Richard ‘Dickie’ Ramsbottom fumbled with his box of matches in the dark tomb. Frustrated, he repeatedly struck a match against the side of its box, trying to get it to spark. After a few unsuccessful attempts, it finally flared into life. “AT LAST!” He gleefully exclaimed, as the match took light. Applying the flame to an improvised torch of kerosene-soaked rags wrapped around a pic-axe handle, illuminating light filled the chamber, revealing its ancient mysteries. “Behold, Carruthers,” he jubilantly shouted. “The tomb of Ramses III!” Enfield Carruthers - assistant and closest friend to Richard, stood at the entrance to the chamber in complete awe, as he studied the colourfully painted walls through the flickering shadows cast by the torch. “Fetch me some lanterns, would you, please? This torch is starting to dim.” Enfield shouted a few words in Arabic and clapped his hands to stir the group of locally hired help into action. Immediately, half-a-dozen men lit just as many kerosene lanterns. Then, in a processionary line, they entered the chamber, carefully placing the lamps at various points of the chamber. “It’s spectacular, Dickie. Treasures beyond imagination.” Amongst the stunning riches of artifacts, was a strange group of kneeling figures, laid out in a triangular shape - all frozen in what appeared to be mid-screams, hands pinned to their ears. “What do you make of these, Enfield...? I count one, two, three... nine of them.” “Curious, indeed. Not the usual embalming methods, I would expect to see.” Inspecting the most forward body up close, Richard was surprised to see a small piece of outer material covering the body, crumble to his touch - the dust settling on the floor. “Hmm,” Richard ponderously analysed. “Quicklime and animal skin. I’d hazard a guess at goat or sheepskin covering him.” “Of course! That explains it. To the ancient Egyptians, goats and sheep were deemed impure. This appears to be a deliberate attempt of defilement. To not mummify the body in the traditional way and draping the body like this, the Egyptians believed it would render the deceased unable to enter the afterlife. The practice was widely regarded as an after-death form of punishment for something bad the deceased had done... I say, Dickie... this could very well be...” “Yes, Enfield, I believe we’ve found our Prince Pentewere.” “Gadzooks, Dickie! The Patricidal heir of Ramses III. Congratulations, dear boy! But how is he different than these other poor souls? They all look the same.” “Except, he’s at the head of the triangle. At some point, they were arranged this way in a hierarchical formation... and in an extremely fragile state. The fresh air drifting into the tomb is going to accelerate the decay, so we may have to leave everything undisturbed until we assess each body’s condition. Tell your workers we won’t need them until morning, would you, old chap? Let’s try to avoid any further disturbances to the artifacts.” Enfield spoke a few words in Arabic to the inquisitive labourers milling around the bodies. Handing out coins to each of the men, they appreciatively single-filed from the chamber, out into the fresh desert air. “It’s getting late in the afternoon, Dickie. Dusk will be upon us soon.” “Look, no point in us both being here. Why don’t you bed down for the night back at camp? I’ll sketch out the dimensions of the chamber and document the bodies before joining you for a nightcap.” “Oh... I was hoping to explore some more, but if you insist, I’ll get some despatches sent off to our investors in London.” With a smidge of envious disappointment, Enfield reluctantly exited the tomb. Although Richard was leading the expedition, he couldn’t help but resent his friend’s authority. Both had a similar educational background. Richard just had more connections in higher places. Holding a minor degree in Art, Richard could have found his calling as a portrait artist. However, his love of archaeology - specifically Ancient Egyptian archaeology, earned him his Doctorate. In the Victorian era, title was everything. For Professor Richard Ramsbottom, it provided privilege, entitlement, societal memberships, access to funding, and a life filled with exotic travel. Enfield could only dream of such gifted opportunities. This was his second expedition on the coattails of Richard, and without his help, Richard may have passed the location by in his haste to find the lost tomb of Ramses III. Enfield’s topographical skills identified the tomb, so he felt that he deserved more recognition. The son of Ramses III, Prince Pentewere, was the bonus on the find. Suffering from vivid visions of the future, he had prophesised that his father’s policies would be responsible for repeated invasions, internal economic problems, and the decline of their culture. Convincing his mother, Tiye - a secondary wife of Ramses III - to be a part of the murderous plot, the king’s throat was slit while asleep in the royal harem. Although, there is no record of Queen Tiye’s punishment, Pentewere was allowed to take his own life, and was last seen alive, entering the tomb clutching a large rectangular amulet dangling from his neck. “What do we have here?” With the tip of his fountain pen, Richard curiously picked at some loose material under Pentewere’s chin. After a few careful pokes at it, something loose slipped down through the mummified corpse’s grasping hands and onto the dusty floor. Immediately retrieving it, Richard excitedly cleaned the rectangular board to reveal a green oval translucent stone embedded in the wood - a gold circular chain hanging loose at one end. Turning the paddle over, Richard noticed a set of shallow hieroglyphic writings engraved into its back. “What have you been hiding in your hands all these centuries...? I think my erudite skills in cursive hieroglyphs is about to come in handy.” Using his sketchpad, Richard deciphered the ancient text into English. The meaning of its translation continued to perplex him long after the sun had set and a full moon had risen, and as he sat against one of the majestically painted walls, he repeatedly recited the passage in the expectation that through repetition, an answer would materialise. “ Between the palms, the past is now,” he repeated. “...Around the head, a future grows, But beware, what is a head must remain, lest your body be bound in eternal pain ....” Alone in a tomb of Egyptian dead had no worrying effect on Richard. He had spent many a night in similar surroundings mapping out sarcophagi, artifacts, and decrypting wall drawings without superstitious fear overtaking his senses. To him, a tomb was as welcoming as his own warm study at home; however, the repetition of words sent a small, unexpected cold shiver through him. “I see no drawings of palm trees in here, and there are none for miles outside,” he introspectively determined. “ Between the palms... Between... ” While cradling the paddle and stone in his right hand, Richard closed his eyes to concentrate, inadvertently clasping the stone between both hands. Like a sudden onrush of blood to the head, an immediate vibrating sensation jolted his eyes open. To his shocked surprise, the room was filled with a luminous projection of moving images. Quickly realising he had suddenly and wondrously become a voyeur of recognisable and historical events, Richard watched in amazement at the history of Earth playing out before him; however, it appeared more than two-dimensional in presentation. Holographic in dimensions, the display portrayed dinosaurs roaming freely over open plains. Captivating images presented themselves to Richard in living multi-dimensional colour. Sounds, smells, hot and cold sensations plundered his body - immersing him into a oneness with life and the universe. He studied with interest, the extinction level event of numerous active volcanoes, spewing their ash into Earth’s atmosphere. What followed was a period of elongated night, then a fifty-thousand-year ice age. Standing up to further submerge himself into the realistic scenery, he accidentally loosened his grip on the amulet, causing the projection to cease its performance. Taking a moment to recover from a virtual reality induced feeling of seasickness, Richard focussed on the tomb of Ramses III, speculating what other secrets it held. However, his mind - which had been feverishly and subconsciously working on interpreting the inscription, sprung into life. “Palms!... Hands! Between the hands the past is now ... Zookers, that’s it! This strange and fantastic stone somehow holds the secret to time travel... This is sensational! Those doubters at the Glyph Society will be green with envy when I show them this. Enfield! My good friend must see this... Wait! I’m getting carried away by this alluring magic. I need to keep my scientist head clear and explore further.” Unable to resist the allure of the intoxicating amulet, Richard tightly grasped the stone, as an irresistible compulsion to explore its mysteries overcame him. To him, the experience had thrilled him like nothing before. He wanted to soar high as a bird in the sky, like an unmolested eyewitness to history, and immerse himself undetected amongst the creatures and events that once marched relentlessly through millennia. Richard’s second voyage through time, moved at a faster rate. The dawn of Man, the birth of civilisations, conflict, and death, all performed their rites of passage before him in microseconds, his journey only slowing to demonstrate the build-up to the murder of Ramses III. There, the vision showed how Prince Pentewere discovered the amulet in a secret tomb, and like Richard’s mesmerised reaction to the fantastic experience, so too had Prince Pentewere marvelled at its spectacle. However, when Pentewere subsequently placed the amulet around his neck, he was incensed at what he saw, and immediately decided o alter the prophecy that showed the decline of his peoples’ civilisation. By murdering his father, he was convinced he could save his heritage, but the amulet continued to present a future without him in it. The foreboding forecast was gravely realised after his murder trial, when Pentewere disappeared into the very tomb Richard now stood in - never to be seen alive again. Realising it may have a dangerous dark side, Richard once more released his grip on the stone to re-read the inscription. “ Around the head, a future grows, But beware, what is a head must remain, lest your body be bound in eternal pain... What does that mean? What is a head, must remain ? None of these bodies are missing their heads - although their screaming demeanour depicts a less than peaceful passing from this life... Lest your body be bound in eternal pain . Whatever these poor chaps did, they certainly look troubled in the afterlife...” “Dickie, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Startled by the interruption, Richard turned to see his evidently inebriated friend Enfield, standing lopsided against the doorway to the tomb. “Enfield, dear chap. You surprised me. You’ll never believe...” “Almost finished this bottle of Port while waiting for you,” he interrupted. “Thought you might have dozed off or something, so I’ve come to fetch you back for a celebratory drink to toast our marvellous discovery.” “What impeccable timing, Enfield. I need to show you something I’ve found. Something amazing.” Proceeding to explain his discovery, the encrypted text, and the immersive imagery, Richard demonstrated the stone’s ethereal qualities. Starting where it had left off, holographic projections displayed the rise and fall of empires, the creation of new technologies, medicines, and the discovery of the Rosetta stone that helped to decode hieroglyphics - like those on the back of the amulet. Nearing present time, the projections once again began to slow down their speed of