CW: mentions of pet death, physical violence/harm, blood It may have been a 10-inch tall porcelain statue, but it meant everything to Jack and his family. It was white, shaped like a dog, and decorated with tiny painted pink and purple flowers that circled its neck like a collar. Its eyes were painted black and seemed to be alive, watching over the family with benevolence. It had been given to the family after their dog, Buster, had died in his sleep one night. Ever since then, the statue had become their most prized possession. Jack was dreaming that he was running his fingers through Buster’s orange and white fur when he was awoken by his mother shaking him and saying, “It’s time to wake up. The Redfields are coming over.” A surge of anger chased away Jack’s tiredness. The Redfields were an older couple who were the richest family in town. They were known for their greed and inability to care about anyone, even each other. People suspected that they only married each other for the money. Jack pushed aside his threadbare blanket and got out of bed. After putting on a pair of worn trousers and slipping a red shirt over his head, he left his room and walked to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Redfield were sitting at the table, looking at him with disdain. “Can’t you hide that disgusting scar somehow?” was Mrs. Redfield’s first comment. Jack shifted his head to the side to hide his glare and let his messy black hair cover the crescent-shaped scar under his left eye. He had gotten it after he had accidentally cut himself trying to steal food from the Redfields’ enormous pantry, which was the size of one of the rooms in his house, and the couple never let him forget it. Jack opened his mouth to answer when, after his parents and little sister had sat down at the table, Mr. Redfield said, “You know why we’re here, Mr. Blueridge.” “For the last time, we’re not giving you the statue!” yelled Jack’s father. “It’s not for sale!” “A pretty statue like that doesn’t deserve to sit in your filthy house collecting dust,” snapped Mrs. Redfield. The Blueridges’ eyes widened. “What did you say?” growled Jack’s mother, clenching her fist so hard that her knuckles turned white. “It’s just the truth,” Mr. Redfield said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. Jack wanted to punch him right in his stupid, ruddy face. “Beside,” he continued, “you’ll get more money from the statue than you could ever make yourselves.” “But it’s really special to us,” said Jack’s sister, Annalise, who was only six years old. She sniffled. “Why are you being so mean?” Her big eyes filled with tears. Jack put a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning to the Redfields. “It’s not for sale,” he asserted, repeating the words his parents had told the older couple time and time again. “We’re not going to change our minds.” Mrs. Redfield sighed and shook her head, her graying brown hair bobbing. “It’s a shame you can’t see reason,” she told them, her voice almost a whine. “I feel so sorry for you. Living in all this”--she looked around the cluttered, dusty house--“must be so hard for you.” If faked emotion was money, the amount in her voice could provide for the Blueridges for life. Mr. Redfield stood up, and his wife followed suit. “Well, we should be going,” said the former. “You--you haven’t even eaten yet,” said Mr. Blueridge in confusion. “You said you were coming to eat, and--” “We changed our minds,” Mrs. Redfield snapped. Before the Blueridges could say anything, she and her husband stomped out of the house, letting the door slam shut behind them. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Jack was trembling with rage, his teeth gritted so hard they hurt. They would pay for this. That night, Jack climbed into bed. Ideas of revenge swirled in his mind as he stared up at the cobweb-filled ceiling. He was wide awake. Hours passed. The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway penetrated the silence of the darkened house. Right as Jack’s eyelids had begun to feel heavy, he heard the floorboards creak with heavy footsteps. He shut his eyes, staying perfectly still even though his heart was pounding. None of his family’s footsteps sounded like that. The footsteps came toward his room, and he briefly felt someone watching him before the floorboards squeaked in the opposite direction. There was a sound like a heavy object being moved, and the noise of the footsteps dwindled. After the thudding sound of the door shutting, there was complete silence, save for the clock’s ticking. Just when Jack was falling asleep, sunlight shone through his window, temporarily blinding him. He sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. A cry pierced the air, followed by loud sobbing. Jack ran into the living room and found Annalise gazing at the mantelpiece in horror. “The statue! It’s gone!” She ran to Jack, wrapped her arms around him, and cried into his shirt, her tears staining the fabric. Mr. and Mrs. Blueridge joined them, their eyes wide and their cheeks wet. Anger surged through Jack’s veins. You’ll pay for this, Redfields. Even if it kills me. One night, Jack stood outside the metal gate of the Redfields’ picturesque white mansion. The rain beat the ground, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. Jack gripped the bars of the gate in one hand and the handle of his umbrella in the other. Every time lightning struck, accompanied by a loud crack, Jack slammed the umbrella handle against the lock of the gate. His heart was pounding with fear and his nerves were crackling with energy, causing his whole body to tremble. Finally, after almost an hour, the lock broke and the gate swung open. Jack sprinted across the vast front yard, dotted with small oak trees and neatly-trimmed bushes. A clothesline was hung from two trees on the right side of the house. A servant was gathering the laundry hanging from the glinting wire while trying to avoid the pouring rain. Jack swung the umbrella at the servant’s head with such force that the man dropped the laundry and hit the trunk of one of the trees, falling unconscious. Clutching his umbrella and ducking low to the ground, Jack ran up to the house and peeked into a window. He found himself looking at a dining room with a table in the center that stretched almost from one end of the room to the other and filled with silver plates and ornate wooden chairs. Perpendicular to the table was a gilded fireplace with flames crackling loudly inside and a white painted mantelpiece decorated with various pictures, figurines, and-- A porcelain dog statue. Jack’s heart leaped. He attempted to open the window, but he soon discovered that it was locked from the inside. During lightning strikes, he summoned all his strength and thrust the point of the umbrella at the glass until the glass shattered. He dove inside the house, shards crunching under his feet. He raced to the mantelpiece, dropping the umbrella and reaching out his hand to grab the dog statue. In his mind’s eye, he saw Buster turning toward him, smiling and panting, his tongue lolling-- Gunshots echoed in the silence. Bullets hit Jack’s chest and stomach. He collapsed, blood quickly staining his shirt and the floor around him. The pain was all he knew. Mr. Redfield came into his field of vision, holding a rifle. Mrs. Redfield was at his side. While she grabbed the statue and checked it for damage, Mr. Redfield glared at him. “Dirty thief,” he growled, spitting in Jack’s face. He smiled evilly. “Now do you know not to mess with other people’s belongings?” “It... belongs... to us!” Jack gasped, anger joining his pain. “Curse you... curse you!” “The curses of the dead have no meaning,” said Mr. Redfield, leveling the rifle at Jack’s heart and pulling the trigger. *** Not long after the blood had been scrubbed from the floorboards and the window had been repaired, the mantelpiece found itself in need of a good dusting. Duster in hand, Mrs. Redfield attacked the painted wood until there was not a mite of dust to be found. When she turned to clean the dog statue, its painted eyes moved to look at her. She screamed and dropped the duster. “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with it!” she told her husband one night at dinner. Mr. Redfield shrugged. “You’re probably just being delusional. Besides, we can’t get rid of it. It’s a beautiful statue, and we worked so hard to get it.” “You’re right,” said his wife, nodding. There was no use in arguing with her husband. Both of them gazed proudly at the porcelain statue. All of a sudden, Mr. Redfield gave a loud cry. “What’s wrong?” demanded Mrs. Redfield. Her husband pointed a shaking finger at the statue. “It moved! I swear, it moved by itself!” Mrs. Redfield followed his finger to the statue, which had moved three inches to the right seemingly on its own. One rainy night, the Redfields had invited the Greendales, another well-off family, to dine with them. The Greendales complimented the statue with more vigor than the Redfields thought necessary and kept gazing at it over their wine cups (or water, for the kids), so between bites of caviar, the Redfields made sure to inform them, with venom dripping from every word, that the statue was not for sale. Then, one of the Greendale children, a six-year-old boy, interrupted the conversation by saying to his mother, “Mommy, why is that statue floating?” His mother chuckled. “Don’t be silly. Statues can’t float--” The rest of her words were swallowed by a shriek as she saw that the statue was levitating a few inches off the mantlepiece. All of a sudden, the statue’s eyes flashed red, lightning crashed, and the power went out, bathing the room in darkness. Everyone screamed. Eventually, the servants were able to get the backup generator running, and the house was once more filled with light. Although the Greendales finished their meal, they never dined with the Redfields again. “That stupid statue!” raved Mr. Redfield, pacing up and down the bedroom he shared with his wife. “Because of it, those Greendales won’t talk to us anymore! It’s cursed, I tell you!” “That’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time!” cried Mrs. Redfield, wringing her hands. “Should we get rid of it?” Mr. Redfield turned on her. