Wally tucked and rolled into the aisle of Halloween costumes, then army crawled his way to the other side. He was nearly spotted, but his military training put him at an advantage to keep a low profile and out of sight. Reaching the end of the aisle he sits up, back against the aisle, and holds his knees to his chest. Sweat pours down his face and his heart races, thinking back to how he was nearly taken captive. He never thought working as a cashier in retail could be so dangerous. Some of his co-workers were already taken against their will, and Wally refused to go out like that. He was hired to do a job, and that’s what he was going to do. So now to plot his next move. “I think I saw him go this way”, Wally hears what sounds like a big burly man say. The voice is too close for comfort and Wally knows he must go now. He remembers seeing 2 men holding guns, but the 2 women seemed empty handed. With no time for hesitation, Wally jumps to his feet, and keeping his back against the wall of costumes, quickly looks around the corner into the main aisle. Looking to the left, then the right, he sees it is clear. Darting straight across the main aisle, he dives behind a table filled with half folded onesies. Wally notices that the employees in the infant section did not properly fold the onesies, nor group the sizes together. He takes a mental note to make the Department Manager, Prudence, aware of the situation once he makes it to safety. After resisting the urge to fix the onesie table, Wally crawls on all fours deeper into the infant section, towards the dressing room; Maybe he will see Prudence on his way. Wally knows there is a phone at the dressing room, and he can call for help. “Did you clock out already?”, he hears a familiar voice say. It is one of his co-workers, Shelly. She is walking down the main aisle that Wally just leapt across. “Oh my goodness, I forgot!”, another voice says. It is Prudence. Wally is baffled how calm she is, given the danger she is in by still being on the clock. Still on all fours, Wally turns around and crawls back towards the edge of the infant section by the onesie table. If he could reach Prudence before she goes back to clock out, she would have to fix the onesie table. “Pssst”, Wally hisses at the girls, leaning into the main aisle, with only his head visible. Neither girl seems to hear. “PSSSST”, Wally hisses slightly louder. Shelly spots him. “I’m off the clock”, she quickly responds. With no hesitation, she turns around and follows Prudence back to the timeclock. Wally rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to getting himself out of danger. He couldn’t waste anymore time. “There he is!”, one of the ladies with the burly man screeches. “Young man...YOUNG MAN”, one of the ladies, also burly, shouts out. In tow was a younger looking lady, and the 2 burly men holding BB guns. Wally curses under his breath. He knew he could only blame himself. His compulsive need to tell Prudence to fix that onesie table caused him to be spotted. He quickly flips his badge over so his name can’t be seen. “Do you know if you have any more bullets in the back for these BB guns?”, the first burly men bellows. His black and red checkered shirt reminds Wally of a lumberjack. Wally quickly searches his brain for a way to get out of this. Being a cashier, it is not his job to check the back for stock. “Sorry sir I am just a cashier this is not my department let me see if I can find someone that works in that section to help you I’ll be right back”, Wally responds all in one breath. Before any of them can respond, Wally was making his way back towards the dressing room to call for her help. He will call someone to fix the onesie table as well. He keeps his head down, as to not make eye contact with anyone. The Holiday season hadn’t even started and people were already flooding the store. He thinks about how the Pre-Holiday season has never been this bad. “I told them not to put the Halloween Costumes, Thanksgiving decorations AND Christmas decorations out this early.” he thinks to himself, recounting the conversation he had with the Manager in charge of the Seasonal aisle. “Hey Wally! Why are you covered in sweat?” a friendly voice says as he reaches the Dressing Room. It’s Kathy, the store Operator. “I was nearly taken hostage.” he says while bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath from power walking to the Dressing Room. “I need you to page someone to check the back for BB gun bullets.” “Sure thing.” “By the way can you fix the onesie table at the edge of the infant section? Prudence is on lunch.” “Sorry, no I have 5 minutes before I get off” Kathy responds. Wally rolls his eyes and curses the overnight stockers for not cleaning their area. “Shoot. Well I need to get back on the register before they page me.” Wally wishes Kathy well and makes his way back to the front: The opposite direction of the BB gun family. Wally reaches the front and settles behind his cash register and turns on his light. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be...he is only a Cashier. Wally spots his Manager walking towards him and gives him his best customer service smile. “Hey Wally, can you do me a favor?” his Manager asks while flipping off the switch to Wally’s register. “Of course I can.” Wally responds cheerfully. “Can you please go to the back and see if we have any bullets for a BB gun?”


“Shall I pour you another cup, mam?” Mellie asks as she tiptoes over to my chair, hands shaking nervously causing the tea kettle to clink and water to spurt out. Though quiet and timid, and not much older than myself I found her company surpringingly enjoyable. “Yes, please. I can’t seem to warm up my bones this morning.” I confessed, though I knew this had less to do with the inclement weather and more to do with what lay ahead. Mellie dropped in a cube or two of sugar before transferring the hot cup to me, the steam warming my cheeks as I took the first sip. She encourages me to take a bite or two of the scone she brought from the kitchen, but my appetite is lacking this week. The tea is soothing enough, and I stare out the window with my knees pulled up towards my chest. I watch in amusement as the white snow flurries fall heavily onto the street below. Downstairs familiar voices shout firm directions and orders to one another. Young serving maids mumble concerns under their breath as they walk swiftly past my door. Their feeble attempt to create a scene from a fairy tale is almost comical. They confess their annoyances to each other, only out of earshot of Lord and Lady Breaux. The shuffling of feet remains swift and with each step a purpose while chaos is alive and abundant in this very well-respected downtown home on Canal Street. Aside from the current event planning happening right under my nose, it is also the 1899 carnival season in New Orleans. The city appears unusually calm this morning. A thin blanket of snow covers every surface of the city, a very rare occurrence for New Orleans at any time of year. Any other day I would rake through catalog after catalogue for the perfect gown to wear to the festivities and masked balls that would surely follow the parades. Even on such a dreary day as this my spirits would have been giddy and playful. Today, however, my girlish fantasies and mindless games are far behind me. A new life is waiting for me downstairs, and I am compelled to focus on nothing save the melting snow disappearing from the soiled ground. A recollection of past anticipation of “becoming a lady in society” has come back to haunt me. In less than a season, I’ve blossomed from a gangly imaginative child to a lost woman with a world of unwelcome responsibility on my shoulders. A responsibility that I do not wish to inherit and one I despise with all my heart. I’m trying to overlook all that lies ahead, to no avail, and choose instead to focus on the snowy white morning outside. I convince my mind to believe the weather might hold some glimmer of hope. Maybe this unexpected form of precipitation is a sign from God that I may be rescued from this predetermined life that has been my destiny since birth. I’m sure my mother perceives snow in the south on a girl’s wedding day as a sign of good luck. My mother and I disagree on many things. Unfortunately for my future, I was born into a prosperous family. When my father inherited his father’s railroad company at eighteen it flourished more than anyone imagined it would. He derived an obscene amount of money only after his father labored most of his life with grunt work, and then passed away before he could benefit from his company’s wealth. My mother was born into a family of affluent lawyers. My grandfather, Theodore Monroe, represented my father in a lengthy court case when he was dragged into a lawsuit with one of his conductors. My mother was introduced to him shortly after. Both families saw courtship between the two as a great opportunity for two well known families in New Orleans to unite as one. Love was never an option for my mother. She understood her duty as the daughter born into a world of privilege. Privilege, although sought after, came with much responsibility. She married my father without asking any questions or making any fuss. They have been a “happily married couple” ever since. Or at least that is what everyone on the outside is meant to believe. So, here I am falling into the same footsteps as my mother. Sitting in my bedroom half dressed in my corset and petticoats pondering a future that was never mine to decide. I watch the last of the snow dissipate from the ground, unable to keep my mind focused on any one coherent thought when my eyes begin to dart around the room, taking in all that will never be mine again. The shredded lampshade I ripped to pieces with my knitting tools. A result of the raging anger that burst from me when I found out I was to be married to a man I could never love. My custom wedding dress hangs ever so delicate on the oversized oak armoire in the corner of the room. It’s one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever laid eyes on. The exquisite beadwork runs up the torso and fans out across a high neckline to accentuate my small frame. The train is long and embroidered with satiny lace and tiny white jewels. It was shipped all the way from Paris. My mother loves French designers. My wedding dress, in her highly recommended opinion, would not be designed by any other than Callot Soeurs. It’s a shame I won’t be able to enjoy wearing it. Precisely in one hour, I will be expected to walk downstairs adorned in this lavish wedding gown tailored just for me with some semblance of a smile on my face. If only I could convince myself to put the wretched thing on. I anticipate my nanny will be up soon to check on me. It seems senseless that I even still have a nanny when I’m seventeen years old. My father thinks of me as an “ill mannered young girl with wild dreams in her head.” Yet, he thinks I am old enough to be betrothed to a man near his forties. My fiancé, Andrew, is the son of one of the most successful plantation owners in the South. He inherited his family’s tobacco plantation outside of town, but he's been working for my father for the last five years. His interest has always been in railroads. We started a courtship only a few months ago after my mother met him at a dinner party. Both my mother and father decided he would make for more than a suitable husband. Thinking more of his purse than his person, I wasn’t given the chance to refuse him and my father reminds me every day that “Andrew’s wealth exceeds our own by ten times our worth” . We’ve been on numerous outings together over the past few months. He escorted me to a dinner party one evening recently, but barely spoke a word to me while we were out. He sat at the bar with some of his fellow businessmen and ordered his usual brandy to go with his ill smelling cigars. I was expected to mingle with the other young ladies who were brought to this party for the same reasons as me. I think of our kind as pigs being fattened up for slaughter. We were only there for one reason. It’s our destiny and the will of our fathers to be married off to someone of substantial fortunes. If I would have fallen in love with someone of that said worth before now I wouldn’t be in my current position. Only I am to blame for believing I could escape the fate so many before me have surrendered to. The only purpose for girls like me at balls such as these is to show off our dresses and make small talk with each other. Most of the girls were more than delighted to be invited, myself included up until I realized the intention of such charades. They have dreamed of nights like this their entire lives. I am only beginning to realize how substandard their ambitions are. The thought of it makes my stomach churn from the absurdity of it all. When Andrew finally chose to speak to me once or twice during the course of the evening he did so in such a tone to suggest I’m only a child without a clue of how the world works around her, while at the same time staring only at my breasts. When I spoke to my mother about this she only told me that it will be his God-given right only too soon to stare at my breasts as often as he chooses. She then goes on to argue how, “he’s a very handsome and powerful man around New Orleans and any bright young woman would feel flattered and fortunate to have him as a husband.” My mother can’t understand that it’s his power that frightens me the most. All of these things considered, today is still my wedding day. It’s supposed to be the most important and happiest day of my life, but I cannot be happy about something or someone that I did not choose. Every ounce of energy I had stored for this day has been drained from the last three days of uncontrollable sobbing and my frequent need to throw adolescent fits. Regardless of the energy it takes, I try to make an effort to stand up. For the last several hours I’ve been lounging on the peach colored settee that has been in my room since childhood. I record a mental note in my mind to ask my mother if I can bring this settee to Andrew’s house. Maybe having one familiar object will help me feel more at home there. Glancing over at the clock I realize I’m down to ten minutes before I must go downstairs to meet my fate. After my maids help me dress, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Moving at a slower pace than normal, every step is just one step closer to my new life. I stand before the large floor-to-ceiling mirror that has also been in my room my entire life. The diamond necklace my mother passed down to me from her wedding day and the other family weddings before hers lies delicately on my vanity. Clasping it around my neck I curse the precious diamonds for their existence and the unending curse it holds for each new generation. As my fingers caress the glimmering diamonds, my breath catches. The dress suddenly feels heavy and tight, and the room gets smaller with every breath. The sunlight shining through the window seems dark and haunting. For a moment I feel as if I’m a small bird stuck in a cage, just waiting for someone to set me free. I’m afraid I may lose consciousness, but there is an impatient knock at the door. If only I could have been so fortunate to faint at that moment, but I didn’t. Nanny is calling to me. It’s time. Staring into my dark brown eyes on the other side of the mirror, I recognize a small glimpse of my mother. Her strained smile reminds me that I’m doing the honorable thing. Andrew is a decent man, and it’s only proper to do this without a fight. Her eyes, on the other hand, are urging me to run. A small tear runs down my cheek and into my mouth. The taste of salt on my tongue sends me back into my harsh reality. My time is up. My eyes lock with the ones in the mirror once more and I can’t help but imagine the tiny bird stuck in a cage chirping loudly to be freed.