display. Both men watched in total amazement at the playback of the discovery that led them both to this moment. This was truly a remarkable find, and as the projection dimmed then stopped, Enfield found himself desiring more. “What of the remaining inscription?” “Yes, I’ve had a little time to analyse that, and I’m convinced the text has an interesting form of an ancient typo.” “Typo? I’m not familiar with that vernacular.” “Sorry, Enfield. A typographical error in the writing. I’d say that whoever wrote this, lacked certain fundamental language skills. How does one correct something incorrectly engraved without bringing it to the attention of one’s masters? The answer is... one doesn’t. One just ignores it in the hope it’s never discovered.” “Sort of like a shy chamber maid not wanting to lose her position after breaking some crockery...” “Similar, except this unfortunate maid would have been more fearful of losing her life. You see, in this case ‘ A head’ is a typo for Ahead . What is ‘ ahead’ must remain.” “What the Dickens does all this mean?” “My dear Enfield, don’t you see? Between the palms showed us the past. Around the head, a future grows . That can only mean when worn around the neck, the amulet presents what is to come... the future! What lies ahead, must remain is a warning to not meddle with the future, but to let it pass unmolested. Knowing what lies ahead , may tempt those with that knowledge to try to change fate’s course. The consequences of corrupting the future could be extremely severe.” “Do you think old Pentewere here paid that price, or do you think his deadly deed brought on the consequence?” “Whatever the answer, we must treat the warning with utmost respect.” “I want to see it... I want to see what is to come... There’s no harm in knowing, is there, Dickie?” Richard took a moment to think of all or any ramifications possession of futuristic knowledge may bring. However, equally as curious, he shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of his outstretched hand, invited Enfield to proceed. “Thank you, Dickie dear boy. All aboard the future express, wot?” Carefully, placing the amulet over his head, Enfield rested it dangling around his neck. Immediately, the multi-dimensional projection picked up where it had left off. Both men silently watched as the moving images crawled through the visionary future. They viewed Richard presenting their find to the institute of Archaeology, followed the fanfare that accompanied them across the world as they attended conferences on the amulet, and witnessed the knighthood and accolades bestowed solely upon Richard, while Enfield slowly faded into the background. Universities, libraries, and streets were named after Richard Ramsbottom, while Enfield Carruthers became the forgotten man - rapidly plunging into the depths of self-pity and binge drinking sessions, before finally dying a pauper in a back alley of London’s newest museum, The Ramsbottom Museum of Modern Archaeology . “I don’t believe it!” Enfield’s protest was followed by him ripping the amulet from his neck and throwing it to the floor, where it disappeared under several layers of thick sand. “Steady on, dear boy,” said Richard trying to calm his friend. “I wouldn’t let that happen to you.” “You saw our future. The amulet categorically states it mustn’t be changed.” Feeling the effects of excess alcohol consumption, Enfield started to swoon. Seeing this, Richard went to his aid, but in a petulant fit of alcohol-fuelled temper, Enfield reacted in a fiery rage. Grabbing Richard’s shirt, he pushed him backwards, propelling him against the jagged edge of a wall. The crunching sound sickened Enfield to his core, but there was nothing he could do. As Richard slowly fell face-first onto the dusty floor, his eyes glazed over in a deathly stare, while Enfield helplessly looked at the dust cloud rising to meet him. Confused as to what he should do, he momentarily thought of calling for help, but hesitated as a domineering impulsive desire flashed through his confused state of mind. As ego and ambition took hold, greed inevitably consumed him, “What will be my future now?” He mused. “Will I be lauded as the discoverer of the eighth wonder of the world...? Let’s see, shall we?” Rummaging through the sand, he retrieved the amulet. Fixing the broken clasp, he once more, placed it around his neck. Like a gramophone record being reset to the beginning, the projection began at the current moment, then sped through the immediate future. However, the libraries and museums carried a new name on them - Gaston Maspero . “Who is that...? Where is my name...? I don’t see me anywhere in all of this?” Noticeably missing from this version, was any indication of Enfield’s own future. It was as if he had none. It was then that Enfield caught a glimpse of an inscription above the doorway. Indecipherable, it strangely appeared to him as legible. Pulling his spectacles from his breast pocket, he read it out loud. “ What is discovered brings knowledge. What is repeated brings darkness,” he recited. “What’s been repeated...? My God! Pentewere!” Without warning, Enfield’s legs buckled from under him, forcing him to his knees, as a high-pitched sound started to blast his eardrums out from his skull - all the while, a rumbling vibration began to loosen the sand above the doorway. Reacting to the pain, he tried to cradle his head with his hands, forcing his mouth to widen - agape in agony. Hideously frozen in place, his dimming eyesight remained fixed on the doorway’s inscription, while tons of sand filled the entrance to the tomb, blocking any escape. In the final few moments of consciousness, reflections of how the amulet had lain dormant for millennia waiting for the next opportunist, consumed his every thought. The nine bodies he now mimicked in pose, must have at other points in time, tried to change the future and ultimately paid the agonising price. The tenth victim questioned who the eleventh wearer of the amulet would be, but the answer would never befall him. As Enfield’s screaming expression of pain spread across his tortured face, his body gradually metamorphosed into a crusty, dried-out sandy shell beyond any methods of formal identification. Shielded by his dusty carcass, the amulet hung innocently around his neck, an inviting combination of gift and curse for all scholars of futurology to avoid at all costs. As it's only human to want to change the world, avoidance would undoubtedly be futile...


Ch. 1 “I set the acceleration and lifted my foot off the gas, I rested my arms on my lap and just made some minor adjustments with my finger if the car would veer off. I was on a straight road in the middle of the night, I didn't think anything of it. I only took the drive because I needed to clear my head. So much shit has been piling up on me lately. I’m having trouble at work with my coworker, he keeps going to the boss and lying about me. At home, my kid is taking off at night and we don’t know if he’s coming back or not. And with my wife... shit, where do I start? I just took a drive to get away, you know? Just get my mind off of it all. Just a Friday night drive” “Then what happened?” “Oh, yeah, I was just sitting on the road. It was dark and straight. That’s actually why I was on it, you know? I didn't have to focus on driving really, I could just sit back and think about life. Anyway, I saw a car parked on the side of the road. That threw me for a loop, it was two in the morning on a side road. I mean, I was alone. There was no one behind me or in front of me at all. That's why seeing this car on the side of the road got me distracted. I started wondering why the hell someone would stop on the side of this dark road. What did they have going on in their life that they would stop on this road? Anyway, as I was looking at this car, I wasn’t paying attention to the road. I mean, I really didn't think I had to. It’s supposed to be a non-busy road. There shouldn’t be anyone else on the road!” “Ok, ok, calm down. Tell me what happened next.” “Yeah, you’re right. I was looking around and suddenly I felt my car hit something, then all of a sudden someone came through my windshield. I mean, in an instant that was it, I killed someone. He came out of nowhere and I just hit him. I mean, I didn't find out until later that Mr. Newall was just trying to flag me down to help him with his car. But he came out of nowhere! The worst part is, I know if I had just been paying attention to the road, none of this would have happened. Hell, if I had just stayed home, I wouldn't be in this mess. Do you know what it feels like to hit someone with your car? Initially, it just feels like hitting a pole or something. It feels like hitting something hard. Then the body comes through the window and you realize what actually happened. I mean, I killed someone. I just took someone's life away from them. Fuck... FUCK MAN, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?” “Calm down, Anthony, calm down. Just tell me what happened after that. Maybe there is something we can do to help your case.” “Right... right. Well, I pulled over with Mr. Newall sticking out of my windshield. I immediately called 911 and told them where I was and what happened. I don't know what I’m going to do. What am I going to tell my wife and kid? I’m going to have to tell him that his father took a life. One day someone was living, and the next he is not. Who the hell am I to take a life? How am I supposed to live with myself? I’m going to remember his face for the rest of my life. I’m a piece of shit. I am the worst type of person. I only looked away for a second. Just a second! I can't live with myself.” “Well, Anthony, I’m not sure there is much I can do for you. We can try to get a plea deal, but the prosecution might want to take this the distance to set an example. I will try my best, but expect the worst.” Ch.2 She sat there, still. She just learned that her father, John Newall, just died the night before on a back road. She felt absolutely nothing. Well, she didn't know what to feel, actually. She was feeling a lot of emotions all at once. On the one hand, he was her father. She should be sad, maybe even devastated. The man who brought her into this life and provided for her is now out of her life forever. Fifteen years she saw this man every day, and now she will never see him again. *Shouldn’t I feel sad?* she thought to herself. On the other hand, however, for the last five years, John Newall had been raping her every Friday night when he would come back from the bar. Like clockwork; he would stumble into the house, open her door, rape her, then cry on her shoulder and say how much of a piece of shit he was. And every Friday night when he would leave, she would cry herself to sleep. Actually, for a year or so she cried herself to sleep every night. But last night, something in her snapped. As soon as John Newall stepped in her room she got up and started to yell at him. She said every name she could think of. Finally, she told him that she wished she was dead, “because at least then I wouldn't have to be your daughter.” With this, he showed no emotion. John Newall just got in his car and drove away. The last thing he told his daughter was that he always loved her. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to kill himself that night for the things he did to his daughter. She wished that the man that hit him wouldn't be punished for it. She would tell the police what he did, but they wouldn't believe her. Her mom knew what was going on every Friday. To save face, she wouldn’t let what he did get out. She needed to make sure *her* reputation stayed intact. For now, John Newall’s secret would stay. Maybe in the future, she would tell someone. She really did feel bad for the man who hit her father, however.


