Ryan Perkins is a gentle, quiet thirty year old office worker who enjoys collecting antiques. He resides in New York City and is well-known among the antique dealers. However, while walking to the convenience store this afternoon, something down an alley caught his eye. He notices three gold balls hanging over a door. Knitting his eyebrows together, he adjusts his hornrimmed glass. “ A pawnshop?” He tentatively enters the alley for a look, for he hasn’t seen that advertisement in years. The alley is a narrow, dirty dead-end. Ryans’s approach startles a cat that yowls and dashes away. Startled, he is aware that the hair on his neck is standing on end. He steps carefully, avoiding the piles of trash on his path. He comes to a recessed door and stops. A dim light shines through the grime on the glass window. Still, he can read the lettering, “Pawn and Loans-proprietor G.Schmit.” Try as he might, Ryan can’t see clearly enough through the grime to tell what is inside the store. He looks back toward the entrance and considers leaving but turns the doorknob and pushes the door open instead. A small bell announces his arrival. Ryan steps inside and quickly observes that this pawnshop is very old indeed. Four old-fashioned lights hang down from the tin-embossed ceiling. The walls are painted a dark tan with rich, deep walnut wainscoting halfway up. He notices that all the display cabinets and counters are full of antiques, most extremely old and in excellent condition. He looks around the shop slack-jawed, wishing he had enough money to buy the entire place when he hears a voice with a slight German accent call. “May I help you?” Ryan turns and sees someone standing inside the broker’s cage, whom he hadn’t noticed. Approaching the counter, Ryan sees the broker is a small grey-haired man with a sizeable mustache drooping over his lower lip. He is wearing a green visor and arm garters and is smoking a vintage Hubertu pipe. The smoke from the pipe is very intoxicating. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.” The broke slowly blinks his sad Bassett hound eyes and smiles. “I am so surprised to have discovered your shop!” Ryan exclaims. “I thought I knew every antique store in the city. Have you been here long?” The little man takes a long pull on his pipe. It crackles loudly. When he exhales, he responds, “Since 1903.” Ryan now understands why the store has so many unique antique items. “The alley out front used to be a throughway from Broadway to West 236 th street until the city built dat large post office over there, turning the street into the dead-end. Consequently, not many people know I’m here.” The pawnbroker returns his pipe to his mouth for another puff. Ryan tells the pawnbroker that he is a collector and is quite impressed by the many exquisite items he sees. “Ya,” he responds. We’ve been in business for a long time but do not trade in recent vintage items. So please take your time and look around. Ask if you see anything you are interested in, and I’ll do mein best to tell you about it.” Ryan thanks him and begins looking around at the treasure trove before him. He studies the jewelry, which has many items that look like they were made in the early nineteen hundreds. There are rings and earrings with huge diamonds set in what has to be fourteen-karat gold. He browses among the steamer trunks, some with clothing still inside, and is amazed at the travel stickers because they look as though they were just placed there yesterday. Ryan’s eyes widen when he sees an old bellows-type camera on a shelf among some old pinholes. It reminds him of an eighteen ninety-six Marion and Company camera. When he lifts it from the counter, he is amazed to discover that a thick metal box has been attached. Turning it over, he can’t see the manufacturer’s name and turns to the old man for help. “Mr. Schmit, pardon me, but what can you tell me about this camera? Unfortunately, I don’t see a name or patent number.” Schmit smiles from one corner of his mouth, his pipe hanging from the other. “You have an excellent eye, mein friend, for dat is a very rare piece indeed. One of a kind, actually. He removes his pipe and uses it to point to the camera. “Hollenberg invented it in the late nineteenth century. The box on the bottom is supposed to develop the picture right on the spot. No need to take it to a photography studio.” “You mean like a Polaroid?” “Err, sure. And it worked, too. The problem was that no one believed him. They all thought he was mad or dat the camera was some sort of trick camera like magicians use. No one was interested in it. He ended up destitute after spending his life savings building the camera, creating the right chemicals to develop the photo, and transferring it to the proper paper. He brought the camera to me, and I gave him one hundred dollars. It was the least I could do.” Ryan lifts his eyebrows, “Did you say you gave him one hundred dollars?” Flustered, Schmit stammers “W-W-What? Did I say dat? Oh, nein, nein, nein! It was mein grandfather who did dat. You’ll have to forgive me, you see. I’ve been here all mein life and know all the stories about every item. I sometimes feel as though I’m the one who made those transactions, you see?” Ryan nods in acknowledgment. “How much do you want for it?” The old broker puffs on his pipe a few times while considering a price and finally replies, “Seeing as it is a rare one-of-a-kind piece, I think twelve hundred dollars would be a fair price, ya?” Ryan turns the camera around and asks, “Do you have all the pieces that go with it, and does it still work?” “Ya, ya it still works.” “Then I’ll take it!” exclaims Ryan, removing a credit card from his wallet. The piece of plastic confuses the broker. Apologetically, he informs Ryan that he only takes cash or a check. Ryan just so happens to have his checkbook and writes a check. Schmit disappears into the back room and soon returns with all the accessories for the camera in a box. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, er,” Schmit stops to scan the check for Ryan’s name, “Mr. Perkins.” “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Schmit, and I promise to be back soon to purchase more!” As Ryan opens the door to leave, Schmit calls out to him. “I almost forgot to tell you that all sales are final. I hope you understand.” Ryan nods and leaves. ... Schmit hears the bell above his door tinkle wildly as Perkins bursts in two days later. The old broker scowls while raising his hands. “I’m sorry, Mr. Perkins, but I did say all sales are final, ya?” “Yes, yes. But that’s not why I’m here! This camera, there’s something wrong with it.” Perkins pauses to catch his breath and puts the camera on the counter. “Mr. Schmit, every time I take a picture, the picture that develops is not the same one I’ve taken! For example, I took a picture of the apartment building across from me, which was fine, but the picture I got back showed it on fire! It clearly was not, for I was looking right at it. I then went downstairs and shot a picture of the intersection at the corner. The traffic was flowing smoothly, but the resulting photo showed a five-car accident with one dead body lying in the street!” Shaking his head, Schmit stops Perkins, “Dat was the problem Hollenberg was having trying to get buyers to believe him. He called it the camera of tomorrow because it only took pictures of things that will happen in the future. So that’s why no one would believe him or thought he was trying to hoodwink them for a fast buck.” Perkins’s color pales as he reaches into his jacket pocket, removes a photo, and hands it to Schmit. His voice cracks, “Then, Mr. Schmit, can you kindly explain this?” Schmit looks at the picture and squints, “Hmm.” He walks to the front door and locks it. Schmit goes behind the counter and removes a bent and creased photo, the same as Perkins but older. Both pictures show Ryan Perkins lying on the pawnshop floor in a pool of blood with a bullet hole in his forehead. Grabbing his head, Perkins staggers back. “I don’t understand! What does this mean?” he cries. “I’ll tell you what it means. 1905, when I pawned the camera for Mr. Hollenberg, I took a picture of mein shop to see how it worked. What I got was this picture of you, Mr. Perkins. As I explained earlier, the picture’s rendering will always come true. The problem is you don’t know when. It could be in a couple of hours, days, or even years.” Schmit’s demeanor changes from calm to rage in a matter of seconds. “DAT MEANS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO WALK THROUGH DAT DOOR FOR A HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN YEARS! Tears are streaming down Schmit’s face . “ I have been trapped in time by the camera until it could complete its forecasted future. You and I are going to end this hellish nightmare right now! Schmit reaches under the counter and produces a small gun. He points it at Perkins. Schmit explains that he has tried to take his own life in the past and failed. He then places the gun barrel to his temple and pulls the trigger three times, click, click, click. He fires a single shot into the pawnshop ceiling with a loud bang. As dust and dirt drift down, Schmit sobs, “See? I don’t want to, but I have no choice. I am so sorry.” Schmit pulls the trigger. Perkins falls, landing on the black and white checked floor as a pool of blood forms around his head. Schmit continues, “You see, Mr. Perkins, it can’t be changed once the photograph is developed. It WON’T be changed! The course is set and will not be completed until everything is as in the picture.” The whole pawnshop changes and crumbles, becoming the dilapidated building of the present age. A few weeks later, the convenience store owner phones the police to complain about a terrible stench that seems to be coming from the alleyway. They discover the remains of Ryan Perkins in an old run-down shop, seemingly the apparent victim of a robbery. One of the coroner’s assistants comments on how the old store looks as if it might have been a pawnshop once and picks up a curious-looking camera from the counter. “Hey, Charlie, look at this. I collect old cameras, but I’ve never seen one like this. Do you think anyone would notice if I took it? Charlie says, “Nay, but if it still works, could you take my picture? I’d like to see how I would have looked in a tintype.” Both men laugh and place the camera on the stretcher.


