, then cautiously walked forward. Me and the boys followed, of course. Nibby, a true gentleman, rubbed against the newcomer’s legs in greeting. My boys, always curious, sniffed the strange human’s shoes. Then we recognised the scent! This human used to visit our house all the time, she used to have treats in her pockets. We all greeted her enthusiastically, and she DID have treats in her pockets. Runt, my son, jumped in the kind lady’s lap and purred, and then she hugged our human. Her friend had a kind and soft energy about her. She reminded me of a time when there were always visitors to our apartment, the sounds of laughter, music and the smell of strange but delicious foods. It had been so long. The humans talked for a long time. I basked in the sun, feeling the warmth seep into my old bones, watching little birds in the sky and remembering when I was young and agile enough to attempt to get them - though I never did manage to jump high enough. The two old friends pointed a lot, sometimes at us cats, sometimes at the pigeons pecking for crumbs. My human even laughed a few times, a rusty sound, but it made my whiskers twitch with happiness. We stayed so long at the park that it became time for dinner; the whole day had gone by without our human noticing. As we walked home, I noticed my human’s hands weren’t clenched into tight fists like usual. She’d relaxed her shoulders too. I gave her ankles a soft headbutt. She looked down and smiled, a real smile this time. That evening, she even played with me and the boys, dangling a string which I almost - almost - managed to catch. Maybe things were changing. Maybe a little more light could find its way back inside our apartment.


It appeared after a strong flash. An innocent baby still touched the skull. A Ouija board, many candles, a drop of blood, the eye of a calf, a common room. The three-legged monster with an elongated smile immediately knew that this kind of opportunity did not come often. Carelessly, someone had left a portal open to the earthly world and now, a little crawling human looked up at him from below with enormous curiosity. With smooth brown skin and large greenish eyes, the beautiful baby seemed interested in the tall ears and red eyes of the sinister visitor; who could do nothing but smile and display his pointed teeth. But when the monstrous being was fully illuminated by the candles, the baby fell silent and his eyes began to fill with tears, but before they could spill, the monster stopped and put on the friendliest face his ugliness allowed. The tiniest human creature laughed. The monstrous one continued to widen his eyes with tenderness to gain his trust. As he approached step by step, he thought that perhaps his witch sister or another relative had carelessly left the portal open, and the baby had crawled in unknowingly to its horrifying destiny. Now, after 200 years, he could try such a magnificent morsel again. His stomach growled eagerly; saliva gathered between his teeth until it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The little one, seeing the sticky liquid running down his pointed chin, responded with a hearty laugh. He had to hurry, lest someone enter or remember that they had left the baby alone in the room, or worse yet, that the adorable child would start to scream and give the alert. Humans tend to care for their offspring 24 hours a day; this was a one-in-a-million opportunity. So, he crouched down to become even friendlier with his dinner. The monster kid approached carefully. As he sharpened his teeth with his tongue and kept his mouth tightly closed so his haste wouldn't be noticeable, he then spoke a simple invocation. Instantly, a buzzing plush bee materialized, singing a lullaby. The mesmerized child turned his head, following the toy, and like an unattainable carrot, the little one began to crawl towards it. The sinister being extended a black claw gently to take him, to squeeze his delicate blood. The plush toy continued to buzz cheerfully; the little one kept his gaze fixed, getting closer. The claw moved another centimeter, when it was about to strike at his victim, the baby opened his mouth and bit off his finger. The underworldly being screamed in horror and pain. What was happening? No one could suck a piece of his ethereal body, unless of course... and as the baby continued to chew, swallow, and spit out the nail remnants; the monstrous one took a step back, seeming to shrink. And it was there that he noticed the strangeness of the room he was in. The window was painted on the wall, the wardrobe was a cardboard box, the ceiling was very high and made of stone, there was a simple single bed and, of course, no crib where the adorable creature could sleep. It was at that moment that he realized the trap. A terror ran through the monster, he thought that there were no humans of his kind left, but the reality was different: he had fallen into a family of monster-eaters. And trying to touch the skull to activate the return portal, the tiny beast baby approached crawling, hoping for an extra piece of him. The underworldly being was terrified and searched for the portal to return to his domains, but just as he was invoking the magic words, the sister appeared from under the bed with an old saucepan. The sinister being's non-blood froze in terror, so he retreated into the closet, only to discover that the mother was lurking with a cursed jade doll to prevent his escape. Cornered in a corner, he prayed to avoid his