1,206 words by john t. dylan Bishop Timothy Martin sat behind his old oak desk and stared at all the books on the walls surrounding him. Each wall was lined top to bottom with books, a most valuable resource. These books were all written on religion and philosophy, suited to his position. They were aged and dying, the pre-War people's with all their great powers over the world had not thought to make the most primitive of sources of knowledge built to last. In his readings, he often wondered about that oversight. Then again, he wondered about the oversight that led to the Final War, and left civilization in shambles. By the Harris City record, it had been almost 200 years since the war had ended. All at once technology stopped working, and people just began to starve. Then the Killing Rains came for two years. After that, nothing. Harris City had survived simply by having the right number of guns and farmers, led by a powerful Catholic priest named Emanuel Harris. Having no contact with the Vatican in 200 years, certain adjustments to scripture had been made. As Harris himself wrote, “Clearly there was more to Revelation that I believed.” Now Timothy held the position of bishop, and guarded his precious books like a mother badger protects her young from harm. Timothy had been a teacher before he had taken the position as bishop. He was an educated man, having studied at the only known university within safe riding distance. After a few years of teaching he turned to the church and was quickly promoted through the ranks due to his knowledge. By forty five he was bishop of Harris, the second highest position in the known lands of Catholicism. Today he was supposed to meet with one of his field researchers. He had some promising reports about some major prewar event that they are unaware of. He wondered what the young researcher had discovered. He paced the room, waiting. The old pocket watch hanging from his waist told him that it would be an hour still before young James would arrive with his report. He reached out and gently stroked his books, finally selecting a favorite tome on theology before returning to his perch behind his desk. When James knocked on the door Timothy had to pull himself out of a deep section on the dual nature of Christ. “Come in,” he said. In walked James. He was in his thirties and excited by the promise of discovering relics from the past. He was always seeking information that the people's before the Final War might not have understood to be signs from Revelation. He carried with him a large cloth bag with numerous objects in it, looking to be books. “Your grace, I have made a remarkable discovery that may very well be the biggest discovery since the time of the Killing Rains. I believe I have found records of the Antichrist.” Timothy closed his book with the utmost care, then said, “You have my full attention.” “Ok, I've only been studying this for a few days before I hurried back here to report. We found a stash of books and holy symbols, elaborate ritual clothing and hats, many painted books of stories, and some sort of ancient device that has survived the Last War all involving a mysterious figure. I believe the device speaks for itself. Shall I show it to you, your grace?” asked James. “Yes, by all means, my son,” Timothy was indeed interested in this device. No one had ever heard of one still working. James pulled out a slender, rectangular shape from the bag. He then slid a switch on one side so that it opened like a book. On the upper inside was a shiny plate and below it several symbols. “After some experimentation, I got it to do this,” he said and pushed a green arrow pointing right on the device. Displayed on the glowing surface was an image, which seemed to move for a few moments before repeating from the beginning. Although there were fractures on the material showing the images, there was no mistaking what was being shown. A man, with black hair and a blue and red suit with a red cape, emblazoned with an “S” on his chest and cape, flying through the air. Bishop Martin was stunned. After collecting his thoughts, he said, “Tell me everything you know.” “Well,” James began, “I found a site with a shelter that had probably come open during the last series of earthquakes a few months back. Inside we found all sorts of clothing paying homage to this figure. It seems that he claimed to be from another world. It is quite amazing. I've brought you some of the best finds in the area. Perfectly preserved. It seems the priest that was living there never took any sort of food with him. Very strange. He had some sort of weakness, but we're not really sure what to make of it. Plus there are conflicting stories we've found. I have three of my best assistants currently working on the bulk of the material. I've simply brought you some of the more durable materials for your personal perusal.” “Have you told anyone?” asked Bishop Martin. James hesitated and looked down, “Only my assistants and my confessor.” “Your confessor?” “Yes... I... I just felt that I wished I had gotten to be alive to see Kal-El. I felt as though it were a sin, so I confessed it during my travels back to the capital here to Father Drake.” James looked up, “Have I made an error?” Bishop Martin thought about the missive he would have to write and send off to Drake, but that was no real worry. Drake would be wise enough to keep this matter to himself until the Church had time to address it. “No, no... just who is Kal-El?” asked Bishop Martin. “The Antichrist, your grace. The one with the S on his chest. He came as a friend but we've found some records of him destroying large areas and doing horrific things. It is all in the report. I just feel like the world was such a better place back then. There were people everywhere, and the fields and lands were green and lush. But they began to worship Kal-El. They wore his symbol, they praised his name. He took the place of God.” “I see,” Bishop Martin nodded. “You must go back and continue your research. Leave the device with me, I'll show it to the other bishops when I call a council. We must spread the word, this Kal-El could still be out there. We need all the information you can find. But tell no one. Take a new horse and leave immediately, I want to know everything.” “Yes your grace, as you speak it so shall it be,” Peter replied and walked out of the office. Bishop Martin, once alone, pushed the green triangle and watched the image for a few moments longer. *How did the clergy not see the giant 'S' for Satan emblazoned on his chest and back? Were they blind?* Staring at the image, he murmured aloud, “So the Antichrist's name is Kal-El.


It was a quiet drive. Sue and Dan hadn’t been arguing, but the tension between them was palpable. They were both wearing black, as was customary, and they weren’t listening to any music. Sue was lost in her memories. Dan was... pondering. He had something to say, but he really did not know how to say it. “What’s on your mind?” Sue cut through the silence. Dan was taken aback. “I don’t want to say...” “Just say it.” She was blunt. She meant it. “Ok. fine. Why am I going?” “Because I need you there.” Sue stated. “That’s why.” “But... it’s weird. I don’t know. I feel really uncomfortable and we’re not even there yet.” Dan was struggling to put it to words tastefully and tactfully. “I just... I need you to do this with me.” Sue softened a little. She was coming out of her thoughts and back to the present. It had been a long time ago, but the memories flooded back quickly enough. “Are you ok?” Dan asked. Sue looked out the window. “I’m fine. I’m still processing everything, i guess.” Dan flipped his turn signal. “Well, we’re here. Do you want to wait a minute? Maybe talk some more about things?” “No,” Sue took a deep breath. “We should just go in.” As they walked, Dan started to hang back. Sue noticed and reached back, taking his hand. He caught up to her and, when they reached the door, he let go and opened it for her. The funeral home had three rooms for viewings and a lounge. One room was empty, one room was set up for a viewing but the casket wasn’t there yet. The third room was where Steve’s viewing was being held. Dan looked longingly at the coffee pot in the lounge. It was empty. He started toward the lounge. “Where are you going?” Sue asked. “Do you want some coffee?” Dan asked meekly. “Dan, please. I need to do this, can you just be here for me?” Dan nodded and they entered the room. It was an open casket, and Dan’s eyes were immediately drawn to the face of this man he had never met. Steve. He heard stories. He knew a few things, but Sue didn’t talk about him much. They were together for a long time, Sue and Steve, but that was a long time ago. They hadn’t spoken in almost a decade. Sue just found out this morning about the viewing. About his passing. Apparently, he had been sick. He looked thin... at least his body did. She knew he had been sick, too, but she didn’t tell Dan. The big C. Dan didn’t ask what kind or how long before it took him. It wasn’t really a conversation this morning. Just tears. Confusion. Then, a resolute decision. Dan didn’t want to go, but Sue wouldn’t let up. Dan tried convincing her to go alone or to go with an old friend. She swore she didn’t keep up with any of the friends she and Steve shared. Sure enough, narrow eyes moved her way when they entered the room. There were a few people whispering and looking in their direction, but it was a packed house. Out of the crowd, a stately woman with a somber face approached. “Hi Mrs. Diane.” Sue said to the mother of the deceased. “I am so sorry.” Steve’s mother smiled warmly and hugged Sue. “Thank you for coming. It does mean a lot.” Dan realized he had been staring blankly at the casket. He was avoiding eye contact with Steve’s mother, but he slipped and they locked eyes. “Dan, is it?” She asked. “It is.” Dan was surprised. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” “Thank you. I can’t remember, did you ever meet Steve?” Mrs. Diane asked genuinely. “I did not, but I was familiar with his work and Sue told me a few stories.” Dan admitted. “Pity. He was a wonderful soul.” Steve’s mom looked down, then glanced over her shoulder at the casket. “If you’ll excuse me...” “Of course.” Sue reached out and squeezed Mrs. Diane’s arm before letting her go back to her motherly duties. Dan looked around and was met with some sharp stares. His intuition had been on point. He wasn’t really welcome here. Sue started to move about the space, looking for a place to sit. Dan followed doggedly, head low, eyes on her heels. The sea of people, of family and friends, seemed to part ways around them and close in again. Did everyone know who they were? Was he imagining it? His eyes were drawn back to the casket, but his gaze was caught by the photo next to it. He recognized that face. Before the illness. He’d seen it before. Handsome. Hard to look at. Hard for Dan, at least. Sue found two chairs along the wall and they sat. A few old friends that Dan had met before came out of the woodworks to embrace Sue. Dan sat and tried not to take in the room. He caught a glimpse in the corner of a collage of photographs. When Sue had finished catching up with the few friends who cared to talk to her, Dan pointed out the collage. “If you wanted to go look at it, would you mind if I went to the lounge?” Dan sheepishly asked. Sue was distracted. “That’s fine, yeah.” Dan had never been so relieved in his life. An instant later, he realized he had to walk through the room alone to get back out to the lounge. Terror filled him. He braced himself for the worst. Nothing happened, though. Everyone was content to ignore the intruder. There was a man about Dan’s age brewing the coffee when Dan got into the lounge. Dan perused the vending machine and tried his best to be invisible. “You doing alright?” The man asked. “What’s that?” Dan replied. “Are you doing alright? You look... scared. Don’t like funerals?” The coffee finished and the man poured himself a cup. “Oh, uh. I guess, yeah. Does anyone like funerals?” Dan studied the stranger and tried to place if he had seen him before. Nothing came to mind. “Coffee?” the man offered Dan the pot. “Yes, please.” “You sure? Caffeine can increase anxiety and you’re practically shaking.” The man poured him a cup as he spoke. “I’m Robby. I’m a cousin. That’s why you don’t know me. I know you though.” “You do?” Dan croaked. “Yeah, you’re Dan. You’re with Sue.” Robby spoke softly and plainly. Non Confrontational. Dan sipped the coffee that was still too hot and cringed. “I feel... like I shouldn’t be here.” “Dan.” Robby moved closer and placed a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “No one gives a flying fuck about you right now. Just stick with Sue like you’re supposed to. There’s a whole lot of sad people here today, and you’re not one of them. You’re just Sue’s shadow.” Dan nodded. “Yeah, got it. Thanks.” Dan was grateful for the advice. He made his way back to Sue, who was still at the collage. She was holding back tears as her eyes fixated on a picture of she and Steve. It was down near the bottom of the collage, it was poorly lit, and they looked utterly ecstatic together. They made a beautiful couple. Young. Innocent. “That was our christmas card photo.” Sue choked out. A voice came from behind. “Yeah, Grandma still had a copy that we found when we cleaned out her house.” Dan and Sue turned to see a face that resembled the handsome photo, but not the one in the casket. This was Steve’s eldest brother, Paul. There was no doubt. “Thanks for coming, Sue.” Paul embraced her, and he extended a hand to Dan. “Paul. You’re Dan, yes?” “Yessir,” Dan shook his hand then returned to being invisible. Sue and Paul looked at the collage together as he filled her in on the last years of Steve’s life. Dan lost himself staring at the photo of his wife and the man that she almost married before they ever met. There was something dwelling within him. An old flame was growing. Green with jealousy. He felt like such a fool. He was jealous of Steve for dying, for being immortalized. Dan never wanted to lose Sue. He knew that Steve’s life wasn’t easy after the two parted ways. Now and then, there would be an update from an old, estranged friend or even an article about his work and the life he was leading. His fame dwindled. His health dwindled. His life got smaller and smaller. There was a lot of attention when he was originally diagnosed, but that went away when people realized he probably wasn’t going to pull through. Who wants a sad story? Dan pulled himself out of his pondering and, relieved, realized he was still a fly on the wall. Paul hugged Sue again and walked away. Sue was wiping away tears when she turned to Dan. “We can go soon... I just. I don’t know if I want to go up to the casket.” “Ok.” Dan had never felt so out of place in Sue’s life before. “I haven’t... looked at it. Does it even look like him?” Dan didn’t know what to say. It didn’t. It didn’t look like him at all. It looked nothing like the photo next to the casket, and even further from the Christmas photo with Sue. It... he... Steve was gone. That was a body. A frail form. There wasn’t life or a soul or anything that resembled whatever Sue loved. That’s what Dan thought. “I think it would be better if you didn’t.” Dan softly spoke. Sue’s chin quivered and her eyes filled with more tears. “Ok.” she choked out. “Let’s go.” They turned and made their way to the door. No one tried to stop them. No one noticed them. Robby had been right. They didn’t matter. All that mattered to every single person there was their moments with Steve. Their memories. That was all they had now. They didn’t have time for Sue and they couldn't care less about Dan. When they got in the car, Sue broke completely. She sobbed bitterly as Dan sat, ready and waiting to comfort or drive, whichever she signaled was best. “Home.” was all Sue was able to get out and Dan sprang into action. He pulled the car out of the parking lot and drove them back to their life together. Away from this moment. Away from the memories. Away from all that had passed.


Annabeth stood her ground. The men had fallen, the weak, young and cowardly had fled. The sick and old had been sacrificed in an attempt to save everyone else. Yet they still came. An army of darkness and death. A plague upon mankind. Yet, the last to stand against it was a woman. She held her sword tightly. It was an old weapon. Passed down from father to son for generations, a line unbroken until now. The blade was short for a sword, yet too long for a dagger. Too thick and heavy for swinging quickly, yet too light to bash through armour. An odd weapon from a time long ago. Her shield was big, unlike the sword. Yet it was light. Made of a mix of wood and metal, it stood tall against any attack. It protected the body from spear, arrow, or sword. Together, the pair made a nearly unstoppable pair. Hiding behind the shield and stabbing out with the sword. But both paled in compared to the armour. Plates of metal overlapping leather. Cuts covered this armour from head to toe, yet the plates remained unbroken. When surrounded, the shield becomes a weakness, forcing you to protect one side and leave another vulnerable. The sword can only kill one enemy at a time. But the armour. It can stop a thousand blows from a thousand men. That is what Annabeth needed right now. The army approached the young woman. A great cloud of dust followed in its wake. Forests, plants, and animals all withered to nothing before it's all-consuming mass. Then, it reached Annabeth. The very ground that she stood on begun to crack and turn strange shades. The air turned stale and hard to breathe. Yet, she did not turn. She did not run. She had a duty. A little sister and brother to protect. Her grandfather, who gave his sanity to fighting this horde. Her mother, who had to abandon her oldest daughter to save the rest. The orphans, the lost and damned, those who tried their hardest and failed. The people who never had any hope from the start, and those who had lost hope when the Hero died. They all counted on her, even if they didn't know it. "S-stop!" She commanded. Her voice stuttered and almost gave up entirely. But she still stood strong. Strangely enough, the horde before her did that very thing. "What is this?" A voice like gravel grating on metal boomed from the horde. It was roughly a hundred meters away from the girl, yet the monster that stood at the front could easily be seen. Three times the size of a regular man, it hefted an axe that could cleave a normal man in two. "A child dare stand in my way?" "I-I am n-not a ch-ch-child!" Annabeth yelled back to the monster. She could feel the tears prick at her bright green eyes. She shook her head, trying to force back the tears, only for her golden blond hair to fall in fount of her eyes. "Oh?" The monster boomed. "Then what are you, child?" The monster sounded more intrigued than angry, as if Annabeth wasn't even worthy of its rage. Considering the monster was well known as the Sin of Wrath, that was a feat in of itself. Annabeth took a moment to steady herself. She remembered her father's teachings. That rushing in would only lead to a quick death. To take your time, to plan and outsmart your opponent. The demon was known as the Sin of Wrath, but rage made you stupid. It preferred direct assaults and was easily caught by surprise attacks. "I challenge you to a duel!" Annabeth screamed out to the Demon. This time, her voice held strong, though force of will rather than courage. However, she soon faltered as the entire army of monsters laughed at her. All but three. The Sin of Pride, The Sin of Envy, and the Sin of Wrath. "Silence!" Pride called, it's voice smooth like silk. "A challenge has been issued, and you will respect it!" Pride was unique for a Demon, always following through with it's word to the letter instead of twisting and turning the contracts to its favor. But that did not make it weak, instead, it twisted the very person into agreeing to bad deals. "Ah, Wrath, ah, your so lucky! Ah, I wish, ah, that I could, ah, kill her!" A nasally voice called out. Envy, a small spellcaster demon that always wanted what it couldn't have. Greed for other's power meant it learned how to steal knowledge and strength from those it killed. "I accept your challenge, child." Wrath called out, stepping forwards from the army. The ground beneath its very feet was pressed down and left indents into the earth where it walked. As the monster crossed the hundred meters, it only grew in size. It eventually stopped ten meters from Annabeth. "This is your last chance to flee, child." Wrath said it's voice so loud that it hurt Annabeth's very brain. It's yellow eyes stared down at the girl, into her very soul. But she stood strong against it, for if she didn't, who would? Annabeth couldn't respond for fear of her voice breaking and giving way to tears. She knew she was going to die here, but every second she brought was another person getting away from the horde. Instead, she raised her shield just below her eyes and prepared to stab with the sword that was not quite a sword. Wrath meanwhile didn't wait for any more of a reply. It shot forwards with speed faster than such a large body should be able to move at. The axe came from the left side of Annabeth, so she moved her shield