\ “This is it”, Eugene thought. He has succeeded the impossible, what hundreds of others before him had attempted, but all failed. Eugene drew his sword from out of the monsters body. He had passed all the obstacles in his way to his destination. He had reached the door of eternal life. Inside was the secret to immortality. Oh, all the things he would do with immortality. He would no longer fear the ever creeping hand of death, he would travel for all eternity, discovering all that there is to discover. As he went to the door to the final room, he thought of all what he had to do; slay hundreds of monsters, pass perilous traps, face his greatest fears. And now, finally, he would get his reward, he will be immortal, he shall be a true hero. Bards and minstrels would sing of his great deeds for decades ahead. He opened the door, held his breath and looked inside. To his surprise, it was a small and simple room, not bigger then 10 meters in any dimension. it was very plain, the walls were all made of stone and there seemed to Eugene nothing in it at all. As he looked around, he suddenly noticed there was a man looking at him in surprise. The man seemed ancient, his skin all wrinkly and pale. He was extremely skinny, almost as if he was just skin put over some bones. He looked into his eyes, they seemed cold and lifeless. “you must be the final guardian to immortality” said Eugene. “i guess you could say that, in a way” said the old man. Eugene drew his sword out of its sheath and advanced over to the man. “May the best man win.” He charged at the old man, and the man just kept staring at him with his unfeeling eyes, not doing anything to evade the attack. He slashed his sword at him, and to his great surprise, the man did not even flinch, and as the sword connected, it simply bounced off his skin harmlessly. Eugene’s jaw opened in shock at what had happened, all the while as the old man kept on staring into his eyes. Eugene backed away in fear from the old man as he understood that he was not just a mortal man. He had gotten the gift of immortality. Eugene realized he had no chance. The old man began to approach Eugene, and Eugene ran away in fear, going to the door out of the room to flee. But as he tried to open it, he noticed it was locked. He turned back and looked at the man who was still approaching, still staring at him with his cold and lifeless eyes. “Wait! No! Please spare me!”, cried Eugene as the man was barely a meter away from him. “Please don’t kill me”. The man stopped at arm’s length of him and cocked his head to the side a little. Eugene almost cried as he came to the realization that he was going to die at that moment. He closed his eyes and waited for the man to kill him. He started crying as he thought of how pointless it all was, all he did just to die so pathetically. He waited and waited for the blow to come, but it never did. He opened his eyes. The man was standing there, still as a statue as he kept on staring at Eugene. “i do not intend to kill you, lesser one” he said. “Quite to the contrary, in fact.” Eugene stared in disbelief. “Tell me, did you think of what you would do once you were immortal? Did you think about what it truly means?” “Of course”, said Eugene. “I would have wandered the world without having to fear how fragile I am, without the impending touch of death always getting closer and closer.” As Eugene gazed into the old man’s eyes, he thought he saw a bit of remorse in them. “That would be a good plan at first, but what about after 100 years? 200? 1000? Do you think you would still enjoy life as you do now?” “We-well...” Eugene stammered as he tried to think of a response. The old man leaned in a bit closer to him. “Would you enjoy it if you would be here for thousands of years, exhausting all possible ways to spend your time?” The man leaned even closer. “I have been here for so long.... Countless years.... I gained what I thought was the blessing of immortality, but it was a curse. They made it so that he who has received the curse cannot leave this room at all, left here to suffer for eternity. Do you know how many times I have tried to kill myself? Slitting my wrists, hanging myself, trying to suffocate, stabbing myself in the heart...nothing worked...“ Eugene was speechless. The man somehow leaned even closer. ”all this time I had to suffer... so do you see now? This is not a blessing... this is the worst curse anyone can hope to receive.“ the man leaned back a bit. ”do you now understand? Would you like me to open the door so you can go while you still can? “y-yes...” Eugene said. “i am sorry for you, and I wish you the best of luck with your life. I am sorry i cannot help you.” He started to open the door, which was now open. He was going to leave when suddenly the man clasped his wrist. “Oh how I wish it was that simple...” the man pulled Eugene back in. Eugene struggled against him but his grip was like iron. “Now... now you shall carry my burden...” he put his hand on Eugene’s forehead. Eugene then understood what he was going to do. “Wait no! Please don’t!” Cried Eugene. The old man stared at him once again in his eyes. “Now...” he said. “Now I shall be free.” For the first time, Eugene saw something in the old man’s eyes. Instead of the cold, lifeless, unfeeling eyes that once were, there was joy in his eyes. The man smiled and started crying from happiness. The little that was left of his body withered away, and Eugene saw the old man begin dissipate into thin air, with a smile on his face, he looked in peace with himself. Eugene bolted to the door in despair and tried to go through it, but an invisible force kept him within. Eugene fell down on his knees and started crying. Thinking about what was to be... Eugene lied down on his back and continued crying, for what would apparently be an eternity.