Stella tossed and turned in bed, resisting a glance at the clock, knowing it would only wake her up further. Her hair was still partially damp from the shower, soaking through the memory foam of her pillow. She listened to the pitter patter of the rain, trying to pick out a rhythm that could lull her into a daze, but there were none to be found. Finally, the eighth or eleventh flail of an arm jolted her into a full state of consciousness, and she acquiesced to a quick glance at her phone. She caught a sliver of her reflection in the matte black screen. Her freckled face, round jaw, and tousled blonde hair were blurred into a smooth beige circle by her screen protector as she clicked the side button. 2:07am. She flipped through her home screen, considering her options. She still had half an hour left in her Netflix movie, but she could guess how it was going to end. Her best friend had taken a virtual semester, so was in a time zone three hours ahead. She was probably still awake. But, she had bigger problems than the election. She was waiting on her brother’s liver biopsy results. Stella didn’t want to bother her. She’s been kind of frustrated with Levi recently. She’d initiated 90% of their conversations the last few weeks, and when he did write her, it was usually to ask to borrow a phone charger or something equally banal and dispassionate. But, she needed to see him. She could feel the physical and psychological emptiness of this night beginning to envelope her, and he was the only person within walking distance who knew how to find her in that darkness. She took a hard swallow on the bitterness of her pride and texted him, “Awake?” Levi had lost track of time playing video games. He’d taken a “quick study break” almost two hours earlier. Stella’s text shocked him back to reality. She didn’t realize it, but “Awake?” Was her code word for, “I’m upset and I need you.” Sometimes she’d unwittingly send it at three in the afternoon. Levi was already up and moving in her direction before he’d replied, let alone before she’d suggested he come over. He didn’t have time to change or shave but he had recently developed the foresight to keep a bottle of mouthwash under his sink for just such “rushing out the door to his girlfriend’s house,” type occasions. Though he’d placed it there with much more fun scenarios in mind, it was useful for these moments as well. He couldn’t help but count the lawn signs on his walk-jog over. “Biden, Biden, Trump, Biden, ‘Any functional adult’, Trump, Trump, Biden...” He wasn’t sure when he’d picked up this habit but it had become almost compulsory now. He hated to see Stella upset, but he was almost glad for any distraction from politics at this point. He just couldn’t wait for tomorrow to be over. He let himself in with his spare key. He knew Stella didn’t like him knocking or ringing the bell past a certain hour, so he didn’t wake the neighbors. He cautiously clicked the door shut and looked around the living room. Dark, empty. He tip toed into the kitchen, half hopeful Stella was fixing him a snack. Nope, dark, empty. He texted her, worried if he proceeded further, he might intrude on her in some private moment. “In bed.” She replied. “Just come.” She added on. Maybe he was smart to grab that mouthwash after all. But, as he slid into her bedroom, he saw she was not in bed waiting for him to join her for a playful evening. She lay staring into space, tears flowing down her cheeks, scrolling through early poll results. She turned to gaze at him with a deep longing and all encompassing sense of dread. He shuddered at how familiar it was. Like looking in a mirror. He didn’t have to say anything. He understood. Unable to muster faux reassurances or forced optimism, he didn’t try to tell her things would be alright or not to worry. He just silently walked over and guided her phone back onto the end table. He turned the sound off and flipped it over, so she wouldn’t see any more notifications. As he did, the room went pitch black again, in contrast with the bright screen. He ran his hand down her arm until he locked fingers with hers. Their eyes met for a second before he shuffled around to the other side of the bed, sweeping his wavy elbow length hair behind his ears, and laying down beside her. He wasn’t sure what to tell her. He didn’t know what would happen and he had never known what she wanted to her. All he knew was the truth. He snuggled in close to Stella and wrapped an arm around her to feel her heartbeat against his. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll have you, and you’ll have me, and that’s all I need to know right now.” He whispered. She got choked up as she laid her hand over his, resting on her torso. “But, but the world is falling apart.” He propped himself up on his elbow and, with a deep tone of concern inquired, “You’re falling apart?” “What do you mean?” She replied. “You said the world was falling apart. You’re my world, so, you said you’re falling apart?” She giggled. “You know what I mean. What happens if tomorrow is just history repeating itself. What about tomorrow?” Levi paused and ran his palms over her ribs. “Well, I can’t know about tomorrow. All I know is I’ll have you and you’ll have me and right now, that’s all I need.” ”Us is all we need. We’re enough.” He whispered again, drifting into a light sleep, nestling his face into her shoulder. “You’re more than I ever thought I’d have.” He mumbled as he fought to stay awake with her. But, he could surrender peacefully. The vortex of his touch kept the worry, the hurt, and the future away from Stella for the night. All she had was him. And all he had was her. And they were all they needed. That night and the next, every night, always.


THIS STORY CONTAINS CHILD-SEXUAL ABUSE SENSITIVE TOPIC Chicago, summer of '73: Lorna McKenzie got home late from work that day, a dark cold sky threatened snow, it was late February 2024. She pulled off her heavy coat, hung it up on her coat rack by the doorway and kicked off her boots - her feet were cold, toes numb from walking home ten blocks. As soon as she got into the kitchen she pulled out a pre-made dinner and popped it in the microwave. She pulled out a diet soda, ice and a glass, and sat down at her designer table next to the kitchen. It was Friday night, Valentine's Day. Alone, hungry, and just wanting to crawl into her comfy bed with her I-pad was where she wanted to be. Her designer apartment was freshly renovated. Nice view, laminated floors, state of the art bathroom fully loaded with soft lighting and heat fans made it feel like a sauna. A big deep tub equipped with shower spray was added, her absolute favorite item and she loved it all here. A 24/hour security guard was always available in the lobby. She enjoyed the safety and particularly the comfort of her suite here. She worked hard to have the lifestyle. No one would ever make her feel violated or uncomfortable ever again. No family photos sat around either. She kept her room tidy and neat. That's just how it was for Lorna. A suite that was more of a hotel than a home. Modern. "Hi ma, no I am at home tonight. No, not going out with anyone special. Okay, that's great, did you get your heart monitor set up? How's the new nurse what's her name? Rachael? That's nice glad you like her. blah blah blah." She then dialled Kathy's number. Not on her top ten for friendship besties but Kathy was fun to chat with occasionally. Kathy was a blond bomber when they were in HS, married a trophy husband and enjoyed her matieralistic world. Lorna found her tiring usually - not her go to cheering up kind of friend exactly. "Brad and I are going out for steak at Harford's later. Yummy, getting ready. Naw, just jeans tonight, its' too cold to dress fancy. What're you doing?" She asked Lorna, whom she thought was often moody. She figured her friend was lonely, but she didnt want to say anything to hurt her feelings. After 37 years of marriage she had no clue what dating would be like today, and, probably not safe with all the scammers and creepers out there. Lorna was a long legged looker. Those big blue doe eyes that sometimes revealed sadness. Kath had a good idea of what happened to her. Lorna confided once in awhile but wouldn't go into detail. She didnt have to. "Enjoy your linguine and Netflix night, go grab yourself a glass of wine don't forget." Kathy drawled yawning. She did that a lot, always seeming sleepy. Kath stayed up late playing software games, Lorna knew that. Her upbeat tone cheered Lorna up this time. She smiled as she picked at her acrylic nail. "I still think you could do with some fun. A date night kind of fun. You hardly ever go out you know." Kathy's worried voice lowered on speaker phone. "OMG, yea - I do have that vintage Pinot noit from last Christmas still. Maybe a good night to crack that open." She was already up and getting out her glass and the bottle. After finishing a stressful few months wrapping up a project for a firm doing their tech setups and IT work she felt gratified and felt like celebrating her efforts leading the team to do a great job. **** It was 1978 end of a hot Chicago sultry summer that year, kids had been out swimming, or playing basketball or just hanging around bored talking about starting the new school year in their hippie style clothes and the boys with their long hair and pimpled greasy faces. Lorna wasn't much into dating even back then she studied hard and graduated with A's. Her parents were nonchalant about her achievemtns leaving her feeling disappointed but WhateveRR. She wanted a career, and not babies, or a husband to cater to. She had dreams to move away as soon as she got herself a job that could afford to pay rent. L.A. was full of things and expressive was a way of describing her first few months there. It was hot, sunny, busy everywhere and colorful. 'I am not here to express my creative style or artistic anything.' She often had to remind herself as she worked and did her degree. She had a full schedule, with no time for socializing or going out to parties. "Work, study, eat, sleep, repeat" She'd written on a poster in her dorm room. Even her family had no clue of her address. She sent them emails and called but that was all. And the first year the darkness came. Panic attacks - dreams - night sweats. " Yes, sure I can recommend a good counsellor for you. It's included in your program if your stressed and need someone to talk to." Her lab prof Derek gave her the connection, and she began to take advantage of the one hour weekly sessions with Dr. Norma Bell. "Thanks. Oh, here's the last run of algorithms, took me a week to work them. Glad this semester is done, but I will miss your expertise." She added as she gave him the file. "Lorna, your a bright, quiet and artistic student. I wish you all the best." He smiled at her fondly. She left the lab to make the phone call cluthing the card in her hand. "You have PTSD, that's trauma caused by what your father did. We won't talk about it not being your fault. What we want is for you to feel whole, free and able to cope." She got told, as they sat in the doctor's office on the campus. A nicely cozy decor with soft tranquil music and small candles lit to make her feel relaxed, it was a nice room. "I felt numb for years. I wouldnt allow myself to feel anything." Lorna spoke low-voiced. The doctor knew well enough what Lorna and most of her other patients were going through. She closed her eyes, as if she were taking a nap. She was remembering her own past. Only with her neighbour's son, a left-alone teen with nothing to do when school was out for the summer. "And how is that possible when I have to live with the memories, every second of my life?" Lorna cried often. Dr. Bell helped her more than she imagined it would. Releasing all those fears and the stress inside of her was relieving and comforting. "You are not alone, Many children and women have been through what you had to endure. It's more common than you think. You are all survivors. We have group therapy as well if your interested." Her doctor wanted to help her. Lorna was special, talented and had a future ahead of her. She didnt turn to drugs or other things women did that went through the horrific ordeal of those awful things. Lorna was lucky to get out at a young age too, she had courage and strength. If only Lorna could believe in herself spiritually, emotionally Dr. Bell pondered wishfully . *** Prince Charming and carriages were not part of the plan for her. Lorna knew that and self-talked herself as a survival technique to get out. 