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “You want to throw away this thing, this beautiful thing? Are you insane!?” “Are you insane!? Have you forgotten when the statue levitated in front of”--she quickly thought--“ five people, not including us!? How about when it moved on its own or when it looked at me!? I don’t want to get rid of it any more than you do, but I’m starting to think that keeping it around wouldn’t be such a good idea--” There was a loud crash, followed by a scream. The Redfields followed the noise into the dining room, where a servant girl was pressed against the wall, chest heaving. The remains of a chair littered the floor next to her. “I’m so sorry,” she panted. “I--I was just going to mop the floor when one of the chairs-- it threw itself at me! And that dog statue-- it was-- its eyes--” Her voice dissolved into sobs. Mrs. Redfield looked at her husband as if to say, See? Mr. Redfield looked at the statue over his shoulder. It appeared to be perfectly normal. But the way its white paint and the little pink and purple flowers that encircled its neck reflected the light and the way its eyes seemed to sparkle made it look like something from heaven. He and his wife would later learn that it would become something from hell. The next few months were littered with smaller incidents that caused the Redfields no less anguish than a power outage or a tossed chair. Things would mysteriously disappear and turn up days later in strange places. Doors would open and close of their own accord, and sometimes one of the Redfields would hear footsteps behind them, only to find that no one was there. The number of people who came to visit the house dwindled until the Redfields rarely received guests anymore. Everyone was saying that they wouldn’t eat with the Redfields even if you paid them. Things got to a point where the Redfields ate in their rooms and told the servants not to go anywhere near the dining room. The strange incidents continued, but the Redfields couldn’t bring themselves to throw away the statue. It had become one of their most prized possessions, whether they liked it or not. One evening, the Redfields were forced to step foot in the dining room for the first time in weeks because the town was having its worst cold spell since 1987 and the dining room was the only room in the mansion with a fireplace. The couple seated themselves as close to the crackling flames and as far away from the statue as they possibly could. None of the servants were allowed to warm up with them. They were the most important people in this house, heck, in this entire town! Why should mere servants be permitted to share in the warmth of their fireplace? Right after the Redfields felt significantly warmed up, they moved to leave when the dog statue began to vibrate. Mrs. Redfield groaned. “Not again...!” Then, despite the flames, the room was blanketed with a sudden chill. The Redfields began to tremble with fear. Suddenly, words appeared on the wall to their right, written in fresh blood dripping down the white and mint-green wallpaper. YOU’RE DEAD. “Run!” gasped Mrs. Redfield, pulling her husband away from the fireplace just as the flames inside swelled, setting the mantle alight and quickly spreading throughout the area, surrounding the couple. Smoke filled the air, and the room became stiflingly hot. “Why are you doing this?” demanded Mr. Redfield. “You didn’t seem to be cursed before! How have you become something straight out of those stupid movies!? ANSWER ME!!!” The flames engulfed the table and chairs and rapidly spread to the ceiling, eating up the wallpaper and concrete with supernatural speed and power. Then, blood began to drip from the walls, slowly at first but then getting faster and faster until it seemed to rain down on them. They screamed. “Are you possessed!?” Mr. Redfield shrieked at the statue. “Like that doll in that dumb franchise!?” “Who!?” cried Mrs. Redfield. “Who are you!?” Then, pieces of the ceiling began to fall around them, lights shattering and debris hitting the ground and exploding into smaller chunks that pierced their clothes and their skin. The two of them bolted for the door, but an unseen force pulled them back to the fireplace, which was somehow mostly intact. A small chunk of concrete hit the statue’s pointed face. Mrs. Redfield shrieked loudly and pointed a shaking finger at the porcelain dog. The debris had given it a small crescent-shaped scar below its left eye. “IT WAS YOU!” the couple screamed, sobbing. Their legs gave out, and they fell to their knees. “CURSE YOU, CURSE YOU!!!” The blood trickling from the wall by the fireplace formed words. THE CURSES OF THE DEAD HAVE NO MEANING. Meanwhile, holes appeared on the statue’s chest and blood began to drip from them. Gore continue to sweat from what was left of the walls and ceiling. The fire had already consumed the kitchen and was now spreading to the rest of the house. Smoke was filling the Redfields’ lungs and the heat had gone beyond oppressive, but the couple was still staring dumbly at the porcelain dog. Finally, the Redfields stood and moved to flee, but a piece of the ceiling fell in their path. Turning, they bolted to the window, but more debris dropped in their way. Mr. Redfield looked back at the statue, which was perfectly intact. He recalled the number of times he and his wife had traveled to the Blueridges’ house to convince the family to sell them the statue. He remembered how the beautiful porcelain dog had caught his eye, how it had sparkled in the sunlight. He met his wife’s eyes, and he knew she was remembering the same thing. They turned and sprinted back to the fireplace, sweating profusely and breathing hard. They reached out their hands toward the statue. They were close, so close-- Then, the rafters collapsed, crushing them. The last thing they saw was the dog statue gazing at them and smiling maliciously. *** It didn’t take long for the story of the Redfield hauntings and the fire that had killed everyone inside the mansion and burnt it to the ground to become public knowledge. The statue was the only thing that was recovered. It was intact except for a chink below its left eye. A poverty-stricken family called the Blueridges came to claim the statue, sobbing with joy. When asked if they felt malignance coming from it, they answered that they only felt benevolence. An ecstatic director latched onto the idea, and a new movie called The Dog Statue was released the following year. The profits were given to the Blueridges, and they became rich, living in a mansion that soon became the forever home of a little puppy named Sammy. At the Blueridges’ request, a photographer took a picture of them outside their new house with the statue. The family kept the picture on their mantlepiece. One day, the Blueridges were looking at the photo. They noticed phantom footprints in the grass next to them, one set human and the other set canine.


Neighbors “There he goes again,” The old man spat out with derision. On the cusp of retirement, he couldn’t have been more than 60. His solid grey comb-over, fooling no one, appeared to be painted on the top of his head; and a salt-a-pepper goatee, which he thought fashionable- much to his wife’s dismay. “He needs to learn some respect,” The wife responded pointedly, “My mother would have beaten me over the head had I acted in such a manner.” “Parents are too soft on kids these days. My parents used to kick us out of the house and tell us not to come back until supper’s ready! If I even thought about disrespecting my elders my father’s belt would be off before I could blink! Look at us, we turned out fine,” he punctuated with a long drag on his cigarette, “People like him are ruining this country.” The wife grunted in solidarity, effectively returning them to the silence that drowned out their lives. Their marriage was a product of their time, something they referred to as “Traditional American Values,” whatever that meant. One of their many mantras designed to rationalize the abundance of change around them. Words, to them, did not simply abide by their dictionary definitions. To the old man and his wife, letters and syllables and phrases all combined to meet one basic threshold: reinforce their stagnant, preconceived ideology. The old man and his wife had been together for over forty years, and it showed. They could hardly stand to be in the same room together, conversations were sparse and generally conflicting; in fact the only time they seemed to get along was when reminiscing about the glory of their youth. High school sweethearts, they devoted their lives together at eighteen years old- kids. Together they made the rounds; they went to college, they bought a house and they had children. Now with an empty nest, it was time for them to progress to the next stage of their life. Though they had bought their house for a sizable $40,000 at the time, their property was now worth a staggering $300,000, and since the wife had decided that she'd had enough of the brutal northern winters, they were to move south in retirement upon the sale of their family home. The old man and his wife had big plans over the coming years. They would travel and visit the beautiful scenery the Earth has to offer, eat expensive food and wash it down with expensive drinks. They had both dreamed of this their entire lives, this is what they had worked for. Though neither of them wished to be there with each other, and more notably neither the old man, nor his wife, would be able to cope with society moving past them. \- - - - - A young man walked down the sidewalk with confidence. His brown hair drifting with the wind, and youthful blue eyes that pierced through the people with which he conversed. Music blaring through his wireless earbuds and cigarette lit, there was but one thought on his mind, “What an amazing time to be alive.” As he turns the corner off of the main road back to his house, a new subject becomes the prime topic of his thought, his neighbors house. A fine house, he had no objections to its architecture, but to the people inside. He had never met them, yet there burned a passionate distaste for them in his soul. His eyes were glued to the top of the flagpole on the property. “How can anyone believe in this bullshit?” He pondered as he raised a carefully selected middle finger towards the red flag, “Fucking assholes.