fatal fate. But the baby seemed the worst, crawling and drooling without understanding anything at all, only savoring his instinct; an insatiable stomach that raced at full speed. By the time the child was about to reach him, the sister opened the sister opened the magic saucepan and sucked the monstrous being in an instant flash. The terrifying scream of the monster could be heard as the lid closed, causing the baby to start screaming. The mother, skilled in these situations, approached to sing him a lullaby and congratulated him on his feat of catching dinner. There was no way to explain to him that he should share the prey with the other family members, but it was the rule, everyone had participated in the trap and deserved a share of the feast. However, the predictable tantrum erupted with full force. The mother held her offspring in her arms, giving him all the love she could, while the sister turned on the light in the crypt where the spurious room was set up. Then she extinguished the candles to close the portal, put away the Ouija board, and returned the calf's eye to its formaldehyde jar. She moved the fake cardboard door covering the bars and removed the padlock. Outside, it was still early morning in the mausoleum. The tombs barely showed their crosses, the dome of the crypt gleamed with bright moonlight. They navigated through the tombstones of so many wretched souls lying there, and with wide smiles, they leaped in triumph. Even the owls grew restless at the trapped growls emanating from the pot and the ceaseless cries of the baby. They headed to the car, which turned on its headlights. Inside, dad was waiting for them, immediately hugging them for another successful night of hunting. How proud he was, and how proud the grandmother would feel if she saw them; she surely watched with satisfaction from beyond. Especially the smallest member, who continued to cry fiercely for another bite. There was no doubt that the little angel had a bright future in the family.


The clunky air conditioner churned behind his head as he took in the words he was reading. “I think someone is listening.” Scribbled out in shaky, thin lines, the words on that ragged scrap of paper made Gail quickly bring his gaze up to the man who had handed it to him. He was terrible to look at. He was pale white all over his naked torso and arms, the only article of clothing on his body was a pair of grey sweatpants. His face was skeletal, like some had tried to shrink wrap it. His eyes were sunk so far into his skull that the flickering, buzzing light above him cast deep shadows over them, making them appear as huge and vacant sockets. His beard and hair were thin and dry, wild in every direction. He reeked of death. “Bill...” he started, but cut himself off when the skeletal man, Bill shot a finger up to his lips. Gail saw every inch of atrophied muscle tighten like taut rope through skin. The eyes, shadowed over, became visible as Bill craned his head down and forward, staring up across his own forehead at Gail. Play it smart, Gail. He quickly turned over the paper and, with his fingers in a fist and his thumb pressing down on them, mimed clicking a pen. Bill, still tense, stared at him for a long moment. Gail saw any number of possible scenarios flash through his own mind, many of them ending with Bill, this human shell, tearing him apart with a profound viciousness. What happened instead was Bill doubling back into his apartment, stumbling over something that audibly cracked under his weight, before ducking into the kitchenette. Gail looked down at what Bill had stepped on. It was drywall. Chunks of drywall littered the floor in gratuitous amounts, some in small piles in the corner but most just laying where, Gail surmised, they had initially fallen. The walls were littered with indents that were small enough that a human fist may make them. The larger holes worried him more however. They looked as if Bill had swung something like a chair or a bat with force enough to puncture the wall and had then started twisting and stirring it until they more closely resembled gaping wounds; gouges made by weapons a human body. The thought put Gail on guard enough that a sudden flash of movement in front of him sent him into a full body clench. It was Bill again, holding a pen out to him. Gail took it and wrote his question. “How long? When did it start?” Bill stared at the words for a long time, swaying on the spot enough that Gail feared he might see the man collapse, but such an event did not occur. Bill instead took the pen back and hurried back to the kitchenette, tiptoeing over the debris littering the floor. Gail was standing halfway in the front hall of the apartment, the door shut, and he could see more now. The windows were covered over with sheets, producing middling light through them that illuminated the utter disaster that was Bill’s living space. Broken furniture, chairs, tables, and something Gail couldn’t even begin to accurately describe were strewn about haphazardly among broken glass and a lighting fixture, oddly ornate and fine looking. The thing looked like it had been pulled out of the ceiling and had dragged part of it down with its frayed wires. Gail took a breath in through his mouth to avoid the smell, then let it out slowly. Play it smart Gail. Bill reappeared again, holding a large piece of paper that had one of the top corners ripped away. On it was everything Gail needed to know. “Been going a month. Worked at auto shop