slightly so that it wasn't hit directly. The axe slid off the wood like it was two bits of metal sliding off each other. The Demon of Wrath lost it's footing for a second, and Annabeth took the opportunity. She trusted out with her sword that was not a sword and struck the monster in the neck. Wrath turned it's head to the girl, the sword still stuck in its neck. It looked down at the sword that was not a sword, shock and surprise clear on its face. "Fuck." It said, blood coming up with the words as it dropped its axe. The Demon of Wrath had been slain with a single thrust from a young girl. The Demon of Wrath fell to the ground, the sword that was not a sword slid free with no resistance. The universe stood still. The monsters no longer made noise. Even Annabeth's breathing seemed to stand still. Blood covered the girl from head to toe. Arteries spewed a lot more blood than she had thought. But not even the hardest of warriors can survive having their neck cut open. "Envy!" Annabeth called. Her voice cracked while saying the name, but the army of monsters dared not mock this girl anymore. "Ah, perhaps another time, ah ah." Envy said, backing away like the coward it was. But Pride stood behind the Imp. "Are you going to surrender to a small human child?" Pride asked venom and steel in its voice. That voice promised a slow and painful death. "Ah, yes, ah, your right, ah. Ah, it's only, ah, a girl, ah. Ah, My magic, Ah, should easily deal, ah, with her, ah." The Imp strode forwards. Unlike Wrath, it's steps were small, and it took the better part of ten minutes to cross the distance. The entire time it scratched at itself with its claws, ripping small scales off its body only to show more underneath. Instead of being clean and fresh, the scales were worn and ash covered. They were as sickly looking as those on top. Annabeth readied her sword and shield. her father's words came back to her. 'Should you ever fight a spell-caster, close the distance.' With those words on her mind, she sprinted forwards, throwing any pretense of defense behind. This seemed to take the Imp by surprise, but it was too quick. The Demon raised its hands and shot out blue fire at the girl. Raising her shield, Annabeth ran through the flames. The metal of her armour heated up, but the leather underneath stopped it from burning her skin. The wood of the shield refused to burn, however, having long been treated against fire. Unfortunately, she could not see. Instead of stopping in front of the Imp, Annabeth ran into it. Both the young woman and the monster were thrown to the side. Sword lost, having been thrown by accident. Training could not excuse a lack of experience, and losing your weapon was a great way to learn to keep a strong grip. The Imp was up first and blasting more fire at Annabeth. The girl had to hunker down under the shield, trusting in the ancients who constructed it. She could hear the cackle of laughter coming from the Imp. "Ah, die! Hehehehehehehe! Ah, Die! Ah, let me, ah, consume your soul, ah! Hahahahahahhahaha!" Envy cackled, blue fire shooting form it's hands. Annabeth slowly stood up, keeping the shield between her and the Demon. She felt her armour getting hotter and hotter. The leather had begun to sizzle and small bits of metal were starting to touch her skin, burning it away. Yet she still pressed forwards, walking towards the Imp as it backed away. Soon, the gap was closed. Annabeth was at the pinnacle of the fire. She thrust out with the shield, knocking the hands of the Imp away. This action interrupted the spell. It was only for a second, but that was enough. While she had a chance, the young woman swung the shield with all her might, knocking the Imp to the ground. Grabbing the sides of the shield, she brought it down on the Imp's neck. Putting all her weight on the shield, she pushed down, choking the monster. It was a slow death, with lots of spluttering and cursing from both sides. Spells began to fly in every direction in a mad attempt from the Imp to kill the girl. But, after what felt like an eternity, the Imp laid still, unmoving. Annabeth looked around for her sword. She found it lying in a patch of burnt grass. Limping over to it, she picked it back up and turned to the demon army. Burns covered her entire body and she was tired, but she still stood tall. "Pride!" She called out. She didn't yell this time. She didn't need to yell anymore. She wasn't afraid now. The army was still silent. The final general had been called out to fight, and everyone knew he would. Pride didn't say a word, nearly strode forwards, unsheathing a sword made of bone. Both took a fighting stance. Pride's was better, it was clear. But Annabeth had a shield. Helmet of a bird and a helmet of metal faced each other. Green eyes to pink. Pride made the first move. A thrust aimed at the neck of Annabeth. She rose her shield slightly, knocking the sword to the side and striking out with her own, like a snake waiting in a bush for its prey. Pride swatted away the sword that was not a sword like a horse swatted a fly. The sheer strength behind the blow almost knocked the sword out of her hand, but she had learned quickly to never let go of your sword. Pride stuck again before Annabeth could fully recover. The sword made of bone went for her eyes, but the girl nearly turned her head and let the blade slide down the side of her helmet. The sound of metal on bone rang through her ears, rattling her to the bone. While she had a chance, the girl stuck out with another thrust. This one was poorly aimed and was easily dodged by Pride. The sword came quicker this time. It stuck her outstretched arm. A loud crunch could be heard as the sword met metal. But it wasn't the crunch of her arm, it was the sword shattering. "You have very strong armour. I'll have to take it off your corpse." Pride said as he returned the hilt to its sheath. When Pride pulled the handle back out, a new sword was there, the same as before. "You have my respect, but you must die now." Just as Annabeth was about to respond, Pride disappeared. She heard a crunch and felt pain come from her back, then from her side, then another on her arm, one on her head, another on her arm, right at the elbow. Pride was moving so quickly and striking so hard that she couldn't even tell where he was. But her armour held up, breaking his sword each time instead of breaking itself. Every blow was a bruise, and in some cases, her own bone cracking. In a desperate attempt to survive, she put her shield in front of her, protecting her face from the sword. Pride did not slow down, however. Instead, it added in kicks to throw her to the ground. It added in consecutive blows to joints and her head. It beat and beat and beat her down until she was nothing but a crying mess on the ground. "I am truly sorry it came to this. If it is any consolation, you put up a better fight than the Hero. He ran away the moment I chopped off his arm. Truly, a coward of the greatest caliber." Pride taunted, a smile playing on it's lips. Annabeth slowly stood up, and Pride let her. "Don't," she said, weakly and softly. "What was that? I couldn't hear you." Pride taunted. "Don't you dare talk about my father that way!" Annabeth yelled as she stuck out with her sword. The strike was wild, a slash instead of a thrust. Her shield was out of place because of it, and Pride took advantage. The sword took her in the eye before she could even finish the swing. "Like father like daughter. To think, the Hero killed four of us, then his daughter killed two more. Yet neither could kill me. I guess that's why I'm in charge." Annabeth fell to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. Life had left the girl, now forever to stare in the distance with only one eye. "Demons! Onwards! We have Humanity on the ropes!" Good ending up in a few days.


There are some things that a husband should never do: cheat on his wife, cook without cleaning up, go shopping with her, and LOOK IN HER PURSE. These are all no-win situations. "Have you seen my keys", I said. "I was holding them for you last night. They're in my purse", she says. "Can you get them for me", I inquire. She says, "My purse is hanging on the bedroom doorknob. You can get it yourself". I've been through this before. IT's like opening Pandora's Box, like being Alice in Wonderland, like falling into a Black hole. There are things there that you don't want to know. There is order in disorder; and there seems to be no end. No husband should have to look in his wife's purse. It's a no-win situation. If I find my keys, she will want to know why I, "had to tear her purse apart to find them". And if I can't find them (even though I hear them jiggling), I will have to endure her barrage of, "you can never find anything", or, "you don't know how to look for things" (as if there's more than one way). The purse was one of six that she currently owned. I would have guessed a number closer to the number of states in the union. She said she only uses two. The dark navy blue one is for the fall and winter. The other one is white for spring and summer, and she starts using it on Easter Day. She also has several small clutch purses (with many compartments) for when we go out, a fanny pack for swap meets, and a huge gunny sack for when we go to baseball games. I've carried the same wallet since...Nixon was President! I reached in and found them. On the first try I had found keys--her keys on a huge safety pin. I put them to the side. I shook the purse. I could hear my keys laughing at me. There were two sides to the purse and four zippers. I would find my keys, but not before emptying her purse on the bed. For those of you too timid to venture into the unknown, let me list what I found: |⇝| **Zipper 1** || Lipstick *Comb* Fingernail file *Chapstick* Tweezers *Kleenex* Handy Wipes *Sunglasses* Reading glasses *Gum* Dental Floss *Cellular Phone* Coupons *Ink Pens* |⇝| **Zipper 2**|| *Hard Candy* Business Cards *Emergency Numbers* Lady's Personal Items |⇝| **Zipper 3**|| Nose Spray *Imodium* Primetime Mists |⇝| **Zipper 4**|| Checkbook ***MY KEYS*** |⇝|  "Did you find your keys," she yelled from the kitchen. "Right where you said they'd be", I replied as I hurriedly stuffed things back in. I had filled the purse, but there were items still on the bed. How could that be? Maybe if I ate a few pieces of gum, used some of the Kleenex, and hid some coupons, I could close the purse. There, everything restored! I held up the keys like a trophy and said that they were right where she had said. "Great", she said. "I have my purse organized so that when I'm driving, I can just reach over, and without looking, find things". "I need some aspirin!" I say.