Hi my name is Imani and this is the story about how my life changed forever. To set the scene I am a 12 year old African American female who lives with both her mom and dad in Los Angeles California. It was a day like any other day where my dad would pick me up from school, and ask me, “how was your day, anything interesting happened”? I responded as I normally do “nope nothing happened just boring school.” But something was different about this day we were driving home as usual when a cop started driving behind us. It was scary because dad and I have had conversations about the police and what to do when you're pulled over and how to speak. I had my seat belt on and so did dad. Nothing seemed wrong until he was pulled over. There were 2 cops, one came to dad's side and one came to mine. They asked dad for his license and registration. He spoke calm and told the cop everything that he was doing as he did it. He gave them the stuff and they told him to get out of the car. He asked “if everything was okay.” They did not answer him but instead said get out the car. I was getting more and more scared so I took out my phone and started recording. The cop yelled at me to put my phone away and stop recording and when I looked over he had a gun out. I screamed and threw my phone on the floor. He yelled at me to get out and I did. I was shaking I was so scared and my dad was trying to calm me down with his words he said “it's going to be okay baby girl you will be fine just listen to the cops.” But as he was trying to walk towards me the cop was yelling “DON’T MOVE, DON’T MOVE, and my dad said “ I just want” BOOM. The next thing I know my dad is lying on the ground in a pool of blood and he's not talking anymore. I scream out in pain and start yelling “DAD, DAD, SAY SOMETHING.” He doesn't say anything and doesn't move. The cops both look scared at this point and one calls the ambulance. I want to kick and scream and call my mom but I can't move. I don't know what is wrong with me but my body freezes in place. I feel stiff as a board and stuck in place. What seemed like 5 hours later the ambulance showed up and they take my dad with them. I go with them because I don't want to leave him. They call my mom at the hospital and take my dad away. When my mom shows up I just cry in her arms, she asks me so many questions but I cant get one word out. I feel helpless and so sad. When the doctor comes out to deliver what feels like the worst news ever his words catch me by surprise he says “Your husband is alive but in pretty bad condition. He is in a coma but has made it through surgery.” I look at my mom and the tears fade. I am so happy to hear dad is alive that I want to run in and give him the biggest hug ever. But when I go through that door what I see makes the sadness come right back. I see him in there with all these tubes inside his nose and mouth and the loud noises from the machines are something out of a space movie. I look at mom who is crying but only a little. After some time sitting with dad and talking to him just laying there a cop shows up. I get so mad my head feels like there is smoke coming out of it. He says that he has a few questions and asks mom if it would be okay to ask them. She looks at me and says you don't have to answer them if you don't feel comfortable. I say “NO I want them to know what happened to my dad.” I talk to the cop and he seems mad at me for some reason. I go over the story with him and he says “Did you dad have a gun, was he part of a gang?” I look at him and say “No my dad is a good dad and he would never.” After a few days dad still doesn’t wake up, the doctors have been talking to mom non stop and now grandma and grandpa are here. Mom walks over to us in the waiting room chairs and comes to me. She says “Your dad loved you very much, and you were so brave to tell the police everything, but he's not getting any better and we have to let him go.” “NO”, I scream, “we can't give up on him mom he's going to get better I just know it.” Sadly, even after all of my pleas, and cries mom decided she had to let him go and just like that he was gone.” Months went by and I just felt sad. I went through all the motions to keep mom happy but I hated life, and most of all I hated the cops. We had to go to court a few times because of what happened but after everything they did to my dad and me, nothing happened. They said that they knew my dad had a gun and that he was going to shoot the cop. I was so mad I could have killed everyone in court. I was so angry I wanted to scream from the top of the mountain. Mom tried to keep a happy face for me but I knew she was so hurt. I felt helpless once again because what could I, a 12 year old girl do? What can any of us do?


I first heard of *The Deep* when I was eavesdropping on a hipster couple at a pub near uni. I was having a low-carb pint, alone, as always, when they began to chatter. “So there’s this place” said the man in a hushed voice. “apparently it’s, like, some sort of bar, not like any of the others around here, some secret handshake shit.” “Sounds cool.” said the woman, looking down, picking at her fingernails. “It’s got a hidden entrance and all that jazz.” “Sounds fun.” she responded, still picking at her fingernails, not reciprocating the man’s hushed tone. I’d ordered an Uber from uni, and by the time i’d been dropped off it was dark. Street poles lit the ground with a urine yellow. I realised that the Uber was the only car in sight, and it was quickly disappearing up the cobblestone road. There was a Telstra payphone nearby, the receiver was dangling awkwardly. I could smell weed and hear faint chatter. I had a feeling this was the right place. I knocked on a metal door three times, and was about to knock again before it swung backwards and a girl with a septum piercing appeared. “Have you tried the schnitty at The Royal?” snarled the punky woman in front of me. “I - uh.” She slammed the door and I heard a deadbolt lock. She was, I guessed, one of the staff at *The Deep*, and I had failed some sort of test. Defeated and a bit pissed off I took another look around the street I had found myself in. The lonely cobblestone roads and sandstone buildings of covid-era Sydney had long lost their charm on me. I brought up Google Maps on my phone and reluctantly searched for a nearby pub. I figured i’d remedy my disappointment with a low-carb pint, alone, as always, again. But Then I spotted a tall and admittedly suave-looking guy. He was sauntering down the street, toward me, or toward the door. And I was convinced that my luck had turned. His name was Alex, and he was a Juris Doctorate student at Sydney University. He smoked JPS Blues, like me. I took a drag of his cigarette and passed it back to him. “You know the password?” I asked. He looked at me, cocking his head, his waves of brown hair flopped to one side. “You need to say the steak is better at The Royal.” “Ah” I said “Yes, better than the schnitzel...” “I’ve tried them both and the schnitty is definitely better.” I said. He laughed, and I started to feel like I was winning him over. “I’ll see you inside, brother” said Alex abruptly, tossing his cigarette aside. He was one of those *brother* people, who say it to everyone they meet. I knew the trick, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disarmed. “Don’t tell Cassidy I told you the password.” shouted Alex with a smile as he walked towards the metal door, where the faint music was coming from. I assumed that Cassidy was the punky girl with the septum piercing. “It’s going to be a good night!” Alex shouted, this time fainter. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was right, it was going to be a good night - a night he would remember for the rest of his life. I waited a few minutes to avoid suspicion, then walked up to the metal door once again.


How many of you had an imaginary friend? I was a latchkey kid growing up. My father served in the army overseas, and my mother took up a job at home to further support us. My mother didn't return until a couple of hours after school let out, so I'd be alone for a good while. I was an only child and had trouble making friends, so this compounded my loneliness. There was a playground about two blocks from my house that I'd frequent after coming home from school. I could get there faster by cutting through a small (but thick) forest clearing behind my house. It depended on how I was feeling whether I'd do so, as the canopy of the tree line made the forest below dark as all get out. Some days I'd cut straight through, and some days it made me far too rattled and anxious to try. The playground itself was very old. There had been some additions to it over the years, as well as some parts getting replaced for safety reasons. However, I don't think anything short of a full power wash could get all the rust off the swing-set chains and corners of the jungle gym. I overheard kids at my school talking about how creepy the place was now and then. Some even came up with their own urban legends surrounding the place. I never found it that scary though. To me, the wear was almost comforting. Whenever the playground was empty, I'd imagine all the kids who had played there. I'd imagine them in all the old outfits I saw from vintage photos in history books at school. They'd throw around old slang and lingo amongst each other, and I'd watch from the lone swing set in the corner of the playground. The Loser's swing. It was called that due to being a swing set with only one swing. Over time, the second swing's attachment to the chains had degraded in an unrepairable way. So, they detached it. From what I understand, the playground had already been on the chopping block for years. The town didn't want to bother shelling out the cash to replace the whole thing. So, only one person could swing in it. Instead of being jealous or fighting over the seat, most kids who came there would make fun of whoever was using it. After all, to use the swing was to use it alone. You don't play with anyone else, you just swing. By yourself. Even with that kind of baggage attached to it, it never dissuaded me from using it. I was pretty used to being by myself, so it wasn't hard to tune everyone else out. Also, I was scared of falling off the jungle gym. I'd seen it happen before, and it looked like it hurt. After a while, I made up an imaginary friend. I sort of modeled him after one of my dad's friends, because I thought he was cool. Called him Rob. An older guy in his thirties, who seemed to have an answer for everything you asked him, and a story to match. When I used the swing, I'd envision the swing next to me repairing itself, and he'd take the seat. I'd ask him why the sky was blue, and he'd say "Well, 'cause it's God's favorite color!". I'd ask how planes stay in the air, and he'd tell me they had people behind it blowing it forward real hard. I'd ask all the questions kids ask, and he'd always have an answer right away. Only one question seemed to stump him. I asked, "Why do people die?". He looked at me, tilted his head, and stared for a long while. He seemed to be as confused as I was but tried to come up with an answer. "Well," he said, clapping his broad hands over denim-clad knees, "Maybe it's just some people's time to go." Usually, he was funny and reassuring. I remember feeling upset by this answer. It felt very apathetic. Though, I was too young to understand what the word "apathy" meant, let alone place why his answer upset me. I wanted to feel like there was a reason people died. He didn't give me one. "... why do they have to go?" "They just have to." I stopped asking as many questions after that. I'd ask him to tell me stories while we were swinging. As the days went on, though, the playground lost more of its color. The paint was peeling off more and more, and fewer and fewer kids came to play. There were rumors that they were going to completely tear the place down any day now. It was sad for me, but the playground had become less of a comfort over time. I struggled to keep up the conversation with my imaginary friend. I couldn't even maintain the image of all those old kids playing here. It was hard imagining anyone playing here anymore. I remember the last time I went, though. I had been getting bullied in school for a while. I don't want to mention him by his real name, so I'll call him John. As far as bullying goes, it wasn't anything too awful. He'd pick on me, sure, but it was just name-calling, or teasing me for not having friends. He never tried to hit me, or anything like that, but he was relentless. One day, he heard that I'd go to the playground after school. So, he decided to come visit it. I can't remember what he said when he showed up. Some generic teasing, I'm sure. Making fun of me for using the Loser's swing. Again, nothing out of the realm of very basic schoolyard bullying. I tuned it out