She ran toward the bush and smiled. “Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long!” “Spring has come once again!” the voice said. “What was it again, miss?” A loud clank was heard from the bar when its keeper finally caught the attention of the newcomer. The unfamiliar young woman winced as she accidentally knocked down an empty mug behind her arm, drawing more attention to herself with the noise. She unknowingly fell asleep and was dreaming. The regulars of the pub have been whispering ever since she stepped in its doors and seemingly stomped her way inside for a drink. Who is she? they wondered. Every inhabitant of the old town knew who lived and treaded on its hellish roads and scratched on its lifeless dirt with grave hopes-- and this girl was no local. No one bothered to approach her, as her bulky bag of unknown possessions and dark patched overcoat were all enough to drive the onlookers away, and the barman was the only one who was obligated enough to do so. “I’m sorry, what?” she answered. “Your order, miss. I did not get what you said,” the colossal smiling man reminded. His locks were tied up in a neat bun, with shade as dark as burnt coal and curls coiled like springs. Just like every other person in the pub, and even if you walked down the frontier to hopefully locate an innkeeper who would accept you at three in the morning, everyone’s hair was as dark as hardwood or ebony. On the other hand, the maiden’s hair was as fiery as the flames used to ignite the coal itself. And on that night, she was the only person in town to have locks that red. “Oh,” she realized. “I said, what is the cheapest thing you sell?” “Our house special. The best beer you’ll find here in Brimstone.” She scrunched up her nose. “Brimstone?” “You’re in Brimstone, miss,” the barman smiled. His gigantic hands carefully cleaned the mug she knocked over earlier. One would think he could smash it with his fist, yet he handled it delicately. Straightforwardly, she asked again. “How much is your beer?” “One silver.” “One silver?” she frowned. “Don’t you have anything for like, five coppers? What about water?” The gentle giant finished wiping the mug in his hand before responding again. “Sadly, miss, we have no water left tonight. Beer’s the cheapest I can give you.” She grunted to herself and kicked the knapsack resting by her feet. She felt parched to the core after carrying the immense backpack on her shoulders for so long. It only composed of clothes, a pen and notebook, and a thick blanket, with its pockets keeping a few stale biscuits, an empty bottle, and a dagger. To her, her most prized possession was her notebook, for it contained a few notes and sketches of her journeys. It had some details of how her jobs used to be, but in a few of its leaves contained songs of her pain-- melodies and poems-- that she merely sang and whistled to the wind as her only audience. If one flew over the lands and asked about where she’s been, nobody would be able to identify this. She was Eve to Bellwood, Estelle to Travis, and Erla to Emberville. The only thing you’d find on her card was “E. Still”, and there existed a ton of E. Stills on the land. Years of bending her back, lifting goods, and carrying the knapsack during her travels made her look like a tramp carrying a weight that hunched her back forward. It was true though. For one who has only breathed for two decades on earth, she has walked distances and has settled in places she no longer kept track of. Twenty years of not having any bit of familiarity turned her into the harshness that’s scarred her, the coldness that nearly froze her to death during winter, and the dryness of every drought she tearlessly cried her way through. She has been out in the heat and the cold her entire life, and the only direction she knew was where the wind and seasons pointed her towards. It’s been long since she’s seen a flower bloom, and Brimstone was no springtime paradise. After taking a deep breath, she stood up from her chair to leave the pub. The barman lifted his hand and called, “Wait, miss. I have a question.” She lifted her knapsack on the stool and sighed. “What is it?” “You are not from here, I’m sure.” The girl snorted as she adjusted her bag straps. “I’m not from anywhere.” “How old are you, miss?” he questioned. She was appalled by his inquiry. “Excuse me? I’m a full-grown and independent adult, if that’s what you’re asking.” “Don’t get me wrong. You just look young. You’re thin, quite-” The customers of the pub had their attention diverted again toward the red-haired girl they were talking about only a few minutes ago. She loudly pounded the wooden counter with her boot before swiftly pointing her dagger to the man’s chin. Two regulars from afar stood up to defend the pacific barman, who waved them away with his callused right hand. “Please, miss-” “Don’t you ever call me miss again,” she threatened. She looked straight into the man’s confused eyes, already attacked sharply by her deadly glare. “I’ll stab your hands repeatedly, and you will no longer be able to serve those little expensive drinks of yours.” The man swallowed before responding. He was quivering deep inside, but he had to explain himself. She had misunderstood his intentions, but he didn’t want to blame her. She looked like she’s been alone her whole life, and it’s possible that he just tugged on the wrong string. “Please. I was asking because I don’t serve liquor to young fellas. The sheriff might take me out, you know? Although I think you’re more likely to do more to me than him.” She narrowed her eyes, as if observing him thoroughly, before lowering the dagger to her pocket. The girl has never really stabbed anyone, yet she’s scratched and wounded a few. Some men just don’t know how to leave women alone-- except when they’re already bleeding. “Alright,” she said. The barman immediately grabbed the nearest mug and turned to his keg. “Hey. Beer’s on me, on the house. I have some pulled pork here as well.” She raised an eyebrow at him. Without saying a word, she went back to her seat. The kind giant slid a mug of his specialty beer alongside a small bowl of dry pulled pork. Before taking a sip, the girl commented. “No one has ever given me this much for free.” “Really?” She picked up a chunk of pulled pork and nodded. Poor woman , he thought. Girls with such disposition as hers looked to be more likely to work as an innkeeper or somewhere by the alleys. Hell, she would do great in the army. However, she was this thin unhealthy woman with tanned skin heavily covered by covers of coats and jackets and unevenly cut hair that would’ve been beautiful if it were groomed. The barman pitifully smiled at her before speaking again. “Well in case someone does again, it be best to thank them. No need to thank me, though.” She took a sip of the beer. The apparent best in Brimstone, but probably the best one she’s had in her life. As she stood up to transfer to a table on the corner, she shyly smiled graciously to him. “Thank you.” From the back corner, a young man wearing a stained old apron over a checkered shirt came stumbling into the pub. His face had a little bit of dirt, yet his bright eyes and white teeth made him quite radiant; it was easy to ignore the mess that he was. The chestnut hair on his head was all over the place, with his cheeky and innocent nature that all the customers knew well and enjoyed. They loved it when he served them drinks or greeted them good night before leaving. He found joy in interacting with the same people every day, then tending to Lou’s pony at dusk. About ten people would attend his monthly music performances to his little crowd, and that was what gave him life and enrichment. One would say he had the voice of an angel; some described that he was blessed by the heavens or gods themselves, if such divinities existed. “Hey, Lou! I’m done organizing the back room,” he exclaimed. He ran toward the gentle giant tending the bar, Lou, who flipped a silver on his hand and patted the young man on the shoulder. “Thanks, my boy.” Lou had been caring for the young man for quite some time now, for nearly two decades already. The boy’s father was his best friend, who died from the pox epidemic one summer. The saintly child was merely a weakling, whose mother abandoned him right after the father’s demise. At 20, he has grown into an epitome of optimism, and that somehow, hope can still thrive even on the driest of lands. “Lou, who is that?” The boy pointed to the farthest corner of a room. His eyes twinkled at the sight of such a woman from afar, who he immediately found enchanting. Lou chuckled. “Not sure who she is, but a newcomer. She had no silvers so I gave her a beer and some of our pork.” The young man enticingly smiled. Sure, he’s seen the wonder of puppies being born near the alleys and the distant memory of green butterflies by the farmland, yet he has never seen such wonder unlike the red-haired woman quietly sipping on her mug of beer. Her locks were dry, but to him they were lustrous. Her subtle smiles after each sip were stellar to him. The way she looked around the room made him want her to gaze onto him as well. The entire pub of drinkers found her intriguing, yet to the young man quite dumbstruck next to Lou, she looks like someone he’s seen in a dream. As if, she was someone he’s already known. “Do you wanna talk to her?” Lou asked him. The captivated young boy nodded enthusiastically and grabbed a napkin from his apron pocket. He only knew how to fold two things: a cube and a bird, which he learned from Ol’ Gretla’s. Only the bird seemed most acceptable, so he hurriedly turned and folded on the soft paper for a makeshift gift. “My boy, are you sure? She’s...feisty.” “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m sure. For some reason, I really am.” After finishing the folded bird, he took a deep breath and nodded at Lou. Here it goes , he thought. He felt his brown shoes drum on the floors with each step, discordant with his heartbeat growing faster. Some of the customers greeted him as he passed by, yet he didn’t notice them. A woman gasped when she noticed him walking toward the redhead, as if they were waiting for hell to break loose. “Do you like to, uhm, I mean...do you like the pork?” The young girl’s curious dark eyes met the boy's, who handed her a paper bird. Her eyebrows furrowed, but something about his voice was calming. “Who are you?” she questioned. “The pork! I mean, I know the man, who gave the pork. He, uh. He takes care of me.” “Oh.” The girl sipped on her mug in silence. She didn’t know why the man approached her about the pork, but something about his nature made her smile. “What’s your name?” he asked. She put her mug down as she replied. “I don’t give my name to some random bar waiter.” “I’m no random man. I assure you. It’s just that-” “Just what?” The young man found himself finally staring into her eyes deeply. He was breathless; he felt lost in them yet it somehow looked like comfort. Like home. “When I first saw you, I felt like something was drawing me to you.” The girl raised an eyebrow while he continued to speak. “I know we’ve never met, but I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.” At that moment, she felt something echo in her ears. Some sweet sound of strings. The room was steady and windless and she hasn’t heard music in months, yet something about it felt so new and familiar. Perhaps I was imagining it , she thought. “Alright. I’m E.” The young man lit up upon her introduction, but realized it was only a letter. “E? Like the letter?” “Yes,” she affirmed. “I’m E.” “Is that your real name?” “Maybe.” He laughed in response and decided to play along. “In that case, my name’s O. Can I sit with you?” The two of them talked for more than an hour, until the lights that were left lit in the pub was the incandescent bulb shining from above them. A warm glow emanated on the lovebirds-- which was what Lou whispered to himself while gazing at them from a distance as he cleaned up the place. “So, you’ve been lonely your whole life then,” O commented. “No,” E defended. “I’m alone. Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I’m perfectly happy on my own.” “Do you like being on your own?” E hesitated upon hearing O’s inquiry. She was never totally alone in her life, yet never did she settle in one space or walk one direction. Something about her instinct felt to never trust anyone. No matter what they offered her. No matter the flair. “Maybe. Something about myself never trusted the world around me. But I try to be happy.” O nodded silently and contemplated to himself. Never trusted the world ? It was a familiar thought of his to feel some kind of betrayal. The world was unkind, indeed, but he always tried to be happy for Lou. But somehow, he understood completely. He decided to ask. “When was the last time that you felt a bit of happiness?” “That’s easy,” E beamed. “When I saw a nest of wrens on the way here.” “That made you happy?” She flicked a stray rice grain to his face. “Hey, if you still want me to stay, don’t judge what makes me happy.” O apologized and spontaneously, a thought crossed his mind. “Hey, do you wanna know what makes me happy? I can show it to you.” E caressed her fingers on the dusty mirror next to his bed. “So, this is where you sleep?” O nodded. He was briskly clearing out his place, quite embarrassed over the mess. However, E did not care at all, as she was fascinated to find one have a decent room all to himself. “What were you gonna show me, O?” Just as she asked the question, O pulled out his surprise from behind his cupboard: his guitar. He strummed it once, checking if it was in tune. E stared at him in awe. She had always loved the sound of strings, despite rarely hearing its sound. During those occasions she did, she was often listening from afar, drowning the music in her ears, hoping they would play in her head forever. There was something about the hum of strings that felt intimate. Whenever she heard a song, she knew of a distinct tune. However, never has she ever heard that melody play. “Will you play me a song?” E requested. O nervously looked up at her and cleared his throat. “Well, sure. Uhm, can we go outside? I’m more comfortable playing there.” The creaks of the porch disturbed the silence of the approaching dawn. One could see the sky starting to lose its darkness, yet E and O-- strangers about three hours ago-- somehow felt connected. “I like playing outside. I feel the wind come when I sing here.” O strummed a chord as he took a deep breath. “It’s like the air speaks to me, and I always hope that it brings the sound of my song to anyone who needs to hear it.” E slowly closed her eyes to drown out her senses and listen to O play his guitar. She felt a chill down her spine-- a spark inside her-- revive as he started to sing a wordless song. It was it: the song she’s always wanted to hear-- the melody that only existed in her head, existed in someone else’s. As O continued humming and singing, E joined in, harmoniously. It left him astonished. He thought only he knew the song he repeatedly whistled and hummed out to the silence. They were one with the notes, and little did they know, they were bringing the world back into tune-- like two little songbirds. The two of them were already resting on each other as they sang, when E felt a cold drop fall on her knee. “Rain...” she mumbled. O grinned widely. “Rain! Oh heavens, it hasn’t rained in so long!” The two of them enthusiastically cheered between themselves. They haven’t felt this much water in a long time, and it was a miraculous blessing. E ran toward the end of the street, relishing the downpour that seeped through her hair. As she skipped around, a wonderful sight rendered her with amazement. “O! Come here!” O ran on the path and followed intently. They were both looking at a bush, with a beautiful fresh carnation red bud sprouting from it. “Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long! ” E exclaimed. O looked up to the sky and screamed. “Spring has come once again!” E gasped. It was as if she knew this would happen. And it all felt right. “Hey,” she called O. “My name’s Eurydice.” “Your name sounds beautiful. Reminds me of a melody.” Wonderstruck, Eurydice took his hand and walked down the rain with him. “I’m Orpheus, by the way.”


You caressed my face as I rested my head on your lap. I was beyond tired, and emotionally drained, but the gentleness of your hands made me forget about it all. I looked up at you and smiled, in appreciation of your kindness. You smiled back and kissed my forehead. I loved every second of that moment. I thought that if the heavens we were taught of in churches were real, they may not compare to the bliss I felt with you just then. However, there were still recesses of my mind that held onto hesitant thoughts, doubts, darkness I did not want to confront... Was it worth it? Did I...Did *we* do the right thing? What happens now? Will you still love me? Will you even need me? My heart raced, and my peaceful smile slowly dissipated. I didn't know how to feel, what to feel, if I should feel...I was scared. I mean, why wouldn't I be? You caught on to my change in mood, and asked me if I was alright. To which I obviously replied with a lie, but you saw right through it. "I can tell something's bothering you" you said, almost sounding like a saddened and worried mother. I turned my downhearted gaze away from you and towards the distance beyond the hill on which we currently resided. "I--I don't know...", I replied, confused and unsure of what to say. "What don't you know?" I debated myself. Should I tell you? Will she understand? What will happen if I anger her? Deep within I still questioned you; I questioned your humanity. Three months ago you had done things many would deem horrible and dreadful. Hell, I even helped you, and I was concerned about it all, and evidently I still am, but back then I was frightened of the potential outcome for myself. Now I worry about the morality of what we did, and those who we sent beyond the veil... "Love" you interrupted my thinking with a sad voice "please talk to me" I still did not know what to say, but I had to at least tell you something. Though I was conflicted, my feelings for you never waned. "I'm scared", I confessed as I sat up next to you. “Of what?” The proper answer was long and multifaceted, but I wanted to be concise and direct. Though my concerns revolved about the possibility of you taking this the wrong way, it had to be said. I’d rather be sure my worries were mere delusions brought about by the stress, trauma, and anxiety of all that’s come before this moment, than to potentially head into the lion’s den unaware. “Of what comes next” I said hesitantly. You turned your head slightly, wondering what I meant for a second, but you quickly realized the meaning of my words. You then lightly sighed and raised a hand up to my cheek. “I know we won’t ever be the same as each other. We were made by a different hand after all” My eyes, previously aimed at the ground, gained the courage to meet yours as you spoke. “What we did brought freedom and life back to the world. People were lost, and I know many of them did not deserve it, but we both know many more would’ve been lost if we hadn’t done it.” My eyes went back to the soil beneath us. “I know”, I almost whispered with embarrassment. “That’s not all I’m worried about though...” You turn “Mi amor, are you worried about us? Our relationship?” I stayed silent; that said it all. Your face showed a sense of sadness again. “Are you worried I’m lying about my feelings for you?” I remained silent yet again. Hearing and seeing you show such concern made me feel ashamed. To think I questioned your humanity again after all that...What is wrong with me? Yeah, you may be different. Your kind may not be “compatible” with us by god’s standards, but so what? You being here defies what God thinks and says. You treating me as you do means God’s opinion doesn’t matter. Unless they wanna descend from heaven and do something about it, I refuse to give in to the expectation. “I’m sorry” I said, breaking the silence. “I know how bad that probably comes across.” This time you were the one who stayed silent. However, not for long. “A part of me is largely influenced by your people.” You held my hands and caressed them with your thumbs. “I guess, from your perspective, I’d be worried that I was faking it all to gain what I wanted. I--I get it...” I noticed tears were building up on your eyes. Remorse filled me as I wondered why I had done this. “Do you think I would have kept you around for months after what we did?” your breath became slightly shaky. You were close to full on tears, and I felt horrible. What you said was right. You could’ve ditched me months ago if you wanted to, but you didn’t. There was no use for me anymore, but you stuck around regardless. Hell, we set ourselves up in a cottage together. How much dumber can I be... Silence prevailed for a few minutes while we looked down at the ground preventing the discomfort of looking at each other. I was again unsure of what to say, but again had to reply with something. I simply could not perpetuate the silence while your mind ran wild and tried to think of awful reasons why I doubted you. “I’m sorry”, I said once again. “I’m so ashamed...” You looked up at me once more. “I just don’t wanna lose--” The roaring of engines interrupted my words. As I turned around towards the source of the sound, total fear shocked my nervous system. To think that after this long... The thundering of death echoed through the valley. You hugged me tight as you cried, terrified by the unfolding events. “Te quiero...” I said. Tears ran down my face as I kissed you, and the roaring of the engines fell silent.