Trigger warning: suicide I had always enjoyed waking up in my college dorm. I am, in every sense of the expression, an early bird, and I was accustomed to waking before my roommate, or anyone on my level for that matter. This practice, if one can call it that, had given me a sense of superiority; it was as if the symphony of noises that marked the morning greeted me, and only me. I studied in New York, but not at a large private school in the city, our campus was nearly an hour away from Manhattan. So these aforementioned “morning noises” were not taxis, sirens, and construction work, but more suburban: birds, wind, the occasional sound of a bus or train. It was my last day of college, the end of school, and the beginning of adulthood. I was 24. It had been a year, 5 months, and 14 days since Eli killed himself; a year, 6 months and 10 days since Zelko died; 19 years since I had last seen my parents. (Remembering these numbers was never a fun task, but I constantly kept track of them in my head then, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.) And, incidentally, the best of those 19 years were spent in college. Nearly every part of the system was rhapsodic: the professors, the freedom, the intellect of those around you. So you may understand why this final morning was so disheartening for me. The only truly awful part of college was the dorm itself. It was small, so it became stuffy and hot in the humidity of New York summers very quickly. I opened the windows as much as the locks would allow and turned on the little metal fan that I kept on my desk. I then splayed myself out on the bed and dug my face into the sheets. There was a slight metallic smell to the bed covers that the school provided, and as I buried my face in them, my nose stung in the same way one’s lips purse when tasting their own blood. The noise from the fan, that incessant clattering, was circular and piercing, and I felt it would ingrain itself in my mind if I laid there any longer. I felt I’d go deaf if I didn’t get up and turn off that fan in an instant, but luckily, others in the building began to wake, and they muffled that sound with their own symphony of routine. After a while of milling around my room, my clothes were packed and my roommate was gone. All that was left was to clear out a small drawer in the closet. Inside that small drawer, there was a box. It was made of a red-brown oak, and measured about 6 inches across, 2 inches high. It had originally belonged to my mother, so it was adorned with some flowery carvings and her initials-- A.W. I don’t remember the box mentioned in their will, but among the three of us, Eli and Judy and I, it had landed in my possession. Under my possession, it was filled to the brim with clippings, photographs, letters, and some old diaries that just barely fit inside. However, before I even opened the damned thing, I thought of Anne, and not for the only time that day. My mother’s name was Akiko (Japanese, for those frantically finding an encyclopedia on name origins) but, as I’m sure many children do, I never associated the letter A with her. More frequently, seeing an M would remind me of my mummy or mama, or if you’re lucky enough to know her longer, your mom. Not A for Akiko. Anne’s name was the first to come to mind at my glance of that letter A carved so delicately in the corner of the box. And when I remembered what was inside the box, I nearly tore the hinges off it. After a few moments of digging, I found the letter. The first letter Anne had ever sent me. June 4, 1954, posted in Anaheim, California. Anaheim: the same location listed on the train ticket that stuck out the pocket of my messenger bag. That little slip of paper haunted me now, teased me, sucking up the sentimentality of the letter A for my least favorite place in the world. I shook off the ticket and turned back to the letter. Anne always had the neatest script. She’d learned shorthand when she was 15, but you wouldn’t be able to tell: her script wasn’t littered with those awfully ambiguous loops. Anne and I were both, to put it bluntly, nerds. We loved exchanging letters, simply for the premise of writing down things we may have been too afraid to say. We attended the same school and saw each other all the time, but the world we fabricated within those letters was a type of connection I truly believe only comes around once in a lifetime. Buddhism has beliefs rooted in soulmates, and although I’m unsure if she is a romantic soulmate of mine, I’m almost certain she is a general soulmate of mine, at least in the sense that our incarnations were meant to find one another. I saved every last note, letter, and photograph I had of Anne since we parted, and when college became too lonely, I would read them occasionally. To give you a sense of our exchanges, I’ll insert a small excerpt (slightly paraphrased, to maintain some privacy). I am terribly fascinated by your definition of perfection, Charlie. You say perfection is a matter of flawlessness. Of utter and complete goodness. But I have to disagree, my love. I interpret that word as a state that is singular to one person or another. It can be a simple circumstance, like feeling your hand fit perfectly in mine, or a feeling, like the smile on my face when I receive a new letter from you. But it isn’t an idea of flawlessness. It's an idea that can describe the nuanced situations that, in my life, I find simply, utterly perfect. I couldn’t take the sappiness of the letters any longer (at least that’s what I told myself. I think, in actuality, I missed Anne so much I couldn’t bear to read another reason why I was a fool for leaving her) that I folded the paper up and took out a small red leather-bound notebook from the box. It was the diary I kept my freshman year of high school, and as I opened to the first page, I was reminded all over again of why I disliked California so much. WHY AM I ALWAYS SO UNHAPPY? was written at the top of the page. The rest of the entry went as follows (word for word this time, I have no shame). I try so hard to be friends with people. I really do. But they fail me. The world fails me time and time again. I wish everyone could just say what they think. Imagine the power that would hold. I could walk up to a group of people and explain my situation and ask to be friends. The next day we could be close and laughing like we’ve known each other for years. Or they could look at me like I’m insane. I could ask her, invite her over. I have so much power. So much power. Everyone does, and that’s what’s so scary. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be even lonelier than I am. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be happier than I am. The power we all have lies in our choices of what to say or not, when to say what we feel, what to even say, to begin with. That’s the power, the insane power we have, to change our lives. And yet I can’t even open my mouth and use it. I had used it, eventually. Anne’s face materialized in my mind for the second time that day. I had used this so-called “power” that I wrote about at age 14 on Anne 3 years later. And we dated for 2 years. And I believe we fell in love. Real love, not just teenage lust. Yet this was one of the only real connections I had ever had with someone my age. When I look back on my high school years, Elijah, Anne, and Zelko were very likely my only friends. The speculation and brooding became too much for me, so I stood up and shoved the papers and diaries back into the box, then put the box into the last vacant corner of my suitcase. A glance at my wristwatch told me I had only a few minutes before the bus into the city was coming on campus. I would stay in a hotel for a night before heading back to Anaheim. As I walked toward my door for the last time (I had managed to keep the same dorm all 4 years, don’t ask how, it isn’t important, just know this was a very sentimental moment for your dramatic narrator), I noticed a rather awkwardly-shaped stain on the carpet near my desk. At first, I paid it no mind, thinking it might have been some spilled beverage from my roommate, but upon noting its color and apparent age, I was reminded. Reminded all over again of that horrific day, and somehow that memory made leaving the dorm that much easier. ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ I walked aimlessly around the hotel room a few times, relishing in the freedom I had never quite tasted. For the next 24 hours before my train departed, I was totally and utterly free. From school and Judy. All people and obligations in the world outside that hotel room were null and void. I had no financial dependence on Judy, I had no dependence on school. I was staying in a hotel room paid for by me only, inhabited by me only. The joy plastered on my face was immeasurable, I’ll tell you that much. The phone on the bedside table seemed to twinkle at me every round I made around the room. Anne’s name continued to nag at me until I could take it no longer. I really ought to call her. I pulled out the address book from the front pocket of my messenger bag and spun the first few numbers around before I stopped. A knocking at the window (of my 5th story room, mind you) pulled me away from the task at hand. I shoved the small book of numbers in my vest pocket and observed the commotion. A branch had snapped on a nearby tree, and the piece of wood was blowing rhythmically against my window. At that moment, I realized that I was stationed right above the old cemetery where Zelko had been buried. Leaning my hands on the window, I searched through the rows of headstones and monuments and thought about that evening, a year, 5 months and 14 days ago. Eli came over from California (he moved back post-college) and we stayed in my dorm at school, since Zelko was going to be buried in New York. We attended the thing, came back to my school on the same bus I had taken that day, and then Eli was gone too. Finally, I spotted Zelko’s grave on the far west side of the cemetery. (Looking back I’m not sure if it was really his, but let’s say it was for the sake of the story, yeah?) With impetus, I sprang up from my dream-like state and rushed out the door, barely remembering my key in my haste. ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ I sat down on the grass in front of his plaque, folding my knees up to my chest and hugging them close. At first, I only stared at him, the small piece of metal I had so frequently visited over long weekends, and when I could afford a bus ticket. I simply sat and enjoyed my friend’s company while the thoughts of the day swirled and bubbled around in my mind. Then, “Damn it Zelko why did you leave me? Why does everyone leave me?” I took my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose, breathing in deeply. “Why can’t I keep them? Why am I so awful? And unhappy? And unlikeable? I’ve never fit in anywhere, dammit!” I smacked the grass beside me in frustration. I was so damn cynical back then. I still am, sometimes. But I’ve realized since that sadness and evil are easier to attain and revert to, and that happiness and kindness take time and extra effort to practice. I was merely lazy, sitting there on the grass and blubbering over my dead English teacher’s grave. Still, those questions I had a terrible habit of asking never were quite answered at the time. Not in an explicit black and white way, anyways. I still wonder from time to time why it was so difficult for me to make friends, why it felt as though nobody my age understood me, why I had such poor memories of childhood, but I think I’ve come up with a more or less concrete understanding. I am mixed, in every aspect of my life. And in Anaheim, in the high school Judy wasted her savings on for us to attend, no one else was that way. My race is mixed, yes, but I feel it goes beyond that. My interests, my upbringing, my religion and culture, all mixed. And being mixed, at its very core, means to have pieces and portions of various traits. As lovely and well-rounded as it seems, it's somewhat awful when you are a sad and belligerent teenager. One who is mixed is never enough. Never enough of any of those traits, since one has only a portion of each of those traits. He is forced to occupy an external limbo-like state of observation. (Though I suppose this is beneficial as a writer, as most of our work comes from observation.) In small towns, everything is black and white. In my high school, everything was black and white. But in the city, in New York, many more of these blacks and whites are muddled, closer to greys. In certain areas, of course, the black and white is stark. Even in college, there were only a few of my peers that I could really relate to, like Gabe. Yet the city as a whole, that was what I loved. The city felt like home, it felt mixed like me. “Zelko, I don’t know what to do,” I muttered into my lap. I had been pressing my eyes into my knees, and as I looked up at Zelko again, zig-zags of every shape and size flashed before me. I laughed. “God, why am I even talking to you. What did you become?” I smoothed my hand over the grass in the place I had hit. “That tree earlier? A little bird? No, you probably already reached Nirvana, didn’t you?” Just then, a small yellow warbler (Gabe has his MA in ornithology, I know too much about birds) flew down from a tree and landed onto Zelko’s plaque, twisting its little head at me quizzically. “No way. You sly, sly man.” A smile grew over my face. The bird flew back up into the tree and seemed to be hunting for a stick. After a moment, he grabbed what he had been looking for, swooped down over me, dropping the twigs, and flew away from the graveyard. I studied the brightly-colored animal for a few seconds before seeing what he had left. Sure enough, the sticks had been dropped in such a way that the letter A seemed to be presented on the grass, plain and clear. I ran a gentle hand over the sign. “You think I should go visit her? You think she’d let me stay with her for a while? I don’t think I can go back to California just yet.” I let the question linger in the air for a while before I began to laugh. I laughed loudly, obnoxiously, and even rolled back onto the grass for a moment before sitting back up to face Zelko. “I just talked to a bird. I’m talking to a bird! God, I’m going mad.” I picked up the sticks and shoved them into my pocket next to the address book. “I’ll see ya, Zelko.” I walked away from the grave and straight into the nearest phone booth I could find. ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ “Hey, Anne?” “Charlie?” “Yeah, it’s me.” I didn’t want to waste a second of that call.” Listen, I know it’s been a while, but do you think I could stay with you for a bit?” “Stay with me?” I sighed, I swallowed, I spoke. “I miss you. And I can’t go back to Judy just yet.” The only sound on the other side was her breath, the little sounds she made as she thought, and I smiled thinking about how she probably looked, clutching the phone to her ear while she processed my proposition. “Yes. What time will you get in?”