'I know I did something bad, he hates me.' She'd cried herself to sleep so many nights she had to hide her tear-stained pillowcases under the bottom of the dirty laundry pile so noone would find them. 'I will get out of here. Hell won't last forever?? I am going as far away from this town as possible and him.' She would continue to remind herself of that promise. Note to self. *** Her parents home back then was filled with the usual stuff most people had, a red wall phone that you actually had to dial with your fingers. A floor model RCA tv set that one had to get off the sofa to change the chanels or volume. She had a small record player in her room and collected single's. Loretta Lynn, David Cassidy, a few Beatle's and others that were popular back then. She loved to read teen novels, and listen to her records. Her goldfish bowl sat on her dresser, which by now would be an antique. She kept a little box in the last drawer with a key on it. Inside some cash and her diary. Every day she wrote about her day, and her dreams. Her family and her few friends. She wrote about daddy too, but it wasn't kind and often scratched out words. Internal fear. Cash was collected by doing odd jobs, babysitting, dog walking, or sweeping leaves for Mrs. Cabash two houses down North 21st street, and paper routes. She had saved enough to leave and then some. Her brothers often teased her about the way she began to dress, calling her a prude or prissy missy. She made sure to carefully, no, cautiously select her clothing. Nothing showed, and short shorts that were so popular then were not part of her attire at all. "What's up missy prissy, kind of hot to wear jeans today and long sleeves." Her brothers would taunt her as they left the house in mid-July when temps soared. "Leave your sister alone and be home by dark. We're having a bbq tonight." Her mother would scold them. And turn her back the other way after that. Lorna only had herself to defend. She never did want anything from that house. Lorna finally did leave after she got accepted into Berkley to do her Computer Science degree and then her first job at a fairly reputable software company. The work was challenging, fun, her colleagues decent and her boss lady ruled the empire of high tech. Lorna had gotten herself a fantastic apartment with a view in L.A., and she loved her life just the way it was. "Thanks Sid, just me and my Netflix tonight, just had dinner sorry." She spoke to one of her neighbours. Sid always liked her but knew she was aloof and not interested in guys. Such a pretty gal too, he thought admiring her long legs in the summer when she wore her shorts. "Can't blame a guy for trying. You should go out more often, it would do you good." He set the pace for friendship more than a hit on. No point in pressuring the lady. "Sure, I will keep that in mind. Thanks Sid, see ya." And she lay back into her soft bed as the wind outside picked up and she searched for something. Anything but romance films. *** Lorna hid under her covers after he left her room late that night, sneaking around and watching her always she felt back then. His eyes bore down on her tiny body making her feel uneasy and scared. Even when she was littler and had to have her baths she would never want him there, only her mom. "No, mummy, he has to leave." She would not even look at him then as he stood in the doorway of the bathroom while the tub was running and bubbles were foaming. Her mother played dumb-ass, or she didnt care. Lorna wanted her to know how scared she was of him but could never tell her. She'd hoped her signals and fear of being alone with him was enough but Mryta never said a word then. Willy, Sam and Paul, her brothers just did their own thing and were clue less. She was the baby after all. Her mom acted like nothing was ever wrong with their perfect American middle-class working family. Morning would arrive and life would carry on as usual. Lorna kept her secrets and fears to herself and tried to stay away from him as much as possible, and she learned how to hide. Closets became her refuge - going outside as much as possible was escape from hell. Self-concsience was a way of life her body became her enemy, and she was only 10. She knew more than should have then and now. But she got smarter than him. Eventually. Her dark demons were always nearby - she learned to put them aside. *** The boys had built a treehouse out of some old planks. It was shabby, but solid up in the maple on the side of the yard. She often would climb up there when they were not home and sit quietly, and felt safe there. The birds would chirp around the top of that tree and the wind would rustle the leaves in the fall. She brought up an old blanket to wrap herself in when it got colder. It was her haven then - that treehouse was one of the only memories she loved growing up. Lorna left home after graduation and happy to do so. Myrta cried her eyes out, her brothers wished her the best and saw her off at the bus station with her one suitcase. He hung back from them, shuffling his feet in the dust not even waving goodbye. "I hope you rot someday in hell." She'd thought to herself, then hating herself for even thinking those thoughts. Always the same old argument with her soul, she tried to bury them deep down, and keep them there. She eventually got to hate that house. She hated the lifestyle there back then now. So, after carving herself a whole new life in this modern world of technology and, doing very well for herself with designer clothes, a kick-ass designer apartment and a nicely paced lifestyle she was free. *** He came into her room late in the night sometimes. She had begun to grow into puberty now, taller and slim. Lorna was quiet most of the time, and he knew she never mentioned what he wanted. He crept up to her bed and sat down halfway from where her lay away from him, facing the other wall. She felt sick to her stomach, the probing would begin. Light, feather touches at first. Then more aggressive rubbing on her legs and back. She stopped breathing while he carried on.....and after he left she would throw up in her small beach bucket she hid under her bed. You know, the ones kids brought to make sandcastles with that were all those pretty pastel colors. Her giant stuffed green bunny that he'd given her when she was three sat on her pillows. She threw it face down and hit the bed with it over and over again and cried herself to sleep. She was 8 then. He died four years ago from cancer. Lorna flew back to Chicago to go to the funeral and left not long after, two days. People came and went bringing food, and offering condolences. Willy pulled her over the next morning to talk to her. "Sis, what happened with you and daddy?" He came right out. He could hear things going on back then and he didnt like it. Not one bit. He swore he would kill him if he touched his sister again. But he never said a word. He knew Lorna was leaving anyway. "Nothing. Just leave it alone." She turned away to look for something else to do. This was not a conversation she wanted ot have. Her own world was safe. Her "now" world was good. She didnt want to go back to 1979. Ever. "Fine, but I know something went down. I hated him after you left and I will always hate him." Willie lowered his voice as he spoke - with so much compassion Lorna felt sad leaving. He was her favorite breau. He would always have her back, then and now. "I am leaving in the morning, love you tons." She hugged him long and hard. She couldn't look at the tears that slipped down his cheeks....... *** Myrta passed away from heart failure the year after she moved to L.A. Her mother's heart finally gave in, and she no longer had the strength. She died peacefully in her home. Lorna went back to help her brothers pack things up, and put the house up for sale. She had lived so long now burying her past deep inside of her. Even going back now was not as hard as she thought it would be. All the furniture was the same, except a new phone, and a new TV set. Air conditioning had been put in later as well. New carpets. But basically everything stayed the same. Her room had been re done too but same bed, same dresser. Same curtains hung with the frilly tops and square hemmed edged bottoms in pink and white cotton flowers. She used to love how the sunshine seeped in during summer, and the familiar sounds of traffic outside, and dogs barking in the distance. Those years of past memories didnt last long however, and when she endured him sneaking around into her room that oversaw any nostalgia. Lorna only lived to forget him and that house. Lorna had gone through her mom's photo albums, hardly even knowing who her relatives were from their side. They rarely came to visit or called. She wondered why all of a sudden why her mom never spoke of them. Her grandfather stood taller than the family did, he had dark creepy eyes that seemed to stare back at her. Lorna shivered as she closed the photo album. If nobody wanted it she would toss it. **** EPILOGUE **** She planned on taking a road trip to Mexico for a month after the house was sold. She bought a camper and invited Sid to go with her for companionship. "Well, I guess I could go, why not. Never been myself, just too busy working and doing whatever." And so, plans were made. Lorna was grateful for his kindness. Her little diary was full of course, but she still kept it locked in the safe that once held her running away money. But she no longer wrote that way now. She no longer felt the need. The house was sold within months after the sign was out front. It was a cozy home in a quiet suburb area. It still held the charm of the 50s, with some of the fences still in tact and well kept lawns. Lorna never went back there. She forgave her family for their ignorance, her mother for her lack of protecting her when she should have. Her brothers for being themselves, and lastly, without further adieu - her daddy. Who hurt her, made her feel unsafe, dirty and violated. The anger she consumed encrusted inside her like a filthy shroud, and it was time she had learned to let it go. She began to pack as her I-phone playlist pulled up the blues music with her built in blue-tooth speaker system making it sound like a theatre. She danced around getting her passport out and her personal items. "Mexico, here I come", She happily told her empty suite. THE END


