A ragtag group of anthropomorphic cat treasure hunters finds themselves deep in the ancient pyramid that houses Cleocatra’s tomb, trying to figure out how to access the entrance of a hidden room filled with treasure. They’re led by George, who is accompanied by Dr. Bliffy the expert Purrgyptolgist, Amelia their Purrgyptian spelunking guide, and Father Joseph a priest from the Catacan. The group now walked down a long zig-zagging corridor upon steps of masterfully cut limestone. “Before we enter the chamber, I will douse each of you with this holy water to protect us from any evil spirits who may try to harm us.” said the Priest as he pulled out a flask with a cross on it. The cats stood still as Father Joseph flicked the holy water onto each of them as they approached the entrance of Cleocatra’s chamber. Each stepped into the room with their flashlights shining about like spotlights as they licked their fur and meandered about the chamber taking in the awe-inspiring hieroglyphics. Amelia examined the walls. “This is incredible.” “Sure is,” responded George in high spirits. “Hey Father this holy water is quite refreshing, tastes a bit like there are some holy spirits in it,” George said to the Priest with a wink. Father Joseph brought the flask to his nose and sniffed, “Hmm, yes it seems the dishwasher at the Catacan hasn't been doing the lord's work. No matter, these things are a pain to clean.” George walked up next to Amelia looking at the great hieroglyphs, “Well Dr. Bliffy now's your time to shine, what can you decipher?” “Ahhhh let me take a look at my notes,” said Dr. Bliffy, unassuredly scratching his head. “Hmmm I’m not too sure, these hieroglyphs seem to be from before antiquity, possibly the bronze age, when the Furrlistines first appeared in what's now present-day Pawlestine.” “We don't have time for a history lesson, we're about to make some, let me take a look at those notes,” said George. “Oh no, ah, they won't make much sense to someone untrained- '' George, not interested, ripped the notebook from Dr. Bliffy’s hands and then squinted. “Dr. Bliffy what the hairball is this?” George flipped around the notebook to reveal overtly sexual drawings of cat women in lingerie batting at feathers hanging from a stick. “Ah, I can explain, those are just some light doodles,” responded Dr. Bliffy pulling at his collar. George flipped through more pages as his jaw began to lower and eyes twitched, there wasn't a single Purrgyptian hieroglyphic to be found. Only sketches of cat women dressed promiscuously. “Dr. Bliffy where in the hell is your research!” shouted George, his chest rising and falling. “Alright, alright, I'm not really a Purrgyptoligist, I don't have a doctorate, I haven't been featured in the Purr York Times and I didn't go to Yale,” Bliffy responded, his ears and head dropping down in embarrassment. “But I saw your degree!” “Photoshop...” “So you lied about everything on your resume!” exclaimed George. Bliffy shrugged. “Yeah but so does everyone else, I went to Community College for marketing.” George silently unpacked this revelation in his head trying not to blow a fuse, “Could’ve paid the extra fifteen dollars for a background check. Just like my witch of a mother said, it takes a rich man to be cheap.” he muttered through his gritted teeth. “Well, now that the cat is out of the bag I do have a little bit of battery left on my phone. Maybe we could just look it up on Google?” asked Bliffy, attempting to make amends. “Bliffy I maxed out three credit cards getting us here, I got a subprime mortgage I can’t afford for a hunk a shit cookie cutter house on Long Island, alimony for two kittens.” Steam began to shoot out from George’s ears as a manic look rolled over his face. Bliffy trying to butt in, “Listen I-” “Your own mother was cleaning your litter box during the last financial crisis! Do you know anything about inflation?! Do you know how expensive milk is getting?! Or those cheap scratching posts from China! I’ve dumped half! Half my life savings into Catpto Currency and I’m losing thousands of dollars a day faster than I’m losing the love and respect of my children! Please tell me you're yanking my tail!” Bliffy looked at his feet. “I’m sorry George.” “You're sorry?!” “I don't know what to say. I watched a Ted Talk on faking it till you make it and right after I saw your ad online looking for a Purrgyptoligist and thought, hey I want to go on a free trip to Purrgypt.” George sported the look of a madman, “Bliffy you and Cleocatra are going to be sharing this tomb if we don't find her treasure.” he said with a hiss. “I’m sorry I know I'm an idiot, my horoscope said that it was time for new beginnings. I thought this would help launch my career as an influencer.” “A what?” said George, exacerbated. “An influencer, you know, making cat content for social media?” “Your generation is doomed.” said a deflated George. “You're telling me you know about Catpto Currency but not what an influencer is?” asked Bliffy in disbelief. George put his head in his paws. “I read the news, you dimwit.” There was an awkward silence among the four, “So you don't know a lick about ancient Purrgyptian hieroglyphics?” “Only what I read on Whiskerpedia,” murmured Bliffy. “Cat Whiskers Christ Bliffy!” shouted George. “Do not use the Lord's name in vain,” interjected Father Joseph scathingly. “Oh save me your judgment priest we all know you aren't all saints over there at the Catacan.” “You dare insult the Catacan!” exclaimed Father Joseph. “No, I’m just surprised the Catacan let you tag along even though no kittens were accompanying us!” responded George antagonisticly. “Oh so it's a catfight you want is it?!” shouted Father Joseph as he pulled back the sleeves of his vestment. “If you want one you got one alright!” shouted back George fashioning his claws. “Enough! We're here in the tomb of Cleocatra...illegally and if the authorities catch us we are going to Purrgyptian prison for life." The three fell silent as their eyes bulged out from their heads. "Now I don't know if the three of you know anything about Purrgyptian prison but the inmates won’t take kindly to grave robbing foreigners,” said Amelia. “What!?” exclaimed the rest of the group in unison. Amelia shrugged her shoulders matter-of-factly. “Well, I thought I’d fess up too.” “Alright Amelia, welcome to the club!” Bliffy raised out his paw enthusiastically for a high five but Amelia just glared back at the pudgy cat with disdain. “I thought you said the government sanctioned us coming down here?” asked George bewildered. “Yeah to waltz right down into Cleocatra’s tomb to steal her lost treasure?” George was now bouncing around flailing his arms. “We told them it was for an exposé on Cleocatra! That we’re part of CCNN, not that we were going to steal anything! They weren't supposed to figure that out till after the fact!” Amelia scoffed. “You think the government of Purrgypt was going to fall for that, after all that's been stolen from this country? You're more full of yourself than the British Museum, no wonder you invested half your life savings in Catpto currency.” George yelled, “Because of the security of the blockchain alright!” walking up to the old dusty walls of Cleocatra's chamber and scratching them furiously as the group watched on at his meltdown. “Think, think, think,” George said to himself looking over the hieroglyphics. “Just like Mother said, you want something done right do it yourself.” he scratched at his chin. “Ah, I hate it when she's right...maybe I shouldn't have put her in that nursing home.” “Well, we’re here and that's what's important. So any ideas?” asked Amelia. “Yeah, does anyone have catnip and something to smoke it out of?” asked George defeatedly. “Ugh,” said Father Joseph, shaking his head. The four stood around aimlessly. “Well, I'm standing in Cleocatra’s tomb, illegally, with a virgin, a Purrgyptian, and a priest. Huh, that sounds like the beginning