The cold and I are not best friends. Nor are we enemies. We are friends that catch up once every year but have no need or want to be in constant contact. When they arrive, I embrace them with open arms, looking forward to our much needed reacquaintance but when it is time for them to leave, we part happily and readily. We are currently towards the end our of encounter which is why I was rather begrudgingly putting on my shoes to go outside. Everything was crisp; the light, the snow, the air and sun. A white glow emanated from every angle of any object concealed by what had fallen over the last few days. Out of the window, I could make out my destination, the oddly stocked but surprisingly useful hardware shop. Since Mabel and Joel had decided to part ways for the 5 th time (and she adamantly but naively swore last), she had refused to enter any part of the town he might be in. Her theory was that it was seeing him that first time after a break-up that drew her in. If she could wait until she had built up an immunity, the process of which was still undetermined, then the separation would remain permanent. It wouldn’t but I was being dutiful in my adherence to the friendship laws of store owning exes. When the first step of her back porch finally gave way and the shelf that had always hung quite precariously over her bed gave out under the weight of her collectable ash trays, a visit to the otherwise averted hardware shop was called into order. After working herself into a state the last three days this week when she promised herself she would go, I quietly offered to go instead. At first, she pretended to be reluctant telling me, telling herself, she was perfectly capable of going to a shop. Then she realised that she owed it to herself to really commit to the break up. After she thanked me and promised me a gin and tonic upon my delivery of the DIY items. I checked my watch. Even with the added time of manoeuvring across the roads of untouched snow and deceptive ice, I wouldn’t be late. Padded up in every way possible I tentatively pulled open the front door to the empty canvas outside. The parts of my body unable to be covered instantly pricked up and the cold that had looked so crisp was actually cutting. My cheeks stung as the covered top of my head already began to sweat after the first few steps outside. Under foot my boots dipped into soft snow only to meet impenetrable ice underneath adding a crunch every time they did. It did not look like anyone had been down the street yet, although there were a couple of faded footprints coming from the Tikhman’s house further down the street. Past the residential rows on streets leading to the main street, I could hear some cars moving along at a glacial pace. There were few sightings of wildlife with only an occasionally tweet in the distance. It made the white plains feel even quieter. Except the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps and rough exhale of condensation there was no one stirring yet or those that were made the sensible decision of staying inside. It was why it was noticeable that as I prepared to turn down the long road to the shop, the crunching appeared to have stopped. I had noticed it getting quieter during my so far ten-minute walk, that was already starting to numb every part of me. Assuming it was due to the density of snow, I had paid in no thought but now I looked down. My feet were full submerged. Someone walking by would not be able to tell if I had clown shoes on or was getting ready to ice skate. I lifted up a heavy booted foot and pushed it back into the snow, though it went through no sound followed. Turning I looked behind me onto the path I had just taken. My house was still in sight, I had turned left up my street walking opposite the frozen lake and low shrubbery that was picturesquely outside of my front door. After a few minutes along there, I had crossed the road walking directly alongside the fence of the park until reaching its end and turning left again preparing to get onto the main road. A couple of driveways had been shovelled earlier in the morning but I had not seen a single a person or any fresh footprints. As I looked behind in the snow I had just stepped on, the knowing panic already setting in, I was greeted with undisturbed, brightly white snow. There were no footprints. Not just from anyone else but from me. Knives dragged across my lungs as I began to pace it back the way I had come. The crunching was all gone and my laboured breathing was providing the only soundtrack to my horror. Not now. It was too soon. I needed time to say goodbye. When I made my first turning back along the park, my earlier footprints appeared at the other end of the street but had faded out by the time I was mid-way down. Everything past them lay undisturbed, still a canvas waiting to be utilised. Please, don’t do this to me now. I’m not ready. Just give me a day. Not even that, just a few more hours. A chance to leave it tidier, a chance to do a last bit of good. That’s all I want. I wasn’t sure if I was speaking out loud and even if I was if anyone would hear me, but I heaved myself as fast as I could down the roads saying possibly not so silent prayers. My house was only a hundred metres away now. My whole body on fire, sweating, shaking. Yet as I looked down and back, the snow in wake lay under disturbed. Leaves attached to bushes didn’t so much as whisper as I brushed passed them. Was it possible that even in the cloudless, morning sky the sun was beginning to dim already? I was fading. I wasn’t ready but I was fading. I was nearly there, pushing myself across my front garden and up the steps to my front door. I reached for the door knob, but I was too late. My outstretched fingers went right through the metal. Although clasped in tension, they exerted no force. It was time to move onto the next one. It wasn’t my choice, but I didn’t operate on my time, I operated on theirs. I looked down at the shoe indent my boots had produced when I originally left the house and thought about how nice it is to be someone and be seen. To leave a mark. It is our purpose, it is why we get moved from place to place. To leave fated and purposeful marks. Yet, every time it comes to an end and we begin to fade, it is hard to tell how long our mark will remain and how much we’ve really been seen.


Today is going to be a great day. Today is fishing day. The fisherman was happy. The weather was sunny with a few clouds and not too warm, not windy either. Perfect conditions for a big haul of catfish at the nearby park. His partner had loaded up the SUV with his rods, tackle bags, some bait. They jumped into the car and drove over to the nearby park. He pulled his SUV into a parking space. He got the bucket for the catch out and left it near the car in the parking lot. They each grabbed two poles. The fisherman took the bait. He left the tackle bag for his partner to carry. He strode quickly from the asphalt to the grass. He paused. From the parking lot, it was only about fifty yards down to the shore of the lake not too far away. The fisherman took in the view below him. Blue water, kind of kidney-shaped, a few acres total was the lake. Some vegetation here and there in the blue, not too much, mostly clean water. The narrow east shore was blocked by some heavy vegetation, as were parts of the west, but the north and south shores were clear with a few trees here and there. He turned to his partner, pointing: “Let’s set up near this big oak tree over here.” He started off down to where he had pointed, without looking back to see if his partner was following. They put a pole in the water each, drove the pole holders into the ground, left them standing up, lines shimmering in the sun when the slight wind blew. They each cast out with a second pole. After a while with no luck, a park worker drove up in a small green and khaki golf cart. Stopped, he asked: “you two catch anything?” The fisherman didn’t bother to look back. His partner replied after a pause: “Not yet.” The park worker continued: “Nobody ever catches anything around here.” The fisherman’s interest was piqued: “Fish are dumb, and lazy, I will catch them! It’s always a lot of fun. It’s a fun game!” His partner had a chagrined look, smiled apologetically. The park worker drove off. The fisherman cast out again. He felt a pull on his line. Ha! He had one! He reeled it in. Easy. Not the biggest catfish, but not too bad. He handed the catfish to his partner, who began the trek back up to their SUV, and upon getting the struggling fish into the bucket, his partner wiped a sleeve across sweated brow, leaned back against the vehicle, and took a drink of water. Meanwhile, the fisherman caught another small catfish. He turned, bent down on one knee, got the hook remover from the tackle bag, and began removing the hook. There was a disturbance in the water behind him. Kinda loud. He focused on his work, got the hook out. More odd noises behind him, like footsteps but not. He shouted up to his partner at the car that he caught another. His partner hurried back to him. The fisherman told his partner to take the fish up to the bucket, handed the fish grabber to his partner with the catfish dangling below. His partner started trudging back up to their car. When he finally looked back towards the lake, he saw nothing, just some slowly fading large ripples in the water right near the shore. It looked kind of wet and the grass disturbed going up the bank. The trail led up to the big oak, behind it even maybe, and continued no further. Was that a dark really big whisker or tip of a really big fin sticking out from behind the big oak? Oh! His other pole was tugging! He had a bite! As the fisherman was struggling with his latest catch, the nine foot long catfish slid one eye from behind the big oak to make sure his prey was distracted. His prey was! He stroked his whiskers with his left fore-fin, deep in thought. Ah! He had it! He emerged from the cover of the tree trunk. The giant catfish then stealthily skipped on his fins around the back of the oak away from the shore and behind the fisherman. A twig snapped! The giant catfish froze in place, fish eyes focused with trepidation on the back of the fisherman. The fisherman didn’t appear to notice, engrossed in his battle with the fish on the line. The giant catfish breathed a sigh of relief through slightly open gills. He continued his stealthy stalking, fin by fin getting closer to the back of the fisherman. Only a few fins left now... The fisherman had finally reeled in his catch. He barely turned his head, looked back toward the car: “Got another one! Boy, these fish are dumb! They never learn!” Fin, fin, fin. The catfish reeled up to his full height, balancing on his tail-fin. The fisherman must of sensed something - the breath of gill, the tread of a fin, the stare of fish eyes? No one would ever know. He turned abruptly. What was THAT? Eyes widening more and more in shock. The giant catfish leaped up and forward, mouth wide, swallowed the fisherman whole, head first, all the way to the tips of his boots. He stood up slowly, gulped, wiped his whiskers clean with his fore-fins, croaked a few times in satisfaction. Time to go back in the lake and digest, he thought. He happily ambled back to the shore, slid into the lake and disappeared underwater, leaving only ripples behind. The fisherman’s partner saw the whole thing from the parking lot. Did that really just happen? Couldn’t be, could it? At this moment the park worker drove up again in his golf cart: “Where is your fisherman friend?” The fisherman’s partner exclaimed: “he was just swallowed by a giant catfish! It hid behind a tree, crept up behind him, swallowed him whole, and went back into the lake.” The park worker: “really ...” The fisherman’s partner: “really ...” just looking at each other. After a moment of deep contemplation, the park worker said: “Well, you know what they say: It’s all fun and games ...” The partner continued: “Until someone gets eaten by a giant catfish ...” And the park worker: “that can walk on land ...” Finished the partner: “and ambush people from behind trees apparently....” The park worker nodded sagely.