I had been told that Saut D’Eau is the Haitian celebration of the voudoun loas, or spirits, D’Ambala and Simbi, that takes place in a mountain oasis of a wonderful waterfall. It was a story that I could not miss. I told Davou, my photographer, about Saut d’Eau like I knew all about it. He got excited and we went, borrowing a Toyota Land Cruiser from a friend’s rental car business. He warned that he road was windy and that the falls were up, way up on a mountain. He was right. It was a lousy road and after numerous mechanical stalls because of the dust and eventually a wilderness roadside carburettor cleaning by the ‘greatest mechanic along the Carrefour Road’, and after eleven flat tires, that is eleven flat tires, we arrived at the town of Bonheur with about fifteen extra people also going on the pilgrimage to Saut d’Eau. They sort of joined the Toyota separately at each stop and directed us to the falls. The ever savvy Catholic Church coincidently had the Catholic miracle celebration of the Virgin in a Tree just up the street from the pretty Bonheur Chapel the same week as the popular good luck Saut D’Eau celebration. We had been told that there would be rains and there would be thunder with lightning throughout the three days of Saut D’Eau. The rains were from Simbi and the thunder and lightning from D’Ambala. The first drops started down as Davou arranged the cameras on the jeep hood for cleaning. We followed the pilgrims slipping in the mud our way down to the fall base and river start. Rounding a clump of vegetation we were treated to a glimpse of paradise. Before us in sheets of rain rising at a gradual pace were thick rivulets of falling waters, green and white and spreading pyramidically into a pool hidden by wild jungle. The shades and tints of green, climbing, hanging, lying as a bonnet to the flow of cascading thick waters. Before us rising at a gradual pace were bodies climbing, resting, bathing, in groups, solitary, drinking, coying, laughing and praying. They dressed in white, in yellows, in blues, greens and reds. Candles provided the flame of the spirit of their dedication, smoke twirling clouding in the mist of the falls and the light rain. Black skins glistening, brown skins were tanned and light skins glowing. A sight of wonder, eyes flowing upward to the falls’ beginning and the sky. The rain came in showers and squalls whipping cool and warm, it was refreshing after the dust of the trip and the humidity of the town. We went over to where an Italian film crew had set up to document the event from under a great banyan tree. And we were clicking: “Look at that, man.” “Get that woman in the river.” “The candles, get the smoke of the candles.” “That prayer group and the naked woman.” “Damn, look at that...” We paid no attention to each other, it was too good, too much and we had been blessed with beholding it. BOOM I looked down at my feet, a round white light exploded and imploded and vaporised. I looked up to see if anybody else had seen it and saw a man to my left and one to my right flying through the air. I turned to see Davou’s feet suspended, he clutching at his cameras protectively as he flew up and then landed on the wet uneven ground. Another man had landed with an oomph to the left of Davou. A bomb, I thought, but I was still standing. I touched my chest to assure myself that I was still alive. I looked for a place to hide, and back to Davou. “Come on man.” I called to him, as he was automatically checking his cameras, wiping wetness with his dust rag. “Okay, okay,” he looked around, “what was it, a bomb?” I looked at the one guy who had fallen slipping while running back into the bush up the trail. People were gathering around another and the other fellow was crawling toward me mumbling something. The Italians were trying to organise something for one of the fallen men. “I don’t think it was a bomb... I’m still standing. I think it was lightning.” I agreed with myself, my ears ringing it difficult to think. I looked at the branches directly over our heads. “But, lightning doesn’t strike under a tree, does it?” “It did.” Davou answered flatly, hardly masking his irritation. “What do we do, where do we hide?” “We were under a tree, man.” I reasoned, shaking the crawling man off my foot, “There is no place to hide. What the fuck this guy wants?” “Probably five Gourd.” Davou joked, referencing the beggars in Port au Prince who irritated him so much. I pulled my foot back from the guy’s groping hand as another man explained that the fallen guy wanted me to bless him and heal him. “Tell the guy to crawl over to the tree base of the banyan and rest until he sees me again, then he will be healed.” Davou chuckled. The stranger translated this and the fallen man happily mercy-ed me as he back crawled toward the trunk of the banyan. “We can’t run so let’s go to the source.” My voice called to Davou. “Hey man, let’s do something.” He responded. The light rain had stopped for a moment. The stranger begged us to be our guide and carry our cameras but we decided he was more frail than us and having the instant ability to frame your picture and tint it the way you wanted was not by ordering a part from a tired, sweaty fellow who doesn’t know what you are asking for anyway... The Italians were moving the fallen guy away with the help of the crowd on a crude stretcher. People were fanning him with palm fans as the group of them clumsily moved off. We walked, slipping and sometimes crawling through groups having spiritual ceremonies dressed in whites, mainly woven, and direct colours, people moist and dark. Many greeted us as we passed, us having to respond in a different greeting. “Bon soir, monsieur.” “Le plaisir eh moin, madame.” Bonsoir is pronounced the Haitian way similar to the French inflection when happiness is meant. In the greeting, bon is by far the predominant vowel. A flash of teeth and shy eyes seem to have to accompany the salutation by men and women. The higher we moved people would turn when we would be within three meters and greet us with smiled and bowed salutations. When we took care to be extra quiet they would feel our presence as pronounced as the jerking of heads round to view. Then they would smile and bow, urging us ahead of their ways. And the thunder and lightning accompanied us constantly with nobody seeming afraid. We looked out at the strikes shooting off in all directions and listened to the grumblings and booms without comment to each other. I felt no fear, just some need to accomplish this climb. It started the lightest of rainfall again. We arrived at a level where very few people roamed. At a four foot outcropping of stone I decided I had to urgently shit. The tropical traveler always carries toilet paper. A little hole covered by a rich brown soil later I felt totally refreshed, and this immediately after an exerted and humid climb through a peoples’ energy so uplifting it was profound. What a feeling to climb as though carried, still to enjoy the balance of footing, the climbing, the closeness of a spiritually accepting humanity, the greens, flowers, candles, waters. A rush of earthly smells, assailed only by the vivacity and freshness of flowing waters bouquets. The grace of movement among warmly intent peoples. All the while lightning crackling through active sun clouded skies horizontally, vertically, diagonally, alone, in clusters, thunder unceasing. To rid yourself, at the conclusion of the trek, of blocked passages. I rained sweat. Davou was swimming in his shirt and film carrying vest. My tee shirt, shorts and topsiders figuratively melted from my body heat. But, Davou was clicking away. I decided to go over to the falls and unattached myself from a tee shirt that tried its best not to move. People were standing on the other side of the main torrent atop a slightly rounded head of stone which gave a waterfall’s view of its creations. To get to the ledge I had to pass through the waterfall. There was a small trail behind it but that route almost gave me the notion to post a sign saying ‘other trail’. Grass grew tall on the other trail. I started descending a short slope at the beginning of the hard drops, solid wetness weighed me as I gained the centre of the hole in tone and fall. I strained to look up into its sharp rushing and discovered that I was under solid water as well as being under the fall and I was breathing. I stood there under the million fingering pressures of cascading waters in a small pool of rushing water rationalising why I should be breathing. Upon the conclusion, or near it, that enough air was present depending on the force from above at wavering levels to allow breathing, I started choking, inhaling water and choking. I ascended the hole with the help of laughing others on the ledge. When I sputtered my last sputter I looked at them and found them all standing back and staring at me. They didn’t look at me like how’d that guy get here, they looked at me like a guy who just performed a good card trick and what else did you have in your bag, my friend. I didn’t come all the way up here to perform for anybody so I thanked the ones who did for helping me and turned to look out and down upon the flow and vibrancy of colour. People becoming colours in a distantly radiating pattern of textures. I thought there must be a god to selfishly create this masterpiece of brightness to look down upon. I found my arms raised in an opening of my self to the vitality of pulsing energy in front of me. And something touched me, not like the palm of a hand but forcing, not like a strong breeze but not holdable. Inaudible sounds resonated against my chest and upper stomach. I was looking out at the river, people, jungle, horizon and sky while feeling an uneven cadence of what I could only conclude to be a spiritual essence trying to communicate with me. I could not figure out what to do to link up with this other dimension. I tried breathing, blanking out all stimulation, I tried ohms, I tried holding thought as still as a mirrored lake. It all felt false, not false but like I was trying... I lost it. Turning, I saw everybody else had their arms raised and in open eyed concentrated prayer. They wound down more or less together focusing on me and smiling, than bashfully shrugging and laughing to each other. One of the group who had spent some years studying in New York pointed out to me that my hands were glowing like day light phosphorescence. He said it was like I had been struck with lightning. I told him that I had been almost struck, maybe a foot away from the first strike of the day. His eyes opened wide. “Can I see the stone?” “Hunh?” I answered studying my hands’ veins running with orange-yellow glowing lights. “The stone, Sobo’s stone, can I see it?” “What stone? Sobo?” “You don’t have the stone? The stone that was thrown to you from the sky?” “Naw... you think lightning is stones falling from the sky?” “Yet, you knew to come up here.” He thought aloud in English, ignoring my question. “You were touched, ya know, like blessed by Simbi or... ya see, by the stone’s being thrown to you, I mean you didn’t get hit... You were glowing, man...” “I could probably find it...” “Good. The stone is a gift to you from Dhambala, Simbi, Sobo, Erzulie, as was the glowing to mark you apart, dude. Let’s go find it.” he exclaimed softly so the others could not hear. I was gone. Back to our packs, telling Davou about the stone, us running back down the fall-side to the tree, to the spot... but no stone to be fund. We dug all round and no stone. The man we had left under the tree awakened from a rest while we were digging. As we slowed down he crawled, calling to us, on his knees, then raised a knee, squatted, raised another knee, then stood. He walked toward us saying hundred of mercies. He grabbed my hand and put it on his face where tears were falling. I told him, “You are your own strength, not me. Go, allez, monsieur.” He went bowing off and I knew I would never find the stone.