of a joke. Well, we know there's a secret entrance here somewhere and it only opens when the correct phrase is said. Said phrase is supposed to be hidden in this room. The problem is our Purrgyptoligist isn't a Purrgyptoligist. So what could the password be?” George said to himself walking over to the tomb of Cleocatra, his brow furrowed. “Ahhh!” he slammed his paw down on the tomb, sending a puff of dust everywhere. “George look!” Amelia pointed to the tomb's lid and inscribed into the stone was a phrase. Amelia looked over it attentively. “Can you read it?” asked George. “Yes, it’s in Purrgyptian, it says, ‘From the dawn to the dusk of time, a word shared by all cats before the fall of mankind, a phrase floating around deep within all our minds...meo-'” Amelia halted putting her hands over her mouth as the hair on the groups backs stood up simultaneously. “It can't be...” murmured Father Joseph, promptly making the sign of the cross before kissing his crucifix and reciting a prayer. “It makes so much sense,” whispered George wide-eyed. Amelia lowered her paws from her mouth, “The one word that must never be said. Banned by every government across the earth. The perfect password to protect her riches from those who’d steal it.” “Well who’s going to say it?” asked Bliffy. “No one! Do you know how dangerous this could be?” snapped Father Joseph. “Not a soul has said that word since the last epoch.” “This could be part of Cleocatra’s curse. It may turn us back into animals or even worse, humans,” said Amelia. All four shivered at the idea. “If life's a dream then that’d make it a nightmare,” said Geroge staring intently at the carvings on the tomb. “But maybe the secret entrance will be revealed and we’ll all be rich.” chimed in Bliffy. George fiddled with his whiskers thinking deeply. “Well, I can't say it,” said Father Joseph. “I can't say it,” responded Amelia. Bliffy takes out his smartphone, “George if you're going to say it give me a heads up so I can get a video, this will definitely go viral but my phone is almost dead.” “I can't say it,” said George. “Why not? Think about it, we'll all be rich!” said Bliffy. “Bliffy the only thing you'll be getting rich from is settlement I’ll have to pay you after I claw apart your face.” Bliffy went silent. Then Father Joseph chimed in, “You know the church could do a lot of good with that money...and you owe me for that wine.” George turned his head with annoyance. "You said that was the altar wine and you drank half the bottle yourself, you didn't have to pay for that!" Father Joseph stuck his chin up in the air. "But the church did." “And you still owe me for bringing you down here,” said Amelia. “Right, all three of you shut it.” George scratched his head again. Thinking to himself, I can't believe my ex-wife is going to get half of this. That's almost a good enough reason to walk right on out of here but look on the bright side, I could pay off my debts, get a house on Nantucket, invest in something less volatile, get that sweet passive income, and retire. What's the worst that could happen, it's just a word. But what if I turn into a human? The thought made Geroge feel like a hairball was stuck in his throat. Ugh. I could be turned into a monster and all of these suckers would get the riches. He continued to ponder. “Unless...I got an idea,” said George. “I can't say it. But what if we all said a part of it at once? It's a four-letter word and there are four of us. We can each sound out a single letter altogether. That way none of us are actually saying it.” The other three looked around at each other and then back at George. “Well you don't make it as an influencer without taking a risk or two, I got nothing to lose, I’m in,” said Bliffy. “So am I,” said Amelia. The three looked at the priest as he turned his head upwards, “Please, have mercy on our souls.” George grinned. “I'll take the M, Amelia the E, Bliffy the O, and Father Joseph the W.'' They all nodded in nervous approval. “Right,” said Geroge, “On the count of three. One, two, three.” “M” “E” “O” “W” They all looked about the room anxiously. “Well, that was underwhelming,” Bliffy said, ending his phone's recording. “Maybe we should try again?” said George. “Do you hear that?” asked Amelia. There was a rumbling sound that grew, dirt began to fall from the ceiling and the ground shook violently. “Look!” George shouted pointing to the back wall behind the tomb which was slowly sliding into the corner of the chamber and as it opened a golden light illuminated the four. “Oh my Lord.” said the Priest who couldn't believe his eyes. “We did it,” Amelia said, mesmerized. “I did it,” said George transfixed on the golden light showering his face, a vision of him sipping on a pina colada, toes deep in the sand watching the sunset on Nantucket ran through his head. “No, no, no, no!” shouted Bliffy. The three snapped out of their respective trances and turned to look at him as he dropped to his knees, phone in hand. “I can't believe this! My phone died! This would have gone viral for sure!


Have you ever heard of the simple physics problem: "What would happen if I dropped a penny from the Empire State Building?". It's scary to think that something as minute and insignificant as a light copper or nickel penny could cause serious damage to someone; penetrate their skull and leave a permanent dent in their brain, perhaps? In reality, it's a lot less deadly. The terminal velocity of this harmless copper or nickel penny is very low (around 30-50mph) - it can only gain a small amount of speed. Therefore, a penny dropped from any height would only cause a mild bruise at most; thousands of pennies could be dropped on a mans head at once and cause no serious harm. A brick however...? That, is a completely different story. It was 6:59pm. Up, high in the sky, on the tallest building in New York - a blood-red brick was found plunging through the air, 1 minute away from a damaging impact with the hard city floor (or soft city pedestrian). It is unknown how this brick got into this predicament, maybe wind, rain and weathering caused it to slowly crack off the building over time? Maybe, a psychotic killer lobbed it over the edge, grinning in joy at the idea of someone far bellow going "KA-SPLAT"? But one thing was for certain: New York would not be the city of opportunity this evening. 6:59pm and 20 seconds. The torpedo of a brick was hurtling down through the sky, slicing through the air like a freefalling skydiver or a deadly nuclear explosive. With every second. No! Fraction of a second, it was gaining life-ending quantities of velocity. Any hopes, dreams, inspirations of the unlucky individual that would cross this murderous being that we call a brick would be crushed - literally. 6:59pm and 40 seconds. After 40 seconds of falling (with style) the brick was looming close to it's final destination. It's target was in-sight and the brick menacingly grinned with delight. This brick was not going to infinity and beyond today. In fact, in 20, 19, 18, 17 seconds it's brief journey through the space that is the New York Skyline would end; the brick could not wait. 6:59pm and 50 seconds. Directly underneath this homicidal brick, was a man. He had a fancy new suit and a dazzling new tie. He was travelling home from work in a particularly gleefull mood as today had been the best day of his life for his career - an exciting new promotion and a luxury, all expenses payed buisness trip. Christmas had come early for the bricks beloved victim but boxing days hangover was coming faster (147mph, to be precise). All he had to do to avoid this catastrophe was take one step forward. 5 seconds left. The man did not move. 4. Not a muscle twitched. 3. Time was running out. Still, no movement 2. Oh no. 1... He stepped forward. The man had narrowly escaped his end, his demise, his death. He was safe! The brick had missed by an fraction of an inch! But the second brick didn't.