I think I've been murdered. The chilling realization crept over me like a shadow in the night, and every nerve in my body screamed in silent agony. But let me start from the beginning, from the seemingly ordinary day that spiraled into a nightmare. It was a gloomy Tuesday afternoon when I left work, the rain drizzling down from a leaden sky. The relentless patter on the pavement matched my gloomy mood. My mundane routine had become a monotonous march towards nowhere, and I longed for something to break the cycle. That day, a sense of restless curiosity tugged at me, urging me to explore the mysterious depths of the internet. With each click and search, I stumbled upon a website--an enigmatic forum filled with cryptic discussions and dark secrets. The site was named "The Twilight Conspiracy." Intrigued, I delved deeper into its ominous digital corridors, where shadowy figures discussed the unexplained and the macabre. They shared tales of strange occurrences, whispered rumors of a secret society lurking in the shadows, and debated the existence of supernatural forces. It was like stumbling upon a hidden world, a rabbit hole I couldn't resist descending into. One thread, in particular, caught my attention--a user named "CrimsonSoul" claimed to have discovered evidence of a real-life conspiracy, one that went beyond mere speculation. Intrigued and somewhat skeptical, I clicked on the thread. The user described a series of bizarre events, each more unsettling than the last. They spoke of inexplicable occurrences in their own life--objects moving on their own, whispers in the night, and a growing feeling of being constantly watched. They even provided a list of names and dates, hinting at connections that could unravel the very fabric of reality. I couldn't help but be drawn into the mystery. Maybe it was the monotony of my life or the nagging feeling that there must be something more to the world. Either way, I decided to reach out to CrimsonSoul, desperate to know more. We exchanged messages late into the night, sharing stories and theories that grew darker with each passing minute. CrimsonSoul confided in me, revealing that they had come too close to the truth, and that they were being hunted by a shadowy organization that would stop at nothing to protect their secrets. Intrigue turned into obsession, and I found myself digging deeper into the conspiracy. I poured over documents, old newspapers, and obscure online sources. I mapped connections and patterns, convinced that I was on the brink of a revelation that would change everything. Days turned into sleepless nights as I ventured further down the rabbit hole. My apartment became a tangled web of red strings and notes. Paranoia gnawed at my sanity as I noticed strange occurrences--items moved from their usual places, hushed whispers in the darkness, and the persistent feeling of being watched. CrimsonSoul urged me to be cautious, warning that they had lost friends to this conspiracy. They told me to trust no one, to keep digging but to do so discreetly. The more I uncovered, the deeper my unease grew, and yet I couldn't turn back. The truth, elusive and terrifying, danced just out of reach. One fateful night, as I hunched over my cluttered desk, a sudden realization struck me--the names and dates from CrimsonSoul's list had a pattern, a pattern that led to a date fast approaching--the same date when my investigation had begun. Fear surged through me, and I knew that I had to confront this conspiracy head-on. My heart raced as I prepared for what lay ahead. I had no choice but to confront the dark forces that had infiltrated my life. The night arrived, shrouded in an eerie silence. Armed with my research and an unsettling sense of purpose, I ventured into the heart of the conspiracy's labyrinthine web. The location was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place rumored to be a hub of their sinister activities. As I crept through the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being herded like a lamb to the slaughter. My flashlight cast long, sinister shadows on the crumbling walls, and the air grew heavy with the stench of decay. Finally, I reached a chamber where a group of shadowy figures stood in a circle, their faces obscured by masks. In the center, an eerie ritual was taking place--a dark, foreboding ritual that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Before I could react, I was seized by an unseen force, and I watched in terror as the figures turned toward me, their masked faces devoid of expression. I struggled to break free, but their grip was unrelenting. A ritual chant filled the air, and I felt a searing pain, unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was as if my very essence was being torn apart. Darkness closed in around me, and I realized with horrifying clarity that I was becoming a part of their unholy ceremony. As the world dissolved into shadows, I couldn't help but think that I had uncovered a truth too dangerous to bear. I think I've been murdered, not by conventional means, but by a conspiracy that sought to protect its secrets at any cost. And now, my existence is intertwined with their malevolent agenda, a prisoner in a world of darkness and despair. Every day I live out from here I feel as I am deprived of belonging. I feel hallow and empty, living out the days of my mundane life with this harrowing secret. I've been murdered, not in body, but in soul, forever trapped in the chilling embrace of the Twilight Conspiracy. Heed my caution, for you to investigate as I did I fear you may be too.


Hey y'all. I'm normally more into academic writing but had an idea for a story so I thought I'd give it a shot. As usual I probably over analyzed a few parts of it but any thoughts or feedback is appreciated. The Seducer “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said as he rolled over to face his latest conquest, “I’ll call you a cab.” This had become somewhat of a nightly routine for him - go out somewhere, anywhere to scout and recruit potential targets, satisfy himself and send them on their merry way. The whole process had become somewhat of a banality; while at one point he used to get some sense of euphoria after successfully completing his task, after so much repetition it eventually lost its force. As she eventually made her way out of his apartment, he reflected to himself on why, despite its lack of lustre, he persisted in this same nightly routine. After some careful consideration, he came to the conclusion that he had no real reason to do anything - nothing ever really mattered and it just so happened that seduction was what he did. It was no different than an alcoholic pounding back beers after a long shift or a couponer leafing through flyer after flyer to find all the best deals. None of this mattered to him or to anyone; it was all just what they did. By this point in his life, he was convinced that love was merely a façade. After going through hundreds upon hundreds of partners, he saw no way that some how love was a real thing. The most he ever felt was a twinge of disgust as he rolled over and saw that his flavour of the evening had yet to begin to disembark. But, such is life. Falling in love to him had no more meaning than any other thing he did and thus he had no desire for it. He was a seducer, not a romantic, that was just the way it was and the way it would continue to be. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he occupied his stool at the bar, he peered across the room, looking out for his next victim. That’s when he saw her - her beauty took him aback like nothing had in years. After being so convinced that banality was simply the way of life, one look at her made him reconsider what he had thought he knew.  He slowly approached her across the bar and made her acquaintance. Not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but also the elegance with which she spoke was captivating. He could not believe what he was feeling - after years of treating this exact process as routine, finally it felt meaningful. Finally, after years of running through this exact scenario in an automaton-like fashion, he finally felt alive.  He slowly made his way through his arsenal of skills he had spent years cultivating, he began to feel her reciprocity. This was going to be it. This way going to be the night that he could roll over after completion and feel a smile creep onto his face. This was what he had been waiting for without even knowing. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he and her traversed back into to apartment his apartment, he was struck with anxiety - what was going to happen the next morning? After all of these years of practice he had never prepared for the contingency that was this; a pervasive feeling of lust that extended beyond merely physical attraction. All he knew for sure was she was not like the others, but this was not a moment he had ever planned for. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ After their session had concluded, he turned over to face her, and unlike with the others, felt a warmth overcome his entire being. This was not just lust, but something more. As he pulled himself closer to her and wrapped his arm around her body, she rotated her head slightly to face him and spoke:  “I think it’s time for me to go.


Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” It had started with a house move. The house move had been a success. Well, as much of a success as a house move ever is. The solicitors did their part quickly and without fuss. The funds were transferred, and the contract exchanged, and we had the keys when we were supposed to. The packing up had gone better than expected. The volume of collected detritus had been less than for previous moves. We had spent time decluttering; selling items at car boot sales and on eBay, taking other things to charity shops, and throwing out pieces of junk we, not anyone else in their right minds, was going to use again. And everything seemed to have made it to the other end in one piece. Even that hideous pink rhinoceros china ornament Jane’s aunt had brought back from some African safari years before. It really needed to have an accident and shuffle off this mortal coil, and the fireplace it sat on. But Jane was strangely attracted to it, and it was the only ornament in the house which the kids had never knocked over. I could only hope. The only strange part of the whole move was the funny looks I got from the Estate Agents every time my name came up. As if they knew it somehow. I doubted it though and thought I must be imagining it all. In fact, I doubted there was anyone else in the country with the same name as me. The surname was uncommon enough in the UK, being of Irish origin from County Clare, but with the unusual misspelt first name (apparently a mistake, one of the dangers of letting a drunken Irishman register the birth I suppose) I was unique. Or I was the last time I checked back in the noughties when websites to check your name’s uniqueness against the 2001 census were all the rage. And I doubted anyone else had named their kid Teper instead of Peter since. We had been disciplined about unpacking too. Three days and all the carboard boxes had been emptied, broken down and thrown up into the loft. I remembered a previous move where some boxes had never been opened before we moved again some eighteen months later. This time we weren’t looking at moving again. Certainly not until retirement in twenty years or so. Or if there was a lottery win. The house had been a bargain, nearly £200k less than others like it. the detailed surveys had no sign of any structural issues or covenants. It wasn’t under a flight path (or proposed one), and there weren’t any new road or rail routes planned. It was bigger than we had been looking for and we felt lucky to find it. It was a month, possibly a bit longer when Grace found the box. Out eldest had been building herself a cardboard city in the loft using all the broken-down packing boxes. She had found the wooden keepsake box against the gable wall of the loft. A small different coloured area of wood between the laminated chip board that covered the joists and insulation. Being inquisitive she had prised away at the different wood until it tilted, and she was able to pull it out of its hole. It was a small intricately carved mahogany box; about eight inches long, six inches wide, and four inches deep. There were two brass hinges at the back, and the front had a little brass lock with a key hole. It was locked and had no key with it. I went up to the loft myself and had a look under the boards and amongst the insulation around where it had been found, but there was no sign of any key. And so, the box sat unopened in an alcove in the kitchen. I would look at it each time I passed, and the kids would ask if I was going to open it. But I resisted. For all of about ten days before I got too curious about what might be in it. I got a fine chisel from the tool box and tapped it into place between the lid and box where the lock was. The box was sturdy, and it took longer than I thought it would, but I finally prised the box open without doing too much damage to it. Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” I’m not sure how long I held my breath for, but I remember eventually exhaling and gasping in some air. How could this box possibly have my name in it? I shouted for Grace to come in. Berated her about where she had really gotten the box from. Had her mum put her up to this? I’m ashamed to say I made my daughter cry. And Jane’s ire towards me was well deserved. Although the ire did change to something more akin to confusion, and then a feeling of being spooked out, and then accusatory towards me, asking what I was playing at putting the box there like that, just as I had accused our daughter of doing. I was just freaked out. I started to take items out of the box. There was a yo-yo with flaking yellow paint on either side. Two old pennies, bigger than two-pound coins. A Matchbox car - a De Tomaso Pantera. A number of Derby County Topps football cards - Colin Boulton, David Nish, Colin Todd, Ray McFarland, Kevin Hector, Gerry Daly, Peter Daniel, Charlie George, David Langan, Don Masson, John Middleton, Steve Powell, and Bruce Rioch. A multi-coloured bouncy ball. A Rainbow badge with Zippy on it. A green and red kazoo. Two little pencils. A red sew on 10m Swimming patch. And half a dozen photos. A small boy was in them all. Small square photos, in colour but grainy in quality, with a white border around them. I recognised the garden of the house we were in. the shape was the same even if the windows had changed and the colours were different. Another had the boy sat on the knee of an adult. By the clothes and hands, I would say a man, but the boy was the focus of the photo and the man’s head was cut off. The boy himself has blonde hair, green eyes and a smile. In every photo a large beaming smile. I supposed he could have passed for being me at a similar age. There were definite similarities, but my hair was a bit darker, and you’d have been lucky to get a smile out of me, even as a child. After staring at the items for hours, I put them all back in the box and put the box back in the alcove and tired to forget about it. Something easier said than done. It played on my mind. I would find myself sat at the kitchen table, looking at the photos from the box. Feeling there was something in them familiar to me, but I was unable to put my finger on just what it was. Jane had obviously had enough of me moping around more than I usually did, and the amount of time I returned to the box and looked at the photos. She came back from work one evening with an announcement. “I’ve had a look at the Land Registry details for this house. You probably won’t believe this, but there was a couple who owned this house back in the seventies. Their surname was Naillian. A Mr A. and Mrs E Naillian. Are they, or could they be any relation of yours?” I couldn’t speak. They were the initials of my parents. Not that most people would know that, and I wouldn’t have expected Jane to. She’d only ever known them as Fred and Peggy. I doubt more than half a dozen people knew they were really Alfred and Elizabeth. I’m not even going to try to understand where the hell they got the name Peggy from for Elizabeth, but it was the case. Surely, they couldn’t have lived in this house. The dates were before I’d been born, but not long before. But they had never mentioned living in Derby at any point. Not even when we had told them about moving here. Not even when I had given them the address. If they had lived here, surely they would have said something. Anything. I got up and went to the box, and got the photo of the boy sat on the man’s knee. I looked at it for what must have been the hundredth time. More closely now. Studying it. had the clue been there all along? The signet ring on the man’s finger. Hadn’t I seen that same ring as a child? On my dad’s finger? I told Jane what I was thinking and what I was putting together. She wanted to drive to my parents right then. Drop everything and go. I wanted to think it through. We compromised and I rang my parents and spoke to my mum. Told her we were thinking of visiting at the weekend, and she was delighted. The week dragged. Three days felt like three months. A never-ending period of time. Until finally Saturday morning came, we got the kids settled into the car, and I took the box in a carrier bag into the passenger seat with me. Jane didn’t trust me to drive by this point. I can’t say I blamed her. We arrived at my parent’s house in Manchester. The house I had grown up in. it had taken two hours, not bad for a Saturday morning. The door opened and both my mum and dad came out. Jane hadn’t even turned the engine off before the kids were out of the car and getting hugs from their grandparents. Jane squeezed my hand as I took a big deep breath, and she said, “No matter what, it will be alright.” We got out of the car, hugged our own greetings and went inside to a waiting pot of tea in the kitchen / diner. The kids got juices and headed off to the lounge and the lure of the television. And the conversation started. I asked my parents about living in Derby, and there was a solid and quick no. jane said about finding a Mr A and Mrs E Naillian as previous owners of the house we lived in. I said it was their initials, and if it wasn’t them, did they know if it was some other relatives of ours? The denials weren’t as fast, or as solid. My mum glanced nervously at my dad, who was keeping a fixed stare at some point over my left shoulder. But producing the box changed things. My dad glanced at it and quickly looked away, but paled significantly. My mum refused to look at the box. I took out the photo of the boy on the man’s knee, and pointing out the ring the man was wearing I asked my dad if it was his? He closed his eyes to avoid the photo, but my mum let out a sob. And after the sob came the story. Teper Naillian was born on the 9th May 1970. He was named Teper by mistake, his father - Alfred, more commonly called Fred - was drunk when he registered the birth and had transposed the P and the T of the name Peter, and even when questioned by the registrar about whether the name was correct had apparently thundered “Of course it’s correct, what kind of idiot do you take me for?” He was a happy child and although his parents tried, a younger sibling didn’t come. His dad had got in the car to go to work, and didn’t realise Teper was playing with his own cars, toy ones, in the gravel under the front bumper. There was no speed in the car, but the weight over Teper’s chest was enough. Heartbroken, his parents couldn’t bear living at the house anymore. The car was sold, and they moved to Manchester and erased Derby from their lives. I was born in Manchester on the 24th July 1979. I was told that my name was a mistake. But it wasn’t. I was Teper Naillian. The second. I was an only child, or so I had believed all of my life. And to an extent I was, but I wasn’t the first child. I wasn’t even the first called Teper. I was going to be that younger sibling, after nine years my mum was pregnant again. But neither of us got that sibling, he had died five months before I was born. Neither of us knew about the other. Until today. They had used the same name for me, knowing they were never likely to get it wrong. Never likely to call me by the wrong name. Never likely to let slip what they had left in the past. My parents had done such a good job of erasing it they never brought it up when they knew I had moved to Derby. Or when they knew I had moved to the same house. Their house. Where the original Teper had lived. Perhaps that was why the Estate Agents had given me funny looks. A man moving to the house where his namesake had been killed in a tragic accident. What my parents never knew was what that original Teper had done with his keepsake box. They had never known about its hidey hole in the loft and so had never sought it out when they left their old life behind. And no one else in the intervening forty-two years had found it either. I suppose it was serendipity that Grace did, and I found out the truth.