when guy came in. Tall. White. Grey slicked back hair. He drove a black Corolla. He said it was antifreeze trouble. Said he wanted me specifically. I asked what the problem was. He said I shouldn’t be on that website. It got heated after. I got fired. Never met the guy. No idea how he knew about that site. Been seeing people around outside. Blocked windows. Neighbour played music to loud. Told him to fuck off. He’s gone. They’re listening to me. They can hear me talk. Please help!!!” The letter was written with a rapidly descending lack of grace and penmanship, but Gail got all he needed from it. He spared Bill a quick, sympathetic glance and then turned the page over to write his answer. Bill shifted from one foot to the other, wringing his bony hands one over the other as he breathed heavily through his mouth. When Gail handed him his answer, Bill snatched it away and poured over it. “I know some guys who will keep you safe. I can’t tell you who they are because they need their privacy. Get what you need, and we’ll get right on going.” Bill did not move, did not breath, at least not audibly. Gail just watched him as he began to shake all over, shaking his head around on his thin neck so furiously that Gail thought it might fall off. When Bill lunged forward, the only thing that prevented Gail from screaming was the quick realization that Bill was crying into his chest. “Thank you.” Came his muffled voice. He was off him just as quickly and hurrying to what Gail assumed was his bedroom. When he was out of sight, Gail pulled his phone out and began responded to most recent text. Status of Subject #38? Subject is displaying clear signs of extreme paranoia, anorexia, and general emotional instability. Proceed? At your discretion. Gail put his phone away and reached behind himself in the same motion. He pulled out a handgun as he began to approach Bills room. The gun was strangely bulky, with a cover over the hammer. He raised it up as he picked his head around into the room. He saw Bill on his knees, his back to the doorway recklessly shoving junk and clothes into an overflowing suitcase. He might have felt pity over that sight, Gail thought, if this hadn’t been number thirty-eight. Since it was number thirty-eight, the only thing Gail did for Bill was aim the gun and pull the trigger. Bill sprawled forward over his luggage when the bullet blew the back of his head out in thick chunks of bone and meat. Gail left as soon as the body stopped twitching. He didn’t want to deal with the smell. It wasn’t his job anyway. He put the gun away and stepped out into the apartment. The apartment beside Bill’s opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, white, and had his grey hair styled into a shiny slick back. He had a wide, toothy grin in his face. “Fasted one yet, right?” He was struggled not to laugh between his words. Gail just rolled his eyes. “It just means we’re doing our job right. No use lingering on it.” Gail turned without waiting for a response and started striding toward the stairwell. He could feel the grey-haired man grimacing behind him before rushing to catch up. “I can enjoy my work if I want to.” He said. “You can too you know.” Gail didn’t respond outside of sighing. This guy was going to be the death of him.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: The bells hadn’t stopped ringing in weeks.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Use at least 3 of the following words: - coffin - survival - withered - dig - esoteric - newspaper This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Third:** - Submitted by u/aladon1234 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/randallus - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Did someone say *contest*? The has officially kicked off on r/WritingPrompts! Submit a story based on the prompt by June 30th to enter! - Practice those poetry skills with our brand new feature, , on r/WritingPrompts! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


This is an adult story, with language and content which may offend those easily offended. I can remember the sparkles. Sunshine on water. At the river, that warm day in late spring. I remember the droplets on her skin and I remember her eyes. Her huge childlike eyes, deep brown and clear and innocent. Still unaware of her beauty, a child. Her perfect sun kissed legs. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. I thought , how long do I have, how long will it take her to finish her drink, lips pouting round the rim? I didn’t want it to end . A face like one of those perfect golden ratio faces that artists paint. Every single freckle was perfect, but she was real and was so beautiful it could have made me cry. And when she dived into the river, swam, ran on the bank, I watched her and I wanted her. I have skills, talents. Everyone knows I can charm, manipulate, lead them where I want them to go. Call me a wolf, but all wolves aren’t the same ; there is one kind with an amenable disposition - tame and gentle, following the young girls in the streets, into their homes. The young girls don’t know that these gentle wolves, out of all the wolves, are the most dangerous! Yes, I have skills. I know these girls. They go for the bad boy and I am the likeness of a devouring wolf, strong and mighty, with great, large eyes, which in the night sparkle like fire, and a wide mouth, with most sharp and cruel teeth, a strong body. They want me. They want the dangerous man. All the