I WAS THE LIAR WHO WON “Get your ass over there!” I shout at my comrades, as the enemy starts to creep in. I turn my attention back to her and watch the blood pool around her lifeless body. The thick, dark crimson blood that filled her entire being. I kneel beside Robin and look at her horror-stricken eyes, the same pale green eyes, that would watch me jealously, as I kissed a girl I did not love. I shut her eyelids, not wanting to feel the pain over her death all over again, and stand up. “Get rid of the body, now,” I hiss at a man passing by and he nods. “Yes, Lieutenant Seyton,” He salutes and I tuck my gun back in its holster, before creeping out of the battlefield, leaving behind the body of Robin Whitmore. I smile as I race up the building’s stairs, I’m close to being reunited with the ones that I lost. I unlock my apartment door, hoping Camille won’t notice Robin’s disappearance. I think about it for a hot minute, then forget about it, Camille won’t care, she’s a selfish woman. “Cami, I’m home!” I grin widely as I push open the door and the girl flashes me a pearly white smile. “Lear!” She cries and hugs me, pulling me close. “Woah there,” I smirk, “Someone’s excited to see me,” and Camille laughs. “You’re a darling, Lear Dear,” She gives me a mock pout, “I was just so lonely! Being by myself is no fun,” She takes my hand and pulls me over to the couch, “It’s okay now that you’re here with me,” She kisses my cheek before collapsing onto the sofa. She sighs, running a hand through her long, wavy auburn hair. “Do you ever just...” She begins before closing her mouth and shuts her eyes. “Do I ever just...?” I prompt, and keeping her eyes closed, she continues. “Do you ever wonder if this war is going to end? I know it’s only been two weeks since we’ve had a brutal fight like this... but how did our world become so divided?” I blink, Camille’s never been a thinker, I guess we learn something new every day. “I’ve never really thought about it,” I admit, the gears in my head are turning. I’m going to have to kill Camille... but can I do it? I shot Robin with no hesitation because she was already dead. Just an empty shell of a body, walking with no true purpose. “That’s alright. A topic for another day then, I suppose,” Camille whispers before pressing her lips against mine. She crawls closer to me, sitting in my lap, and I desperately wish it was Robin sitting before me. But Robin is dead. The two of us sit there for a minute or two before I stand up. “Hey, we should get something to eat,” I remind Camille and she nods. We make our way into the kitchen in silence. Something in our dynamics has changed, is it because Robin isn’t home? No, that can’t be right. This has to be something else. Camille pours hot water out of the kettle and she stabs the noodles, as they begin to go soft. “Where’s Robin?” She murmurs under her breath, surprising me. “I didn’t think you cared, Cami. It doesn’t matter where she is,” “Well, I do care Lear. I know you love her more than you love me,” I look over to her in disbelief, “You’re not the only one who hides their true feelings, Lear,” She continues in her angelic-like voice that could send me to sleep if the horrors of my past didn’t keep me up at night. “I- What? What do you mean?” I ask, without having to fake my curiosity. “You heard me, Lear. I know you pretend you love me, I know you would choose her over me any day, and I also know that you’re a fucking traitor.” Camille digs her hand into her back pocket, pulls out a gun, loads the trigger and aims it at my face. “Why did you kill her, Lear? I saw it from the window, you idiot. You thought you could get away with shooting someone on our side. You’re such a hypocrite, you know that? Saying you hate people on the opposite side, who try to kill us when you’re the Lieutenant for the opposition, and you kill people like it’s normal. Doesn’t it hurt? To know that you are the reason someone is no longer living.” I let out a hysterical laugh, doubling over, this girl is a joke. “I don’t want to shoot you, Lear, don’t tempt me,” “Well, then the feeling’s mutual. Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” “Ah, so I was just eye candy to you. Thought as much,” “I’m serious Camille. I don’t want to shoot you,” “And yet you shot the love of your life? My sincerest apologies, but I don’t believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth,” “You think you know everything, but you wouldn’t understand,” I hiss and then it’s her turn to laugh. “I wouldn’t understand?!” She cackles but without humour. “You’re funny Lear Dear. Hilarious. I shot my brother because at that moment, I thought it was the right thing to do. You know what Nicholai said when I put the gun to his temple? He said he was glad. GLAD. That I was shooting him, and that I did him a favour because he had no more will to live, and I couldn’t stop him. I watched my parents rip each other’s throats out and I witnessed my sister sacrifice herself because she thought she was doing it for me. So cut the crap, Lear. The only thing I don’t get,” She pauses, her hand not wavering the slightest as she keeps the gun aimed at my head. “I don’t understand why you became a traitor just to kill Robin. Why the Hell would you think shooting your ‘crush’ is a good idea?!” I turn away from my opposition and pull my gun out of its holster. “Who’s the hypocrite now? You shot your brother and I shot my lover. Looks like we’re on the same plain now. However, I did what I had to,” I mutter and raise my arm, both of us a second from shooting each other. I blink, lowering my gun, “I’m not going to kill you, Camille. I shot Robin because I loved her. Because there was nothing left of her, she was empty, like she didn’t have a soul. It hurt to see her living like a mess every day. So I suppose you could say I did her a favour,” Cami puts down her gun and slurps up some noodles. “Wow, threatening,” I announce in a deadpan voice and she throws a fork at me. “It would be so easy for me to shoot you right in the heart, but I have decided I might shoot your mouth so you can shut up. We both declared we weren’t going to attack each other. If you’re keeping your word, then I can eat my noodles in peace, is that okay with you Lieutenant?” She scoffs, before continuing to eat. “Fine, but when we’re both on the battlefield, I might not spare you,” “Duly noted. Now, if we’re going to live in this same apartment, you better watch your step,” She adds before taking her cup and continues to eat her food, eyeing me up and down from the couch. Thoughts race through my head. We both know the truth, I am a traitor and I killed Robin. And I don’t regret it, not when her life was living Hell. And now... well, now I’m watching Camille eat her lunch, which is oddly perplexing when seconds earlier, we had guns pointed at each other’s head. “Camille,” I suddenly speak up, breaking the silence. She sets down her cup of noodles and looks at me, her eyes daring me to go on. “We’re not going to talk about Robin again, okay? And on that matter, we’re not going to talk about all of this. Otherwise, you leave me no choice, I will shoot you as I did to Robin,” “You’re an idiot, Seyton. Although, we can’t have everything. Life isn’t fair even to those who deserve it,” “Are you implying that you’re worthy of life’s fairness? Last time I checked you committed homicide when you shot your brother. That doesn’t sound pretty fair to me,” “Your idea of ‘fair’ is distorted and very different from mine. So you can stop talking now,” She demands, turning her back to me, and I take that as a cue to leave her alone. If she keeps going at this rate, she’ll piss me off so much I will have to kill her. I storm off to my room, pulling out my phone and scroll through my last messages with Robin. There’s a lot of teasing and joking around but I can see how half-hearted the conversations become by the end. A pang in my heart forms and I sit up, I’m going to do as much as I can to win this godforsaken war. Robin used to love counting the days since special events. And if I’ve done my maths correctly, it’s been five weeks, twenty-two hours, sixteen minutes and a few seconds since this war started. It was a small rivalry first. The Emperor of the East, Heath Smythe-Lockridge and the Emperor of the West, Algerone Rothschild weren’t always merciless Emperors. It was the classic best friends turned enemies over jealousy, who fought for the same woman. Their descendants were now the rulers on the throne, and the citizens were caught right in the middle of it all. I had been born and raised in the East, but it was a general from the West who told me I could avenge my family. I had known they were manipulating me, they had just wanted to convert as many Easterns to fight with the West. Now I'm too far in, I can't escape the life I set out for myself. And for what? To see Robin again? Even Camille knows it's impossible. I shot my best friend and the love of my life for something no one could give me. I put my phone down, and look out the window. I've made my decision, I've already decided to betray my side, but now I'm going to pull a reckless feat. I'm going to sabotage the side I joined, and make up for all the lives I ended. Even if Camille doesn't believe I've decided to turn a new leaf, then so be it, I never needed her approval anyway. Sabotaging the Western side is stupid and reckless, but the only thing I can do to end this war. Not only is it the only thing I can do, but it’s also probably going to be my last. ~ I rub my eyes wearily, it's easy to say I'm going to sabotage the West, but planning it out and doing it is going to be a lot harder. This is how it's going to work. Phase One is to exterminate the first group of soldiers, as Lieutenant, I know some of the patrols’ locations and times. Before the changeover, I'll plant the small supply of grenades I have left, in that area. Once I pull out the pins, it'll only be a matter of time before they go off. And once they do, the soldiers will be killed, if any of them happen to live, I'll shoot them before they can call for backup. The explosion will no doubt catch other guards' attention, so then I'll move onto Phase Two. The next round of soldiers will send some of their men and leave their station. They'll rush over, but by then, I'll be gone. Once their station is unguarded except for a few men, I'll shoot them down. Phase Three starts then. I've already written a note to Camille, telling her and some soldiers from the East to go to the open area. The place will be defenceless since the soldiers will be dead. That is their chance to rush the Western’s temporary base, leading to a win in that zone. What am I going to do after that? Turn myself in. Robin wouldn’t have wanted me to roam free when I knew I'd committed treason and several crimes. No one on this Earth would want me to run free. I spend the rest of the day organising my plan, making sure all my timing is correct and refining my methods. Camille doesn't bother me, but at some point, I hear the door to Robin’s old room slam, and after that, I hear crying. Not that I can do anything to help her, since I'm the reason for her tears. Not when she’s living with the man who killed several of their people. The Eastern Empire would never let me get away, they'd probably kill me, but that's fine with me. As long as this plan succeeds, I'll be fine. Until then, Robin will have to keep waiting for me a little longer. Early the next morning, I pack all my things together, knowing this is the last time I'll be in my apartment. “I’m sorry