"Please just try to get here. The kids are asking what's going on and I don't want to tell them alone." "I'm trying, my love. I made it out of the city before the warning went live, I should be there in the next 20 minutes. I love you." "I love you too." So many things were going through his mind. There was so much he wanted to accomplish. So many places he wanted to see. Now, all he wanted was to be home with his family. Driving never seemed to go by so slowly. Every mile felt like a hundred and the surrounding were just a blur. He had driven these roads countless times and auto pilot had fully taken over. The only thoughts going through his head were the stories his father used to tell him. "Son, there is a gift that our family is blessed with. Once, and only once, we can freeze everything around us. Time will stand still for all but us. We are free to move and free to think, but eventually it must end and return to normal. Many in our family have decided to forget about the gift entirely but it is my responsibility to tell you that this power is innately yours, should you choose to use it." As a child he asked, "Did you use yours father?" Smiling his father said, "I did my son." "What did you do?" A tear formed in his eye as he said, "I extended the happiest moment of my life. I will say no more than that." Shivers ran through the man as he turned his focus back to driving. He was entering the neighborhood which was full of frantic activity. People loading cars, others breaking down outside, some already catatonic in acceptance of the inevitable. Trying to ignore the horror of awareness on peoples faces, he took the final turn before coming up to his home. His wife ran out to greet him and embraced him in a deep hug, tears in her eyes. "I thought you weren't going to make it, I thought I would never see you again." "I'm here. I'm so sorry. Where are the children?" "Inside. I had to tell Simon, but Tucker and Lucy don't know. Simon is helping me keep them calm, but I don't know if it's really sunk in yet." "Ok, let's go inside." Tears freely flowing, his wife followed him as he entered their house and went to find their kids. "Daddy!" Lucy was the first to greet her father. He had always loved his daughter with a fierce love that could only be matched by the love he had for his wife. His sons he loved equally but his daughter was a much more jealous love. He would stay with her in his arms forever if she let him. "Hello princess! I'm so glad to see you!" Tears began forming in his eyes. "Daddy why are you crying?" she said touching her small hands to his face. Wiping the tears away he said, "Nothing sweetheart. I just am so glad to see you. Where are your brothers?" "They are outside looking through the telescope." "Well let's go find them. I have something I need to tell all of you." "Okay" Leading her father by the hand, she took him outside to her brothers, his wife following closely behind holding his other hand. "Dad!" The boys said in unison. Both rushing over to embrace their father. Simon was looking at his father with a knowing stare. A frantic pleading to his eyes that was never there before. It made him feel sick. "Lets sit down, your mother and I have something we want to tell you." He checked his watch before sitting down and looked at his wife, who gave him a small nod. It was 12:37, they had 4 minutes. "Simon, Tucker, Lucy, there is something I need to tell you. Something has happened. We are going to have to leave here soon. I'm not sure where we are going, but whatever happens just relax and wait for us to come get you. Your mother and I *will* come and find you. No matter how long it takes, we will find you. Simon began crying. Trying to console his eldest he said, "It's ok Son, I need you to be brave for your brother and sister. We are all here and anything that happens we will face it together." Sniffling, Simon said, "o-okay." "Your mother and I love you all so much. A father could not ask for a more beautiful daughter, or more brave sons. We only have a short time but I wanted you to know that whatever happens, your mother and I love you more than anything." He looked to his wife, who was still crying and embraced her in a kiss. The salt from her tears was all he could taste but he didn't notice anything but the softness of her lips and the fullness in his heart of the love for her. "Come here you guys." Wrapping his arms around all of them he checked his watch once again, 12:40, it was nearly time. He turned to his wife and set his head against hers, "carry them, I will meet you there." With those words, he froze time. He broke down for the first few moments. Crying for his family and what he knew he had to do. The sobs were so deep it made his body ache, and he lay on the ground in despair. Knowing that he had to save his family from the terror he must face, he pulled out the gun from his belt. Time unfroze and he saw their bodies beside him, still embracing one another. His sorrow was beyond words, and his grief too immense to measure. Crying and grieving, he looked up as the asteroid began to descend. He first felt the heat, the unbearable heat. Clutching his head everything became blurry and his hearing was only a loud hum that was growing until deafening. Screaming from the heat and pain, he dropped to his knees and the last thing he saw was darkness closing in.


Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order. "Got everything?" asked Tucker yet again. "And then some!" Christina had been prepared for years. Like any sane person (and there would be very few of them left now) she was upset that the Doomsday Clock had struck midnight. Despite herself, Christina was almost excited. For years, she had carefully stocked the bunker with canned goods, food, water, entertainment, and first aid kits. A triple-layered zero particulate air filter system kept pathogens at bay. Daylight-simulating bulbs cheerfully lit the radiation-proof bunker. She spent a small fortune installing a self-contained plumbing system and a backup generator for the backup generator. A small arsenal was tucked behind a trapdoor in the main bedroom. Just in case. They would be ready to live underground for years if they had to. She and Tucker had only started dating in December. They met at a joint Christmas party in the atrium of their office building. The building housed a wide variety of boring-sounding businesses and offices, the heads of which decided a holiday mixer would liven things up. The weather on Christmas Eve was warm enough that she was able to wear a red velvet Santa skirt to the party. She pulled the tiny skirt down in the front while simultaneously trying to keep it high enough in the back. Christina regretted her costume choice. Her form-fitting green and red striped top rose up to expose her belly as she refilled her punch glass. She wasn't sure how many refills she had had, no thanks to Carolyn. Carolyn continually refilled everyone's glass in a desperate attempt to keep the party alive, but Christina suspected she was just trying to cover up her alcoholism. The punch was much stronger than it let on. A lanky man who she vaguely recognized as a paralegal from upstairs walked up to the punch table. Christina knew it was cliche, so she was glad she didn’t say what she was thinking out loud. Her immediate impression was that he defined tall, dark, and handsome. She could not help but stare at the jarring contrast between his striking face and his horrible clothing. He wore the ugliest Christmas sweater she had ever seen in her life. Jingle bells, glitter, and pompoms announced his every movement. Puff paint ran up and down the sleeves and a rainbow of sequins caught the light like a disco ball. Christmas lights strung around the applique pine tree blinked irregularly. “How do you wash a sweater like that?” Christina heard herself wonder aloud. The paralegal stopped filling his punch glass and looked down. “You know, I’m not exactly sure? I just bought this thing and I hadn’t really considered what I’d do with it after today.” Christina could not tear her eyes away from the Santa peeking out from behind the tree on his sweater. Santa's expression was slightly menacing. Tucker bent down to get in her line of sight and caught her attention. He stuck out a slender ringless hand. “I’m Tucker. Anthony Tucker.” Christina rolled her eyes. “Okay, Bond James Bond," she muttered. Tucker’s cheeks turned maroon. “Sorry, that was awkward. It’s just that everyone calls me Tucker,” he said as he moved to step away from the punch table. “No, no,” Christina began. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Idris Elba? I guess that’s why it made me think of James Bond, I don't know.” He snorted in self-deprecation and turned to leave. She grabbed the paralegal’s wrist and he flushed even deeper. She looked down at her strong knuckled grasp, unaware that she was clutching with all her might. Cheeks already reddened from the punch, she could not blush. She blinked up at the handsome face in front of her and tried to focus. She felt herself swaying, but wasn’t sure if it was because of the punch or the paralegal. “If you want, I can call an uber for you,” Tucker offered delicately. He gently loosened her fingers. “That’s okay. Can you just... bring me some sugar cookies?” He gently steered her towards a table and made sure she had her purse tucked safely at her side before he left. Tucker returned with a bottle of water and a plate piled high with sprinkled reindeer-shaped cookies. They sat on folding chairs and people-watched. They ranked Christmas sweaters by ugliness. Tucker won by a landslide. When he wasn't pushing pencils on the sixth floor, Tucker said he was an amateur painter. He focused on cubism, but was thinking about moving into postmodernism. Christina did not mention her hobby and munched cookies, listening with genuine interest. "Feeling better?" "Much," Christina said truthfully. They sat in comfortable silence, staring out at their coworkers milling around awkwardly. "So why 'Tucker'? Anthony isn't such a bad name." "It's not, I agree. It's just that I'm the third one. I think Tucker has a little more flavor anyway." He paused. "Do you go by Tina? Chrissy?" "Absolutely not! It's Christina or Miss Watterson. I'm the CFO, after all. No nicknames allowed." She glanced at her companion and felt a familiar wave of pleasure at his flash of surprise. Very few people expected her to have a corner office and she relished revealing her title. To his credit, Anthony Tucker needed only a moment to process the information. "Well then, Miss Watterson, do you have plans for New Year's?" Christina remembered that night with wistful clarity. It felt like ages ago, so much had happened since. Before Tucker, Christina dated casually and rarely stayed with anyone very long. When she finally admitted to her dates that she was a doomsday prepper and had an underground bunker larger than her house, most men stopped calling. She was fine with that because that just meant that they were risk takers in a way she wasn’t. She enjoyed living dangerously - she had tried skydiving, thank you very much - but only by choice. No outside forces were going to take her down without a fight. So when Christina heard the news of the Thwaites Glacier discovery, she had to inform Tucker about her obsession far earlier than she would have liked. Four days passed before she heard from him again. But when Dr. Eleanor Lee - a member of the team in Antarctica that discovered the algae in the glacier - died from Melting after her plane landed in Argentina, Tucker texted her. There were rumors of a case of Melting in New York City, but none where she lived. Yet. Christina offered Tucker an ultimatum. On January 31st, six days after the discovery in the glacier and thirty-eight days into their relationship, Christina and Tucker took the plunge into the bunker. Their footsteps echoed on the tin stairs as they descended into their new steel and concrete home. "Last chance," said Christina. Tucker squeezed her wrist. They walked through a second steel door, closed it, and turned the heavy lock. Tucker exhaled a long-held breath. Christina turned and took both his hands in hers. "It's gonna be okay." "They're dying out there. There are more Melting every day. The temperature keeps rising. They're going mad and they're... My sisters are going to..." Tucker crumpled. Christina held him up. "It's gonna be okay," she repeated. Tucker felt cold sweat prickle his neck. "Did you remember my paints? If I can't paint--" "Don't worry. I even made a little studio for you." She led the way into a smaller room set up with easels, palettes, and a huge crate of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. A tall shelf housed boxes of paintbrushes, scrapers, cans of paint thinner, tools, and aprons. A mountain of canvases was neatly stacked against the wall. "It looks like you got enough for about ten years of painting. I'll be a regular Picasso by the time we get out." "Okay, rule number one. We never talk about how long we're in the bunker. We will drive ourselves crazy if we circle a date on the calendar and wait. We have no idea how long this will be, so let's just take it one day at a time." "Fair. Rule number two?" "Not so much a rule as a request. Can you try impressionism someday? I'm more of a Renoir kinda gal." "We'll see," Tucker laughed. He folded her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. They stood like that for a long time or maybe just a moment. Christina kept no clocks in the bunker. “If this is the end, I’m glad I’m spending it with you.” Tucker squeezed Christina’s wrist tightly.


Time, as the magister of Manchuria had written long, long ago, had a tendency to pick favorites. By which was meant, in the primordial pecking order of various realities, it was actually quite rare to find one in which Time presented itself with any sort of self-respect. For every universe in which He was the sort to show up at steakhouses in a pinstripe vest, and talk amiably with His disciples over a glass of Chardonnay and perhaps a nice soup, there are at least a thousand in which He is the type to drive by that same steakhouse at one in the morning in a convertible that assuredly belongs to someone else, his hair flying like a greasy flag behind him and a hoarse note in his voice suggesting he has been screaming vulgarities at the top of his lungs since sunset. ***** Night fell in the Downs of Ans. It was spring, which meant that the willows on the slopes of the Damp Hills crooned to the tune of the crickets, and the sound swept over the quiet streets like a dream in trundling motion. The houses here, to the south of the river Myr and some miles separated from the Silver Bridge, carry a distinct flavor of civil negligence, coupled with resident dissatisfaction that has given even the exterior walls the appearance of coffee on a white shirt. It has always been an unpleasant place, dangerous to walk even on snow-lit full moons, but tonight we frequent it not for the alleys in which muggings take place in Congo lines, nor the stench which has been bottled by the more suicidal breed of alchemist since the city's birth, but for the curious events taking place very far underneath the dirt-caked surface of the poorly cobbled streets. It had all the best trademarks of simple ingenuity, and even when he was nicely lost in the intricacies of his work, the engineer known to his few human contacts as Jorial felt the warm bubble of pride in every firing neuron of his mind. Assassins, it turned out, were just as afraid of a club to the back of the neck as anyone else, and the gentlemen of the Downs at perfected that practice to an art form. So he worked in peace, undisturbed by fears of an undue comeuppance, and as the days went by the machine, like a sketch done in degrees, became more and more defined. What had once been a jumble of gears and elastic connectors was now a defined skeleton of steel and tubing and at least half a dozen species of screws. At the center of the labyrinth was an already half-covered sphere of soft blue luminescence, which blew small sparks into the yellow light of the basement. "Beautiful," said a voice from the other side of the room. "Dangerous," grunted Jorial as a reply, and he gave the final turn on a bolt larger than his fist. It was the first leg of the temporal cage, and though he did not notice, it was almost three degrees too far to the left. "I gathered. Did I tell you that I lost a man carrying that here? I take it that's a no. Oh, don't look so shocked, it wasn't all that dramatic. One second there's two men carrying the crate, and then of course James had to be an utter fool, swinging it back and forth like a briefcase, and then... poof! He's gone! If I'd any idea how he did it, I'd tell you to market that to the highest bidder at the Sterlian Exchange." "And I'd tell you, absolutely not." Jorial wiped his hands on his long apron, his eyes holding a note of worry. "Do you have the rest of the girders? I told you I'd need at least half a dozen more, and I only see two on the pile." He gestured to a pair of long iron beams lying next to a makeshift forge. His guest made a noncommittal gesture that troubled Jorial even more. "Yes, yes. I'm afraid I ran into some trouble at the docks, though, but it's nothing you should worry about. I'll just get them to you tomorrow." "I need to finish this cage today, Cordimus. Else you should have brought the sphere later, like I asked! You told me yourself, it's already killed"- "So dramatic, Jorial. Look at it! We've been sitting here with it uncovered for over an hour, now, and we aren't dead yet, are we? Besides, we don't know it kills people. For all we know, he's just been... moved. That's not the word, but it'll come to me in a moment, it's been a long night." "I don't like this." "I know," said his guest, and began to rise. "Believe you me, I know. But it's just how it is, my friend. If it'll calm you at all, I'll try to get Gideon to raise your payment. Two thousand Capitol pieces, how does that sound?" "Insufficient, if it's my life on the line." This drew a laugh, born more of courtesy than humor. "You're a funny man, Jorial. I like that very much, it makes you interesting to be around. But if you'll excuse me, you are not my first errand of the night, and very far from my last." He checked his watch with a pointed expression, and with a tip of his hat, Cordimus took his leave. Jorial heard his clipped steps ascending the stairs, and his voice calling back, "and of course, if ever you need me, try not to, yes? I'll be back by tomorrow, if all goes well." The door slammed shut. He was alone again. For a moment, he was unsure of how to proceed. He eyed the girders again, then the still burning embers of the forge, and the hammer resting at an angle upon the sizzling surface of the anvil. He could create the scaffolding for the front half of the sphere, and proceed tomorrow with the rest, but then again, the work would exhaust him, and it was far past midnight. He took off his heavy gloves, and rubbed at his wrinkled eyes. The machine would have to wait. Ten years younger, and it would have been a