girls are racing to be the first. The first to bleed, first to kiss, first to touch, first to fuck. It’s not that they especially want any of these things but they are terrified of being different, of being left behind. Stay with the flock, keep in time. She, as much as the others, terrified of not being the perfect girl, the girl who speaks quietly and calmly, who is always kind and nice, never mean or bossy. She, who wants to fit in; not lead or lag. So, yes, I could have had her. Led her there, like any of the others, but this one was different. I had imagined, her and I, something real. I could have shown her things, many beautiful things and excitement too. It was a dream, I know, I know it could never happen. Eventually I’d change and it would all go bad. The moon or the season would call me and I’d hurt her, knowing I didn’t want to. It’s too hard when it comes. Not something you can fight. It just happens. They know that, the ones who choose the girl to wear the hood. In the end, they all know that in the end, the bloodlust prevails. Yes, I’d eat that heart, panting hot and raw, eat that sweet dainty morsel. I don't know why they had to send her. Why they had to send this girl. Any girl would have been OK. Any young girl. Fresh, you know. They knew. I think they knew my feelings for her. They must have known when they chose her. When they gave her the robe and the hood. Chose her as the virgin. And they knew when they sent her out, they knew she had to die like the others, like every year Did that make it better, stronger? They for sure didn't think of me. Why would they? None of them ever cared about me. Here we are on the path. Her rich cascade of auburn hair tumbling out from her hood. She’s skipping, smiling. With that basket full of wine. Some bring cakes, bake things, but she knew her grandmother. And her grandmother, old hag, crept away. She knew what was coming. She left the door unlocked and sneaked into the forest. Kept herself safe. That’s not as she’ll tell it, but that’s how it was. Her name doesn't matter now, she is the blood, the offering. They've dressed her in the robe, the hood. She's on the path. Everyone knows where this ends. Everyone but her. They will speak of her by her robe. She had a name. Dyani. Sweet soft Dyani. Dyani, always with a smile, and so generous it was close to foolish. Her name meant deer. Fitting perhaps, now. Now she is just the girl in the red hood. If she wasn't here, now, sometime later she would have taken my hand and drawn it on to her breast. And it would have been sweet. In that cottage, on that bed. And she’d love the soft skin of my penis on her lips and she’d smile when I shuddered as I came inside her. Like a child given a gift. But this afternoon isn't going to end like that. I hate them for that. I want to call a pack and hunt them all down. They should fear me now. Those cruel men, choosing her. Making me do this. The worst thing. the worst part of this nightmare, what is destroying what soul I have left is I know she will taste good. Good as she looks. I have always loved the way she looks. pale skin and that mass of dark hair, tumbling out from her hood. Those child eyes. Too big really, those dark brown eyes. A beautiful child face on a woman. I want to look into them and for her to see me. The real me, you know. Not just the teeth. How long has this gone on. Thousands of years. I have read - yes I do read, I am educated - I have read, the Greek, Pausanias knew the how and why. Told the story, in which, each year, a virgin girl was offered to a malevolent spirit, offered as a sacrifice. And this spirit, dressed in the skin of a wolf, raped and ate the girl. They will tell another story. One that ends well. The girl will be rescued. Wishful thinking. A better story for their guilt, a happy fairy tale. Keep out of the woods, don’t speak to strangers. No one will mention Dyani. They will agree, without words, not to mention her. They won’t admit they chose the story, they chose the girl. I will be the malevolent spirit. Everyone believes there’s a malevolent spirit. What does that mean, malevolent? I don’t hate her. I do what they want. I do it for them. Someone has to. Someone always has. A thousand girls, a thousand innocent young girls, a thousand virgins. So their crops will grow. So their gods will smile. I don the skin, the rank smelling skin and pull the fangs into my mouth. It will haunt me. Next year and the years after, all I will see is her eyes. I will see my teeth in her eyes. Watch her last moments, her confusion and the rising fear. Her scream as I take her. Remember her hair tumbling from her hood. Remember the soft sweet taste on my lips. As we stroll through the woods, the flowers mock me. They cover the peaceful, sun-dappled glades. Bluebells crowding round the base of the trees like flirting girls, sweet smelling columbine in the glades, the dog violet line her path; Bow as she walks to her sacrifice. “Take your time, pick some flowers” I say. “It’s a lovely day.” I know I’m going to do this. I know the flowers will cover the smell of your fear and your blood when I take you. Will help cover the stench when my teeth rip open your stomach. The gods will smile. Their bastard smiling gods. And the villagers, they all know it’s happening. Duplicitous, lying, cruel bastards. They will cover it up, again. They will tell their tales, like they always do, but they know. They know, they all know, what big teeth I have and who I’m going to eat.