I was holding Mom's cold hand in mine when I saw the doors. I felt a really bad feeling, like a plum pit sank to the bottom of my heart. They were even taller than Dad, and he’s like the tallest person I know. Mom stopped at the bottom of the steps and squeezed my hand so tight I pulled away! “Ow Mommy!” I said, “you hurt me.” “Sorry, sweety,” She said in a crackling voice looking down at me now. I had to look twice to make sure it was my mom. Her eyes looked like a swarm of bees had stung them, and her cheeks sunk in like a landslide forced the life to fall from them. Her skin was all pink. Pink is my favorite color but I didn’t like the way it covered her. “Are you okay Mom?”I asked, Her eyes started to water, probably from the bee stings, and she turned away. “I’m alright sweetheart, just be on your best behavior” She said, “O-okay Mom,” I responded and grabbed her hand again. Ew! I thought, it was all sweaty and even colder now. But I didn’t feel good, so I couldn't let go. My dad and little brother Mikey were waiting by the doors, “It’s okay,” Dad said the same way he does when he’s mad. So I hid behind Mom, but she pulled me gently towards the doors. I followed behind her gazing up at the huge entrance, it was a really dark wood, and it had weird fancy designs carved into it. With Dad standing next to it I could tell I was right, it was almost 2 Dads tall and 2 Moms wide. Dad pushed the door open and it told me to leave with a loud and scary creek. I jumped so high, probably the highest I’ve ever jumped. I peeked inside and all I saw was very dark black, and I’m kinda scared of the dark so I was a little nervous. The doors were prettier the closer I got but scarier too. They almost looked like the gates to some dark kinda heaven. Mikey turned away from dad and ran in through the open door. And when Mom and I walked through the gates I felt the plum pit in my heart digest. Not like it went away, but more like it tore into tiny lil’ splinters. As we walked more I took in the sights, it looked like a king lived here. There was a big shiny light with crystals hanging from it. And the floor was made of pretty blue carpet. And I learned in my class the other day, blue used to be the color of kings. But I officially knew it was a castle when I peaked out the closing door and saw a fancy rich people limo pull up. And the door slammed closed, “Hello,” I heard a fragile voice say, I turned around and saw a fragile looking old man that matched it. This was super cool for me, I had never met a real life butler before. He was bald and wearing a suit, just like the movies. “I’ll give you a tour”, he said, “You have the 12:00 reservation?” Mom nodded in silence. I was beyond excited, I had never gotten a tour of a castle before. We followed him through the first hallway which wasn’t very exciting, except there were secret rooms everywhere. I know because I kept asking to go in, and the third time the butler said they were off limits. Which I’m pretty sure means secret. We went through the first room and it was full of chairs, fabric was hanging everywhere, the walls and even the ceiling. And there were white curtains and the same blue carpet. I knew what it was when I walked in, the king's personal speaking room. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. But as we walked to the third room I felt the lil’ splinters of the plum pit dig their way into the walls of my veins, it hurt really bad. But when I turned to dad to complain I saw that he was busy wiping his eyes. Which was kinda gross to see cause I know he gets eye boogers. The butler opened the door with a push and It yelled a creak so loud my ears hurt. But Mom pulled me in anyway. I gasped when we walked in. “Treasure!?” I yelled, “Shh” Mom said sharply, “Treasure!” I whispered. She doesn’t like when I use my outside voice inside. And I felt kinda bad since I was supposed to be on my best behavior for the king. So I didn’t even run and look in all the treasure chests. But every wall was covered in them, the whole room was filled top to bottom with the chests. The butler walked us around but didn’t open any of them, which wasn’t cool cause I wanted to see treasure. But I saw a small blue one was open at the end of the room. When he walked us up to it I couldn’t contain my excitement anymore. I wanted to see treasure. So I ran up to it but it was empty. It just had white cloth and cushions in it. It was light blue just like mikey’s favorite color. I turned around and saw Mom, Dad, the butler, and... “Wait, where's Mikey?” I asked, I was getting worried now. He was missing out on the castle tour. “Not right now,” Mom said in a broken voice. “Please get away from the coffin,” the butler said sternly. “Oh it’s okay no ones coughing,” I said. “Come here right now!” Mom said, sounding angry, but sleepy too. I walked back immediately, with my eyes still on the tiny treasure chest. “Hey Mommy,” I whispered, “That ones Mikey's favorite color” “We’ll have the blue one” Mom said, “Do you know where Mikey went?” I asked, “Heaven,” Mom whispered, now crying. “It’ll be okay Mom!” I said hugging her as tight as I would my stuffed animals, “I can’t wait till he’s back!”


The sky was raining gold the night that loneliness became a friend. Street vendors clamored under the golden fire, plying their trades for a hope to feed their families. Rich and poor battled to be heard through the explosions, and I sat beneath it all. Soggy popcorn grew cold in a greasy bag that dangled from my fingertips. A couple behind me was sprouting some new age bullshit about how the fireworks contained tiny pieces of their loved ones, raining down on them, providing them with some motivation for basic adulthood. On the corner, a disheveled man with a greasy face waved around a homemade pamphlet and shouted till his voice was hoarse. “Get your soul right before it all ends!” A small child stopped to listen, only to be jerked along by his mother, who was clearly unbothered about the world’s certain demise. The man screamed after her, desperate to save souls, or maybe just to make a dime. The child tripped over his own feet trying to keep his eyes on the man while walking with his mother. I watched them until they rounded the corner, and then my eyes were drawn as if by a magnet to the eyes of the proselyte, who seemed desperate to connect with me. “New age bullshit,” I muttered, stumbling to my feet. The alcohol had taken root within me, and my head swam. The cobblestones reached up to trip me as I started toward the town square. The gaiety made a tunnel around me - happy families playing charades, melodies dancing out of instruments, delicious smells crawling down my throat. I glance down, grabbing at air. I seem to have misplaced my popcorn. The fireworks were getting louder, nearing their final chord, as I reached their source at the town square. Red and green mingled with gold and fell down on us, showering us in the joyous pastimes of those more well off than I. The lights and sounds around me blended and I found myself drowning in a blurry nightlife oil painting. It was louder than it looked on canvas, but it felt the same - like falling and spinning and flying and falling again. I woke up to a rounded snow globe sky, my friend from the street corner standing over me. “Get your soul right before it all ends,” he whispered, holding out his arm for me to grab. He had no dirty papers with him this time, and his face was as white as the snow around us. Only it wasn’t snow, I now realized, but ash. “What happened?” My voice came out all wrong, like rice soaked in whiskey. “The fireworks, son. I told them rich fellas, and they didn’t listen. I told them their pride would be their demise.” I rubbed my neck, refusing his hand. My head ached, and my stomach churned, and the proselyte winced and sat on the uneven stone sidewalk next to me. “There’s nothing wrong with fireworks. It’s New Year’s.” “That why you got so drunk you slept through an explosion?” I didn’t answer. He went on. “No. There ain’t nothing wrong with fireworks. The fireworks ain’t the problem, though they did hurt a little kid.” The man coughed. “No, the real problem is their pride. They ain’t got nothing to be prideful for and yet they still are. You are too, you know.” “Hey, I didn’t hurt a little kid.” “No sirree, just yourself, hmm?” He raised his eyebrows at me, then held out his hand once more. “Name’s Whitacre. Glen Whitacre.” I choked as I reached for his hand. “Glen. That’s my father’s name.” “Huh. Not a common one. And you are?” “Michael Thurston. I’m not from here.” “I figured. You hungry?” The question was a complicated one. I was hungry, of course, but I had no desire to listen to Glen talk more about whatever religion he was selling. But I was in no condition to take myself anywhere to eat, and here was Glen now, pulling out a plastic wrapped sandwich and a browning banana from his rucksack. The ash continued to fall around us as I choked down dry roast beef. Glen monologued while I ate, and my sandwich was long gone before his story was through. He spoke of his childhood and of the place he called home, and his words ran circles around me until I was dizzy from following them. The story he spun was a convoluted one, full of true love, betrayal, lost fortunes, and an unbridled passion for justice and salvation. It was the kind of story you hear as a subplot in coming-of-age movies, permeated with a fear of being unknown and left alone, a fear that I, too, grappled with. Until last night. I told him as much. “What changed?” I didn’t have an answer. “Maybe it was the fireworks. Or the booze. Or maybe... maybe it was seeing the whole spectrum of life being lived on one cobblestoned street in a nearly nameless town. But something clicked in me, Glen, something big. I was jostled around by real people. I could smell their sweat and they dropped crumbs on the same streets I walked on and they played music for me and their words drowned in my ears. They were everywhere, around me and in me. It was intoxicating. And though I was lonely, I wasn’t alone.” We sat silent for a moment. “Those fireworks last night.” Glen folded his hands, then unfolded and folded them again. “Looked like golden rain. Like a sunrise over still waters when you get up early to fish, only it wasn’t peaceful. And all I could see was these people who were so lost in their own stories that they couldn’t find the end. Women and children and grown men leading families without having any way of knowing where to lead them to. I thought I knew things.” I nodded, understanding now. “And then the rain stopped, and the snow started, and you realized you don’t know things?” “No. I know things. I don’t know people.” He pressed my hand. “Thank you. There’s a lot of work I gotta do. A lot of people to know.” “I know, Glen. Go on. Get your soul right before it all ends.”