Mum. I'm sorry I broke my promise of being the best I could be. I'm apologising to you too Dad. Even though I never listened, even though I had the best teacher right in front of me, I ignored you. I'm the most apologetic to you Robin Whitmore. I never lied, you know, I did it all for you. I knew you couldn't cope with it any longer, I saw the pain in your eyes every day once your mother died. I regret that I never told you I loved you.” I whisper, my eyes closed before I open them again and quietly shut my bedroom door for the last time. Gathering all my supplies, I leave the note on the kitchen counter and softly close the door. I mutter a goodbye to my home and run down the building’s stairs, to finish what I started. In five minutes flat, I make it to the right location and wait two minutes and thirty-nine seconds before pulling out the grenades’ pins. I hide behind the rubble of the building; my timing is nearly perfect as the soldiers walk right into my trap. I cover my ears with the muffs and watch the sky blow up, stone, blood and dirt going everywhere. Phase One has been completed, and no one has survived. I rush onto Phase Two, racing to the second station, carefully slipping through the shadows of the buildings. When I’m halfway there, I stop, and hide behind a wall, hearing the soldiers race to the explosion site. I smirk, I was right, they sent half of their team, leaving five men in the base. I continue to run towards the base, pulling out my gun, shooting as I run. One down. I hide behind an overturned car, before firing again. Two down. I pick up a stray piece of metal, throwing it at two of them, and while they’re distracted, I shoot them both. Four down. The final one sneers at me, “Well well well, the Lieutenant is a traitor... whose side were you on, Seyton?” I don’t reply, firing right at his heart, and he crumples the ground, body limp. That’s Phase Two complete, and I let out a laugh. I’m already onto Phase Three, it won’t be long before Camille arrives, and I’ll turn myself in. “Lear! What on Earth is going?!” I smile, say her name and she will come. “I’m surprised you read my note,” “What do you mean you’re surprised? I find a note with my name on it, of course, I’ll read it,” “Oh, right. Well, you know what to do,” is all I say, and the soldiers from the East start rushing in. They infiltrate the Western’s base, taking down the tents and any soldiers in their way. The men from Phase Two have returned, but they’re shot dead instantly, with no time to fire or call for help. “Lear Seyton, you have helped us a great deal” I turn to one of the general’s of the East, knowing what is about to come. The battle for today is over, which means so is my freedom. “However, you are a traitor. We cannot confirm your intentions, nor can we say you are innocent or guilty. We are putting you under arrest, no retaliation or-” “Ok, let’s go,” “Pardon?” “Let’s go. I was planning to turn myself in, so here I am. Do you want to leave now?” I hold my hands and wrists out, and someone snaps some handcuffs over them. “Wait, Lear, why are you doing this?” Camille pushes her way over to me, and I shrug, “I suppose it was the right thing to do, Robin would hate me for it so...” “Oh, right. It was nice knowing you Lear, well, the nicer part of you anyway,” “The feeling’s mutual,” I reply, Robin’s voice echoes in my head, the first words she had ever said to me, as they take me away. “You know Lear, I think you’re someone who’s going to go far in life, whether that be good or bad, but in the end, you’ll give into good.”


Raziel looked down at the knife in his hand. It looked worn. It looked plain, an old antler jammed onto the end of that blade, another way to squeeze out every drop of blood. It looked shabby, a tool near the end of its usefulness. It looked like damnation not salvation. Raziel had lead Shing, Eyla and their two daughters out the Wolves’ village in the dark of the night. They found the small boat hidden on the beach. Raziel and Shing paddled them out past the breakers and within twenty minutes they had hoisted the small sail. By the time the sun spread its sparkling rays across the sea, the refugees could no longer see Wolf Island. They caught a nice wind that sailed them across the channel in less than a day. When they reached the coast of Pacifica, Shing and Eyla took the girls up to the tree line while Raziel did his best to hide the boat. He had just finished taking down the mast when he noticed the blood red sail of the Wolves’ long boat on the horizon. His heart dropped to his stomach and exploded into a swarm of wasps. Their time was running out. They moved quickly through forest and found the old hunting cabin. Eyla burst into tears causing the girls to cry, causing Shing and Raziel to cry. They entered a sobbing motley crew clinging to one another. The cabin was the size of a barn, nestled between the folds of a large hill directly behind it. Next to a neatly made bed they found a basket of dried foods, warm clothing and that damned knife. A low whistle from the rafters snapped Raziel back to the now. The new plan was to take the knife, avoid the Wolves, find and bring back help. It was a lie. No help could make it back in time even if it was found. The unspoken reason for Raziel to run was to get rid of the knife. If any run-away thrall was found with a weapon it was a death sentence for all the adults. And for two little girls with no one to look out for them, it would not be good; it would be very far from good. If Raziel could get far enough away, the others could be spared. He would still be killed horrifically but hopefully his friends would only be severely punished. That was the rosiest of options left. He hadn’t asked for any followers, but how do you say no to a young couple praying for their children to be free? He heard the whistle again. Raziel closed his fist around the knife and stepped out of the cabin. A white mist hung low to the ground, blurring the bottoms of the trees, limiting visibility. The beginnings of snowflakes drifted in the wind adding to the distractions. Maybe there was some hope after all. The first corner he turned killed that hope. One of the Wolves was already at the cabin, peering in through a crack in the wood. Raziel couldn’t see what the big, hairy man was seeing but he knew that Eyla and the girls had been discovered. Maybe if he could silence this man, keep him from alerting the pack it would buy them the time they so desperately needed. Raziel had never killed a man before but he was pretty sure talking his way out of this was out of the question. He switched the grip he had on the knife, like he knew what he was doing. Raziel swallowed (gulped) and began to creep toward the Wolf. Every footstep crashed like a boulder off a thousand foot cliff, every breath roared like the winds of a storm. The distance between himself and his target stretched for miles, so much time to be spotted, so many mistakes already made. He could turn around and run for it. They would probably be okay inside, probably? He swallowed hard again and began to look around for any other option. He was losing his cool, about to bolt when the Wolf turned. Without thinking Raziel clamped one hand over the man’s mouth. The man stopped struggling once he felt the knife tip dig into his belly. Raziel looked into his eyes, dark and wide under a heavy brow. He recognized this Wolf from his village. He was cruel to the thralls, despite or because of his own lowly status. A man looking to make a name for himself. Talking was definitely out of the question. The more Raziel hesitated the less his advantage became. The fear left the Wolf’s eyes, replaced with a smug confidence that this lowly coward could not kill him. The man reached for his own knife. Raziel shook his head vigorously NO, NO, NO he pleaded silently. The Wolf, true to his nature bit the hand over his mouth. Raziel pulled back. The Wolf opened his mouth to howl. Raziel plunged the knife into the Wolf’s gut. He felt something pop under the blade as it found vital organs. Instead of pulling it out Raziel pushed it down unzipping the belly like he was unzipping a jacket that was two sizes too small. He stepped back and stared. The Wolf also stared, his eyes disbelieving, his hands clutching to keep his insides inside. There are times in every person’s life where we stand outside of ourselves, seeing a traumatic event unfolding without emotion. This was one of those times for Raziel. Specifically when the Wolf’s internal temperature met the forest’s rapidly declining external temperature. Steam poured from the wound like a ghost, floating up toward the heavens. Raziel wasn’t particularly religious, but this would make even the most arrogant atheist run scared for church. This along with the blood and smell overwhelmed him. Raziel doubled over retching just as a blade sliced the space where his head had been. The blade thumped into the cabin, stalling the hatchet it was attached to. Raziel slid around and surged up, his mouth drooling bile, the knife stabbed in between the third and fourth rib of his assailant. This new Wolf was dead before he hit the ground. Raziel stood there, his mouth gasping like a fish, the stomach acid still burning the back of his throat, the blood freezing the knife in his fist and tears streaming down his face, not exactly the look of a brave warrior. “Raziel”, he heard his name from above. He looked up to see Shing staring down from the cabin’s overhang. “What have you done?” he whispered with urgency. “Run, please, run!” Raziel ran into the mist. His heart was racing; he could feel his pulse thumping in his temples as he fled blindly through the forest. The manacle on his wrist banged against bone causing him to lose focus and almost run head long into the gnarled trunk of a wicked looking tree. He stopped to try and regain some semblance of composure. That’s when the first howl rose through the trees behind him. Raziel’s blood turned to ice water, He bolted like the scared rabbit he was. Another howl floated in from left, followed by another from his right. The nail in the coffin came when he heard a howl coming from somewhere ahead of him. He cried out in frustrated fear as he ran for his life and the lives of his friends. Still yelling he burst through the trees into a large clearing. He shut his mouth abruptly, his bawling seeming sacrilege here. The clearing was a perfect circle; the trees all lined up without a single branch going over an unseen border, as if in respect or... fear. Even the mist held at the edge of the clearing, swirling like a shark amongst the trees. In the center of the clearing was a large half buried boulder. He moved forward, looking around. Floating menacingly just beyond the trees he saw pair of yellow eyes. Raziel stopped and stared and those eyes stared back. The eyes moved forward and a black nose appeared in the mist. Beneath the nose, a snarling snout with long fangs. Beneath the fangs another Wolf’s face appeared. It looked much like the two Raziel had left for dead at the cabin. Heavy brows and beard under the cowl of a real Sea Wolf’s head and hide. Raziel had often wondered why, if these people honored the Sea Wolves so much as to name themselves after them did they hunt them to extinction then parade around in their skins. He doubted he’d ever know as this one before him had not come to talk. There was movement from the corner of Raziel’s eye and he saw another pair of eyes to the right and another pair to