Chapter 6 The alliance I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I felt the shadows continue to get tighter and tighter around my body binding me to the bed as many more circled my room slowly like rotating clouds laughing and whispering. The largest of the shadows stared at me from the ceiling its red eyes gazing into my eyes waiting for a response. “How did you know my real name? Who is your master and why haven’t you killed me yet?” The whispering and laughing grew louder and they circled the room faster their shapes constantly changing forms. “Our master has sent us to give you a message and to lend our assistance in keeping you alive.” I was dumbstruck. Who the hell was siding with me? I thought most of my allies had either turned on me or was killed in the war against Jackeal’s army. This supposed ally I had must be one hell of a necromancer to be able to control this many shadows at once. He might even be on the same level as I was back in my former body. “Who is your master?” I asked in a voice that was supposed to sound strong and authoritative but, instead, it sounded squeaky and pathetic. Damn the gods for putting me in such a useless body. “Our master is someone who rather keep himself unknown to you for now.” “Okay, what is his message that he has sent you to give to me?” “That he is aware of the question you had asked Mavra right before she sank her claws into you. He knows that you know how to kill her and he wishes for you to do so.” My eyes widened at that, how the hell did their master know what happened that day? I gritted my teeth and doubled down on my authoritative tone not caring if my voice sounded squeaky or not. “Your master can speak to me in person if he wishes me to help him. I am the great Edward the one who raises the dead back to life, I am the one who makes the holiest of priests turn from there god and get on their knees I am the one-“ The shadows body tightened around me harder cutting my speech short causing me to grimace in pain as I felt my ribs on the edge of breaking. The shadows circling the room abruptly stopped went silent and all the shapes of the shadows turned into snarling humanoid faces. Hollow eyes everywhere in the room gave me the death stares. “Your arrogance disgusts me, you are trash compared to my master!” It’s face also turned humanoid and snarled at me and stared red daggers into my eyes. Bloodlust and anger filled the room all of it directed at me threatening to suffocate me. “If it weren’t for my master’s explicit commands to keep you alive your small body would be torn apart by now and thrown into the garbage where you belong! Do you think you were brought to this world by pure coincidence?! Do you think that you were so great that the gods themselves decided to reincarnate you into another world to give you a second chance at life?! If it weren’t for my master your soul would have been ripped apart and tossed into the void by Mavra!” My heart pounded so hard it hurt my chest and my confidence was felt nonexistent. Questions ran through my mind about the identity of there master and how he was able to put my soul into this world. “I’m sorry.” I whispered to the shadows trying to calm them down. “Forgive my rudeness and tell your master I beg his forgiveness to, please quiet down though you will wake my parents up if you continue to yell.” “No sound can leave this room thanks to the spell my master has given us.” The shadows started rotating around the room again with their faces still filled with rage. “So, I’m not under some dream spell, then right? So, I really did die that night that she sank her claws into me?” The shadows red eyes stopped drilling holes into mine and seemed to ponder the question. “Your body died but your soul was saved by my master since you are a valuable weapon, he can use against Mavra in the future with the knowledge you have on how to kill her.” “Why doesn’t he just ask me how to kill her then? It seems to me that would solve his problems and he could simply do away with me.” The shadows circling the room all grinned and began to chuckle and rotated faster and faster around the room causing them to start blurring together. The largest of the shadows loosened his grip on me, my ribs thanking him for doing so and a deep chuckle rumbled through the room and his red eyes smiled at me. “You might be garbage mortal but, you are amusing garbage. To answer your question my master even with your knowledge could not kill Mavra himself it has to be a mortal wizard that does the deed.” “But I only know how to kill her.” I said staring at the shadow with a pleading expression. “How does your master expect me to kill her if I don’t know how to get back to my world yet?” “There is no need to get back to your original world mortal. Mavra will eventually arrive here in this world to slay you. As we speak, she is attacking the wall that separates your world and this world and trying to pour her soldiers into this world to find and destroy you.” Well, that is not good I thought to myself wide-eyed not knowing what to do