So, all of a sudden I’m 48. I started doing drugs with my older brother when I was 13. He had a good hookup for hash (I think he was doing a small time dealer/metal head who worked at the local gas station). I didn’t even smoke pot for a few months, only hash. By eighth grade, a few kids we hung with were smoking crack, including my weed dealer. He sold me dusted weed, said it was fun. I didn’t find it fun. We lived in a real city and were upper middle class or richer. Our parents sent us to good schools, but it was the eighties. When you went for a smoke outside the school, you crunched crack vials under you feet. I drank, smoked a lot of weed, stole money from my parents and got codeine pills and perks whenever I could. Malt liquor and Tylenol 3 was my twist. At recess we sniffed a liquid called rush they sold in a local record store. You learned to sit down before you sniffed it, because most of the time it would make you fall flat. So, around 16 I had a best friend. Call her Meg. We both liked to get messed up in the same way. And she slept with lots of my friends, but me and her were just cool. You know when you meet someone who uses like you do and you just click? Like you ride a tandem bicycle called drugs. That was me and her. Plus, her mom was in and out of jail for fraud so she wasn’t really concerned if we smelled like weed. Their dog peed on the carpet and nobody ever cleaned it up. You just stayed away from that side of the living room. Meg was dating my friend “Paul”. Paul was a wrestler, loved The Who and would generally take two pulls and say “I’m good!” His dad had him start wrestling at age five. His neck was wider than his head and he had a cauliflower ear. So Meg said that this other guy, “Phil” has a big score. Phil was a cool kid from the magnet art school. He had a beard when we were in 8th grade and talked like he owned a gallery in Chelsea. He managed a band. Anyway, we get to Phils house and he unwraps the stuff from tin foil. Looks like hash but lighter brown than the really dark hash I grew up on. He said it was opium. We smoked it from a bong if I remember correctly. Here is what I remember. Phil’s room was painted black and had a high ceiling. He had a table and chairs, upright, attached to the ceiling. So when you looked up it was like you were five feet underground. He was artsy like that. I smoked, and from the very back of my skull, slowly forward to my forehead, pain I never realized had always been there, disappeared. It was like, there had not been pain, but now in this total absence of pain, I realized what a searing crown of barbed wire I had worn all my life. I couldn’t believe I never got to do this before, this was how god intended me to feel always and forever. I laid on the floor, so did Phil and Meg. We all looked up at the table we were under. Paul hadn’t smoked, “I’m good”, and with a gennny cream ale in one hand, he lightly palmed Meg’s boob in the other. I made fun of Paul, but honestly, I was in love with Meg and her boobs. I don’t remember how long the high lasted, but not super long. I scraped the screen and resmoked the resin to little effect. Phil said the opium was a gift and he could not get more. I called every person I knew for a week looking for some but never found any. I wound up getting clean and sober at 17 and have been ever since. Honestly, looking back I can’t even say why, other than that I knew I would die from it all one day. Which is, in itself, ironic. Try going through college in aa. Not a lot of fun. I’m basically a business guy of decent success these days with treatment resistant depression. I realized I have been thinking about killing myself since age 8, hence, the irony. Heavy, old fashioned antidepressants from before anything you have heard of work best for me. Because of them I only sleep an hour a day and if I eat the wrong thing I could give myself a stroke. I’m still here, which is kind of a shock. I’m even happy now and then, and I have no idea what to do with that. Phil went to art college in la. He filmed porn for a few years until he had some shows and now is a tenured art professor at a big state school. I ran into Paul at age 30. He had disappeared and looked like he had been on a desert island. Gone bald, long beard, dirty clothes. We hung out twice and caught up. He told me some crazy stories that involved fights, hookers whispering through brick walls and calming himself down by smoking crack. Whenever he tried to stop smoking crack someone would blow crack smoke under his door until the smell of it filled his apartment and he had to smoke more. Turns out he was/is schizophrenic. Meg went off to college and never came home for another ten years. She was always smart, and wound up with a phd in history and a rotten heroin addiction. She went through rehab eight times. A friend bumped into her in front of a methadone clinic in our city when we were about 35. Finally, she poured gasoline on herself and her dog and that was that. That shit will always follow me like Paul’s crack smoke blowers, I can’t get away no matter how hard I try. Would I have been her? Should I have been her? I did feel that brain cleansing high one other time. My sophomore year in college, the depression (then untreated) was raging and I started making an honest, logical plan of exactly how to kill myself the next day. Steps and details. I jerked off so I could get to sleep and had a dream. It seemed inconsequential at first, I was in a warehouse next to the ocean and the sun was low in the sky. The wall between me and the ocean crumbled away and the light of the sun became incredible. Then the light lifted me off my feet, and as it pulled me towards it, that same pain rolled away, from the back of my head forward. Euphoria. In arms of goodness. I woke up and went to a 1am aa meeting. I shared about killing myself and the dream. A guy named Florida Bob took me to a diner where we stayed until morning. His name was Florida Bob because there was already a guy in the rooms named Bob when he started going and Florida Bob had been to Florida once.


The sounds of clanking filled the room when they dragged in the prisoner. Almost like bells , Anahera thought. What was that saying? “Every time a bell rings, an angel grows its wings,” she muttered. She leaned forward in the front row and the wooden bench creaked, a whisper against the grumbling chains. “What?” asked her sister, Charmeine, sitting beside her with her arms folded. Anahera shook her head. “Nothing.” Charmeine reached over and gripped Anahera’s hand. Two guards clutched the prisoner’s arms as they walked him down the courtroom. They wore cloaks as dark as night, a sharp contrast to the man in white between them. Chains wrapped around his every limb like iron pythons, snaking even around his neck. The shackles clattered against the floor as the guards shoved the man forward. Almost like bells . Across from the judge’s bench sat a high-backed chair covered in red satin. The guards walked the man past Anahera and her heart thudded. She could smell the sweat of the prisoner. She stared at him, willing him to look around. There was beauty beneath those chains. Strong arms. Bright eyes that did not meet hers. Anahera watched as the guards forced him into the high-backed chair. She swallowed hard and ignored the whispers of her brothers and sisters in the benches around her. “Peace, Ana,” said Charmeine. Her sister squeezed Anahera’s arm and gave her a warning look. Anahera nodded curtly before turning back to the prisoner. “All rise,” said another guard by the door to the courtroom, where the guards had just dragged the prisoner. Anahera stood, shaking, refusing to tear her gaze away from the shackled man. The doors thudded open and a man in white cloak, not unlike the prisoner’s, marched into the courtroom. He walked down the center aisle, his nose held high, and stepped around the high-backed chair without taking a glance at its occupant. He took a seat behind the judge’s bench and cleared his throat before finally looking down at the prisoner. “One month of testimony, of evidence, of law, for a moment of justice.” The judge’s eyes flashed. “Michael, please,” whispered the man. His quiet voice echoed around the room. “Gabriel,” said the judge, Michael. “We do not interfere with the humans. We watch, and we learn, but we do not interfere. And you have interfered in the most...lawless...way imaginable. You have saved .” Anahera felt her heart drop and her vision blurred red. An innocent life! she screamed in her head. W hat are we, if not protectors of the innocent? What are we, if not protectors of life? “She was just a young girl,” whispered the prisoner. “Young girl, old man, goose, bear--when our Creator decides it is their time, we do not interfere!” said Michael in a low, creaking voice. Anahera shivered. “Please, Michael,” pleaded Gabriel. “Brother. Please!” Michael cleared his throat. “I, First in Command to our Creator Almighty, Leader of the Winged Ones, Lord of the High Court, do hereby sentence the archangel Gabriel... to the flames of Hell, for eternity.” “ No !” Anahera rose to her feet and lunged toward her lover. He craned his head around and met her eyes, finally, before shaking his head. “Stay back, Ana!” he said fiercely. “Stay back!” Charmeine grabbed her cloak and pulled, hard. Anahera sank into her arms. “Peace, sister,” whispered Charmeine. “Peace.” Gabriel looked toward Michael. “Please, Brother, Lord Michael! Please! Anything is better than the flames of Hell, anything , please--” “Enough!” roared Michael, standing. “Away with you!” As the guards took Gabriel away, Anahera’s sobs echoed through the halls of Heaven. *** Anahera shivered as she walked past the empty cells. Her breath clung to the air and she could hear a faint dripping somewhere close. “Here,” the guard said gruffly, stopping in front of a cell. “You have five minutes.” “Thank you, brother,” she breathed, touching the guard’s arm. She could see the blush even in the dark, and he cleared his throat before unlocking the cell door. “Not too long, sister,” he murmured before glancing around and walking to the end of the hallway. “Ana,” said a quiet voice near the back of the cell. Anahera rushed forward and sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around Gabriel. He didn’t wear as many chains as he had that morning, though a few still wrapped around his ankles. Blood dripped from a gash on his cheek and soot covered his face. She tucked her head into his shoulder and sniffed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I should’ve--I should’ve told you to leave her alone, to let her die....” “Ana.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “What are we, if not the protectors of the innocent?” A warmth filled her as Anahera gazed at her lover, and she put her hands on his shoulders. “We are nothing.” He nodded. “A little girl, running in front of a truck... how could I not step in?” She sighed. “You are too good, Gabriel. Too good.” “A too-good angel. I never thought I’d hear that.” He gave her a weak half smile, and she caressed his cheek. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, right above the gash. “The fires of Hell...” “The fires of Hell. Anything...anything would be better than this.” He looked at her pointedly. “If...if you are prepared.” Ana straightened and widened her eyes. “Anything?” He would know what she truly meant. Are you sure? He nodded, and closed his eyes. Anahera took a deep breath, and pulled a dagger from inside her coat. With a cry and a mighty slash, she severed Gabriel’s wings from his body. He yelled out and slumped into her arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. There was a flash of light, and he was gone. Anahera stared at the blood on her hands as the guard’s footsteps thudded toward her. The blood was dark--a cherry red that reminded her of kisses with Gabriel in the moonlight, back before the humans. “Anything,” she whispered.


"I could get you some water, if you'd like," the Hangman's voice was muffled by the thoughts echoing in his head. "Sir? Sure you wouldn't like some water?" This time the words did not fall upon deaf ears. "Uh no thank you," he replied. He studied the Hangman, his face soft and pale. His eyes were shiny blue dots in his skull, hair thick, black and curly draped upon his shoulders. He’d always pictured a more menacing man to be the one to perform the executions. "Why are you talking to me anyway?" The man asked eerily. Why would a man want to be near someone who someone whose life would be stripped away by his own hand? "Every single man I have... relieved has had something interesting to tell me before I did my job. I don't come here asking why you did, and I don't particularly care to hear you if you did, whatever it is you have been found guilty of. I want to know what it is that you remember the most. What part of your life was worth living for," there was honesty in the Hangman's eyes. His voice did not waiver, the man could tell he had done this more than a few times. "I don't know what about my life would be so interesting to you. Many probably give you sob stories huh? Try to make you feel guilty about what you're going to do come dawn. Maybe it's something you get off to in some sick way, listening to the damned grovel before you, but I doubt that. I guess there's no harm in telling you..." the man's voice trailed off as the words dripped out of his mouth. He walked close to the bars separating him from the Hangman, he grasped the icy, black iron and leaned his head between the, resting it upon the gap. "Well, go on," the Hangman urged. The man paused, then began, "A friend of mine showed me how to paint. How to get the strokes just right, to admire a subject for its beauty and how to amplify that in the art. The world around me just felt like it took a back seat to art when I worked. We traveled frequently, painting hillsides and rivers, mountain peaks and small bustling towns. Even portraits on the rare occasion. Many wanted to pay us for them but with my other line of work money wasn't really a worry for us. So we more often than not let them keep it for free," "Must feel good to make those people happy," suggested the Hangman. "No, not really. It wasn't their happiness that made me feel good. It was the approval of my friend. With every painting he acknowledged my improvements, made me feel like I was actually doing something worthwhile. It's silly really, the thoughts of someone meaning so much to you that you base your entire happiness around it. How you perceive the world, all of it really," "That's quite the adoration," "Aye, adoration is one way to describe it." The man looked down at the dirt on the floor that he had been scuffing with his feet. His shoes had gone ragged from the rough floor, he had spent nearly 3 months in this cell. "And what of it now, Hangman? You got what you want from me, going to give me a spiel on redemption now? Are you a Godly man? Is that why you wish to have me open up, to feel safe and comfortable with you?" "You think a Hangman to be a Godly man?" He chuckled, "If redemption is what you seek then by all means, ask for it. But I won't be preaching it here, or anywhere else either. I just want you to think about these things, I want you to be in a place that makes you happy. Even as death looks you in the eye, you have these memories. And rest assured, I am that which looks you in the eye," The man slumped down to the ground and rested his back against the bars. "I think I'll take that water now, if it's not too much to ask." The Hangman left to grab the water as the man traced a small scenery into the dirt with the tip of his finger. When the Hangman returned he glanced at the work. "Not too bad for being shorthanded on supplies," the Hangman smiled as he gave the man his water. He drank deeply from it and tears formed in the pits of his eyes. Steadily, the tears increased as they poured down his cheeks, dripping into his canvas of dirt. "It's hard, I know. I have seen many men in your predicament." The man finished the cup and choked back the tears. "I loved him, you know." The Hangman looked down at the man, his fingers were erasing the artwork. "Years we spent together, and it's all gone. He doesn't even know I am here. Probably thinks I ran off with another. Do me one thing tomorrow, please?" "Go ahead," "Make it quick.