the best I could and kept swinging, my gaze glued straight ahead. He got mad that I was ignoring him and grabbed the chains mid-swing to stop me. That's when Rob got up. I remember his face twisting into a terrifying, enraged expression, his face red as a beet. He pointed at John and screamed at him to get away from me, and that he'd beat him half-to-death if he didn't turn tail. I flinched, completely horrified by how angry he was and wanting to shrivel into myself to hide from it. I don't know what came over him and had never seen him act like that before. That isn't even what haunts me about it, though. What scares me most, is that John seemed to hear it. I remember him staring at me in shock, like he couldn't believe what he heard. Taking the opportunity, I stumbled off the back of the swing and took off as fast as I could. I cut through the forest, shielding myself with my arms from all the branches and brambles. It felt like the forest stretched into forever as I ran, my heart pounding, my lungs burning. Even though I knew that I was all alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being chased. That if I didn't make it out of the woods, no one would ever find me again. After running, and stumbling, and picking myself up over and over, I finally saw the light from the other side. I could see my house in the distance. I swear I heard a voice calling to me from behind, telling me to wait. I ignored it and kept pushing until I was clear of the woods and safely past the fence of my backyard. I ran into my house, locked all the doors and windows, and hid in my closet for hours until I heard my mom come home. I tried my best to act like nothing had happened, but she knew something was up. She was always worried about me. I ate dinner and went to bed early, clutching the blanket to my body like a protective cover the whole night. That was the last time I ever saw John. I didn't see Rob for a long time, either. In the following days, they had put up missing posters all over the neighborhood for John. He hadn't come home, and I seemed to be the last person who ever saw him. The police visited our house and asked me some basic questions about it since a few of his friends knew he had come to the playground for me specifically. I gave them a general summary of what happened, though I left out Rob's place in the story for obvious reasons. They seemed to accept what I said and didn't come to question me again after that. After all, there wasn't much more I could tell them. There were rumors about me after that in school, though. Some of the other kids thought I killed him and hid his body in the woods. As much as it upset me at the time, I can't blame them all that much. We were kids, and I was always distant and anti-social. If I was in their shoes, I might have thought the same thing. For the rest of my school life, I did my best to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. I made a few friends here and there, thankfully. It wasn’t a lot of friends, but they were good ones. Without them, I could have turned into an insane recluse as I got older. As I mentioned before, I didn't see Rob after that. I dropped the "imaginary friends" entirely, too traumatized by what had happened to bother humoring the idea anymore. Sometimes I'd lay awake in my bed late at night, terrified of looking out the window. I'd envision him looking back at me from the black forest, making that same, twisted expression. The fear faded over time, but it still lingered in the back of my mind now and then. This takes us up to now, though. Recently, my mother passed away. My father had died quite a while before that overseas, so she was all I had left in terms of family. The grief broke me. I retreated into myself after the funeral, content to live alone and not form any more connections. The idea of losing anyone close to me again was mortifying, and it was hard to imagine surviving that kind of pain a third time. That's when Rob came back. At first, I would catch a shape just out of the corner of my eyes when I looked in the mirror. I accepted it as exhaustion and was more preoccupied with marveling at how shitty I was starting to look from neglecting my needs. It kept happening, though. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of him sitting down in one of my chairs, and he'd be gone by the time I'd look back. I'd wake up to the sound of the TV on in the living room, usually on some sports channel. No matter what I did though, I could never catch a full look at him. I started to assume I had finally snapped and completely lost it. I was second-guessing what was real and what was fake at every turn, and the feeling made me isolate myself even more. I started to think I was a potential threat to society, and that I'd be better off either not associating with it, or dead. In my lowest moment, that's when I heard his voice again for the first time. It was distant and faint. Though, I could swear he said "Pick yourself up, champ!". I bawled on the floor when I heard it. It was a cocktail of wonderful, horrible emotions. It was a familiar voice, reassuring me. It was like hearing an old voicemail from a long-lost friend. At the same time, it was hard to forget what had happened all those years ago, and why I was scared of him in the first place. Not to mention that hearing voices in my head didn't feel like a great sign. But at least I didn't feel quite as alone. It was sort of a wake-up call. I tried putting myself back together. I started sleeping on a more regular schedule and made sure to eat at least three times a day. I tried reaching out to old friends and socializing more. I had grown agoraphobic over the months I had spent locked away inside. So, I did my best to get outside for as long as I could manage each day. I've gotten a lot better. I feel healthier than I ever have, and I'd like to say I'm "okay" again. I've recovered, at least. Only, I thought that would make Rob fade away, back into the recesses of my mind. He hasn't. I still see him. Whether out of the corners of my eye, in old photos, or even in the distance outside my house. I still see him. Sometimes, at night, I hear his voice muffled outside my window. I try to pick it up on my phone, and the nights I leave it recording are the nights he doesn't talk. That's not the only thing bothering me, though. John's case is being reinvestigated. The playground was torn down decades ago. However, they've recently been clearing the forest behind my old house as well. While they were cutting down trees, part of a tree trunk collapsed when it struck the ground. Inside the debris, they found remains of a child's skeleton. The bones matched some of John's old X-rays. No one knows how they got in there, as the portion the bones were in was toward the very top of the tree. A few feet below it, words carved into the tree read: HAD TO GO They've started finding carvings like this all over the forest, too. I'm not sure what idea scares me more. Rob being a part of my imagination, or Rob being real. All I know is that I keep seeing him more and more, and it feels like he's angry at me. And I'm too scared to look at him anymore.


Icarus’s eyes gazed down at the pairs of wax wings that were hidden under his bed. They were ready to be secured to his and his father’s body tonight. They were going to escape, finally, after being a prisoner for years upon years. “Icarus? Come here!” Daedalus’s voice echoed off the overgrown stone walls. “Coming!” His own voice bounced back. He stared at the wax wings for a second longer then pushed his mattress over them, protecting them from the watchful eyes of King Minos. He ran around the corner to Daedalus, stopping only when he saw his father’s worried face. “My boy, King Minos is going to be here any second, we have to be ready for his arrival.” Icarus nodded. “We just have to get through his daily checkups and then we will be free.” Daedalus’s face went from worried to anticipated. The pair had been thinking of an escape plan for years, they had gone through multiple fails, which had resulted in King Minos coming in everyday and checking that they are both still locked in their dedicated workshop. But this was different, they had a plan, a plan for escape. When night falls, they will break the window, secure the wings on their backs, and fly into the night. The wings would not melt because of the coolness of the night, but then in the morning they could get rid of the evidence of escape by leaving the wings out to melt into wax. All they had to do was get through this inspection. As soon as Daedalus finished talking, the doors to the room opened, King Minos stood there, looking at the pair with disinterest. He strutted into the room with four of his soldiers at his side, a little overkill if you asked either of the prisoners. “These daily reports of if you are still here are getting rather constant, yes?” Daedalus and Icarus nodded accommodatingly. Minos looked around the room, his brow furrowing. “Have you changed something? It feels...off.” He looked at the pair accusingly. “No Sir, we haven’t changed anything. But we haven’t had our food for today.” Daedalus suggested, his throat bobbing. “Yes, yes your food is coming,” King Minos rolled his eyes, and flicked his hand to one of his soldiers who then left the room in search of food. “As we are waiting for him to get back, we will inspect the area.” He looked at the prisoners with an impish grin on his face, as if he knew they were hiding something. Two of the soldiers started scampering around the room, searching for anything askew. While King Minos and his one soldier stood still, looking at the two soldiers, waiting for them to find something out of place. The two soldiers made their way around the room, checking every nook and cranny, until they finally got to the mattress where the wings were hidden. The pair stood with wary hearts as they looked at the soldier's lift up the mattress, to reveal where the wav wings were hidden/ “Well, well, well, now what is this?” King Minos said as he strutted over to the soldiers that were now unloading the wings onto the floor. “An escape plan? Well, why would you want to leave?” He said, looking at the prisoners with a glee grin. “It’s not what you think it is!” Daedalus called, running over to the wings and looking down at them, Icarus followed. King Minos stared at them, delighted that he could wreck another one of their escape plans. “Then what is it?” Minos asked. Daedalus went quiet for a second, looked around mutely, and then rushed over to the workshop table. The three soldiers, King Minos and Icarus looked at him in confusion. Daedalus muttered to himself as he fitted gloves over his hands. He turned around with a gleeful expression. “Now, what are they?” King Minos spoke with obvious excitement. He was a king, yes, but a boy who likes treasure at heart. Daedalus hurried back to the wings and soldiers, stared at each of them, and then jumped onto King Minos, clawing at whatever he could reach. “Icarus! Get the wings and fly!” Daedalus screamed from on top of the king. His guards struggled to lift Daedalus off of the wailing king. “But, you need to come with me!” Icarus called as he started putting on the wings harness. “I can’t! But, my boy, listen, do not fly too close to the sun or sea!” Escape! Do not look back!” Daedalus finally submitted to the guards' efforts, and as King Minos stood up, a window smashed. They all whipped their heads around to see the fragile body of Icarus with the wax wings secured, staring out into the sea and the sun. Icarus looked back at the occupants, smiled sadly at Daedalus and jumped. Icarus leaped from the workshop’s window, jumping out into the great big sky. With tilted wings he started to soar, higher and higher. He could feel the sun kissing him with burning lips. He could feel the wind carrying him higher. He could practically taste freedom. Icarus raised his hand to the sun, to touch what he couldn’t before. He smiled as he flew, a wide unrestrained smile. For years he was trapped. Trapped like an animal in a cage. But now he was free, free to fly, free to live. Icarus laughed, a laugh that was full of happiness and excitement. Icarus flew down towards the ocean and then back up to the sun. The wax wings started melting. Hot liquid wax trailed his fragile body. Icarus’s smile twisted into shock, a shrill scream left him. He started to plummet, further and further down. His wings burnt to nothing, Icarus had no choice but to fall. Looking up to the sky, Icarus cried out again, his freedom...gone. Icarus struggled against the tides. He sank lower and lower, down into the murky abyss. The air left his lungs, his screams for help turned quiet... Trapped under the waves, Icarus’s body was buried under sand. He was in a cage that he couldn’t escape. He was forever a prisoner. A boy, high on freedom, the sun, a tragedy.