with that information. The shadow spoke again now with a calm voice the anger seeming to completely evaporate from the air. “We have been protecting the wall since you have arrived here, and we will continue to do so until we can no longer. Soldiers of hers will eventually slip past us this we are certain of. This is why we are going to provide you with your own shadow that has already been paid for with mana, he will be your protector and help you grow your powers, he will still need some of your mana to stay in this plane of existence but, there will be no summoning fee.” I blinked at the shadow's face. All the information swirling in my head made my head begin to ache and I sighed. “So my shadow has already been picked out for me? I don’t get to choose who my partner is?” “No, you do not get to choose he has a debt with our master and this is how he will be repaying it off by protecting you until Mavra is defeated. You both have a debt you owe my master so you must work together to defeat her once and for all.” “Who’s my partner?” “Right here!” A shadow said cheerfully as he glided towards me. The shadow snatched up my hand and a burning tingling sensation went through my hand causing me to wince in pain. The shadow let go of my hand and a tattoo was left on my skin representing a bond between me and the shadow, my mana now was directly linked to the shadow allowing me to siphon energy into it. “You can’t just make me bond with this shadow!” I said in protest. “We can make you and we will my master owns your soul. After all, he did save it from annihilation. Have fun working with him.” The shadow said waving its gigantic shadowy hand in my direction and released his grip entirely on me the others doing the same and all shadows started to go into regular non-supernatural shadows and went back to their dimension. All except for one that is. My now new partner which was my shadow now I guess drifted around the room making noises of excitement and paid my death glare no attention. “This is going to be a wild adventure buddy!” The shadow said and then it rushed at me stopped near my face and grinned.


It ended in silence, as most things do. It all ended in the brutal, stifling nothingness, with no one there to bear witness. Not even the wind dared to howl, for it knew that there would be nothing left to hear it. Before, though, there was a gunshot. Ringing out in the cold stale air, the last thing that anyone ever heard. The cries of that girl. A single girl, laying on the unknown remains of her childhood home, as she realized that she had lost everything she knew. The cries of the last girl on a dying world, her cries, knowing that there was no other option. There were very few sounds, though, as that very same girl woke up in an abandoned world full of ash and endless shades of gray. She looked around and wondered how she would get back home. But the events leading up to this were loud. There was shouting and wailing up to the very moment before the girl came to. In the moments before her death, she would think that they were part of a dream. A vivid nightmare, far better, though, than the scene that was real. The world that was actually around her. If only she had remembered what had happened minutes earlier, maybe the end could’ve been different. So prior to the sudden waking of the young women, there was a raging war around the sleeping girl, not much older than a child. Not a war between men, though the men were the ones who fought it. It was a war inside all of them, as they fought to accept their fate. The people said their last goodbyes. They cried their last tears, and breathed their last breaths of fresh, mortal air. They wondered what it would be like after they were gone; they wondered where they would go. As all the people came to terms with their inevitable fate, hundreds of eyes peered down and stared at the fair skinned girl, who they knew was the only one that would survive longer than them. Silently, they all wondered if her fate would truly be any better than theirs. But of course, the event preliminary to the waking of a girl must be the falling asleep of one. So she, at the bright and youthful age of 16, was chosen. Chosen she was, and she became the people’s modern Sleeping Beauty. She was a symbol of hope, someone that they thought could handle the weight of simply existing on their fragile yet determined shoulders. And even earlier than that, all the people, including that girl before she slept, sat without words as they realized that the words of a madman weren’t as mad as the man who spoke them. They began to prepare, mentally and physically, for the things they now knew would come. They didn’t believe the man who had figured it out. They didn’t think that he knew what he was talking about. After all, he sounded insane, standing up there in the middle of Times Square. No one wanted to believe that their end would be so sudden, so seemingly pointless. Soon, though, every resident of the famed concrete jungle would learn that his insanity was contagious, if insanity is what