different story, but time was such a venom to the bones, and he needed rest. Twenty minutes later, changed into his nightclothes, the engineer laid his head on the small bed in a side room of the basement and closed his eyes. It was the 2334th year of Maxwell, and the song of the willows lulled him to sleep. ***** Jorial woke to the same unease which had driven him to bed. A persistent paranoia that had lingered ever since Cordimus had arrived last night dragged nails down a pot somewhere in his chest, and he winced as he threw on his apron, mask, and gloves. His knees were no better, and stiffer for the morning, but that would pass. This dread, though, would require something heavier. The kitchen was on the other side of the basement, and the allure of whiskey dragged him through the workshop, where his heart went suddenly cold. The sphere had gone utterly dark. "Mother of Yaw," he whispered. His feet moved independent of his will, ever closer to the dark metal in the center of the machine. "What..." His hand, trembling, rose to touch it. Fear struck him a sound blow as his fingers touched the surface, and he braced for what he was sure would be the unbearable agony of vaporization. It didn't come. The material was cold, but no colder than ordinary steel. Smooth, but not impossibly so. No sparks flew from it, and the blue light was utterly absent. "Cordimus is going to murder me." A pounding came from the direction of the door. His heart lurched and sent a twanging, bowstring sensation down his spine. It will pass, it's the wind, it's nothing at all. It came again, and louder. The wind, the wind, the wind, the... the realization hit him that the basement was not, in fact, in any position where the wind could hit it. It was inside the abandoned cellar of a den of money launderers, who prepared against such things. And besides, it was locked. Wind be damned, there was someone outside. And from the loud THUD that shook the very structure of the basement, they were about to come in. Jorial picked up the hammer from his anvil in one hand, and the pronged poker in the other, and called out to the footsteps hurrying down his stairs. "Who is that? You're trespassing! Who goes?" But no one answered. Only the tramping of boots on the stairs, and a jingle of steel that could only mean the worst. Grim shadows appeared near the opening, and muttered voices carried through. All of a sudden, they stopped. "I said, who goes there?" The answering voice was tinny, but deep and intentionally fearsome. "This is Captain Ryur of the Royal Aralunian Inquisition. Come out now, Magrul, and you may yet see the light of day before your timely death. Refuse, and we'll cut you down before you can read a single verse." Blank silence. "What?" "He's stalling," someone muttered, and one of the shadows grew quickly larger before giving way to its owner, a man in heavy plates of gleaming iron, his helmet large and crested, who held in his hands a crossbow of immense size and antiquated design. In spite of this, he had no sooner begun to loom above the figure of Jorial before he threw himself to one side, the bolt going wide and a cry escaping beneath the mask of steel. "He's a staff! Garis, your spear!" It was obvious that their time in the staircase had not been wasted. When the other three men charged into the cramped workshop of the basement, their weapons were armed and quickly aimed at Jorial's chest. He, in turn, dropped his impromptu weapons and raised his hands slowly above his head. The first man had regained his feet, and an extended creak indicated that his crossbow was once again a threat to Jorial's limbs. "You move, Magrul, you die," he growled. "This is a mistake," was his only response. The original proclamation from the men had only now begun to filter through the rushed confusion of the morning, and he eyed the foreign crests on their armor, and the colors that now belonged only to the Duke of East Halmsvale, with dismay that soon gave way to puzzlement. "Hold on... did you say you were from Aralun? " "Silence your tongue, magician." The crossbow twitched menacingly. "But that's not - just hold on! That... your lot's been dead over a thousand years! And the inquisition... that's ancient history. This isn't right, you don't exist, this is Ans we're in, you hear?" "I say we shoot him." "What's that, in the corner?" One of the men pointed towards the husk of the machine. Ryur's head followed the motion. If it was possible for a helmet with only two slits for the eyes to express curiosity, the captain's was doing so now. "Well, Magrul? Answer him. And no more of your nonsense. We don't follow your pagan politics." "But I'm"- A bolt fired, and smacked into the stone less than two paces from Jorial's left foot. "Last warning," said the captain. "It's not an easy answer," began Jorial, grasping for what Cordimus had told him a long time ago, but panic was clouding his clarity. "It's... well, it's supposed to"- his brain cleared. Realization struck like a lightning bolt. "What year is this?" "Captain, I told you, he's stalling! We should"- Ryur shook his head. "That's enough, Crandis. He's harmless without the staff. Besides, he amuses me. It's the 1920th year of Maxwell, Magrul. Does that satisfy you?" "That's not a nice color for a face, is it?" "Crandis. Shut up. Magrul, the machine. What does it do? Where are the others of your kind? We know of the covens, it won't do to lie to us." "It... I... gods, you really are Aralunian." He raised the mask slowly above his head, and tossed it to the ground. "This house we're in... it wasn't here an hour ago, was it?" "I told you already: enough of your tricks. Is it a teleporter? Is that what you're saying?" "And 'Magrul'... you think I'm a wizard, don't you?" "There's only one Wizard, Magrul. And we've killed him already." "But then... The Shattering, then. That was what, 1912? I'm sorry, I'm terrible with dates. Ridell"- " Don't say that name!" "But I can help you, don't you see? That... no, that's not a teleporter, you... you don't understand, it's a sort of time... manipulator, is what it is. I'm from the future! " "All magic is vile. Future, past... it's of no matter to me. You're coming with us." "But I can help you! In less than a century, your kingdom... it's gone . It burns with the rest of them!" "Shut up. Yarin, tie him up. Crandis, ready the horses. We're leaving. Garis, stay on him, you hear? That spear doesn't drop a single inch from his chest or you're walking back to the outpost." Ryur began to turn. "What is it now, Yarin?" "Er... that staff of his, Captain?" "Well?" "This is a poker." The soldier held it up. "I don't care if it's the beard of Aermun himself, Yarin. He's a Magrul. Said it himself, didn't he? Traveling through time... it's scum like him that almost got the whole lot of us killed." He turned his attention back to the fearful face of Jorial. "You'll hang by dusk tomorrow." "But you don't understand! It's not magic, it's Glint! And you don't know... Mortmondes is coming, he comes and you all die anyway, but I can help you! I can help you, and I'll go back to my time, and the future... your kingdom will last for millennia." "I have no idea what you're talking about, and frankly, I don't care. I've had enough of your kind's treachery. I"- The ceiling split. chips of stone and splinters of half-rotten wood scattered to every edge of the room. A sound like living thunder trampled the sullen dust, and a blazing white light enveloped Jorial's senses and stayed there. He was aware of a chorus of screams, in which he took an agonized part. Something slammed into his chest and sent him flying against the anvil, and the following crack, he decided, was probably not a dent to the iron. His eyes cleared at the precise moment that he realized he couldn't move his right leg, and he saw running feet all around the workshop, and blasts of purple and orange light and a bright sun that threw the crisscrossing paths of the arrows in bright relief. One side of the entire building had collapsed in a shower of natural earth, which had formed a slight incline to the light of day far above. He crawled in that direction, faltered from an excruciating bolt of pain in his lame leg, then drew himself up into a feasible limp, the poker serving as a crutch as he toddled away. Behind him, the screams continued, and someone, probably Ryar, screamed "keep him here! Don't let him escape!" But even that sound was soon lost in the roar of sudden fire. Jorial scrambled against the dirt and rock, fear and adrenaline giving power to his weak strides, and he cleared the top at about the same time as the corpse of the man called Yarin, whose smoking cuirass gave a clue to the nature of his demise. From what little he knew of the period, Jorial knew that what was being used below was raw magic, quite removed from the sharp, domesticated sorcery of his own age, and he felt enough fear of the fact to mount one of the horses in front of the ruined building with more speed than his leg wanted to permit. Screaming from the pain, he jerked its reins around, grateful that someone had already untied the leads as it cantered into a field that wouldn't exist for very long. But it was all right. Through the pain, fear, and bewilderment of his situation, Jorial had found a glimmer of meaning, which he clung to. He knew where he was going. More importantly, he knew what must be done. In an hour, the last of the screams faded into the distance, and were lost. In a day, the first of many golden towers came into view, and the glorious ramparts of Aralun stood mightily in the face of the sun.