Dave Maddison pulled his coat collar up to warm his neck as he walked down rain-sodden Oxford Street in London’s West End. It was Halloween and under his raincoat, he was dressed as Superman on his way to a Singles fancy dress party. His satin cape fluttered in the early evening breeze, draped outside his coat to prevent it from creasing and looking cheap, as he ignored the snickering of passers-by - unaware of the effect the rain had on his exposed cape. What had started as a light flapping of the blue cape, had transformed into the drag of a heavy towel-like material pulling tightly at his neck. As he passed by the large windows of Selfridges department store, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass showing how stretched the cape had become, so he decided to detach it from his neck and carry it instead. Taking temporary shelter under the main entrance to the store, he took off his coat to unzip the cape, wringed it out, then started to put his coat back on when a voice interrupted him. “Trick or treat, mister?” Dave looked toward the direction of the voice and was surprised to see a young boy dressed in a similar Superman costume holding up a plastic bucket in the shape of a pumpkin. Unaccustomed to being approached by a child in the street, Dave looked around for the boy’s parents but didn’t see anyone showing the remotest of interest in the child. “Where’s your parents?” Dave enquired in a friendly manner, but the boy answered the question with another question. “What’s the costume you’re wearing?” “What!? Oh, it’s Superman.” “Just like mine,” the boy gleefully stated. “Yes... the mini version,” Dave jokingly pointed out. “What’s wrong with your cape?” “It got all wet in the rain.” “What rain?” The boy curiously asked. Dave looked out toward the entrance to the store. The street was dry and dull. Nothing like the reflective wet surface he was walking on just moments ago. Shaking off his confusion, Dave shrugged his shoulders. “It must have stopped.” “Hasn’t rained here in years,” the boy vehemently clarified. “This is London, England, young man. It’s always raining.” “You’re funny, mister. We’re in London, Texas, and it’s as dry as a bone, my dad always says.” “Hey, I’m from London, Texas,” Dave exclaimed before an uneasy tremor shook his legs. “...Where is your dad and... or your mom?” “Dad’s away working and Mom’s... Gone.” “Gone where?” “To be with Jesus...” “Wait... You’re out here on your own?” “No... I’m with you...” Dave was abruptly startled by the loud and almost deafening wail of a siren as a police car sped recklessly past the store entrance. A common sound around the West End of London - day and night. When he turned back to resume his conversation, the boy was no longer there. Worried about the safety of a child alone on the streets of a big city, Dave rushed back out onto the pavement, frantically looking up and down Oxford Street, but could not see any trace of him. What Dave did notice though, was the curious reflection on the ground of traffic lights, streetlamps, and the brightly lit shop windows. It was like a scene from a painting - normally found on sale at an IKEA store or a cheap art shop. However, what Dave noticed the most as he felt a chill beginning to form on his neck - was that it was raining. Police sirens continued to wail up and down Oxford Street as Dave headed in an Eastwardly direction toward Bond Street. Sometimes, the sirens seemed to be next to him - other times, in the distance. He inwardly joked about there being a donut sale on somewhere and the cops didn’t want to miss out. However, he quickly dismissed the joke as a form of bigotry against authority. Personally, he had no quarrel with the upholders of law. They were just doing their job trying to apprehend criminals and protect most of the populace against harm. “ Sure, weren’t they just normal people like everyone else ,” he would muse in his best Irish accent - even though he had no connection to anything Irish. “ Eating, sleeping, drinking, loving, and breathing life like we all do, begorrah!” As a young boy, he had been heavily influenced by re-runs of Adam West’s Batman TV series. Dave often professed to have learned his Irish accent watching the character, Chief O’Hara - Commissioner Gordon’s right-hand man. Texas born and raised, Dave considered Britain and Ireland to be the “Auld Countries.” His youthful lack of geographic knowhow placed all the Auld Countries into the same category of people talking funny, so he found great amusement in trying to copy their accents - something he found entertaining in adult life - especially, in the middle of a serious business meeting at work. Whenever he found discussions tedious and boring, the accents came out to play. Jesting aside, Dave’s easy-going attitude endeared him to his work colleagues at his IT consulting company, so his bizarre impromptu behaviour was overlooked in a way that someone would ignore a child trying to interrupt an adult conversation. Although he tried to be likeable, he was too quirky for female colleagues to want to get to know, so single life had become the accustomed norm with him. It was no surprise then, that when the opportunity to attend a Singles party presented itself, Dave eagerly accepted the invitation. In reality, it was a paid entry to an online announcement. To Dave, it was a personal invite that brought a little pleasure to his lonely life. “ Click here for the best Halloween party in town ,” the pop-up ad announced. “ The best DJs, top music, and best door prizes, raffles, and costume competition. Sponsored by iDateOnline.com. Places limited. Book Now! ” Without hesitation, Dave had clicked the button sending him to the payment page, entered his details, paid the entry fee, then printed out his entrance ticket. “ David ...” trailed a whisper from the small alleyway between the two buildings next to him. “Don’t get fooled by anyone at that party.” Stopping to gaze through the misting rain, Dave thought he saw the identifiable outline of a woman standing in the alleyway. “Especially the girls,” the voice continued. “If you ask me, you’re throwing away good money on cheap thrills.” “Sorry...? Hello?” Dave attempted to engage the voice. “They’ll try to entice you with sex...” “Mom...!? Is that you?” “Why don’t you find a nice Texas church girl and settle down?” The voice suggested - as it trailed off into the dark shadows of the passageway. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, directly behind him, a gruff male voice bellowed, “Why don’t you leave the boy alone, woman! Let him sow his wild oats - like I did - before you go settling him down into abject misery. Let him be a real man... You are a real man, aren’t you David, my boy? You’re not just a figment of your imagination, are you?” Turning to defiantly confront the voice, a curious scene transfixed his gaze upon it. A typical vintage red London Double-Decker bus silently glided past him. The Conductor, who curiously resembled Cliff Richard - England’s answer to Elvis - leant out from the open rear entry, tightly clasping onto the vertical rail singing, “ We’re all going on a Summer holiday, no more worries for a week or two .” But this oddity was not the thing that caught Dave’s attention. It was the passengers seated on both decks of one of London’s most iconic modes of public transport. They were all dressed as clowns, and all were emotionlessly staring straight back at him, making him feel quite uncomfortable. The sudden tooting sound of an old car horn broke the clowns’ hypnotic hold of him, drawing his attention toward the driver’s cab, where another clown with big red hair and an evil smile also stared at him - while continuing to blindly drive forward. “You are a real man, aren’t you, David?” The clown’s menacing voice carried through the damp night air before another ear-piercing police siren jolted Dave out of his temporary trance. Bewilderedly surveying his surroundings, caused a sense of abandonment to spread through Dave’s mind. In a swift change of scenery, he found himself window watching outside a Walmart store in the USA, observing bizarrely dressed shoppers inside, lining up at the checkout counters. However, something else felt different. The air was hot and humid, and his memory recollected a Déjà Vu moment of something about to happen. Dazed and confused, he stood trying to get his bearings, slightly bewildered as to where he was. “You ok, son?” A man’s voice kindly enquired as he repetitively tapped his walking cane on the ground. “Are you lost?” Dave took a cautious step away from the old man’s towering presence over him. Looking up at the man’s weathered face, he truthfully answered the question. “My Mom’s inside,” Dave instinctively replied while shaking his head. “I’m waiting for her to come out.” “Why’d she leave you out here all alone?” “She always does when she needs to shop in a hurry. Says I’ll only slow her down.” “Is that so...?” The old man’s bottom jaw pushed upwards in a disbelieving expression as he pondered Dave’s explanation. “How old are you son?” “I don’t know... Twenty-seven, I think.” “You think...!? Hell fire, son! Your momma not teach you numbers?” “I know my numbers!” Dave snootily retorted. “Do you?” Taken aback by the boy’s arrogant attitude, the old man lifted his cane, pointing it at Dave. “Where you from?” “...London...” “Huh, you don’t say... Well, that makes sense. You got no Walmart down there, do you...? Just a one-horse stretch of highway on its way to south of the border... Well, this here is Brady Lake, Texas, and we expect a certain politeness from our country-folk visitors... London, Texas, huh? I’d expect that kind of attitude from the people of your town’s namesake in England... How’s your geography, son? You do know your atlas, don’t you?” “None of your business,” Dave impatiently replied. “Well, I see your momma never taught you no manners, young man. You’d be wise to show some respect to older folk, coz someday you’ll be just like me. A bent over, crippled fuddy-duddy with nuthin’ better to do but stick your nose into other