you can call the knowledge of a massive extinction. In the beginning, before the chaos, everything was normal. People went about their mundane days; walking to work and driving their children to school, groaning in frustration at the endless line of cars, piling up to create traffic. They had no idea what was coming, because no one knew. No one could have warned them. And that’s really all there is to tell. We start at the end so you can understand the beginning. You are given the conclusion so you can understand why it could have been changed. Why it could’ve been different. See, before the silence, the kind of silence that presses in on your ears. Before the gunshot, the final ringing through the head of someone’s young daughter and the sick thump as her body hit the dusty earth. Before she woke from her sleep and cried for the city; a now dead, leveled sandpit of ash, and for her family, buried under the crumbled buildings. And before the shouting, before the wars within the people. When the people’s only hope for this girl was that she could survive and live on, whether it was tourture for her or not. And finally, before she was chosen, along with eleven others. She had no idea before she died, but she was not alone on that earth. She, regrettably, forgot. Tragically wiped from her memory was the knowledge that just 250 miles away was the next one. A boy of 18 with dark skin and eyes, ‘ saved’ just like she was. There were two more on that continent, and three just across the ocean. Five more in the countries beyond, and they were all saved so that the world could have another chance. They were last symbols of hope, children that others thought could handle the weight of simply existing on their fragile yet determined shoulders. How could they have known that they would forget? How could all the people know that every last one of those twelve children would be consumed by the grief and pick up those guns? The guns. The simple shotguns, the only things left behind. Not one of them stopped to think how the sleek metal weapons got there. They only decided to die. Every one of them within eight minutes of waking up. Within eight minutes, all twelve of the children took their own lives. They were simply numbers to be recorded. Notes were taken on times of death, vitals right before the trigger was pulled, and even what their last words were, wailed to no one but themselves. All twelve of those children, the youngest at 10 years old, were minor casualties, sacrificed so that the next test could be run with more accurate results. To add maybe two more minutes to the time between consciousness and the decision to end their own life. I saw them die, and I’ve come to one conclusion. It ended in vain, like they all do.


"Congratulations!" my Grandfather shouted and gave her daughter a hug. "Thank you Papa!" Mom beamed. "Aren't you going to say something?" Nyla whispered. "Hello." I said in a bored tone. "Idiot." Nigel shook his head and snatch a piece of brownie from the table. Nyla gave me a small smile and held my hand. "It's time for a new beginning,Niamh." she said. I didn't say anything. I felt like I was still in a dream. Everything happened so fast I haven't even had a time to brush my hair or paint my nails. "Look at them,they look so happy." my younger sister muttered. "What are you trying to imply?“ "That you should be happy for them too." My brows immediately furrowed on that thought. "Our mother just married a man the same age as our older brother. What you'd think people might say?" "I don't care about what other people might think or say,I only care about mom's happiness." Nyla stated. "Of course." I said and laughed sarcastically. Why can't she understand how I feel? Our dad just passed away a few weeks ago and now his wife is married to another man. Did they even feel a single ache from what just happened?I don't think so. "Niamh,tell your daddy dinner is ready." mom said It's been 5 days since Jake settled here in our house and everyday,my mom keeps on insisting to consider him as my new father. I haven't talk to her "He's not my dad." I hissed and stood up. I walk quietly and went towards the master's bedroom. Before I could even raise my fist to knock,I heard a voice spoke so I decided to listen. "Tomorrow would be another remarkable day for a member of my family." "Why?" "A big surprise." "Film it." I heard a loud laugh before the room went silent. "Jake! Dinner's served!" I shouted and went back to the dinning room. A big surprise? Really? The next day,I was really excited to go home to give my younger sister a new dress that I bought for her. "Nyla I'm here!" I shouted. "She's still not home." Nigel said and poured some orange juice on his glass. "Why?" "They went out to watch a movie." he explained. "They?" "Yeah together with mom and Jake." So I'm guessing Nigel doesn't want Jake to be a part of our family too. That's cool. "Oh,okay." I grinned. I was about to take a walk outside when I heard the door opened. "Nyla!" I immediately went towards her and hugged her tightly. "Go away." she