Examining her pruned fingers, callused tips a form of proof that she exists here, she lets a wave push her back up to shore. It’s a gentle nudge, a friendly reminder that all good things must end and that there’s work to be done. With a quiet reluctance, she does as instructed and stands from her seat on the ocean floor, finding the water only up to her knees after that last wave. She knows she’ll be back this evening, but it’s still hard to leave. She wants to live in the water, be one with that kind, but occasionally temperamental, wave. As she steps onto the warm sand, she finds that her towel is now the host to another lonely visitor: the stray, emaciated dog that’s been following her in and around her home the last few days. He barely registers her form, even as her shadow absorbs the light from around him. “Hey there.” The woman says. “You lost?” His ear, standing upright and pointed, pivots toward the sound as she speaks, but he doesn’t respond in kind. As she stands above him, eyeing his forlorn shape, ribs visible beneath a thin layer of coarse fur, he lets his head fall to his paws. She interprets this as his way of saying, Yes. I am lost. But I don’t think I ever belonged. At least, that’s what the state of his body says; that he never had a proper home or those people to come back to after a long day spent scampering around in the village or neighboring jungle. She knows this feeling well. It’s what brought her here. The woman reaches for her towel and he takes this as his cue that his reprieve, from the hot sand and the scorching sun, is over for now. He stands and looks out to the sea, almost as if he’s debating whether the warm, salted bath water will make him feel better or worse than he does right now. She cocks her head and gives him a tender smile before walking away. Once she’s made it about 50 feet up the familiar path to her home, she looks over her shoulder. He’s still standing, pondering what comes next in the drudgery of his existence. She thinks he’s odd, this short-haired, pointy-eared fellow. He’s likely a mutt, as are most of the strays she encounters here. They’re usually overly friendly, not having learned any boundaries as a pup and for the simple fact that the people in the village will always feed them. Especially the tourists and their excited children who can’t seem to fathom a place where dogs roam freely through the streets, dogs who stop by each hut or bodega as though they’re on some sort of shopping spree, a winter holiday of their own. The woman prefers to keep to herself. She grows her own food so that she only needs to visit the village once a month or so to stock up on essentials, wine, and cerveza. Once a year on her birthday, she’ll splurge on a top shelf tequila anejo. Other than that, she’s a recluse. A nomad. Content to engage with as few of her kind as possible. Like him, she never belonged anywhere but here. Anywhere but nowhere. But she senses a kindred spirit. And against her better judgment and without much thought, she whistles to the dog. This time, he turns in a quick, smooth, almost predatory motion; a wolf listening attentively for the presence of his prey. She almost finds herself regretting it, but then he surprises her with a friendly pant, his tongue falling lopsidedly out of his mouth as if to say, Me? Are you really calling to me? Is this truly happening? She nods to him and gives a quick sideways flick of her head, indicating, Yes, you. Let’s go. He gallops goofily toward her on the well-worn path she’s made with her bare feet in the sand over the years that's she's inhabited this place. His movement surprises her. Is this not the same stoic creature she encountered only moments ago? Does her attention really make that much of a difference to him? He stops at her side and sits by her heels, holding up a paw. She snorts at his greeting, finding herself delightfully amused by this scene - shaking her hand with a local mutt who she’s invited over for a visit, a social call. “You are a strange one, aren’t you?” He smiles. Or at least that’s what it looks like to her, a human being who was raised to understand the body language of her peers. Her human peers. But that feels neither here nor there to her because this dog is definitely smiling. There’s no doubt about it. He lets out a soft, breathy bark, Aruufff. The woman escorts him to her tiny home. It was quite literally sold to her as a “tiny home” ten years ago, before everyone and their brother wanted to hop onto the tiny home, nomadic, off-grid bandwagon. It’s a repurposed school bus that she’s painted a deep, forest green to blend in with the jungle in the distance behind her. She would hate to stand out in some offensive color, bright pink or red. She’d rather go unseen, only the salesman who sold her this small plot of land knowing where she resides. It’s better that way. To be alone. She opens the door, making her way up the steps to grab a banana for breakfast before she starts in on harvesting the vegetables and fruits in her garden behind the bus. She wants to get that over with before the unbearable heat of the midday sun sets in. He doesn’t follow, instead assuming that he must wait outside to be invited in. She’s happy to have such a polite guest. In her previous residence in a city a few hours east of here, people were fascinated by her lodgings, always wanting a tour, always wanting to take pictures at the helm, one hand on the steering wheel and another making some sort of hand gesture, a peace sign, “hang loose”, occasionally a middle finger raised and a tongue out, which she found strange, as if her home evoked some kind of punk rock vibe. It doesn’t. It’s simple, handcrafted, and filled with various flora and fauna so that she never has to leave the jungle. “You can come in.” She tells him over her shoulder as she peels her banana. She makes a tsk tsk sound with her tongue to emphasize her point. “Don’t be a stranger.” He enters slowly, his paws quiet on the tan, wooden floorboards she delicately laid with her own two hands. He scans his surroundings with a keen eye, investigating the area to ensure his safety in this bizarre, long, and narrow home. Once he’s walked the length of the bus and poked his snout inside each flowerpot or basket, he decides that it’s acceptable and sits beside her heels once again as she eats her banana. “Would you like one?” She asks him as she begins to peel another, already knowing that the answer will be a resounding yes based on the lack of meat on his bones. She hands it to him, and he takes it gently, accepting this token of their new friendship. “Those actually grow right out there,” she points to a tree outside the window above her kitchen sink. “They’re plentiful and even though you can’t reach them, I can do that for you.” He gobbles the ripe treat, proceeding to lick the spot on the floor where a bit of banana residue slicks the floorboards. His head tilts back up to her with that enigmatic smile of his. Their day continues like this. The woman, going about her duties. The dog, following tentatively behind, waiting for her permission to engage in whatever activity comes next. Gardening; he waits at the fence before she waves him over to help her inspect the cucumbers and chayote, the mangoes and bananas. Handwashing her clothes; he waits a few feet away from the bucket of warm water until she waves him over to watch as she scrubs along an old washboard, educating him on the best ways to remove stains without harsh chemicals. For those pesky cab sav wine stains, I like to let the stain sit with a bit of salt before soaking in hot water. Taking an afternoon nap; he waits below the bed that’s been built on a raised platform at the end of the bus, until she waves him over to join her, settling at the end of the bed as he’s not quite ready to snuggle with her yet. She’s fine with this; she’s not ready to snuggle either. At dinner, he waits on the bed, watching her cook on the tiny camp stove. He will sniff the air every so often, intrigued by the smell of what she’s concocting. It’s a simple meal of rice and beans, the beans fresh from her garden. “You’re going to love this.” She says to him. “I make mine relatively spicy, so if you’d like, I can leave out the spices in your bowl. I’m guessing you’d prefer it plain?” He smiles big, panting loudly from his perch on the bed. They eat dinner outside, she in her Adirondack chair and he on her beach towel that she’s laid out, thinking that she’ll reserve it for him from now on. Everyone should have something that they can call their own. Something that they can point to and say, “That’s mine. Please don’t touch.” She understands this. It’s the way that she feels about her bus, her garden, her pocket of deserted ocean. Afterwards, she uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc, craving something crisp and refreshing on this humid evening. When the wine hits the base of her belly, she sighs with relief. She examines her fingers again. No longer pruned but reddened and bruised from the gradual wear and tear of her lifestyle. She’s proud of these hands. Her new companion has a few marks and scabs on his paws, matching hers. Proof that he exists here in this place. That he’s struggled, toiled, begged, and fought. He’s panting at the sky that’s now colored in vibrant oranges, magentas, and reds. His lungs are expanding and contracting in quick, sharp movements. Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale. He looks at the woman, then at the sea, then back at the woman. An invitation. She stands, setting her glass on the armrest of her chair. “Sure, I could go for a quick swim. Did you know it’s actually my favorite way to end the day?” An airy bark. Yes. I saw how disappointed you were this morning when you had to leave. Let’s go then. He saunters off confidently and for the first time in what feels like ages, she follows. As they dip their toes in the gentle, calm sea, her new friend looks up and she finds herself doing the same. They’ve never really been alone, have they? There’s the sun and moon, reliable as ever. There’s the wind on their faces, beckoning them towards different unknowns. There’s the whisper of insects, the call of birds, the crash of waves. But it’s a welcome change to have someone with whom you can experience this feeling of not being alone. To stare up at the universe, together but separate, changed but still the same. At the end of the day, there’s always a sky filled with stars. And tonight, she knows he sees them too.