people’s business - just for conversation.” “I ain’t never getting old!” Dave defiantly bleated. The old man smiled at the young upstart stood before him in his Superman costume - a passing thought of what kind of upbringing this kid is getting , travelling through his head. “Well, you’re on your own now, young man. Your momma just sprinted out the door carrying what appears to be... a painting and an armful of clothes. Looks like she’s forgotten about her precocious little Superboy.” Dave quickly swivelled to see his mother disappearing into the sparsely-lit parking lot, headed for a beat-up old car at the far end of the property. “You best use your faster-than-a-speeding-bullet powers and fly away to your momma’s loving arms, now... Go on... Scoot, before that overweight excuse for a security guard catches his breath...” Without hesitation, Dave turned to scurry away after his mother. “It’s a long walk home to your London, Texas,” the old man shouted into the distance, while mumbling to himself as he shuffled off into the store. “Open twenty-four hours. I figure most folks in here are taking advantage of the all-day cool air. We’re in for a thunderstorm, I’d say. I can feel it in my old brittle bones... Yesireebob , lightning will surely strike tonight...” As Dave ran as fast as his legs could take him, a surprising heavy shower of cool rain abruptly splattered his face, causing him to stand still. Suddenly realising he was back on Oxford Street in the middle of Oxford Circus with traffic passing both sides of him, he headed to the dry shelter of a nearby shoe shop’s covered entrance. Out of breath, he slumped to the floor against a wall, placed his cape in front of him, and with knees up, cradled his head between his hands. Trying to make sense of everything that had just transpired, his private evaluation was cut short by the sound of several coins clicking as they dropped onto his cape. “Down on your luck, mate?” An English accent interrupted. “Are you real?” Dave innocently asked without looking up. “As real as they come, mate.” “Where am I?” “You’re sitting in the entrance to the Nike store.” “No, I mean, what is this place...? Who do you see?” “...Well, if it weren’t bleeding Halloween, I’d say you look like a nutter. But, I can genuinely see Superman in trouble, and we superheroes must stick together, yes?” Raising his head, Dave took in the tall man’s appearance. Covered from head to toe in a black costume, the tall, dark stranger loomed over him - his black cape fluttering in the rainy breeze. “Lucky for you,” the Dark knight added. “I’m in the business of saving people, and you look like you need saving... Reggie is the name, but you can call me... Batman.” Reggie extended a hand that Dave weakly shook. “Dave...” “No, mate. Tonight you are Superman. Now, tell me what troubles you.” “...I think my mother has died...” “Thinking’s not the same as actual...” “...She’s died, yes... She’s dead...” Dave affirmed. “Sorry to hear that, mate. Was it unexpected?” “She got shot by a security guard.” “My goodness. That’s very sad... How did it happen?” “She was shoplifting from a Walmart store back home in Texas... There was a guard. He was too fat to chase her, so he pulled out his gun and shot her in the back.” “Jesus, mate. I’m so sorry for you. What did she steal to deserve such horrible treatment?” “Some clothes, I think... and a framed print of a colourful rainy night in London - with a bus packed with circus clowns.” Perplexed, Reggie cocked his head to one side, remembering something. “That’s weird and funny at the same time... No offence, mate. The circus is in town. I saw them earlier driving around in a chartered double-decker. The old Route Master bus - if I’m not mistaken. Full of clowns. Even the driver was dressed as one.” “...I’m not going crazy, then? You saw them?” “...Twice!” Feeling an overwhelming surge of sadness and joy pass through him, Dave burst out crying and laughing at the same time. “That’s alright, mate. You let it out,” Reggie consoled him. “Let it all out...” Wiping his sodden face, Dave got to his feet, handed back the coins to Reggie, and nodded his appreciation. “When did you receive the news about your mum?” “...Fifteen years ago.” Surprised at the passage of time since Dave’s mother’s passing, Reggie took a moment to sum up the situation. “...and you were there, weren’t you...” Dave’s lips tightened like he was stifling another crying outburst - preventing him from verbally responding, so he just shook his head instead. “What about your dad? Is he still around?” “I lost touch with him years ago. He drives Greyhound buses across the country, so he’s never in one spot for too long.” “...It’s grief, mate. What you are feeling... A powerful force. It’s like a container holding all the emotions associated with the sense of loss. Denial, frustration, anger, seeking God, guilt, despair, and depression and finally resignation... They are all phases of grief. I suspect you’re at the latter stage of it.” Dave looked into Reggie’s eyes, searching for answers from his newfound oracle. “How do you know so much about me?” Dave asked, with a hesitant feeling of trepidation - not yet sure of what was real or not. “I’m Batman, mate. I’ve seen a lot of things on some of the darkest nights in the city... I’m also a grief counsellor. I come out here every evening in search of lost souls looking for clarity. Just so happens there’s a special Halloween group meeting tonight. Free tea, biscuits, and candy for all who attend... Why don’t you come along? There’s a nice big bar of comforting chocolate for the best costume...” “I was heading to a fancy dress party,” said Dave, reluctantly. “Not that one for Singles, advertised on the Internet... the what’s it called...?” “iDateOnline.com,” Dave interjected. “Yes, that’s the one! Tell you a secret... I bought a dodgy ticket as well... Ah, that brought a smile to your face didn’t it...” Dave bashfully acknowledged the lightening of the moment by bowing his head and kicking at a spot on the ground. “Look, tell you what... Our meeting starts in ten minutes. What say, you come along and join in. Most meetings last one hour. Plenty of time for Superman and Batman to get to the singles bash, yes?” An agreeing nod from Dave lit up Reggie’s face - who, triumphantly struck the spread-leg pose of a superhero gluing both hands to his hips, before reciting the iconic 1940s Superman cartoon series introduction. “It’s a bird, It’s a plane, it’s...?” Dave quickly joined in with, “For truth, justice, and the American way...” “...Ohhh, they’ve updated that motto, Man of Steel,” interrupted Reggie. “...and it’s so appropriate for this moment,” he teased. “They have?” Muttered Dave incredulously. “Indeed, they have, mate.” “Well, what is it?” Asked Dave excitedly. “It is now...” Reggie began with a preposition as he placed a friendly hand upon Dave’s shoulder, then launched into a short soliloquy. “... For Truth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow ... How cool is that, hey Superman?” “Yeah, that’s cool, Batman,” Dave replied with a tone of solidarity ringing in his voice. “...For a better tomorrow, one can only hope...”


The first day Zakka had met Nneka, he was attracted to her curvy figure, but didn’t think of having anything to do with her because, as a soldier on the battlefield, he was a walking corpse. He could die anytime. But he could not leave there, where he met her--a cave. She squatted in front of an emaciated boy, about three years of age, giving him water from a water-bottle she had found among the kits of a dead Biafran soldier several meters away from the cave. The boy seemed to have some difficulty in drinking the water. The first time she had thrust the bottle into his mouth, some of the water poured down his bony chest and then trickled uphill to his bloated stomach. She removed her head tie and wrapped it around the boy’s sunken buttocks. She didn’t like the way his skin sagged like there was no flesh--only skin covering the bones, and the way his shrunken penis hung between his thin legs. Nneka shivered as she heard some grasses crunch under foot behind her. Zakka had been standing there for some time as she attended to the boy before he took a few steps closer, his rifle in hand. “Your brother?” he asked as she turned towards him, holding her breath. Nneka shook her head, her eyes fastened on his hand holding the rifle. “You have been here how long?” She didn’t answer him. Zakka had just lost a partner some hours ago. His partner, though an igbo man, was fighting on the side of Nigeria. He had seen a ripe guava and scurried to go pluck it when he stepped onto a buried mine that exploded under him. Zakka had shut his eyes tight at the deafening sound of the explosion. By the time he opened his eyes, his friend had been ripped to shreds of flesh and warm, sticky blood. “What’s your name?” he asked her. “What do you want to do with my name?” “Nothing. I just want to know.” “Before you shoot us?” Zakka looked at the boy’s sunken eyes and brown hair. He looked around and then dropped his rifle, moved closer and stood right in front of her, almost stepping on her foot with his old boot. “I hate killing people.” “But you have been killing us.” She noticed his eyes settled gently on her cleavage. She quickly turned and adjusted her breasts. Zakka moved towards the boy and took his feeble hand. He wiped away some tears from the corners of the boy’s eyes with his other palm. Nneka turned and looked at him. “Where is your family?” She pointed at the boy. After a long pause, looking at her flat nose and full lips, he said, “I’m sorry.” She scratched the side of her large hip without a word. Suddenly, he moved towards his rifle and picked it up. Nneka looked at him with no sign of fear in her eyes. As he was about to leave, she asked, “What’s your name?” “Zakka.” “When will you people stop killing us?” “I’m sorry I can’t answer that question--you go tell your brother, Ojukwu, to stop the war. He...” Tired of standing, the little boy sat down on the ground, his thin legs stretched in front