The sounds grew louder as I got closer to the tree. A loud, hiss-rattle sort of buzzing, almost impossible to articulate, but as familiar as my own voice. I stood beneath the crepe myrtle, no actual shade at all to protect me from the excruciating Texas sun, wondering where it was. Suddenly, I was smacked in the face with a fierce and angry flutter, as it scuttled off higher up into the branches. “Bastard,” I muttered. “I hope my cats find you!” It hiss-rattled louder in defiance at my intrusion. “I’m just trying to water my fucking tomatoes!” I yelled at it, knowing it couldn’t care less. It was getting darker, as the sun had already begun to set, which was basically the only good time to water anything, unless it was early morning, and I am not an early morning person. I thought maybe those little alien fuckers would be asleep, or gone, or just NOT THERE, but they were, and they left creepy, crispy, brown shells everywhere in their summer wake. I plucked them off the tomato cages and the fence, crushing them like eggshells with a disgusted satisfaction. I continued my watering, and one flew down and landed right on the top of the tomato cage, staring at me. I stared back, studying his big black beady eyes, and large wings that were almost beautiful, if they weren’t hiding all of their icky legs beneath them. “Don’t you have someone else to bug?” I asked. “Get it? Bug?” I laughed at my own punny joke. “Yeah, I got it,” it grumbled back at me. Huh? Am I having a heat stroke? “It wasn’t that funny, and anyway, you’ve been a bitch since you came out here. I’m just trying to live, how is that even bothering you?” “You’re really loud, dude. I get migraines. Your loud ass buzzing all day doesn’t help.” “I don’t know what a migraine is, but I have to find a lady friend, and she’s not gonna know that I exist if she can’t hear me, soooooo.....” I start to feel dizzy. I am having a heat stroke, surely. Or is it a mirage? Have I had too much sun? Or worse, am I developing schizophrenia? I walk over to the table under the patio and sit down. I’m sweating buckets, even in the near dark. The cicada follows me, perching on the edge of the very full ashtray kept outside for our roommate. “This is disgusting,” he muttered. “I hope I don’t smell like an ashtray if a lady actually shows up,” he made a face. Yes, this talking cicada just made a pissy face at me. Maybe I’m high. “You’re not high or having a heat stroke,” he answered me, reading my thoughts? “I AM actually talking to you.” “Why? No cicada has ever bothered to speak to me before. I feel so lucky!” “I detect your sarcasm, but you are not wrong. You should feel lucky. Not everyone gets to talk to me.” I look inside the house, through the mini blinds. The kitchen lights are on, but no one is around. I thought my boyfriend was doing the dishes. Yes, he does the dishes. Instead, though, it was empty, and quiet. Even my little dogs were nowhere to be seen. Usually they came outside with me, but since the temperature said it “felt like 109”, I made them stay inside so they didn’t burn their little feet. “See, you’re so kind. Even to those little rat things.” Reading my mind again! What the hell?! “The hairier one ate my friend last week,” he continued. “You didn’t even help him. You got your phone out and made a video of her playing with him. Biting him, dragging him around the yard by his wings, his legs. You thought it was CUTE.” “I did not think it was cute, I thought it was pretty gross, actually, and I tried to get her away from it, IF YOU REMEMBER CORRECTLY. I don’t want my dog eating bugs and then licking my face later-” “BUGS!!!!” He was indignant. “You’re in for a surprise...” “I think I am plenty surprised, already, and quite possibly losing my shit. Anyway, she was very determined. I think she’s part cat. Every time I tried to get it away from her, excuse me, HIM, she grabbed him and ran to the other side of the yard. Didn’t you see me cover him with a giant leaf when she finally dropped him for a minute? She couldn’t see him anymore, so I was able to get her inside the house. So she didn’t actually eat him, she just.. Played with him.” If you could see beady black eyes without irises roll, this is what he did. My explanation was exact, though! She didn’t EAT his friend. “He still died, Human. Died from those injuries.” “Furthermore, I don’t know why I even care if she played with him, or why you care, either. He may have been your friend, but isn’t that less competition for you with the ladies? Isn’t it better that he’s gone?” “You’d think so,” he said wistfully. “But we did live in burrows next to each other for 17 years, so we grew up together. We had many, many long conversations. So aside from the fact that in an odd way, your dog leveled the playing field, so to speak, it is bittersweet.” I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, and wiped my forehead to no real avail. The air was almost suffocating. I am sure that has to be why I am sitting here, having a conversation with a cicada and not actually freaking out, other than wondering why the hell I am sitting here, having a conversation with a cicada. The least of which because I have never liked them, because when I was six years old, a boy at my babysitter’s house used to snatch them off tree branches, and squeeze them so they would scream loudly, and chase me, up and down the street. Once he was chasing me through the yard, and I tried to climb the chain link fence to escape him, snagging the inside of my knee on the top of the metal fence, blood pouring down my leg. I have that scar to this day and have never forgotten how or why I have it. “You have that scar to always remember us!” He said, butting into my thoughts. “Nick shouldn’t have been chasing you on the daily with us, but we can’t transform in broad daylight and blow our cover, so we just went along with it. He was a sadistic prick. He was soon removed.” “Removed???? Wait, what the fuck, how are you doing that? How are you talking, and how are you reading my mind? Where is everyone, why are your loud ass little buddies quiet all of a sudden?” “We’re not alone. They aren’t quiet, you just can’t hear them, the way we truly speak. With our minds. Which is how I can hear yours.” I started to feel unnerved, and then I remembered he just said we can’t transform in broad daylight and blow our cover . My blood ran cold, and I began to wonder if I was still breathing, because I could not move. “You’re breathing, chill. Everything is fine.” “I suppose we have different definitions of FINE.” Suddenly, the cicada jumped off the edge of the ashtray, and into the air, almost upright. His many legs began to meld together, until he had two arms, two legs, one body, one big head, but still, two giant black eyes. He was a greenish brown, like a cicada, and his skin reminded me of clay. Somehow I was calm. Not moving. Waiting. “I guess clay isn’t so bad, you aren’t actually disgusted by me, so, that’s a plus.” His lips and mouth, which were very small, did not move. He ... smiled? “YES WE SMILE! We can’t help ourselves, just like you lot can’t.” You lot. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, I just want you to come with me on a little field trip. You may even enjoy it.” “I don’t really have time to go anywhere right now, I’m sweating like a pig, I need to take a shower, my boyfriend is probably wondering why I’m taking so long out here,” I sputter. It’s one thing I was talking to a cicada. It’s another that the cicada morphed exactly into the alien-like creature that I always thought they looked like. I think about all the cicadas I’ve seen in my life, wondering if they were all aliens. “Yes.” He said abruptly. “It’s how we keep our eyes on you. Well not you specifically, except in this case, of course,” he chuckled. “Humans in general. Some of us get eaten by cats or birds or squished by cruel little six year old humans chasing other humans, etc, but that’s just how it goes. We are the soldiers on the ground.” My head began to feel like a fishbowl, sloshing around. “Just relax,” he said. “You’ll be back before you know it.” Panic suddenly shoots through every one of my cells and limbs like lightning. “Hey Marco!” He turned around, talking to someone, another alien, again without moving his lips. The alien walked up out of the darkness of the backyard and joined him. “I found my lady friend.” His big black eye winked.