the right of that and another to the right of that. They had surrounded him. Four men that played at being wolves stepped into the clearing. No attack came. They simply stood and stared, each at an equal distance from the other. Raziel had seen this before. He was no longer prey. They knew about the bodies, of course they did. Raziel had been elevated in status from a simple hunt to a man worthy of respect. They lined up to challenge this dangerous killer of their kin. Raziel’s death would mean status and they would not diminish that status by attacking him all at once. He was sick of the role they had forced him to play. Sick he had been forced into their bloody way of life but mostly, he just sick of being afraid all the time. If you want blood, you got it. He strode toward the first man on the left. Much violence ensued. After it was over, minutes or hours later time no longer mattered, Raziel stood close to where he had started. The Wolves lay in heaps connected by streaks of red across the trampled snow. Raziel stood gazing at the boulder but only seeing the flashes of what had just occurred. Muted screams, the knife slashing, stabbing and cutting his victims and with each cut a new furrow was carved into his own soul. He wondered how much was left. Then from deep in the forest ahead of him, Thump. Thump. Raziel’s head snapped up. He looked around. Thump. Thump. Raziel scrambled up the boulder for a better view. Thump. Thump. Raziel peered into the forest in front of him and saw a tiny red dot. It grew as it flew toward him. Escaping the mist the dot became a little red bird bouncing across the air. Raziel had to dodge left to avoid being struck between the eyes. The bird paid him no mind as it soared by, disappearing to the woods behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Nothing moved, not even the air. Thump. Thump. All hell broke loose. The forest before Raziel exploded with a murder of crows following the little red bird. They screeched and cawed as they flew by. Raziel had to throw himself on the boulder to keep from being swept away in the flurry of beady eyes and black feathers. On the ground below him all manner of beast surged like flood waters around his island boulder. From field mice to elk, all ignored the man clinging to the boulder in their haste to flee. When it was over, feathers and tufts of fur floated through the air. Something bad was coming. Thump. Thump. Then the sound of trees limbs snapping, high tree limbs snapping and falling to the earth. Thump. Thump. Thump. A huge moccasin fell into the clearing like a thousand year oak crashing down followed by another earth rumbling shoe. Raziel looked up, past the pillar like legs, past massive torso and neck and looked into the face of a bear? Raziel shook the cob webs from his brain and looked again. I was a man, bearded and dark eyed wearing skins of a cave bear. The giant pulled a sword bigger then he was from behind his back. He raised this broad sword (perhaps the broadest sword ever) above his head, the tip aimed down to skewer the little man on the rock. All Raziel could do was gape up at his impending doom, too petrified to move. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The giant bellowed his easy victory and stabbed down. Part of Raziel was ready for it, for everything to be over, but the other part, the part that had won each part of this day dodged rolled Raziel off the rock just as the blade came crashing down. The boulder screamed when the blade impaled it. Sparks flew as the stone and iron became one. The mighty sword stopped halfway up its blade and stuck fast. The giant pulled back on the sword, but it did not budge. A flash of panic swept over his face, quickly replaced by rage. He heaved back again with the same result. The giant began to bellow and shriek as he tried to free the blade. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The roar became less intimidating and more pathetic. The beast of a man now had both hands wrapped around the hilt, straining with all his considerable power. His face had turned purple, his eyes bulged. The boulder actually began to lift from its half buried state. Dirt poured from sides that hadn’t been exposed to light in a thousand years, colorless insects scurried for cover. Raziel stood a safe distance away watching with awe. He stood staring at giant’s dismay. He could have easily swatted Raziel down like a fly, crushing him without the weapon, but the giant wanted his sword. Instead of running (which seemed pointless now) Raziel contemplated being a giant boy raised in the violent world of the Wolves. His only purpose would have been to fight, to become the Wolves’ battering ram. He would have been praised when he won, shunned and beaten when he lost. The giant would come to be dependent on the only constant in his life, his sword, his one friend. What would happen if he could no longer win every fight? He would be banished, sent out to face the world alone without his sword. “RRRRAAA...ughhhh” The giant’s roar ended in a gurgled whimper, his mighty hands fell from the sword’s hilt, his arms dropped like felled trees to hang limply at his sides. He went to his knees. Raziel uncurled his fingers from the knife; the top layers of frozen skin were ripped away. He felt nothing and dropped the knife to the snow. He walked toward the giant without looking back. He stopped just out of reach from the big man. Raziel tilted his head to study the giant’s face. Something had popped inside the man’s head. His right eye was the solid red of burst blood vessels, the right side of his face drooped, foamy drool drained from the corner of his mouth. Raziel stepped closer. The giant's left eye streamed tears. Raziel reached out and put a reassuring hand on his would be murderer’s shoulder. The giant let out a tiny whimper. Raziel cradled the giant’s head; he murmured an old prayer and tried to soothe. When the giant began to fall Raziel guided him down to the snowy ground. He laid the massive head in his lap. The giant’s breath became ragged, his left eye rolled back and his huge chest stopped moving. Raziel closed the dead man’s eyes and began to weep. He wept for the giant, murdered by fear disguised as rage. He wept for himself, a murderer by rage disguised as fear. He wept for his friends. He wept for the man he had hopped he was and wasn’t. He may have wept until spring if he hadn’t felt the giant’s head move from his lap. He looked up and saw the face of a Wolf. Raziel did not resist as the Wolf took the giant away from him. He looked over the huge body to see five more Wolves had also appeared from the forest. He looked each man in the eye, some stared back blankly, some in curiosity. One slightly nodded his head at Raziel. Then as one they lifted the giant’s body and disappeared back into the forest. Raziel sat there. His adrenaline was gone. He felt more beaten than ever before. He couldn’t take anymore but there is always more. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Raziel sighed, rose to his feet and turned to face whatever was next. This Wolf was the second biggest man Raziel had ever seen. His headdress’ eyes were ruby against a steely grey fur. The man’s eyes were dark and world-weary; his beard matched the color of his headdress. The Alpha. Without thinking (something he was becoming good at) Raziel stabbed at him with a now knifeless fist. The Alpha caught the fist and twisted it back to reveal the manacle clamped to Raziel’s wrist. The Alpha reached to his waist and produced a key. He stabbed the key into the lock, his eyes locked into Raziel’s. The manacle dropped to the snow much like the knife and like the knife it was left there to rust. The Alpha turned and walked away. Raziel finally began to lose consciousness. As the world faded away he could hear his friends rushing to his side. -Time, a need for heroes and people’s greed have all embellished Raziel’ s story into legend, the legend into lies and the lies into religion. One story had Raziel slaying scores of actual wolf-men with a magical sword pulled from a stone. Another left out the boat entirely and had Raziel walking across the seas carrying his followers upon his broad shoulders. Once a story is told it belongs to the people for better or worse. But you and I know what really happened on that snowy day so long ago...probably.


*Dear Diary* Oh god... today has been one of the scariest days of my entire life, at first it seemed to be just a normal day, I got up out of bed and made myself a coffee, and sat down to read the newspaper, I saw an ad for this thing called the 'House of Mirrors', it seemed fun so I called a friend and asked if they wanted to come with me after work, which they said yes to. So after I finished work we both went to this place, it seemed like a pretty shady operation and the building was in a pretty bad state of disrepair, but the concept was super cool, basically it was a maze where the walls are made of mirrors that distort your body in weird ways, and the ceiling & floor were pitch black, it was a really cool idea, but when we got to the end we saw the final mirror. It was a mirror that supposedly could show you what you'll look like in the next 24 hours, me and my friend thought it was just a joke where they put a standard mirror Because not much will probably change in a day, but when we looked into the mirror, there was no reflection, both of us were confused and the staff seemed oddly concerned, but we assumed it was still just a joke and moved on with our day. That's when it started... On the way home, we almost got killed in a car crash, my friend pointed out that maybe the mirror was actually trying to tell us something, but I dismissed the idea. After we traded insurance details with the other person, we walked the rest of the way home. On the way home we went to get something to eat, and it went relatively well. We went to this Chinese restaurant and it was really good. I got chow mein and my friend had chicken fried rice. After this I was pretty sure all the fear was done for the day... oh how wrong I was. After we split up to go our separate ways, I went back to my house only to get a text from my friend that they had been robbed at gunpoint, and that the only reason they weren't shot is because a police car happened to pass by as this happened, which was odd. This is when I started to believe something might be up. A couple of hours later I was going downstairs to get something from the kitchen, when I slipped on one of the steps and almost fell, I managed to grab the rail but if I didn't then I would have been dead for sure. Now I was starting to realize that something was definitely going on and that mirror definitely wasn't a bluff. My chest is feeling tight now, it kind of hurts, but anyway, there's more to this, I tried calling my friend later and got no response, I tried texting them, no response either, I kept trying for a few hours but nothing happened, which leads us to where I am now, writing this diary entry. My chest is getting worse, it's getting harder to breath... oh god it's bad... I think... this is it, the mirror was right, to whoever finds this, that mirror is no lie, that mirror was right. .................................................................. (This is a shorter one than my last one, but I had the idea for the story and I really like how it turned out despite the short length, and I hope you guys do as well. And my next story will be longer than this one.