whispered. I slowly released her and placed both of my hands on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" I asked. "I think she's sleepy." mom said. "It was a long and tiring day." I smiled shyly and handed Nyla a paper bag. She really looks exhausted and her eyes were still swollen like she just woke up from a 12-hour sleep and still needed more. "Nyla!" I called. I made a few knocks and it took a while before the door opened. "What do you want?" she asked in a bored tone. "I just finished baking!" I giggled and show her a tray full of cookies. "I don't like it." "But it's your favorite." I chuckled. "I said I don't like them,didn't I?" Nyla snapped. My smiles faded as I stare right through her eyes. I know how to read someone else's emotion and all I could see within her is pain. I placed down the tray at the top of a table near me and held her right arm. "Nyla." My eyes widened when she pushed me back. I winced when I felt my body ache from the impact I received. "Leave me alone!" she screamed at the top of her lungs and slam the door in front of me. I blinked twice before standing up. I couldn't believe what just happened. This was the first time my younger sister shouted at me. Before I could even say anything, I already felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. "I'll always be here for you." I whispered and ran to my room. Something's not right and I need to find it out as soon as possible. "Mom!" I called out. "Yes sweetheart?" she wiped her hands with a clean towel before leaning to gave me a kiss. "I think we need to take Nyla to a psychiatrist." I said. "I don't think that would be necessary." Jake suddenly spoke behind her. "Are you even my mom?" I hissed. Jake smirked at me before sitting in a chair. "That's out of our monthly budget." Jake said. "He's right, what makes you think she needs one?" my mom chuckled. "Have you seen her movements these past few days?" I asked,not leaving my eyes on Jake. "No." she answered. "It's because you don't care." I said nonchalantly. "Niamh?" I could clearly hear the confusion in her tone when she called me. "You heard me right,it's because you don't ca-" before I could even finish,my mom slapped me so hard I took a step back. I glared at the both of them before heading back to my room. I opened my cabinet and grab my wallet. When I returned,they were both talking in hushed voices. I threw my wallet and it slid right in front of them. "500 bucks and two debit cards." I growled. "Set an appointment tomorrow morning." I demanded and left them dumb founded. I was about to walk past Nyla's room when I decided that maybe I should talk with her. "Nyla.." I spoke. I knocked on the door a few times but she won't open it. I knew she was there,I could hear her sobbing and that made my heart shatter into pieces. "Nyla,talk to me." I pleaded. There was no response but I don't want to give up. "You told me we wouldn't keep a secret and now you're here,ignoring my presence." I whispered and let out a heavy sigh. "Nyla." The door opened and I immediately hugged her tightly. I thought she might push me away again like what she did before but she didn't moved at all. "Nyla,please tell me everything." I said when I finally let her go. She wiped her tears away before taking my hand and letting me inside her room. She locked the door and sat on the floor. I sat beside her and caress her cheek. "Do you remember the day when I didn't go to school because I was sick?" she asked all of a sudden. "I do." I answered. That was the day when mom and Jake took her out for a movie. Also the same day Jake said he'd have 'a big surprise' which didn't happen at all. "I was here in the room reading some books when someone knocked. I opened it and saw Jake carrying a tray. I let him in so he placed the tray on the table. He went towards the door and I thought he was going to leave but instead he locked it." she cried. "He locked the door and pushed me." I felt like my heart stopped beating when I realized what she had just said. "He.." my voice trailed off. Nyla nodded and cried even harder. "He took advantage of my weakened physical state." "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked softly. "He told me he will kill all of us if I even say a single word about it." Nyla answered. I wipe my tears away and hugged her tightly again. "Please don't tell anyone." Nyla whispered. "I won't." I said. I gave Nyla a kiss before letting her go. She leaded me out of her room and smile before closing the door. I walk towards my room and took my phone out. "I'm sorry,Nyla." I whispered before calling a number. It was a minute past nine went I heard sirens of a police cars outside. I immediately went out and I saw Jake being handcuffed by four policemen. My mom kept on crying while grabbing her husband's arm and I was still there,standing near the corner, watching them. Nyla went towards us with eyes wide open while Nigel's taking random pictures,obviously enjoying the scene. Nyla began to cry and hugged me tight. That was the moment I knew we were all safe now.