I recently found this subreddit and decided to share something I wrote a long time ago. Enjoy!   The giant red sun illuminated the countless cities on the three most populated planets in the universe. Its already dim and weak light was even further weakened by the millions of satellites orbiting around the star and focusing the light onto artificial dwarf planets which saved up some of the energy into giant batteries that occupied most of their volume and reflecting everything else to smaller collection stations on all of the planets. There was no other light to be seen; there were no stars illuminating the void, partially because of the fact that they were all torn apart by the expansion of the universe and partially because there weren't all that many stars left; most of them exploded into clouds of gas or transformed into black holes. The cities on the planets were not normal cities, but tightly packed complex tridimensional structures, designed to keep in them as many people as possible, and there was not a single square meter of the planets that was not designed according to that principle. All the necessary resources were supplied by the countless artificial dwarf planets that contained aeroponic farms, oxygen synthesizers, nuclear fusion reactors and other complicated machinery necessary for keeping a population of hundreds of billions humans alive. Automatic spaceships roamed the dark universe in search of resources, bringing entire planets to be combusted and transformed into energy. The people lived in small apartments dimly illuminated by bluish energy-efficient lamps. Most of them were scientists trying to figure out how to make it so humanity can survive for just a little longer, as even though birth was made illegal thousands of years ago advances in medicine made humans live forever and the resources of the universe were very rapidly depleting. This was not the fault of an evil government, however, as everyone lived this way and it was the most efficient way of keeping humans alive.  There were only a few thousand years left until the star keeping humanity alive would explode. Humanity had already found a potential new home, a yellow dwarf located around three thousand light years away with four planets, three of them in the habitable zone around the star. Spaceships with equipment and dyson swarm satellites were already flying towards the new home at speeds hundreds of times faster than the speed of light, quickly draining the energy saved in the last billion years. Special devices were harvesting the matter of the dying sun and transforming it into energy for the spaceships. After all of the preparations were completed, spaceships with humans in them started being sent, powered by the combustion of their old homes. They glanced back at what remained of the old sun before the superliminal engines were turned on; the light of the old star would never reach them in visible to the human eye form again.  It had been already four billion years since humanity had moved to its new home. The yellow dwarf had transformed into a red giant, consuming the nearest planet to itself and leaving the second nearest inhabitable. There were ten thousand years left until it would explode and collapse into a black hole, but this time there was no backup plan. There was nothing, not a single star left. This was it. This was the last star in the universe. Sure, humanity could survive a few thousand years on the saved energy and on combustion of planets, but that is such a short time... The only hope left was finding a new universe. There were theories about the possibility of black holes being portals to other universes, but there was no way to check: light was not able to leave a black hole, and technology that allowed for superliminal travel relied on the deformation of space-time, and black holes already deformed space-time so much that there was no way for these engines to work. But it was the only hope. So when the star was about to explode, spaceships flew out of the radius of the explosion, and then flew into the black hole. There is no way to know what happened next; information about it cannot escape the event horizon.


Pale and milky was the moon that night. The night had an eerie glow to it that cast cold light and dark shadows about the countryside. Yet even so it was a type of night that Mikey Joe looked forward to. The type of night he could walk outside his house and stare with great wonder at the marvellous moon. Always he had loved the moon even as a young boy. He would walk slowly about the yard toking gently on his joint. He often felt anxious out there in the dark a the dead of night and this was no different yet his fear was quelled by his old companion the moon. Mikey Joe had done his moonlight ritual for many years puffing as he sauntered aimlessly about the yard and down the path to the farm below. Sometimes he listened to music sometimes to the silence of the night. It was only on the clear nights of the palest purest moonlight he would dare to have his little dalliance with his lunar lover, for the nights that were dark cloudy and black as nothing filled him with a terrible dread. Even on this night with the light beaming from the moon and the brightest stars he had flashes of dread which he soothed by looking at the moon and saying “It's alright now” or some other stoner’s mantra. That dread came to him most nights and tonight was no different he did as he always did and toked on his joint. “It's almost finished” he thought as he looked at glowing red dot that was very near his finger now.”Soon back inside to comfort and a nice round of toasted cheese sandwich.” He he began walking back up the path to the backyard and his house, stepping slowly and carefully as to not trip on the brambles and briers growing all over the ill kept path. He meandered across slowly and gently till he could see the yard light through the trees. He continued on and the light became bigger and bigger until he was almost blinded by it. He froze dead it was surely not his yard light it was far to strong he became rigid with fear. He racked his brain frantically to figure out what he was seeing but after a few seconds the fear truly had him he didn’t care the fear had him. He turned on his heel and ran down the deep dark path straight into blackness. He ran until he heard or thought he hear something up ahead. “ A figure? A man?” he wasn’t sure what he saw but something moved past him up that dark path. He stopped in his tracks panting, hes wild eyes darting everywhere. Forward to the blackness of the path back to the growing light towards his yard. “Get to my house and the phone” he thought in a second of clarity. He ran back at full sprint towards the every growing light. But after no more than 5 steps he tripped on a bramble and fell head first into a bush. He looked up from the bush scraping his head on thorns as he did so. He saw the black figure still away down the path and then suddenly blackness. He awoke to a dim light flickering above his head. He arose to find himself in a small empty room with a candle hang on the wall. There was no door but an open entrance led to a narrow cramped passage. The walls of the passage and and room where made of a red soft substance not unlike play-dough he observed. When he pulled at it seemed to stretch for a moment then go back to its original shape. After a minute of exploring his new environment he was struck with by his new dreadful predicament. Questions raced around his head a thousand a once going 90 miles an hour. He had no idea how to begin to understand what was going on and he felt overwhelmed and fell to his knees and began sobbing pitifully. “I’m some kind of prisoner or I’ve lost my mind or worse” he whispered as he sobbed. He felt a hand on his shoulder he stopped crying. He was dead still. He knew he had to turn around to face what was touching him but he couldn’t bring himself to. “Are you sick?” asked the voice of the man that put his hand on his shoulder.” You seem very weak and you are crying out in pain are you OK?” He knew now he must look, he must turn and see he captor. He turned to the left side slowly to see the mans had on his shoulder, but it was red! He turned in horror to see his captor and there he was an ordinary looking man dressed in a white robe but with bright red skin! This was too much for him and he fainted on the floor in a heap. After some time he awoke again, his eyes staring directly at the cavernous red ceiling above he was lying flat red table which was oddly soft and comforting. He felt it move slowly as if it were breathing or pulsating. He jumped to his feet and looked about the huge cavernous room. The ceiling was visible only barley in the dim light that radiated from the floor. The walls or entrance couldn’t be seen as it disappeared into the eternal blackness encircling him. A figure came from out of the darkness slowly walking towards him, it seemed to him to be quite far away. He noticed he wasn’t gripped with fear this time but with a dopey fascination with the figure. As it approached it seem to change shape and suddenly grow taller and longer until before him again was the red man he had seen before. But this time he was different, he wore a old style suit and spectacles. “How are you feeling now?” he asked “ You were quite distressed. I had to give you some medication to calm you. I hope it makes you feel better.” Mikey Joe nodded in answer. The red man smiled. “ You will have many questions, and I have many answers to give now that you are more calm and sociable” “Are you gonna kill me? Or do crazy experiments on me?” blurted Mikey Joe, his body was calm but inside there was still a little fear, despite his dopey drowse state. “No, No of course not I am not cruel I’m here to help you and your planet its so primitive even the forms you take are so unusual.... But we can solve all that, teach you to do great things navigate the stars as we have. Here let take this it will relive the drowsiness.” From nowhere as far as Mikey could tell a cup appeared in the red man hand and he reached out and gave it to Mikey. “Yes, drink deeply yours is most interesting species bipedal, hi level intellect and highly adept at communicating but so developmental lacking... why? Much lower intellect lifeforms have achieved higher levels of civilization in this.....” as he talked Mikey drank and became more alert and fearful his situation seemed hopeless he needed a way out of this nightmare. “Ah more alert I see, but anxious too perhaps one of your own medical treatments might help” a syringe appeared in his hand. It was full of a clear liquid he moved closer to Mikey Joe gentle grabbed his arm and smiled. “Is this it” Though Mikey “I am I really going to let this red bastard kill me and eat me or something, no I have to make a move!” Mikey punched him hard in the face he dropped the syringe. ‘Why?’ he groaned “ I bring you only love” Mikey hit him again and again crying manically as he did so. The man made no attempt to defend himself or fight back. Mikey's hands where covered in blood, tears were rolling from his eyes he went to dry the tears from his eyes but a drop of the blood landed in his mouth. The taste was pure pleasure to Mikey he had tasted nothing like it it was the most savoury sweet orgasmic taste he ever had. A madness took him he began to lick his hands clean his tongue orgasm-ed with each lick. When his hands were clean he looked down at the body his eyes ravenous with hunger for that taste. He picked up one red and began to chew on the fingers. “No stop I bring you love, I am your friend” the red man said feebly. Mikey took both hands and strangled him till he stopped his polite protests. After eating half of the red mans hand Mikey remembered his situation and the danger. H e got up and ran into the darkness but it only stretched on and on with no end so he ran back to the man near the table searched him for a key or remote, but nothing. “How will I get out of here, what kind of monster have I become I’ve killed and eaten this poor man” he cried aloud in a desperate howl. Then the craving came over him maybe if I eat more ill feel better” He thought “he's not human, It was him or me! I had to do it!” He grabbed the other hand and pulled at the index finger when suddenly a large wall and monitor came darting out of the blackness. It was beeping and whirring flashing in with and black the deepest black he had ever seen then suddenly there was enormous roar and then blackness. Mikey Joe, woke up strapped to a bed unable to move any part of his body he head fixed at white ceiling and a fluorescent light. “Mikey” a voice asked through a speaker” are you able to answer our questions?” “ What happened?” Mikey eyes watered at the memory he was so sad and ashamed, to his horror hes tongue watered as well. “ I ate him” he sobbed “ I ate him” The doctor behind the screen wrote his diagnosis and handed it to the team of men in suits. “From what I can observe from here that's my conclusion gentleman” he said in thick Austrian accent. “ What do you mean, in plain English bud?” asked one man in the far corner of the room with hes eyes squinting at the paper that was passed to to him. “Vell..... the patient is completely insane” “Well I could have told you that and I’m no doctor” laughed the man “ saying he ate one of those aliens I’ve never heard of something so ridiculous” It had been week since the ship had crashed into the desert in Wyoming and special agent Jack Turg was heading the background investigation. It was a sensational case the U.S. Government had of course found alien tech and parts of spaceships before but never a maned vessel with such a large living crew! Jack remembered when he first saw the remains it was the size of a stadium and inside the investigation team had found 50 live “alien creatures” he had seen the classified videos they were strange stupid horrible things no limbs or features just black and grey blobs pulsating formlessly. “How in the hell could that freak even consider eating one of those disgusting things” he though “They are repulsive!” He decided his team would have to get a firsthand look at these things to decide next course of action. It made really no logical sense why would you eat something you're terrified of? The next morning Jack was briefing his C.O. in his progress so far. At the end of the report he paused. “Was there anything else Jack?” he C.O. probed “Well sir it's just... we ... my team and I...” “Come on Jack speak your mind!” “We like to get a look at the live specimens to help make sense of the actions of the detainee” The C.O. exhaled loud and slow”Quite frankly you and everyone in anyway involved with this whole operation would. But that's impossible it's not even being handled by this agency.You should count yourself privileged to know what you know.” click\* the call ended. But Jack a veteran agent 20 years with the agency never question orders, who turned a blind eye to the darker side of the C.I.A.