Why, thought Dora, clutching her glass of wine and giving polite smiles from the corner of the room, did people assume that because you were “good on the radio”, or even “a bit of a celebrity” then you were going to love a party. Dora didn’t. She hated them. Oh, she didn’t mind going round to a friend’s house, but this was another matter. It wasn’t even as if she was antisocial. She had spent most of her life working with the public, and could make conversation well enough. But right now, oh, how she longed to be back at her little cottage, with her books and her music and her cat Snowflake curled up imperiously beside her on the sofa, condescending to let her stroke him with a lazy blink of his sapphire blue eyes. Mike caught her eye and gave her what he probably thought was a reassuring look. She liked Mike. He was a nice boy. Okay, so she had reached the stage in life when she referred to men in their forties as nice boys. And he’d insisted she didn’t have to come if she didn’t want to, but she had always married her manners and she knew how much she owed him. Only a couple of minutes ago it looked as if she had forgotten her manners when she didn’t respond to someone who called her over, but it was because she’d had to think twice when they said, “Pandora.” But that was her name. She had never used it, not when she was old enough to have a say in the matter, and the people she would always have thought of as her parents supported her decision. She supposed they were rather relieved, and wished that the person who gave Coronation Day Baby her name hadn’t been quite so erudite or whimsical. But she had been found in a box and Pandora’s box had hope left in it.... still, couldn’t they have called her “Hope”? Not that she was that keen on virtue names. She’d had a schoolfriend called Faith and always thought it gave you too much to live up to. Decades later the name achieved a certain currency through Pandora Braithwaite in the Adrian Mole books, that Dora rather liked, though she supposed the first couple, at least, were aimed at a considerably younger readership. But that gave her no urge to re-adopt it. Still, it was as well someone had adopted HER! Yes, it had been midsummer, had been June, but it had also been a horribly rainy day. There had been something of a scandal about that as the Queen’s former governess wrote a magazine column and liked to make out she did it more or less live, but of course, she didn’t, and she’d made it a gloriously sunny day. As people swarmed the streets of London or gathered round the grainy black and white pictures on newly purchased television sets, in a small town on the East Coast, a baby girl was abandoned in a little shelter along the sea front. And that could have been the end of her life, even though she was wrapped in a blanket, and the shelter kept the driving rain off her head. That was where she had her first strike of amazing luck, the kind of thing the radio audience in Mike’s documentary adored. Whilst people were watching the Coronation on their grainy minuscule TV screens, a woman called Barbara Jenkins was coming home from her shift at work, and despite the weather, had decided to have a walk up the seafront to clear her mind because it had been a fraught day at work. And Barbara was a nurse. She knew what to do, and she did it, and it was confirmed at the hospital that the little girl appeared to be healthy and none the worse for her ordeal, though had it lasted much longer .... well, Barbara was the heroine of the hour. Dora often wondered why she hadn’t been called Barbara, but apparently (so various reports and reports of reports had said) she was a very self-effacing young woman and wouldn’t have thanked folk for it. Or why not Elizabeth given it was Coronation Day? But maybe that was considered just too obvious. So she was Pandora. Pandora soon to become Dora, who had now become Pandora again. She was adopted by a very nice couple in their late thirties called Janet and Bob Edmunds. Apparently there was an extremely careful vetting procedure to make sure that the prospective parents weren’t just interested in the story rather than the child. Bob was an electrician and Janet was a housewife who also did dressmaking work. From the start, Dora knew that she was adopted, or at least from as soon as she could understand. Though of course, this was decades before the Internet, information both travels quickly and embeds itself in a small town, and it was far better coming from her Mum and Dad than from anyone else. They did a grand job of it, she thought. They made sure she knew they were delighted to choose her because she was special, but her being special had nothing to do with her being abandoned in a shelter on the sea front on Coronation Day. She had a very happy childhood. She was adored and indulged, but not spoilt, and though she never quite forgot she was adopted, there were weeks and months on end when it didn’t have that much importance in her life. Yet it was the kind of thing, especially given the circumstances, that never really went away. By the time she was in her late thirties and early forties herself, it was becoming more and more acceptable for adopted children to trace their parents. Dora supposed it was good they had the right to, but some of the stories irritated her and made her feel her heckles rise on behalf of the adopted parents. She hated it when it almost seemed as if they were rejected, or at any rate downgraded, once the biological parents - or more likely, just the biological mother - were traced. Oh, she never condemned the birth parents or mother. Dora wasn’t a judgemental person, and could quite easily see, especially in less liberal times, how folk were driven to it and it didn’t make them cruel or reprehensible. But so far as she was concerned Janet was her mother, and Bob was her father. It wasn’t until both of them had passed away, and she had a chance conversation waiting in the queue at the pharmacy, that she began to wonder if perhaps it would be good to know something, after all. Someone had heard a radio programme about a baby - a boy this time - who had been abandoned on the Embankment in London, during the war, and who hadn’t begun to unearth the story of his life until he was an old man himself. It wasn’t a totally happy ending for him with all the loose ends tied up, but it was plain he hadn’t regretted it and it had enriched his life. Dora had never married. She had been engaged once but - well, best not to think about it. She knew that especially given the circumstances her parents would have liked grandchildren, but they never tried to exert any kind of pressure on her. She liked children, and was a popular and well-respected teacher, but had never had children of her own. Like her parents - like Bob and Janet - Dora had always been modest in her demands. Oh, she didn’t have a low opinion of herself or anything like that, but she didn’t like a fuss and preferred things to be low-profile. So although the programme about the Embankment Baby had been on the World Service, and had been heard all over the world, not just the UK, she made tentative enquiries at her local radio station, Radio Anglia. She was given an appointment to see a man called Mike Ellis, who apparently was responsible for “such things”. He also did the morning programme on the radio. Dora felt rather guilty as she realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard it (maybe for details about what was closed and open during the freak winter weather they called The Beast from the East a few years back). It wasn’t that she had anything against it, but the Today programme on Radio Four was part of her morning routine. She tried to salve her conscience by listening to a couple of episodes, and it was fine, but in her heart of hearts she still preferred Today . Still, Mike made a good impression. He wasn’t too smarmy or too sarcastic. She found a picture of him on the Internet (she wasn’t exactly a passionate “Silver Surfer” but it had its uses) and he was well - just a pleasant looking young man in his forties. Just a nice boy .....! One trait she had inherited from both Janet and Bob, but especially the former, was a belief in what a handshake told you, and she liked Mike’s handshake. It was firm but not too firm, cool and sincere. He ushered her into a room that apparently doubled up as his office and his studio and had posters all over the wall with local scenes and slogans like Your Local Voice and Radio Anglia, the Sound of the East Coast . “Tea or coffee, Miss Edmunds?” he asked, “Or may I call you Dora?” “Coffee please, and of course you may,” (Once an English teacher, always an English teacher, she thought wryly, awarding him Brownie Points for saying may and not can . “But if you don’t mind, I prefer just Dora.” He smiled. “I can’t honestly say I blame you!” He was both easy to talk to, and a good listener, and she was fairly sure it wasn’t just a radio persona coming through. Though perhaps it was a matter of chickens and eggs! “I’m going to take a great interest in your story, Dora,” he said, “And consider it my baby - if you’ll pardon the expression!” “I might, but don’t make a habit of it!” She was surprised she felt confident enough with him to share in a joke. “Fair enough. But I’m not the expert on the subject. I want to put you in touch with a lady called Christine Franks. She’s quite an expert in matters like this, and I believe her to be totally trustworthy. If she’s getting nowhere, she’ll tell you, and - well, I might as well say it, if anything you might prefer not to know turns up, then she won’t hide it from you.” “I prefer it that way,” said Dora, truthfully enough, though in fact she supposed there were things she might prefer not to know. Dora always believed in giving people a fair chance, but had to admit that when she first met Christine, she was reminded of a doctor’s receptionist. In fact, she did bear a slight resemblance to one of the receptionists at Dora’s doctors, but it wasn’t mainly that. She seemed very efficient, but more inclined to stop you getting forward and finding things out than the opposite. But before too long she realised that she had misjudged her, and it was a sign of her integrity. “There may not be any kind of fairy tale ending,” she said. “If I ever come across as obstructive, Dora, it’s not because I’m being rambunctious, it’s out of concern.” Generally Dora was lary of people who expressed an excess of concern, but she was also very fond of the word rambunctious, so she decided to “hit the reset button” and after that the two women got on famously. One of the first steps was a DNA test, though as Dora remembered, in the corner at the party, Christine warned her that they were by no means conclusive. It was interesting without being earth-shattering. There were indications of the East of England - so probably her mother was a local girl, but also of Ireland, the Netherlands, and, weirdly, a hint of Ukrainian. The first real lead, though, didn’t come from the genetic test, but from a local person. With Dora’s agreement, her story was covered on Mike’s show, though her privacy was respected, as far as was possible. But it came from far away - from Canada, and an ex-pat who was keeping up with home by listening to Radio Anglia on the Internet. Her name was Susan Bligh, and she was the great-niece of a man who had been a local policeman in the town. Uncle Billy, as she called him, had been on patrol on coronation day, and years later had told her, when she begged for “stories” about his time in the police, told her about a woman he had seen on Coronation Day, pacing up and down the seafront, seeming in distress. “He asked her if she needed any help, but she said no, and she wasn’t drunk or causing a disturbance or anything, so there wasn’t much he could do about it, but he did say there was something haunting about her. And one thing that did stick in his mind - she was wearing a bright purple coat!” “Oh, my goodness!” Dora exclaimed, and went on to tell Susan that her favourite colour had always been purple! If Janet and Bob had let her, she’d gone through