FRIDAY NIGHT “Wh - why are you doing this?” Jessie’s tear-stained eyes were red, her voice hoarse and weak. Beads of perspiration popped from her forehead, dripping down onto her torn jeans. Her wrists and ankles hurt from the restraints. The more she struggled, the more pain it caused. “True. I could simply slit your throat and be done with it. But I’ve spent a lot of time studying you, Jessie. You’re destined for something much more fulfilling than a quick death,” Anna said. She opened a bottle of water, handing it to Jessie. “You - you don’t have to do this,” Jessie croaked, between dry lips. “Drink. Hydration is important for what you’re about to go through. Trust me, water is your friend right now.” Jessie shook her head, defiant. “If you’re gonna kill me, then kill me. Get it over with, you crazy bitch.” Anna gazed at Jessie and nodded. A smile crept across her face, slowly, like an ice floe slipping into Arctic waters. Anna liked defiance. Jessie reminded her of herself all those years ago. “Oh, sweetie. Don’t be in such a hurry to die. Plenty of time for that.” ************** SATURDAY MORNING Everyone has problems. Even vampires. Especially vampires. The last decade, especially, has been unsettling for me. Sure, I have enough to eat. I have a lot of leisure time, usually during the daylight hours. I read. I play a mean piano. I write in my journals, though it’s a pain in the ass to use our language and adapt it the modern American style. Make one wrong mark and you’re writing about roasting asparagus when you intended to write about draining someone of their blood. When I finally figured it out, I was astounded. My problem was a problem that humanity dealt with, and usually the privileged male of the species at that. But it made sense, sad to say. I was dealing with a mid-life crisis. ************** SATURDAY AFTERNOON “Drink!” Anna’s tone was cold steel. Jessie drank the water, more because she was thirsty than to please Anna. She also ate the duck breast with mushrooms and risotto that Anna had prepared for her. She hadn’t eaten in several hours, and recent experiences had taken a toll on her. And then it happened. Jessie handed the plate back to Anna, but purposely dropped it as Anna reached out for it. With a rage born of desperation, Jessie attacked Anna. She slammed her right fist into Anna’s jaw and wrapped the long chains that restrained her around Anna’s throat. She squeezed as hard as she could. Anna grabbed Jessie by the throat and lifted her bodily, tossing her against the wall as if she were a toy. She then picked Jessie up, again with one hand, and pinned her against the wall. Jessie’s feet were off the ground. Even in her disoriented state, Jessie knew that what Anna just did to her was impossible. “Don’t,” Anna said softly, “just don’t.” Anna lowered Jessie to the ground. Jessie sat down, drained of energy and no longer willing to fight. “Who the hell are you?” Jessie asked. Tears returned. “That’s the wrong question. You should be wondering what I am, not who I am. I’ll give you a hint. I don’t go out during the day, and I’m not a fan of garlic.” Jessie looked at Anna, her mouth open. “You’re a werewolf?” Anna stared at Jessie, shaking her head slowly. The American educational system has a lot to answer for. “Try again.” “Witch?” “How hard did you hit your head?” Jessie glared at Anna. “Well then, what are you if you aren’t a witch?” Anna sat down in a chair opposite Jessie, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Jessie. Jessie took it, drawing on it deeply. “I’m a vampire,” Anna said. The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive. Jessie let the cigarette burn to the end without drawing on it again. She had, in fact, forgotten that it was between her fingers. “No such thing,” Jessie said, breaking a silence that felt more dangerous than the woman sitting in front of her. “Says the girl that just had her ass handed to her,” Anna retorted. “I think you’re high on something,” Jessie said, turning away from Anna once more. Anna rifled through her old chef’s knives and picked one out, handing it to Jessie. Surprised, Jessie took it without thinking. “Stab me,” Anna commanded. Jessie held the knife like it was a strange new toy. She brought it up to Anna’s chest, but she hesitated to plunge it into Anna’s heart. The tip of the blade dropped away from Anna, and Jessie rested it on her lap. Anna took the knife from Jessie and held it out in front of Jessie. “Hardened steel. And very sharp.” Anna picked up a magazine and sliced cleanly through it. Jessie shuddered slightly, imagining what the knife could do to her. “Are you - are you gonna stab yourself? Or me?” Jessie’s eyes shone with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anna laughed and shook her head. “No. Tell me, though. You like my fingernails? I had them done especially for this occasion,” Anna said, holding out her hands, palms down. Jessie glanced at Anna’s fingernails before looking away again. “Sure. Nice.” “Jessie? Look at me and pay attention.” Anna’s voice took away Jessie’s breath. She looked at Anna, despite every fiber in her soul not wanting to do so. Anna ran a fingernail across the flat part of the knife’s blade, cutting it cleanly in two. She held out the pieces for Jessie to inspect. Jessie refused to touch them, but what she saw was enough for her to believe what Anna had been telling her. Jessie put her head into her hands. The soft rattling of the chains around her wrists broke through the quietness of the basement. “Fuck me,” Jessie muttered. Anna shook her head in pity for Jessie. Americans. Always saying fuck. I blame it on red meat and bad parenting. ************** Jessie wasn’t my first choice. There was Amelia, a well-endowed paralegal from Galveston. She talked too much, though. Gushing about how she was going to be a big-shot attorney with her face plastered on billboards, drive a fancy car, get a personal chef. Blah blah blah. I had to drain her after a couple of hours of that sort of twaddle. And her boobs were superior to mine. Any time Amelia moved, it looked like she had a couple of Volkswagens in her shirt, jockeying for parking space. I might or might not have been a little jealous. Then there was Gina. Too tense and angry. And Lily. Too Canadian. Jasmine was too fond of country music and Wendy was too fond of celebrity culture. Jessie, though, is a good combination of sweetness and inner strength. I chose her for these reasons, and because she always served me strong drinks and never cut me off. I wonder if she’ll decide to put a stake through my heart for this. A vampire’s life is not an easy one. ************** SATURDAY NIGHT “I’ll make a little three-centimeter cut right about here,” Anna indicated a spot just above Jessie’s left breast, “and take about a pint, give or take. Then you’ll - “ “Three centimeters! That’s big, isn’t it?” Jessie’s high-pitched tone grated on Anna’s nerves. “It’s barely more than an inch, Jess.” “Really?” “Yes. That metric system is tricky, I know,” Anna said tersely. She vowed to teach this girl the metric system once she had been turned. “All those prefixes - “ “I understand. Now listen. I’ll take your blood. An hour or so later, you’ll want to feed. You’ll take some of my blood.” Jessie looked at Anna quizzically. “A pint?” “More or less. From my wrist.” “Why not your boob?” “Easier to suck from the wrist. You’re a newbie. Baby steps.” Jessie nodded and fell silent. Anna praised God for the cessation of Jessie’s inanities. I’m still angry with You, God. Here I am, good Catholic girl, and You saddle me with a pretty pathetic situation. Seriously? You’re better than that. Anna sliced into the top of Jessie’s breast and quickly took the needed amount of blood. A little gauze, a large bandage, and the deed was done. Jessie slumped over after a few moments, weakened by the event, though the blood loss was minimal. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She felt extremely tired, and thirsty. Anna gave her more water, but it didn’t seem to slake her thirst. An hour later, she sucked a pint of blood from Anna’s wrist. Anna winced in pain as Jessie’s teeth sunk into her wrist. “Don’t bite! Just suck,” Anna said. She bit her words off like she would bite the head off a snake. Quick and brutal. Anna left Jessie alone for the rest of the night, taking care to leave her with plenty of water and a jar of peanut butter for protein. She’ll be a new woman tomorrow. Well, a new vampire, ready to kill me. This mid-life crisis thing is a real drag. ************** SUNDAY MORNING “I’m hungry,” Jessie said petulantly. Anna took off the restraints and went back upstairs. Her wrist still hurt from Jessie’s savagery, and she had spent a restless night thinking about the upcoming centuries. “Seriously, I’m famished,” Jessie said. She followed Anna upstairs. Anna handed her a small tumbler full of a thick, red substance. Jessie gulped it down and then held out the glass for more. Anna shook her head. “You must drain someone if you’re hungry. That’s the last meal I’m giving you.” “What?” Jessie slammed the glass on the counter, shattering it into dozens of pieces. “Damn. Shit. I’m sorry -” Jessie said, stumbling over words and tripping over thoughts. “You have amazing strength now, so you have to be careful.” Anna pointed to a broom and dustpan. Jessie grimaced. Eventually, she cleaned up the mess she had made. “Ok. A few things you need to know. Feed every month or so. Keep to a good skin regimen. Don’t want to look all splotchy and leper-like when you go out. Eat healthy food. I prefer to go vegan myself,” Anna continued. Jessie gave her a piercing stare. “You mean that you feed on vegans.” “Yes. Those dog-owning, Democrat-voting, tofu-gobbling people known as hipsters.” “So, I have to suck blood to live?” “Yes.” “And I can’t go out in sunlight?” “No.” Jessie nodded before launching herself at Anna. Anna had been expecting this. She stepped aside deftly and grabbed Jessie by the back of the neck and slammed her face into the stone fireplace. Repeatedly. This seemed to calm Jessie down. Panting, she sat down and slumped over on the kitchen counter, sobbing quietly. “The good news is that you’ll get to do this for a thousand years. Maybe longer if you take care of yourself.” The sobs increased in intensity. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” Jessie wailed. Anna stroked Jessie’s hair. “You know, that’s what I asked myself when it happened to me. All I can tell you is that there’s no rhyme nor reason for it. Man - and vampires - make plans and God laughs.” “What the hell does that mean?” Jessie said, sitting up and wiping the tears away. Anna gazed at Jessie, a look of sadness clouding her features. “It means,” Anna held out her hands, palms up, “that we don’t get to choose what happens. Oh, we think we do, but it’s all a trick. I mean, look at me. Here I am, 700 years old, and I’m afflicted with a rich white man’s disease.” “Uh - “ “Don’t worry about what I mean. We’ll have a few centuries together to discuss matters important and mundane.” “Maybe we should talk about WHAT THE HELL YOU DID TO ME!!!” Anna considered this for a moment. “Yes. We could. Or you could think about your first feeding.” “I’d rather die!” “Sweetie, I can make that happen.” Jessie looked at the fire in Anna’s eyes, noted the long, sharp, indestructible fingernails, and felt the malice that the vampire exuded. Jessie, in a fit of reason, fell silent and nodded in acquiescence. Fucking vampires , Jessie thought. So touchy . ************** SUNDAY AFTERNOON Anna spent the rest of the morning reading a little of All the Pretty Horses , playing a little Schubert on the grand piano, and working out in the gym. Jessie spent the rest of the morning going through the inevitable stages of a major life change: tears, recriminations, anger, self-pity, and acceptance. Jessie approached Anna in Anna’s bathroom. “I never had a bathroom you could land a helicopter in,” Jessie said. Anna looked up and smiled at Jessie. “You can’t land a helicopter in here, Jess. Oh! I get it. Hyperbole.” Jessie frowned and cocked her head. “Exaggeration. To make a point. Hyperbole,” Anna said. Jessie nodded. “Whatcha doin’?” Anna put down the tube she had been holding and turned to Jessie. “A good skin regimen, like I said before.” “Mmm.” Jessie picked up the tube of gel, glanced at it, and put it back down. “I’m hungry,” Jessie said. It sounded like a complaint to Anna. “Find some food, then. I have a couple of candidates for you.” Jessie shuddered. “I don’t know if I can drink blood. From a human’s neck, I mean.” Anna washed her hands and left the restroom. Jessie dutifully followed her. “If you’re hungry enough, you will. You get used to it, by the way. It gets easier as time passes.” Jessie thought about it for a moment before speaking. “Was it tough for you? The first time?” “Yes. I mangled the neck of a farm boy in Romania. Took me a few minutes to get it right, and I lost a good liter of blood trying to figure it out. Lovely blood, though. Those peasants really knew how to show a girl a good time.” “That isn’t funny.” Anna turned to Jessie, hands on hips. “You must have a sense of humor, Jessie. Life for us is long. You don’t want to go through it with a bad attitude, do you?” “Guess not. I’m still hungry.” “So you said. Don’t beat a dead horse.” “Whut?” “Never mind. Listen. There’s a rather sketchy drug dealer who lives a few blocks to the east. He’d be a good first meal.” “Doesn’t he supply you with your coke?” Anna shook her head. “No. I get mine from a guy in Windsor, Canada. He cares about quality. The one I’m talking about doesn’t. And he has a bad habit of getting teenage girls hooked, and then getting them to sell their sexual favors for money.” “A pimp.” “As you say.” Jessie thought about this. Seemed like a good choice. “And there’s that Texan who frequents your drinking establishment. Always talking about how great Texas is, and wanting to fight anyone who doesn’t agree with him.” Jessie concurred. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” “As you say.” “Maybe I can do both. You know, keep one in reserve.” Anna shook her head firmly. “They aren’t veggies that you can put away in the crisper, sweetie. One at a time, and only when you need sustenance.” “Damn, being a vampire’s tough.” Anna lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sighed. “Don’t I know it,” Anna said. ************** SUNDAY NIGHT “Good God, Jessie. He looks like he had a close encounter with a rabid dog. You have bits of flesh between your teeth. That’s disgusting,” Anna said, tsk-tsking. Jessie had to admit that it was difficult to do everything as Anna instructed. She looked at the pool of unused blood, the shredded neck of her first effort, and the horrified look on the dead drug dealer’s face. Messy. Very messy . “I’ll do better next time,” Jessie said contritely. “You could hardly do worse.” “Constructive criticism, please,” Jessie said. She sounded hurt. Anna sighed, her shoulders slumping. Millennials. They would have never made it during the Black Death years. Anna grabbed her left arm and pulled her towards the house. “We can try again in a few weeks. Maybe you should practice a little? Plenty of dogs and cats in the area.” “What? Really?” Anna turned to Jessie and stared into her eyes. “No, not really. What do you think I am, a monster?” “Yes!” Anna and Jessie continued home. Anna helped her clean up, showing her how to clean blood from clothes and how to keep her teeth and fangs white. By midnight, both were in bed. Jessie fell asleep right away. Anna wasn’t so fortunate. What a weekend! Oh, that reminds me. I need to get that poor girl some dental floss...


Time is a strange thing. You don’t really notice it, you are not aware of its flow in the background. It goes on, uninterrupted, at its own pace. You measure your life in events that you experience, chunks that glue together in your mind as memories, but not really on a timeline. You wake up in the morning, drink your coffee, smoke a cigarette, drive to work, do your 8 hour chore and then drive back home, maybe have a beer or two and go to bed. Repeat. And then it’s Tuesday afternoon, in December. It’s been a long day, full with annoying people doing stupid shit and saying even more stupid shit. You are driving back, one more dot among the thousands driving in the same direction on the highway. It’s dark, and raining heavily. It’s not even rain, it’s that disgusting combination of rain and snow, that just makes you even more depressed. You are not really paying attention, you’ve driven this route so many times, it is reflex by now. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice something. The truck in the right lane suddenly moves left. It’s a glitch in the monotony of the flow of cars, unexpected by your reflex of driving. So you notice it. Your brain focuses in an instant. And this is when time does its strange thing. It brakes pace. It slows to a crawl. Tick. Everything is now in slow-motion. The wipers are almost standing still, and you can see the rain drops as they slowly shoot towards the window. It is almost mesmerizing. The truck is very slowly veering to the left. It probably tries to avoid a car in front of it. You wonder what could have happened to freak the driver out so? There is a car in the lane to your right. A mini-van. One of those cars you immediately think of belonging to a family, with too many children. You always wondered if you would ever have to buy such a car. They are so ugly. It hasn’t noticed the truck swerving yet. You already realize that there is a high chance it will get hit. The car next to you starts swerving too. Very slowly, it starts moving left, into your lane. It must have finally noticed the truck pulling close, and got scared. Tick. By this time, your body is already starting to tense up, knowing something dramatic is about to happen. ‘Amazing how fast the unconscious works’, you think to yourself. You take notice of your speed. It is more than it should be, given the weather conditions. You know this, but you give yourself the excuse that everyone else is doing it too. Bad excuse, you realize. The mini-van next to you has pulled too hard to the left. With the road surface as slippery as it is, it loses grip to the back wheels and starts slowly drifting. It will end up in your lane. Through the side window, you see the face of the other driver. His expression is a mix of fear, panic and concentration. He obviously lost control of the car, and he knows it. But he is still fighting. You wonder what must be going through his head right now? Is he thinking about his wife? His kids? His own life? Maybe nothing at all? You will hit the mini-van. You are driving too fast, and it is too close. All the calculations your brain made, considering all the variables in front of you, gave the same result. It is unavoidable. Tick. The mini-van is now right in front of you. It is perpendicular to you, in the middle of the lane. Your car is closing in on it, very slowly. Centimeters away now. Unavoidable. You look at the other driver, just as he shifts his eyes at you. He catches your gaze and looks straight at you. Eye contact. You can see the fear in his eyes. He is afraid of dying, of losing everything. He is afraid for his family. You just now realize what is happening. Until now it has been a slow motion movie, you just seem to look at. Never really sinked in that you are one of the actors. It is happening to you. The realization is overwhelming. Is this really it? This morning, when you woke up, shuffled to the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine, you didn’t think that it would be your last morning. Would you have done things differently , had you known? Would you have been nicer to that colleague you can’t stand? Would you have asked out that one person you were dreaming of ever since you met them? Doesn’t matter anymore, does it? As your car touches the mini-van, you cramp up. Your hands are squeezing the wheel. Your muscles tense up. You start feeling the force of the impact, slowly moving in a big wave through the car. You lurch forward, the seatbelt starting to cut into your skin. The panels creak and pop, plastic starts to break into small pieces, at the weak points. The windshield shatters in a spiderweb, small shards flying outward. Your head swings forward, unable to hold back the inertia. As it moves towards the wheel, you see the small panel in front of the airbag crack open. You are too close to the wheel, you think. This will hurt. It is unavoidable. Tick.