I have built a throne of shame, the foundation started in my childhood. A strong foundation at that. Many have tried to break the foundation, but it doesn’t show a single scratch. I sit on it the throne, and wear a thorny crown of self disgust and hatred. It hurts me, but I won’t let anyone else wear my crown. It’s my responsibility, my legacy. It was passed to me by my father. Its all I have of him. The thorns adorned to the crown dig into my temples. Blood drains from my head as I wear the thorny crown, covering my eyes in red. Its all I see anymore. Red is anger, it is hate, it is doubt. The blood is my own life force draining away from me to betray me by clouding my eyes from the reality that I can’t seem to view on a daily basis. It covers my eyes and enters my mouth leaving me unable to speak. I can’t ask for help because my own blood prevents me. My own blood covers my vocal chords. When I try to speak, it is garbled nonsense. I speak, but no one can make it out. No one can see that I am in danger by my own blood. My life force drains from me freely from the holes the thorns dig into. On the outside, the blood moves down my face, dripping onto my body. Eventually my shoulders are covered. The blood has been spreading for years. The viscosity of the blood is so thick, I am no longer able to move. The weight of the blood on my shoulders causes my slouch in my throne. Sitting there, blood draining to my chest and belly. My belly once full and gleeful is now becoming flat. Blood drains from my body, once full of life, swollen with pride, now withering and wrinkled like a raisin. At one point of time, I would have been happy to be that thin. Now, I just see it as sorrow. Once I enjoyed eating, but now iron is all I taste. Now it is without joy. My belly flattens as the joy leaves my life. My legs, once quick and light have become heavy with disgust. I drag red iron anvils with an unsteady gait, eventually too tired to move. Each step heavier than the last. My legs are so heavy now, that I am stuck in this throne. Stuck with this crown of regret and shame. I ask for help. Nothing comes out. I reach for help, my arms are too heavy to lift. I look for help, but all I see is red. I try to run, but I can’t move my legs. I am stuck here now. By the end, my body is without blood. Drained. I’m covered with the very thing that used to keep me alive. The very thing that killed me. Trapped on my throne, wearing my crown with pride, I die. Alone, Misunderstood, Rigid and Red.


The barn door creaked open. Patches looked up from his bead of old work shirts and yawned as the Goodman ambled inside. Sunlight poured in and washed over Patches. He stretched, raising his hind into the air, and grasped out with his front paws. The warmth filled his bones and a satisfied purr leapt from his throat. “Ki, ki.” The Goodman said with the voice of scratches and creams. Patches plopped down from his pile and a nagging bite chewed at his hips. “There’s my baby boy.” A smile lit the Goodman’s face. Patches weaved between his legs and rubbed his cheeks on the Goodman’s boots. The Goodman reached out a hand and ran it down Patches’ back. Their eyes met and Patches blinked slowly at the Goodman. He rolled onto his back and showed his belly. “That’s a good kitty.” Patches stood up and jumped onto the table where the Goodman kept his pounders and twisters. He licked at his paw and rubbed it across his face and ears. The Goodman made his way over to the table and opened the table’s topmost mouth. Clings and Clangs spewed from it as his hand fished back and forth. “Have you seen my hammer, Patches? That whore lovin’ board popped up on the porch again.” Patches watched as the Goodman fumbled and mewed into the table drawer. Not for the first time, he caught a smell in the air. In recent days the smell had grown stronger. It was the smell of spoiled guts and bad blood. The smell that came from his mother and sisters before they took the long nap. The smell was stronger when the Goodman was around, but a small amount lingered around Patches no matter where he went. Soon he’d find a nice dark place to join his kin in the long nap. Would the Goodman do the same? “There it is.” A satisfied smile stretched across the Goodman’s lips as he pulled a small, clawed pounder out of the table’s mouth. Patches glided the space between them and nuzzled against the Goodman’s wrist. In return he received a scratch between his shoulders. He kneaded the wood and his tongue stabbed out of his mouth and hung there like a limp mouse. “All right, boy. I’m going to go beat that crooked board till one of us breaks.” The Goodman turned and Patches watched as he ambled back toward the door. But, before he reached the warmth of summer sun, the Goodman dropped the Pounder and stumbled against a tall beam. He clutched his chest. “Woo got a little woozy there. Maybe I’ll take a sit with you for a while.” Patches leapt down, ignoring the bite in his hips this time, and pranced over to the Goodman as he sat in the “Ol’ Rocker,” as he called it. He gasped and his chest heaved. The Goodman’s lips had turned blue, and he quivered like when cold-sky-water falls. Patches sprang onto the Goodman’s lap and brushed his cheeks against the Goodman’s. The scent was stronger than ever. It was like he’d walked into a room filled with buckets of long curdled cream and fly eaten fish. “That’s my good boy, Patches.” The Goodman’s voice was haggard and distant. “I’m feeling mighty tired. I think I’ll just catch a few winks if you don’t mind.” The Goodman ran a gnarled finger against Patches’ cheek and then rested his hands in his lap. Patches felt an odd sensation on his back. A well-known pressure of being watched. He turned his yellow eyes onto a young woman standing at the barn door. She didn’t block the Sunlight or cast shadow. It bled through her like light through the water pitchers the Goodman brought out on hot days. He somehow knew that she was there and wasn’t all at once, like a memory brought to life on the glass box the Goodman stares at sometimes. The one with the small people inside. The Goodman didn’t seem to notice. His head rolled back, and his eyes closed. Patches watched the see-through woman enter the barn and cross the dusty floor to the “Ol’ Rocker.” Patches was ready to make himself big and to hiss at the woman, but a breeze broke through the air and carried a long-ago familiar scent. In his mind, flashes of a smiling woman played. He heard her sweet bird song, and could taste the sweet cream she brought, and the nice scratches behind his ears. She smelled just like the Goodwoman. He meowed eagerly, she didn’t look the same, but he wouldn’t mistake that sunflower and melon smell. She smiled at Patches and scratched him behind his ears like long ago. Cracking purrs rolled from his throat, and he kneaded at the Goodman’s faded blue denim pants. She didn’t speak, but he heard her in his head. She called him a sweet “Ki, ki,” and thanked him for staying with the Goodman after her long nap. If the nap could turn the wrinkled and greyed Goodwoman into a bright blue eyed, brown haired kitten, he wondered if it would take away the peppered grey in his black fur and bite in his joints. He blinked slowly at the Goodwoman, and she blinked back. The smell of rot exploded from the Goodman. It was enough to break Patches from reverie and jolt his muscle into recoil. The Goodman mumbled. His whole face was blue, and his breathing shortened. The Goodwoman placed her hand on the side of his head and caressed his cheek. A long sigh and with it the Goodman spoke his final word, “Charlotte.” A fine blue mist escaped the Goodman’s lips, and the smell was gone. The Goodwoman smiled, patted Patches, and strode back across the room. Patches looked up at the Goodman and admired how peacefully his long nap had come. He knew that not all were as lucky. He also knew that things had changed now. There would no longer be sweet creams, or “Ki, ki,” calls followed by good scratches. And his heart felt heavy at that. The barn door creaked wide open, and another scent mingled in the air. There was the smell of hickory and vanilla, the smell of the Goodman. He looked back to the door and a young man reached out his hand to the Goodwoman. He smiled at her and kissed her knuckles before sweeping her up into a spinning hug. There were no sounds, but Patches felt the echoes of laughter and kisses in his head. The young Goodman looked over at patches and gave him an inviting smile. Patches wondered for a moment how nice it would be to go with them. To be in that warmth and get scratches and creams and to be young like them. His heart fluttered, but his eyes grew heavy. There was no cold. How could one be cold before such light and warmth? He decided then to put his head down and nap in the Goodman’s lap. To him, it was as good a place as any and in fact--it was the best place to be. Before the sleep came, he heard the last sounds he would with his cat ears. “Ki, ki.” And he knew no more. On the Goodman farm out in Godsfield, Indiana, a small black cat with square white patches on his back bounded out of an old red barn. He raced up the dirt trail leading to an old white farmhouse with a covered porch. He jumped all three steps in one mighty leap and ran over to the porch swing occupied by two smiling lovers. He leapt up into the young man’s lap and curled up for a long nap.