stages where she’d have worn nothing but. So that was mentioned on the show, and a response came more or less immediately. It was from someone called Lily Watkins, who was a very old lady now, nearly a hundred, but still as sharp as a button, and had been the owner of a shop in a town not far up the coast at the time. She had employed a young woman called Thelma Bradshaw, and as she said, “She was a good worker and nice manners, but I could never quite bottom her, and oh my goodness, she loved purple! But I realised that big coat she wore was to hide the fact she was in the family way. And no Mr Bradshaw in the picture, nor even a boyfriend, so far as I could see. Well - some would have just flung her out on her ear, but I didn’t. I LIKED the girl, and we can all make mistakes. I was worried when one day she just didn’t turn up, but she did send me a note, through the post, not through the door, and it said she was sorry but she had to go away for a while and she wished me all the best.” Well, that counted as progress of sorts, thought Dora, and everyone at Radio Anglia was doing their best for her and it would have been bad manners to refuse the invitation to the annual “do”. She made herself not look at her watch, realising how unfortunate it would appear if anyone saw her, remembered there was a clock on the wall and discovered that only a quarter of an hour had passed until she last looked. I will NOT play the old lady card and say I am tired or feeling under the weather, she thought, determinedly. I will make an effort. After all, not everyone was the life and soul of the party, where they? She suspected even Mike saw it as a necessary ritual rather than a delight. In fact - she looked around - was he even in the room any more. She couldn’t see him. Maybe he was just attending a call of nature - but two people emerged from the gents’ restrooms, neither of them was Mike, and though she didn’t quite know HOW she knew she did know there were only two “necessary items” as her grandmother had termed toilets! Bob and Janet had humoured her but had no time for such pretentions, and had made sure that when Dora started school she knew perfectly well to just ask if she may go to the toilet and not say she needed to see a man about a dog or anything like that. Those were the kind of little things you remembered with gratitude. Anyway, Mike was coming back into the room through another door, and he was not alone. He was leading an old lady - a VERY old lady, who made Dora feel young in comparison and who looked even more ill at ease than she was. Her first thought was that they had brought along Lily Watkins, but Dora had seen a picture of her, admittedly taken several years ago, but - well, this was an entirely different woman. And she was wearing purple. “Dora, perhaps you ought to step into the side room,” Mike said gently. She nodded and complied. This was not the kind of thing to take place in public, and it spoke volumes for Mike that he realised this. He and the very old lady retreated back into the little office, and Dora followed them. And for the first time in nearly seventy years, Thelma Bradshaw and her daughter fell into each others’ arms. Neither of them said much. There was plenty to say. But it could wait.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning for round two, welcome! This is the perfect time for you to join in on the fun, as we re-launch Serial Saturday to better suit all of our readers and writers out there. We’ve heard your feedback, and our hope is to make this feature useful to writers of all genres, backgrounds, and skill levels. To our returning Serial Saturday participants, we hope you’ve had a wonderful break and are ready to dive back in. As we’ve made a few changes, please remember to read the entire post before submitting! *** #This week's theme is Discovery! Whether your characters are making interesting and unexpected discoveries in their world or discovering something within themselves, I'm excited to see where each story goes. Will the developments be welcome? Will their newest findings put a strain on their environment and the people around them? The interpretation is completely up to you. / *** #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take some bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. January 31- Emergence February 7- Secrets *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. *** #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. Pre-written content will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You must use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! *** #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the . Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule.


Many, many years ago, when tigers used to smoke, there lived an old man on a mountain. He lived in a secluded cabin far, far away from any other people. He was happy there alone with nothing but his own thoughts. Until he met her. Life became brighter. His beautiful wife, a lovely creature, all smiles and sunshine, pretty blonde curls, blue eyes the color of the clear running mountain stream that flowed past their cabin. Her voice as soft and sweet as the tufted titmouse, she would sing all day while she worked around the cabin. He could hear her songs when he was doing the outside chores and his heart would soar. Since the day they had first met, in a church in the valley, love had blossomed and grown as the years went by. They seldom saw other people, and seldom went into town. The two of them were happy just being alone together on the top of the mountain. After that first Sunday all they could think of was one another. The next Sunday, after the service ended, after all the congregants had greeted one another, after everyone had shaken the preacher’s hand, when the parking lot was empty, and no one remained but the two of them they stood, six feet apart. Neither had spoken to the other. There were no words that needed to be spoken. They knew. He turned and began to walk towards his old pick up truck. She just stood there staring at him. A sad smile on her face. He reached his truck, opened the squeaky passenger door, turned to her and said, “Well, are you coming or not?” A smile broke out on her face, so bright, so shiny, so wide he thought his eyes would burst out of his head. His heart soared as she took first one step and then another. The closer she came the lighter his heart became. He could feel the love radiating off her. She stepped up into the truck seat and settled back as if that truck seat had been made just for her. The cab of the truck was warm even though the sky was cloudy, and a cool mist fell. By the time they reached his cabin the desire between them had grown exponentially. On the ride, somehow, without words, their souls had joined into one. It was as if they were the other part of the other. They were one person from that moment on. He never knew her name. She never knew his. He called her, “woman”, almost reverently. She simply called him, “husband.” Years later they migrated to pet names such as, “baby”, “honey”, and other meaningless words that meant everything to them. They worked side-by-side for years. Their love never waned; they never spoke a cross word to one another. It was as if their union had been ordained by God, although neither one was particularly religious. All the salvation they needed was found in one another. Each day was a new adventure. Sometimes they didn’t speak for days. Each knew in their heart what the other was thinking and reacted accordingly. Their lovemaking was passionate and fiery, and they became one. Their love was the most perfect under the heavens. Had Adam and Eve, Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, and all the great couples thought history been on the mountain they all would have envied this couple. Years passed by slowly and at the same time way too fast. They treasured every minute they were together and not a moment was wasted. Over the years his beard grew white, along with his hair. Hers stayed bright and blonde and shiny. Their eyesight grew strained, but they only saw one another and that view never changed. His back became bowed from years of hard work, but he never complained. Her hands shook but she still massaged his tired, aching muscles at the end of the day. He picked wildflowers for her from the mountainside and she thought she’d rather have that flower arrangement than the most expensive gift he could buy from the most expensive store in the biggest city. Every meal she cooked for him would surpass any gourmet meal ordered from the finest restaurant anywhere in the world. He savored every bite and never failed to tell her how delicious the food was and never forgot to thank her for her hard work. The days passed ordered and serene but there was an excitement and a spark whenever they touched or heard one another’s voice. It had been years since they had made a trip into the valley. He often wondered if his old truck would even start after so long. But there was never a need to go down the mountain. Everything they needed was right there at the mountain top. As long as they had one another, life was perfect. The seasons passed, day by day, month upon month, year after year. They braved the weather whatever it brought. On cold days they would stay inside the cabin by the fire. They would hold hands as they read books. Time was their friend. And their enemy. Somewhere way back in their minds they knew that someday this bliss would end. They had talked about it. They had a plan. When it was time for one of them to go, they would lie side-by-side on their bed, hold hands and quietly, silently say goodbye, I love you and drift off. That was the plan, but plans don’t always work out the way you want them to. One day, like today, it was bitterly cold, snow piled high against the side of the cabin. The windows were frosted from the outside cold and the inside warmth. But the firewood was running low, so he dressed in layers of clothes and went outside to gather logs from the woodpile. For the first time in many, many years he had walked out of the door without saying, I love you, and giving her a kiss. That was a mistake. One that he would regret for the rest of his days. It was the first day in years that tears had run from his eyes. It wouldn’t be the last time. When her husband went through the door she said, “I love you!” out loud. He never heard those words as the wind and snow whipped past him. If only he had heard. If only she had called him back. But the moment was done, and they’d never get another chance. And while he fought the snowdrifts, she realized that the water pipes had frozen and they had no water for the house. So, she too bundled in many layers of clothes, covered her head, and put on her gloves. She grabbed two buckets and made her way to the stream to get water. She slogged through the snow at a snail’s pace until she finally reached what she thought was the edge of the stream. The snow had covered the banks though and the ice would not hold her weight. She fell through the thin ice and slipped under the water. The current caught her and with the weight of her layers of clothing she floated down the stream, under the ice, and drowned. Her body wasn’t found until the next Spring. Today is just like that day. Snow piled high, wind howling, tears flow down his cheeks as he dresses warmly. Layer upon layer of clothes. It feels like he is wearing a ton of clothes. He steps out of the door, leaving it open. He makes his way down to the stream battling the knee-high snow. He reaches the edge of the stream. It is bitterly cold. He shivers and he cries for his lost love. He continues to walk until he is at the middle of the stream. He stands there for a moment. He whispers, “Here I come, my love.” He stomps as hard as he can on the ice. Once, Twice, Three times and the ice shatters. He falls through into the freezing cold water and is caught in the current of the swift stream. His heavy clothes hold him down as he slips under the ice. He does not fight or struggle. His last thought was of his beautiful woman.