###A Few Notes from Bay - Late submissions are **not acceptable**. Repeated late entries will result in your **serial entries being removed**. If something comes up and you can’t make the deadline for some reason, please DM me. - Authors are **required** to post at least **2 feedback comments** on the thread **every** week they submit, by the deadline. Feedback should include something the author has done well, and something that could be improved. If for some reason your entry is late, you are still expected to meet this requirement. - If you cannot meet the **weekly time and feedback expectations**, you may be asked to move your serial to the subreddit. Give back what you get! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Heartbreak! | *(And have a this week, a little darker, but I just love it!)* This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘heartbreak’. We all experience a bit of heartbreak in our lives, in different ways. A broken heart is one of the worst kinds of pain because it’s emotional, and it usually feels like it will go on forever. When a person is hurt in this way, whether by a romantic partner, a friend, a job, or circumstance, they often cannot think clearly and rationally. And they often want to act *now*. How does this affect their decisions? The people around them? Everyone's experience with heartache is unique, as is their coping mechanism. How does your character(s) deal with such pain? What happens when those that are hurt seek vengeance? Or when someone takes their suffering out on another? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure.   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - September 4 - Heartbreak (this week) - September 11 - Innocence - September 18 - Jealousy   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track each installment and add them to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. **(Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you must use the exact same title each week.** Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you should wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one active serial per author at a time.** This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s one comment on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one thing the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. 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If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord to check out more on that! - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points (but its interpretation is entirely up to you)! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Thread feedback (at least 2 required) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) **Nominating Other Stories:** - Voting for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to receive feedback points, your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well (i.e. “I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit).* **Looking for more on what actionable feedback is?** Check out or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Second place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Third place:** - by u/MeganBessel   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/OneSidedDice   - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques on the thread 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 - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and a few other fun events! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“We’re sitting here like idiots. There must be something we can do?” Giles said. Elbows on knees, chin in palms, the same stance as his two best friends. Giles was the thinker of the three, if anyone could resolve this situation, it was Giles. “How long have we been sitting here? Seems like ages?” Roger asked. He relaxed, and stretched his back, remaining seated on the boulder. “We can’t wait here forever. Won’t someone come and get us?” John moaned, he yawned, stood and walked around the rocks. It was dark, not pitch black, but gloomy, and chilly. “Where is the light coming from?” asked Giles. “What light?” asked Roger. “We’re in a cave, in case you hadn’t noticed, there is no electricity. So, how come there is some light, not a lot, I agree, but some.” “Who said we’re in a cave? The floor is flat, not all rocky,” said Roger. “And you can’t see the ceiling.” “Is there anything to climb on?” asked John. “Stand on your rock, you are bound to see for miles up there. Idiot,” said Giles. “Don’t call me an idiot, at least I’m trying.” “Yes, very trying. It’s your fault we’re here.” “Guys settle down, we’re all in it together, it is nobody’s fault,” said Roger. “Anyone hungry or thirsty?” “No, that’s odd, I’m usually starving by mid-morning.” Giles realised his watch was gone. “What’s the time? I’ve lost my watch.” “Hey, where is mine?” “And I’ve lost my phone.” “We can’t even look at the sun to guess the time,” laughed John. “It’s not funny, who has nicked our stuff?” said Giles. “This gets worse,” said Roger. “Is this anything to do with you, John?” “Why would it be my fault?” Giles groaned but refrained from saying what he was thinking. ‘He got us in this mess. He was the one who loved Roger’s dopey sister. Perhaps not so dense, she’s training to be a stunt actor. My God, she’s can jump from moving horses, whatever next. John was the one who planned to scare the fearless girl. And then come to her rescue, dragging us with him.’ John placed his hands on the cool rock, “I read somewhere...” “I doubt if you read anything, anywhere, are you sure it wasn’t on TicTok?” said Roger. “As I was saying, if you get lost in a maze, simply put your hand on the left side fence, or in our case, wall, and follow it back to the entrance. Simple.” “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are not in some childish game,” said Giles. “I’m going to try, if you want to get out, follow me.” John ducked his head, scratched his nose to hide the beginning of tears. ‘Why did I fall for an older woman? I know she fancied me. She was happy enough to show off her new driving licence and take my friends for a ride.’ He thought. “I sort of agree with John, we can’t just sit here. We must be better off by following the left-hand side of the wall, won’t we?” Roger said. ‘If he’d have acted like a grown-up, instead of a love-struck teenager we wouldn’t have been in this mess.’ Roger thought. “Can any of you remember why or how we got here?” Giles asked. “Never mind that now, let’s try to get home,” said John. Roger was nodding by his side. “We can start by using my left hand on the wall, if it gets sore we can swap, take it in turns. Okay?” said John. “Have you guys got anything to mark the wall, just in case we’re walking in circles?” suggested Giles. “Where’s my chewing gum? I had a new pack.” “Yeah, my house keys have gone!” “Someone has emptied all our stuff,” said Giles. “I always carry a pen in my shirt, too. It has gone.” They set off, John thought he was Indiana Jones. He jauntily strode ahead. “I could do with that gum, we could mark the wall with little blobs?” “Is that your best idea?” They walked and walked, John’s arm didn’t ache, they didn’t tire. “Are we there yet,” John joked, mimicking a youngster. “That stupid comment jogged a memory.” Giles was deep in thought, looking face to face. “John was sitting in the front, Roger and I sat in the back?” “The back of what,” asked Roger. ‘Nothing comes to me,’ he thought. “We were in your sister’s car,” said John. “Yes, that’s right. She has just passed her test,” said Roger. ‘How could I have forgotten that, my dad bought her a Ford saloon. Wonder if I’ll get one when I pass?’ “And you were teasing her. Remember John, you said that women shouldn’t be allowed to drive, she lost her temper and clipped the kerb?” “Oh, yeah. I had my hand on her knee too.” “You dirty sod. I told you my sister didn’t like people touching her,” said Roger. ‘Bastard, lucky for him I didn’t see.’ Roger stretched forward and clipped John’s ear. ‘No reaction, I’ll do it much harder next time.’ Thought Roger. “Guys, we are getting nowhere. Does anyone need a rest?” asked Giles. “I’m not tired, let’s keep moving,” said John. “I want to stop, sit and think what happened to us,” said Giles. “The memories have come back, bit by bit. I can almost feel her thigh. Lovely," said John. Roger punched him hard on the nose. “That’s my sister, you’re talking about.” No blood spurted across John’s face, no yelp of pain. “Haha, I’m tougher than you imagined, that didn’t hurt at all,” laughed John. Giles was quiet, thinking about himself. ‘ Lucky for me, they didn’t notice me grabbing a handful of her titties from the back seat. My arm got wedged between seat and door. It’s coming back. What else can I remember?’ He scratched his temples. “Are we going to walk forever?” asked Roger. “Let’s stop, get into a mini scrum, put our heads together, think hard, and try to come up with a solution,” said Giles. “And you thought walking was a bad idea? How is that going to help?” asked Roger. “Something may come to us. Come on, try.” The boys linked arms and bumped their heads together. The initial smirks and sniggers quietened. “We were in my sister’s car, she was driving slowly, concentrating. Where were we going?” “I think we were just cruising?” said John. “Then you frightened her and she lost control,” said Giles. “Yes, it’s all coming back to me,” said Roger. He then broke the scrum fiercely. “You caused it!” he screamed at Giles. “What...” he answered. “Yes, she undid her seat belt. Opened the door and... jumped out. Because of you, you filthy sod, grabbing her. You know she hates people touching her.” Stammered a weeping Roger. “She put the gear in neutral. We flew down the hill and...” said John. “Going faster and faster.” “We crashed into a lorry at the crossroads.” The truth hit the boys. “Sorry, my fault. We are dead,” whispered Giles. The END