So This is a story about one of my very lucid dreams. I am currently converting my dream journal into short stories, but from a characters points of view instead of my own. So here is my first entry: Recently I find myself living on the street. When just a few weeks ago I was an aspiring artist selling my work for a living wage. However, in just the past few days my eyesight has completely deteriorated. Doctors told me they could not help me. It was inevitable. So now, I sit on the streets, selling art that I cannot even see for myself just to scrape by. Once I ran out of paintings to sell, I had nothing left, and nowhere to spend the cash. At this point, I had given up on life, I began wandering aimlessly through the streets getting help from strangers and sleeping wherever I could, until one day when walking down a long alley I bumped into a man. “I am so sorry!” I exclaimed as I bumped into someone. “You are quite alright” a man’s voice responded. "You poor thing, are you ok? Do you need a place to stay?" his voice was deep yet soft, it brought much comfort to me. “I am blind... I don’t have anywhere to go,” I responded. “Well now, I can take care of you.” His voice sounded sincere and true. I was at such a low point in life what was I to do with an offer like this? Someone willing to take care of me; help me get back on my feet? On the other hand, multiple scenarios played out in my head, was it all a trick to lure a poor blind man away just to be murdered? A few seconds of silence passed before I finally replied. “I would like that.” “Then no time to waste, we have places to be!” he exclaimed and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, he felt rather bony. He led me further down the alley before stopping. “The car door is in front of you, be careful not to hit your head.” I cautiously opened the car door and entered. Upon opening the door, a wave of new car smell hit me. As I sat down, I felt that the seats were made of leather. The car from what I could feel and smell was very nice. The man entered shortly after and began to drive. “What should I call you Mr.?” I asked the driver. “I don’t really go by a name... I do not have one... I guess you can call me J.” his answer was rather odd. In addition, it seemed like it took him a second to come up with the name J. Did this man really go by no name? “Well since we are using initials as names you can call me T” I crossed my arms and leaned back in the seat. “Only a few more minutes and we will be there.” His voice sounded excited, but I still felt anxious about it all. Later we finally arrived. J exited the car and opened the door for me. I stepped out and he grabbed my shoulder. “Let me show you the way. We have quite a lot of stairs in and around the house. Wouldn’t want you to trip and fall.” He carefully walked me towards a staircase leading towards the house. I felt each step with my feet and once I was comfortable began ascending. We reached the front door and I finally entered his home. “Obviously you can’t see, but if you haven’t put the pieces together I am a rather rich man. In this house, I have 26 bedrooms but no one to enjoy it with. I do hope we can become better acquainted in due time.” His voice was sincere. “I hope so too,” I responded smiling. After a short discussion, J led me around the entire Mansion. Allowing me to feel the walls, marble flooring, and the most expensive of furniture. Some rooms were so large I heard a faint echo with every word. After a few days, I had a map of the entire mansion in my head. I knew where every staircase was and which ways were shortcuts throughout the house. Many days I found myself walking throughout the house looking for something new. In addition, talking to J when I felt lonely. From then on, J had taken the responsibility of taking care of me and getting me back on my feet. In just a few days, the Man had begun to teach me braille, and how to live a normal life. This coincidence of chance was life-changing and amazing, but there was something wrong about all of it... the Man had never told me his real name, or any name at all, and refused to do so. "I have no name," he would tell me every time I asked. I grew frustrated with his repeated answer and eventually stopped asking him about it altogether. Besides his odd answers, everything in my life seemed to be falling into place. It was almost like a dream that I could not wake up from. I was perfectly content with my new living situation besides one small odd occurrence. Late one night I awoke to a peculiar sound. It sounded as if something was ripping, or being squished. It was a gross combination of wet sounds that made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I finally rose out of bed and went looking for the source of the sound. It sounded as if it were heading from the main living space near the kitchen. I walked down the stairs and reached the bottom in front of the living room. “What are you doing awake?” J’s voice pierced through the silence and squishing sounds. His voice alarmed me at first but I was quickly relieved. “Oh, it’s just you J. What is that gross sound I keep hearing?” “It’s just the rain. It's making quite a racket tonight isn’t it?” I heard him stand up from where he was sitting and he approached me. He caressed my face with his hand. Parts of his fingers were damp and the wet touch caused me to retract and quickly wipe my face. “I am sorry. My hands have not dried from the dishes I recently finished. Why don’t you just go back to bed?” his calm soothing voice had relaxed me. My fear of the sounds seemed to vanish now. “Alright, talk to you tomorrow” I walked back up the stairs and went to my room. As I closed the door, the gross sounds continued. I ignored them as best as I could and went to sleep. This strange occurrence happened frequently over the course of a few weeks. The odd gross wet sounds in the night echoing through the halls sometimes waking me in my sleep. If the sounds did wake me, I would cover my ears and roll back to sleep. That was until one particular night. I woke up to the wet sounds once again late in the night. I looked around my bedroom and blinked a few times. I then realized I could see. I could actually see the room I was in and everything around me. My heart leaped with joy. Somehow my eyesight had returned to me, but I was not about to question it. I quickly began to affiliate everything I have touched with what it actually looked like. I began touring the mansion once again with a new stride. It was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Marble pillars branched upwards holding the ceiling. “Just how rich was this guy?” I muttered to myself. After touring the glamourous mansion my attention went back to the terrible squishing sound. This time I was going to figure out the cause of it. I walked to the center staircase and began descending. As I neared the end of the staircase the sound, grow monstrously loud. I quickly jumped down to the last step of the staircase to finally see what was making the sounds. I was swiftly taken back by what I witnessed. A few feet in front of me was this large skinny naked figure with its back towards me. It was hunched over rising and lowering itself with each breathe it took, but even then, it still seemed six or so feet tall. Its skin was dark and leathery. Its skin gripped its body tightly revealing its bone structure, which was very humanoid. Through certain parts of its body, thick long spikes protruded from its bones. Down its spine, it was ribbed with 6” black spikes sticking out every other bone leading all the way to its tailbone. These spikes were also protruding from its elbows. It was hunched over a pile of red goo which I quickly figured out it was in fact blood. I stood there frozen trying to process what I was even looking at. Was this all a nightmare I was having or was this some kind of otherworldly being in the house? Suddenly the thing stood up. It had to be almost 8 feet tall or so now. Its arms reached past its knees and its fingers were much too long to be natural. This entire “thing’ wasn’t natural. In its mouth was a hunk of flesh and in the pile of blood was patches of fur and flesh. Cats it seemed like and who knows what else it was eating. With one long-clawed hand, it grabbed an end of the fresh flesh and ripped it with its jaw and claws. It made the terrible squishing wet sounds. I had been hearing this sound for weeks and now I knew the source of it all, this Thing. It turned directly toward me now. “T, what are you doing out of bed?” its voice was deep and smooth. Then it all came together. This “thing” in front of me was J. the man who had taken me in and took care of me for weeks. What was this thing and what did it intend to do with me? Was this in fact the same man who I had been living with? When it spoke to me, my heart dropped. Was he going to kill me now that I have seen what it actually was? I stood there in silence for a while trying to collect my thoughts and calm down. “Is something wrong?” it asked me calmly. His mouth did not move as he spoke. The voice just seemed to emanate somewhere from it. As I stood frozen, I began to see its face. Its eyes were none existent. Instead of eyes, it seemed to have a sunken impression where eyes should be, but skin grew over them leaving skeletal sockets. Its jaw then began to hang. It began to hang lower and lower. It extended as far as its chest and drooped unnaturally. It had rows and rows of sharp long teeth that looked almost like needles. With a few teeth in the front being much larger and thicker than the rest. I looked to the floor and tried to come up with something to say or even the slightest of mental strength to even speak. Then I remembered something. It still thinks that I am blind. Maybe I can use this to my advantage, I thought to myself. I pulled myself together as quickly as I could and responded. “I had a hard time getting to sleep... I kept hearing those weird sounds again...” I tried to focus on what I was looking at. I didn’t want to give him the slightest impression that I could see what was happening. He then got on all fours and began crawling to me. My body completely tensed up and I tried to leave my eyes focused on one central point. So that I would not scream. Its hand extended towards my face and caressed it. Blood streaked across my face as he did it. I pulled back to the wet touch. “Oops, I’m sorry; I forgot to dry my hands after dishes again.” It began to laugh and as it did; its jaw dropped lower and lower almost hitting the floor now. Its breathe then began to reach my nostrils. It smelled of rot and iron. Like a handful of old pennies mixed with decay. Its face then loomed closer. Was it on to me? Had it figured out I could see its monstrous form? “Go back to sleep.” His voice sounded very deep as he guttered the words. Its long hand reached back and gripped another piece of flesh. It brought it to his mouth and began ripping the flesh apart. Small spatters of blood sprayed across the room some even hitting my cheek. “It’s just the rain!” he laughed again, this time almost hysterically. The human quality of his voice almost seemed none existent as he said it this time. It sounded like something words cannot possibly describe. A sound that should not exist in this world. “I’m going to bed now!” my body forced the words out of me. The thing then turned and looked directly at me with its sunken eyes and terrifying mouth. It smiled a smile so sinister it shook my soul. It stretched far and long creating something horror stories could have only conceived. With the final bit of will power I had left, I turned around and ascended the staircase. I could hear the splatters and squishes continuing behind me. As soon as I reached the top of the staircase and turned the corner, I ran for my life. Tears were rolling down my face as I ran for the exit. I escaped with my life and quickly called authorities. I was later informed that the police found no one in the house. The only damning evidence there were pools of blood and flesh belonging to many things. People, cats, rodents, and other assorted animals. The police found the house under no one’s name, and there was no vehicle to find whatsoever. The house technically should not have even existed at all come to find out. There was no address for it, or permit for building the home. The entire situation was clouded in mystery. Besides determining whom the victims were who were mutilated and eaten, the case was closed and nothing was ever brought about from it. By the end of it, nothing made any sense and nothing could rationalize what I saw and experienced. I still do not know why J had taken me in to take care of me. On the other hand, how could a creature like that have a car, house, and luxurious life like the one it had. When I look back at the times I spent with J, none of it seems to make sense. What exactly was going on the entire time that I could not see? I doubt my encounter with the thing at the staircase was the only monstrous act it was committing while I was under its roof. What did it intend to do with me? Did I have some kind of purpose for being there? Was there some alternative goal that I do not know about? Today I am going to find more answers. I have everything packed and ready and I have weapons with me. For if I am to encounter J again I will be ready to fight back. I am going back to the house, and I am going to get answers.