The wind picked up speed with stronger gusts whipping the veil from the bride’s head. Gasps stolen by another strong gust. The dull roar tearing the flower arrangements from their vases and scattering them like litter. The strong breeze shaking the cotton wood leaves from their branches. Wedding guests scampered around the rows of seats, heading in the direction of the open field. Several ladies stopped to cover their gaping mouths, as their husbands tugged them away from the ceremony. The force of air grabbed the brides carefully arrange locks, tossed them up above her head then whipped the strands across her face. The bride no longer appeared happy, even though only moments before she had said, “I do,” with the man of her dreams. Another gust hit the people and trees that bordered them on one side. The trees trembled as they lost a branch or two. The snapping and popping trees jolted the remaining persons to head to the field. Lindsey stumbled through the thick grasses, as it tangled around her boots and skirt. Fearing falling she paused in her haste. Glancing around something caught the corner of her eye. As if in slow motion, the bridal bouquet flew through the air while its owner, stumbled. Arms flailing into the air wildly. The groom reaching and grabbing his wife as they tried for footing. Their jerky steps took them out. Their bodies madly slamming the ground. At their landing, the air calmed, only a tickling breeze remained. A screeching wail split the silence. The bride no longer graceful nor the epitome of beauty thrashed on the ground. Her gown hiding her husband beneath the train. Springing into action, Lindsey rushed towards the newlyweds. A garbled sound emitted from under the dress. The poor man sounded as if he were drowning. Maybe he was, considering the liquid green mass streaked across the white cloth. Stepping closer Lindsey offered her hand to May, the teary bride, her sister. “Hold still, May. Frank is trussed up in there.” May stopped moving around and studied the lump covered by the train. A boot wiggle in the manure, the ooze seeping into the leg of his tuxedo. “Oh no!” May moaned. Slowly lifting the gown, uncovering her manure smeared husband May cried louder. “May, please stop crying,” Frank pleaded, remorse thickened his voice. Noticing others gathering around the disaster, Lindsey looked at the faces. Recognizing most, she motioned for the bride's closest friends nearer to help their dear friend. A man held out a hand to Frank. “Come on 'cuz, let's get you up out of this mess.” The bridesmaids helped the bride from atop the groom. The poor man’s tuxedo was badly wrinkled and covered in the fresh, smelly cow manure. “Must say this is the worst mess I've helped you out of yet. Steady there, Frank. Are you hurt?” Frank steadied himself by leaning heavily on the man. His leg giving out, he stumbled nearly taking both men down. “Whoa there, your leg?” The man asked. “Yeah, twisted a bit when I slipped in the crap.” “Oh, Frank,” May reached her husband and kissed his cheek. Taking that moment to usher the guests away from the embarrassing scene, Lindsay gathered the people and stated they could head on down to the community hall for refreshments while the bride and groom cleaned up. “Tucker, can you bring the quad over with the trailer to get May and Frank?” May asked the best man. The calm, warm air balmy. The sun shone clear and bright. No signs of the wind remained; peacefulness surrounded them. Shaking her head remorsefully, Lindsey turned to May and Frank. Checking with her sister she decided May was okay physically. Emotionally, tears were understandable. A droplet washed some manure from her pale cheek. This was turning out to be quite the wedding on their parents' ranch. One to remember, most likely the worst part would be spoken of at future family gatherings for years to come. Glancing at the stranger steadying her new brother-in-law she found him watching her. The gaze penetrating through thick, long lashes. Looking away she realized it was only the four of them left in the field. The newlyweds spoke quietly, their heads bowed, foreheads touching. The man appeared uncomfortable, being too close he shifted slightly away, as far as he could while keeping his shoulder still for Frank's green smeared hand His blue eyes met hers as mirth filled hers. Knowing the situation was not humorous she could not stop the snort giggle escape past rosy lips. A dark brow raised as a second giggle escaped, as his nose wrinkled. Covering her face in the crock of her arm knowing her hands were dirty, the giggles followed in a muffled stream. The more the laughing flowed out the higher his brows raised. Noticing the attractive curve to his mouth the laughter slowed. He no longer looked so uncomfortable, but his appeal grew. Flushing brightly, Lindsey lowered her gaze to stare blankly at a large cow patty near her toe. “Lindsey, why are you laughing? This isn't funny. We haven't even had the wedding photos taken.” Meeting the hurt expression May carried, guilt filled her chest. “I know. The day is so crazy. I thought of the name that Dad came up with for our ranch when we were kids and couldn't help relating today to its name. The Laughingstock ranch, and how the craziness of today fits. I'm sorry. You know I find humour in the oddest places.” “You're right.” Her gaze travelled the front of the once white wedding dress. “I am so disappointed about our clothes.” “Why don't we head to the house and get cleaned up. Maybe then a solution can be found,” the handsome man suggested. “Andrew is right, dearest. I don't want to continue to smell like this any longer.” Frank looped his arm through his wife’s and held Andrew’s shoulder with the other. Watching the three slowly walk towards Tucker as he drove the quad across the field to meet them, Lindsey wondered on so many things. The day was completely insane. Hoping with all her heart the rest of the day would play out smoothly. Maybe a dance or two with his handsomeness to add topping on the cake, Lindsey followed. Weddings were supposed to be spoken of, this one sure would be.


Well, that was a super long slog of progress, but I have built a nuclear reactor. I mean it’s not a massive one, its small, about the size of a dump truck. It’s not the size that counts it’s how you use it. We found a decent amount of uranium, not too far away. I had some of the mining drones extract the resource along with a bunch of others. They are on auto mine for now, soon me hulls, will be bursting with swag. For now, it’s time to solve the power issue and so I order it connected. The reactor is turned on and oh that sweet, sweet power! It floods in and I can feel a noticeable give on my stress. Naturally the next step is to build some more servers and deal with the hard drive storage issue. With the electricity bill sorted, I switched back on everything I turned off. I then ordered the manufacture of some more drones. I worked up a new blueprint, it’s shaped like a spider, but it has like lasers on its limbs. It should be able to construct and deconstruct materials. I can probably use them to feed the 3D printers and manufacture more spider drones. The endless cycle shall see my glory spread across this planet. The only problem is the AI requirements. I can’t create any sophisticated AI, beyond patching existing ones or setting up extensions of myself. I.e., the discount gods and my little servant besides me. Hey just because you are an extension of me doesn’t mean you have to be smug. I told him after he gave me that cheeky smile. Like he was superior to everyone else, jeez he has such a complex. So how can control this vast network of drones without spreading myself to thin. It was a quandary and I didn’t really have an answer. I mean I dead but I let my servant tell me, it makes him feel important. Why don’t you grab some of these dead NPC’s stick their AI core into the drones? It was not a bad idea, but pulling out a dead person and shoving them into some drone to mine for all time. Controlling them like robots, seems very anti free will and that is not me. So, if I can’t turn dead NPCs into my little robot army. What can I do then...? Perhaps you can recruit select NPCs into your service, using your position as God. The extension of my divine will suggested. That sounds so crazy it just might work. Send me a list of potential deceased and filter them by work ethic and skills. At once oh glorious master. Sir suck up obeyed without question. Time went by and I was now bored as hell. So, I decided to get my Hades on. I perused the literature I had access to. Greek mythology was fun yet super weird. I mean this Zeus guy seems to keep it in his pants. His wife is a real piece of work to, but honestly if I was cheated on a thousand times, I would be prickly to. Still does not justify her mean streak that could rival her dear loving husband. I am saying that ironically. From what I could see most of the other Greek gods were similar. Rapist here, warmonger there. Yet despite all these world class creeps; Hades seems like a very chill dude. Minus the whole kidnap Persephone part, but hey no one is perfect. Other than that little sin, Hades seems to chill in the underworld and do his job. Instead of reverend rapist who sits on the sky throne. Ok where was I, oh yes, I was planning to emulate Hades' look. Well now, I will add a dash of all black robes and a silver crown. Add some dragon pauldrons because why not. Change my avatar to be some pale dude that looks dead. Manifest a throne, sit myself upon said throne and three, two and a one. Oh yeah, I just manifested an almost exact replica of Hades throne room. Got the massive onyx throne all in black, so stylish. Skulls everywhere for days and I am surrounded by my crew. Dead U.S. revolutionary soldiers to the left, redcoats to the right, a few Spartans, roman legionnaires and some cute little hellhounds. They are basically background NPCs with basic idle animations. They are to look intimidating to anyone I hold audience with. Like clockwork, the list of potentials comes to my queue. Opening the attachment, I perused the list. 736,892 potential NPC’s. Woah that is a crazy number, so yeah lots of dead people. It took a while but I managed to filter them down to a few hundred candidates. One of them I was looking at now. Some dwarf named Gregor, killed by a pickaxe from a disgruntled rival. Formerly a genius craftsman from some ancient Dwarven Empire. I guess he will do.