of him. Zakka made to walk away, but she called him back. He paused, turned towards her. She brought out two coins from the hip pocket of her gown and stretched a hand towards him. “In case you see food anywhere, please help us buy.” He glanced at her palms. The coins were a two-and-a-half Republic of Biafran shillings each. He wondered where she had been since the war started, that her light skin still seemed to glow. “I am not coming back here.” With her hand still stretched towards him, she said, “Just in case you do.” Looking straight into her eyes, he dropped her hand gently. “Keep it. You will still need it.” He glanced at the boy and said, “When I find some food, you’ll see me. Otherwise...” He then walked away. Meanwhile, in his village, Gbakunta, there had been heavy ominous cloud covering everyone. The apprehension that hung in the hearts of the villagers was so palpable one could carry it like a hoe to the farm. Zakka, who had ‘confessed’ to being a wizard, fled when amuamua were leading him to go dig his grave where he would be buried and burned alive. Nobody had ever heard of such a thing--that someone escaped from the hands of amuamua. The chief priest said that Zakka had only invited a curse that would wipe out his whole family--all of them would die one after the other and Zakka too would not live a day longer from the day he had escaped from the village. Prior to Zakka’s escape, people were dying in droves after bouts of stooling and vomiting. This had gone on for weeks till when some elders went and consulted with their family chief priest and he advised they needed amuamua to cleanse the village. So, in the dead of the night, amuamua went round the village, chanting. Hours later, Zakka appeared, mumbling around his father’s compound. And then the amuamua surrounded him. His mumbo jumbo was interpreted as a confession of witchcraft--which he said he was the one who had killed his two step-brothers. In the morning, he was taking round for all to see as one who had been causing the ‘mysterious’ deaths in the village. His punishment was that he would gather all the firewood needed to burn him alive after he had dug his grave the size of his height. But Zakka had escaped and when he learned that the Nigerian army was recruiting soldiers to fight the secessionist, he willingly joined, hoping that it would take him far away from his village where they must be searching everywhere for him to kill. Amaka was on the ground, crying. Her little friend was dead. This was the closest she came to really feeling the loss of someone. Her father, who was a rich businessman, was not at home and most of her family members had fled for their lives when some Nigerian soldiers invaded their community in Afor Umohiagu village, near Owerri, shooting and throwing bombs. Amaka didn’t see any of her family members bombed or gunned down and could only remember running haphazardly amongst other confused and terrified people. She did not know where her family members had run to. She didn’t even know how she got to that cave. But she picked the boy beside a dead woman while wandering along the way. She never asked the boy if the dead woman was his mother or sister, and the boy never said a thing to her all along. She had been with the boy in that cave for only 6 days, but she was devastated when he died. Not just because he died, but because she thought about how the death of her own family members would meet each of them--would they die of starvation like her little friend? Or thirst? Or gun shot? Or air strikes? Because the enemies had no mercy--they bombed refugee camps and even hospitals. The boy’s death also brought her face to face with her own death--how death had become so ubiquitous on the land just because some two coconut head soldiers disagreed. She didn’t care about their reason for disagreement. She only wondered about how life, as she knew, suddenly evaporated into thin air--no, not thin air--how life became so confused, uncertain, bloody, and meaningless. “He is dead?” Zakka asked, standing behind her with his rifle hanging over his left shoulder and some food items in a small old sack. She turned and faced at him, her eyes red and glistening with tears. He walked up to her and took her into his arms gently. “I’m sorry...” Her nose touched the strap of his rifle, and then she looked up at it. “I’ve brought you guys some food.” After a long silence, she said, “I don’t want food...” “I’m sorry he died, but I love his kind of death.” Nneka disengaged from his embrace and gave him a curious look. “It was a peaceful death, wasn’t it?” He said and almost smiled. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand... Meanwhile, the place darkened from the quick gathering clouds above the sky. “His flesh and bones are together, at least. They wanted to burn me alive where I came from. I escaped only to come and join this... I have seen my colleagues’ hearts riddled with bullets. Some had their flesh scattered all over the ground like over-ripe banana in the hand of a toddler.” She folded her arms tight across her breasts as it drizzled. “His wasn’t a peaceful death.” She said. “It was slow, painful and hopeless.” For the first time, he didn’t have the right word for her. He looked at her quietly as the downpour caused her gown to stick to her curvy figure. She wiped away some rainwater from her face. “Please remove this.” She said, looking over his shoulder. His heart began racing under his rib cage. He searched into her eyes. She nodded, as though she understood what he was trying to say. He dropped the sack and began to unbutton his shirt. “No, not in this cold weather. I meant the gun. I don’t want to see it.” He paused and looked up. “So God is bringing us rain--no more miserable thirst.” She held the strap of the gun and slid it down and out of his hand. She dropped it faced down against the wall of the cave and then drew him into her arms. “It’s for our protection -- the gun.” He said and ran his hands over her thick buttocks, feeling the lines of her panties. As she reached for his button with her right hand, Zakka shrieked, blood splattered on her face, clothes and around the cave. “Bastard wanted to rape her!” she overheard a husky voice say in Igbo, before she saw two blurry figures brandishing their rifles and one of them dancing in the rain.


I went to summer camp when I was a kid. My mother saw an ad online and insisted on it--this great, big, family-owned place tucked between some mountains in the Adirondacks. Summers in my small Vermont town were dull and uneventful, and though this was an attempt to fix that, I wanted nothing to do with it. Not because of the outdoors or anything. I didn’t mind being bunked in a dusty cabin, packed with strangers and spiders, without bathrooms or electricity. Nor did I think I was too cool for the silly games and activities proudly displayed on their website. It actually seemed fun. I just felt guilty having any sort of experience without Lily. She’d only been gone a few months. Cities and towns rushed past my window, growing few and far between. The wooded northern roads led us into a long stretch of evergreen tunnel. I gazed silently out the window, doing nothing to hide the bad mood I was in; I was a soon-to-be teenage girl who, on top of having her first fight with her parents, had just had her first period. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the car with them for two hours. I’d sometimes catch Mom’s eye in the rear-view, but she remained unusually silent. The mother I knew would have spent quite some time reviewing the dangers I could have faced that summer. Things like ticks, sun poisoning, bears, or becoming one of the two hikers a year who go missing in those six million acres. But there was none of that. Not even a word from my dad, who was always good for a laugh. I’d hardly spoken to either of them since Lily. I didn’t even wave bye when the ferry took off for camp. A thin white haze covered the water that day. I stared out over the side of the ferry as we drifted into it, face turned to the breeze as I pressed against the rail. There were two dozen other girls and boys on that boat, and most of them seemed to have already known each other. Some were chatting excitedly beside me, while others zoomed past in a game of tag or in search of other familiar faces that would light up when found. I took it all in, hopeful of what the summer had in store. The charms of Lily’s bracelet clinked against my wrist in the misty wind. Shuttle busses met us on the other side of Lake Champlain and drove small groups at a time down the winding road that eventually led to Burntwood Grounds. I was of the lucky few that had to wait for the last one to double back. The longer I spent on that bench by the dock, slouched against my bag, the more anxious I was to get there. I daydreamed of all the fun I might have, clinging to Mom’s promise that this place would feel like home soon enough. When my shuttle finally arrived, I took the very first seat and watched the others file in to the very back, wondering who, if any, among the group would be my friend by summer’s end. I imagined Lily sitting in the empty seat beside me choosing my next best friend. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would have done. But then I felt a knot in my gut, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her see all the fun I was having. After driving through an old, small town, whose bricked factories had long since shut down, we were treated to breathtaking glimpses of the Adirondack mountains, rugged and impossibly large. We couldn’t see some of their tops above the overcast, and eventually lost complete sight of them as the shuttle barreled down the forest road that lead to the camp’s entrance. We stopped at a seemingly innocent gap in the trees where a large branch-lettered sign pointed us inward: WELCOME TO BURNTWOOD. Beyond was a dirt road that ascended just slightly, as though taking you up to an entirely new world. I could feel a shift in gravity as we rolled through. At the end, the trees opened up once more and spit you out onto the largest field you’d ever seen. A single golf cart sat markedly in the distance. The other ferry-goers stood around a campfire beside it. They all perked up when they noticed the last shuttle approaching, watching as it dropped us off just a short walk away. Two girls by the fire clapped their hands and squealed at the sight of their friend behind me; she shoved past to go hug them. Counselors in bright orange shirts greeted the rest of us, gasping over how much everyone had changed since they’d last seen each other. I noticed several eyes pass over me and move on to someone else. It was clear that everybody knew everybody around here, and that I wasn’t yet one of them. An older gentleman with darker skin and a goatee stepped forward with his hand held high to get our attention. The pin on his shirt read “Simon.” His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Okay everyone, listen up! Now that you’re all here, and your bags are off to inspection, let’s take some time to catch up, make a s’more, or two--but not three!” He shot a comedic glance at one particular boy, alluding to an inside joke that I was on the outside of. He paused for laughter and then continued, drawing out his words in a slow, dramatic fashion as he paced back and forth, waving his hands as he spoke. “But first! I just want to say a few things before we begin the 46th summer here at Burntwood Grounds.” The crowd erupted into applause. Simon stood by with a grin and waited. “Yes! Forty-six summers of love. Love for each other. For ourselves. For nature. We are all truly blessed to be here--this, you know. But what you may not know is that things here are not always perfect. Just like each and every one us. There are parts of us beneath the surface--parts we may not like. Parts we deny. Maybe parts we aren’t aware of. Parts that make you who you really are, yes, but parts we can improve upon. Which is why our theme this summer is *self-discovery and growth*. Understanding who we are, for all the good and all the bad. Searching within ourselves for our true identity and embracing all parts of it so as to discover, not just who we are, but who we truly want to be. Find yourself. Love yourself.” He let the words sink in. A group of older kids in front nodded their heads and muttered a phrase under their breath that the rest of the group then repeated. It reminded me of church. I shuddered at a vision of Lily’s casket at the altar. “Now...” Simon concluded with a clap. “Who is ready for the best summer of their life!” The crowd cheered and broke into an excited frenzy, grouping up with the friends they hadn’t seen since last summer. I took a seat on a log by the dying fire, invisible among the buzz. Another girl my age sat down on the other side and poked some life back into the embers, preparing herself a s’more as the fire gasped and was alive once more. I tried not to look when she dropped marshmallows onto the dirt and put them on a stick anyway. She, too, was sneaking glances my way, and my struggle to avoid it only made it harder to do so. It made my palms sweat. But she didn’t seem bothered. She enjoyed her snack while playfully poking the pit with her stick, moving to a song that must’ve been playing in her head. My tempted eyes lingered longer, noting the many differences in our appearance: her straight blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders while my curly brown locks were hidden inside my bun; her bright green eyes were tempered with a stroke of hazel where my plain browns were dull and tired; her pale, freckly skin was worn with dirt and scrapes where my sun-kissed body was a smooth caramel, clean and moisturized. But the closer I looked, the more I saw familiarity in our distinction, as though created from the other’s shadow. The crackling of the flames grew louder. I heard the girl’s voice call out from behind them. “I like your bracelet.” I looked up and saw her take a big bite of her s’more. “Thanks,” I mustered. “Do you want one?” She was mid-chew, with marshmallow on her lips. I shook my head. I wanted to thank her but then seconds had passed. Her eyes kept meeting mine as she continued to chew. When she finished, she grabbed everything she needed to make another and moved herself next to me. “You’ve never been here before,” she stated, quite strangely. She was playing with the fire again, stabbing her stick in and out of it. “First time,” I said with my eyes to the ground, where my feet awkwardly tapped. The chatter around us was growing louder. I could feel the girl’s attention on me, so I asked, “What about you?” She huffed a laugh as she licked chocolate off her hand. “I was born here.” I froze. The fire hissed at her as she continued to poke it. When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t kidding. “I’m a Lovel,” she said. “Marcy’s my mom.” My stomach sank further. Was I supposed to know who that was? It was bad enough not knowing a single thing about Burntwood, now I was screwing up the only interaction I’d had all day. The girl could sense my anxiety. It seemed to amuse her. “My family owns camp,” she explained. “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. “Maddie.” Charlie reached down for the graham crackers and marshmallows and fixed herself another. “Maddie,” she repeated to herself. “Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.” Those big green eyes were begging me to join her. So I grinned and agreed, to which she joyfully tossed the bag of marshmallows my way. “This is my fourth one,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. Here.” She held her stick out for me to take, and without hesitating I grabbed it, not realizing it was the end that had been in the fire. It burned my hand worse than I ever had before. I shrieked and stared at the throbbing red mark seared into my palm, shooting a frightened glance at Charlie who was looking guilty as ever, her hands clasped over her mouth. The sea of children surrounding us parted as orange shirts hurried over. Simon pushed to the front, took one look at it, and immediately rushed me onto the golf cart. Gasps and murmurs tailed behind me. As we sped off, the roof of the cart rattling with every bump, I looked back at the receding crowd and saw Charlie wave a sad good bye. I waved back. -- Burntwood only continued to expand, like a web, roads through the trees leading to various village-like sections of log cabins. It was hard to pay much attention to any of it given the pain in my hand. After what felt like far too long, we’d finally stopped at what appeared to be the main area of camp. Two large buildings faced one another, separated by a view of the lake beyond. Simon led me into the left building, through a lobby and into an open recreational space where two women--one young, one old--stood face to face behind a table, in the midst of a seemingly important discussion. The younger woman froze at the sight of us. “Medical,” Simon announced. The younger woman’s face softened as she turned to face us, the older woman’s gaze still on her. A white glow from the day’s overcast sky was pouring in through the window wall behind them, casting shadows of the tables and sofas all around. The younger woman stepped out from around the table. “What happened?” “Sorry, Marce. She was cooking marshmallows with Charlie. Grabbed a stick by the wrong end.” The older woman, whose wrinkled neck disappeared somewhere inside her purple shall, began to walk off but paused by Marcy’s side. “Fix it,” she muttered. “Yes, mother. Come,” Marcy added to me with an outstretched hand. I followed her to an office in back, taking a peak over my shoulder to see Simon with his arm around the old woman, heading for the exit. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my injury. Marcy’s office was small and refreshingly cold. Safe to say there probably weren’t very many air conditioned spaces at Burntwood, but the Hemlock Building was easily the most modern area of camp, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was no wonder head staff spent most of their time there. Marcy sat me down beside her desk and pressed a cold rag against my hand. I followed stray streams of drops down my wrist where Lily’s bracelet softly lay, her initials shining from the light above. “So how do you like Burntwood so far?” Marcy asked with a sarcastic grin. Her teeth were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. She might’ve been forty but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, unlike Charlie’s, was brown and wavy, and braided around the top of her head. Her eyes dark, but soft. “I know this place can be intimidating,” she said, “but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. Trust me. I’ve been here my whole life.” She motioned for me to hold the rag while she searched inside a first aid kit. My attention, however, was bouncing from wall to wall, each heavily decorated in Burntwood memorabilia. T-shirts and bandanas from years past spread open and nailed to the wall. Posters and pictures, and spray-painted trophies. Hiking gear, oars, ski poles, and an autographed hockey stick hung above the door. Marcy was rubbing ointment on my hand when she noticed my stare. “Chris Tremblay. Have you heard of him?” “Yeah!” I gasped. “My dad has his jersey.” “Well, he went here,” Marcy grinned. “Years ago. Just a small little thing like you. Knew nothing about camp. Didn’t want to be here,” she added with a raised brow. “And you know what he said to me on the last day? He said it was the best summer of his life. Cried when his parents picked him up. So he came back the next summer, and the five after that. Even dreamed of being a counselor some day but was too committed to hockey when the time came. After the Rangers drafted him, he visited us before heading down to the city. Said he owed everything to Burntwood. That it changed his life.” She must’ve noticed the skepticism in my face, as she leaned in closer. “When he first set foot on these grounds, nobody knew who he was. And when he left that day, there were kids wearing his name on the backs of their shirts.” I glanced once more at the blue shine of his stick above but didn’t feel any better; the air around Burntwood was still heavier than it was anywhere else. And I was still the fool who got hurt in her first hour there. I winced as Marcy began wrapping my hand, pressing the ointment down for a refreshingly cold sting. When she asked me to sit still, I apologized. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.” But she could see that I was not. She paused, the roll of gauze still in her hand as she worked through something in her mind. “Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly. “Something not many people know?” I nodded, and she continued, wrapping my hand as she spoke. “The woman who founded this place? She got burned real bad too. Her name was Eleanor. She lived in a shack deep in the woods with her family, many years ago. The man who owned it let them stay there in exchange for work. You know, helping on the farm. Stuff like that. And so for a while, that’s what they did.” The wrap got a bit tight, so Marcy unwrapped a few layers and began again. “It wasn’t a great life, but they had no where else to go. So every day, they worked and did all they could to survive in that little shack. It wasn’t easy. And the landlord didn’t make it any easier. You see, he was a very bad man. He was cruel. He worked them too hard, especially the children. Sometimes he’d withhold food if they weren’t working hard enough. When Eleanor stood up to him, he hit her. Almost broke her jaw.” Marcy turned and rummaged through the first aid kit once more, items jangling inside as she continued her story. “Of course, Eleanor then realized that her family was in danger, and that, despite the food and shelter, she needed to get them out of there. Whatever it took to keep her family safe. So late one night, while the landlord slept in his big, empty house beside them, she hurried her four little ones out into the darkness, carrying sacks filled with as much as they could carry. Food, water, clothing.” She finally found what she’d been digging for, pulling out a small pair of scissors and cutting the wrap from the roll. “It was a very windy night, something that should’ve worked in their favor. But just as they were about to reach the only road out, a gunshot rang loud into the air. And it was *chaos*. Eleanor cried for her children to run, not even realizing she’d been shot. She collapsed, shouting still for her children to escape. Her eldest daughter, Shereen, turned back and saw her mother bloody and struggling. So she went back for her, despite Eleanor’s pleas not to. More gunshots were fired, and the kids were disappearing down the dark road without anyone to look after them. Shereen was holding Eleanor in her arms, watching the life slowly fade out of her.” Marcy dragged the first aid kid closer to her and peered inside, this time taking out a small roll of tape. I waited curiously as she took her time. She taped down the end of the gauze and finished with a gentle, loving tap. “But the landlord showed no remorse. When he reached them, he picked Shereen up by her hair and dragged her over to a nearby tree, where he beat her mercilessly. Slammed her head against the tree over and over. Her brothers and sisters were frozen in the distance, watching in horror.” I watched in horror myself, wondering why on Earth she was telling me this. Her stare had drifted somewhere beyond the wall in front of her, as though watching the entire scene play out. And then, to my surprise, she returned to me with a faint smile. “And then a lightning bolt struck the tree, killing the landlord instantly.” My eyes grew wide, the pain in my hand subsiding for just a moment. For some reason, I was more nervous than I felt I should have been. “What happened to the girl?” I worried. Marcy’s face lit up. “That girl is my mother. And she owns that tree now.” She closed the first aid kit with a snap and rolled out from behind her desk, now directly in front of me. “She turned the most painful time of her life into something wonderful. She built a community for her family and all those in need. And ever since, this place has been blessed with a history so rich and full of love, you can feel it.” Marcy took my injured hand and held it gently in hers. “*You* are part of that history now, Maddie. Your pain is not forever, but the power of this place is. I promise.” Her eyes were glossy and assuring, almost mournful. I wondered if my parents had told her about Lily. I could feel the charms of her bracelet being pressed against my skin, as images of her gap-toothed smile flashed in my mind. Her little face peaking from around the corner. Her style. Her attitude. The way she always defended me. The pink walls in her room. The white walls in the hospital. The way she looked the last time I saw her. “Here,” Marcy said, bringing me back. She held out a couple pills for me to take but then recoiled when I reached for them. “I’m not supposed to give you these so...” She put a finger to her lip and dropped them into my hands. I stared at them, fighting flashes of nurses dosing Lily to sleep. I played with her bracelet as Marcy fetched me a bottle of water from her mini fridge and slid it across the desk. I didn’t move. “Do you need me to open it?” she asked. I shook my head despite the growing sting underneath the wrap. I pretended not to feel it. After watching Lily battle the way she did, for as long as she did, I felt guilty ever being hurt. I didn’t know real hurt. I looked up at Marcy. “Do I have to take these?” She blinked. I expected her motherly instincts to force them upon me and was surprised when she said, “Of course not.” She gestured for me to hand them back to her, studying me as I did so. I wasn’t sure why, but she seemed upset by this, and that didn’t feel good. So I forced a smile and asked her more about some of the things in her office: black and white photos of the early days, contrasted by colorful ones of her and her family at various places around camp; purple pool noodles in one corner and tall tiki torches in another, both part of some camp tradition, as it appeared most things were; and a large stuffed-animal of a blue and white wolf sitting atop a bookcase. It was cute. She was going to tell me about it when a sudden wave of voices rushed through the window; the others had hiked their way over and were marching into the next building. “C’mon,” said Marcy, still eyeing me curiously. “Let’s get you back to the group, yeah?” -- The Dining Hall was far less comfortable than the Hemlock Building. The air was thick and sticky, and smelled of sweat and body odor. About a hundred campers, ranging anywhere from seven to fourteen, were packed into tables that just barely fit their capacity. I could feel sets of eyes from all directions shoot my way after following Marcy through the screen door and letting it slam shut behind me with a loud crack. We stood aside as counselors on stage were attempting to silence the crowd, while Shereen and Simon stood carelessly in the far corner chatting with other seemingly prominent people at camp. I met eyes with one of them, a woman with thick glasses and an oversized crescent moon hanging from her neck. Marcy gave it a moment and then clapped this rhythmic giddy-up kind of clap, to which the crowd repeated and fell silent. I already wanted to be just like her. With all eyes now certainly my way, I was more than relieved when I’d spotted Charlie in the center of the room motioning for me to sit next to her. Her mother gave her a nod and wished me off with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Charlie’s grin shielding me from the stares as I shuffled past other tables to get to her. She gasped when saw the wrap I was now donning, half-heartedly hiding laughter from behind her perfectly unburned hands. “I am so sorry!” she giggled. Her voice cut right through the otherwise silent crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the glares from nearby staff. And neither did I; her laughter made me feel better than anything. I sat happily beside her and watched the introductory festivities before us, as the entire staff took turns introducing themselves and then performed a very corny skit as a way to go over all the rules. Bathroom buddies, aquatic safety, hygiene, after hours. In a very poorly acted scene, two young boy counselors pretended to sneak out of bed at night, only to be eaten by the camp monster, the Nightcrawler. “A beast of many forms!” another counselor cried from underneath a black blanket. She was wearing a plain purple mask with two little holes for eyes. It was silly, but the looks on the faces of the little kids in front told me that it worked. As the night progressed, I found myself buying in to Burntwood more than I thought I would have. I laughed at all the dumb jokes and clapped along to the songs I pretended to know, watching enviously as Charlie and her friends belted out the words. I’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, especially not at our age. I admired her just as much as I admired her mother. I’d almost wished they were my family. Then I remembered what Marcy had said. That I was forever one of them. I hoped that was true. Charlie went on to formally introduce me to the other girls at the table. Whether their early disdain was all in my head, or Charlie had had that much pull, they seemed genuinely excited about befriending ‘the new girl.’ They gave me their own version of orientation over pasta dinner, ranting about the people and all the things I’d love and hate. I got lost when they shifted to reminiscing on previous years, but I listened eagerly and laughed accordingly. When the night ended, our counselor, Sarah, took the nine of us over to the girl’s side of camp. A circle of cabins surrounded a small field and sand pit, with more cabins extending along the water. We sat on the docks where rays of the setting sun fought through the overcast to say goodnight. The mountains beyond looked like something from a painting. We did ice breakers and went over more rules, and when the shuttles pulled up with our bags, it was time to settle into the cabin we would be calling home for the next four weeks. It was just a short walk from the docks, something Sarah assured we’d appreciate on those scorching summer days. After hauling bags heavier than ourselves up a small hill, we reached a large, but otherwise ordinary looking cabin. It didn’t appear to be any better or worse than I’d imagined, but when I reached the wide steps of the front porch, my heart stopped. There was a pretty, floral-painted sign on one of the beams: WOOD LILY. I stopped as the other girls passed. Charlie turned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I stared at it a moment longer and shook it off. “Nothing.” “Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned. “Wood Lily’s probably my third favorite cabin.” I looked at her, to which she added, “Out of fourteen. That’s pretty good. It’s not as nice as Pine Palace but at least it has electricity.” Her voice trailed off somewhere beyond me as I stared up at the moths circling the yellow porch light. I wasn’t there anymore. I was dragging Lily’s bag up the hospital steps, my mother at the top walking far ahead of me. I blinked and it was Charlie again. I buried the memory and followed her inside. The interior was certainly nicer than expected. The lighting was dim and there was still dirt on the floor, but overall it was neat and well-spaced. There were bunks lining the wall that disappeared into a back section, and a stairway in the corner leading up to the counselor’s private room. The girls immediately began pairing up and discussing who would get which bunk. I was too afraid to ask Charlie. And I didn’t have to. She took me by the hand and pulled me further inside, to the very back where it turned right and extended into an almost cavernous area. This part of the cabin looked older, as though the rest had been built around it later on. “This one has the best view,” Charlie explained as she climbed the top bunk and dove into it. There was a window overlooking the woods, with a clear line of sight to the river beyond. You could just make out the shimmer of the mountains’ reflection in the twilight. She stared out at it while I stuffed my clothes into the dirty drawers. She’d hardly had anything to put away, as her actual home was somewhere on the grounds not far from here. “You can use one of my drawers,” she offered. She’d spun around and caught me standing idly by my bag, debating whether or not to take Lily’s bracelet off. I hadn’t taken it off since the funeral. Not once. But I wondered if maybe it was time. “Does it hurt?” Charlie blurted. I was staring down at my hands. “Yeah,” I replied. I wasn’t sure which thing she was talking about but it didn’t matter. Sarah went around and checked to make sure everyone was properly situated, and after one final reminder of the after-hours rules (and a strong recommendation not to stay up too late), she bid us goodnight and turned off the lights. We listened as the thud of her footsteps disappeared upstairs, waiting for silence before throwing whispers across the room to one another. We got a few giggles in before her voice called down for us to go to bed. My eyes were heavy anyway, it had been a long day. The growing pain in my hand was a reminder of that, and of the fact that I was having too much fun. This pain was deserved. “Maddie,” whispered Charlie. Her face was squeezed between the bed and the wall, staring down at where I lay. “I’m happy you’re here.” “Me too,” I replied. And I was starting to mean it. I thought that was it, when Charlie continued. “Can you do something for me?” She sounded sad. Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation in her big, green eyes. “What?” She paused, and then said, “Can you sleep on your stomach.” Confused, I said nothing. “Please?” she tried again. “Sleep on your stomach, okay? Tonight, and every night.” I nodded as though this was a casual request. But she didn’t move. She was waiting for me to do it. I rolled over, my injured arm now forced wall-side and without much room for comfort. I could hear Charlie above finally move away, rolling onto her stomach as well. “Goodnight, Maddie.” “Goodnight.” I was very uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This was so unexpected. And strange. But strangest of all...when sounds of Charlie’s unconscious breathing trickled down into my bunk, I didn’t move. I stayed on my stomach the whole night. I didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing I did.


There is a land where an ancient king formed a new empire. There is a land where a particular method brought about the vision of one man. There is a land where an organization brought about great works. There is a land where the choices of gods dictated the lives of many. The land is called Gala, and within this land a flame burned. It was not a destructive flame. It was not a flame that consumed all in its wake, but it was a small, steady flame. It was a flame that brought about warmth in a cold world. It was a flame that brought many together, and showed many the light. This is a tale of that flame, a faithful flame. Maera spoke quietly to her friend, “That’s the guy,” she pointed to a man sitting quietly next to the fire in the work camp. “Really?” responded her friend. “Yep,” They both took a glance at the man. He was very strange. It wasn’t his short blonde hair that was odd. It was his bright, glowing, yellow eyes, and the fact that he had feathers growing behind his ears. He stared deeply into the small campfire, completely transfixed by it. “So, he was just laying down in the ashlands?” Maera’s friend was having a hard time believing that someone would want to be in the ashlands, let alone lay down on the inches of ash that had covered the area for years. The ashlands were an anomaly of the natural world. The natural order of things called for a renewal of life when a fire burned through a forest. The ashlands had burned down years ago, but no life had come to the area. “Sure was.” Maera brushed her curly brown hair out of her face and continued talking in hushed tones with her friend. The man by the fire was deep in thought. ‘Who am I? I don’t remember anything about who I was. There was something... something about a man. Flame? Or was it faith?’ His brow furrowed, his mind desperately trying to remember something from his past. “Hey you,” The man looked up at Maera. His train of thought was lost. “What’s your name?” The man stood up. “Umm... I don’t really remember,” he confessed. “But you can just call me Sol.” Maera raised an eyebrow. “Sol?” “Yep,” Sol sat back down next to the fire. “What is so interesting about that fire?” said Maera. “You may not see anything, but I can make out a story in these flames.” Sol turned his head slightly. There, directly in the center of the fire. There was something there. Sol reached into the fire. “What are you doing!?” Maera went to stop him, but he had already retracted his hand. Flame circled his fingers and made its way up his arm. “You’re on fire!” cried Maera. “Well, technically the fire is on me,” responded Sol in a very calm voice. The flame went all the way up to his face, and lit the feathers on the sides of his head. They ignited and gave off a bright flame. “Whoa,” his eyes grew brighter. He stood up. Maera and all the other members of the small camp stared at Sol. It was hard not to notice someone who had two fires burning on either side of his head. “This feel amazing!” he had a bright smile on his face “Are you okay?” asked Maera. “I’m better than okay. I feel like I could...” Sol crouched down and jumped straight up, and up he went. He ascended gracefully into the air. Two large apparitions of wings emanated from his back. They spread wide, and gave off a warm glow that the entire camp could feel. Sol flew around the camp laughing and giggling at the experience. It was exhilarating. It was a feeling of total freedom. Freedom from gravity, freedom from restrictions of any kind. He landed back down by the fire. “How did you do that?” Maera was understandably astounded. “I dunno. I just did it.” “Well-” she began, but was cut off by a panicked yell. “Inspection! Everyone, get back to work!” a scout ran into the camp waving his arms. Many of the workers returned to the fields surrounding the camp while others went into their tents. “What’s going on?” asked Sol. “Don’t you know?” responded Maera. “Um, no.” Maera gave an exasperated sigh. “There is an inspector coming to make sure we are working. If we aren’t then we are punished. Simple as that.” “That sounds awful,” Sol said earnestly. “Yeah, no kidding. You should probably hide,” suggested Maera. “He doesn’t know about you, and I’m not too interested in what he makes of you.” “That’s not right. This isn’t right. I should talk to him,” prompted Sol. “What!? Are you crazy!? He can’t be reasoned with!” Maera was absolutely bewildered. “Do you have any idea-” “Alright, how’s camp 368 doing?” There was a short man in expensive looking attire strutting about the far end of the camp, and he was casting a scornful eye at the disheveled inhabitants. Sol and Maera froze. The flames on Sol’s head went out, but luckily he went unnoticed. The man walked into the large storehouses toward the back of the camp and continued his inspection. “Tut, tut, 368. You’re a looking a bit lacking this week. You had a larger harvest last time,” he came to Sol and Maera. “And what are you two doing? I see two sets of idle hands contributing to the lacking supplies.” “They’re always lacking,” Maera muttered under her breath. “What was that young miss?” the man’s tone was deadly. “Nothing sir,” she said. “Hmph. Be glad Pharaoh hasn’t given me a combat form yet,” he stated indignantly. “I could crush you without a second thought.” Sol looked around for some support from the other inhabitants. They just continued to watch, unmoving. “What’s your problem kid?” asked the man. It was then that he noticed Sol’s eyes. “What’s with your eyes? They’re creeping me out.” Sol stormed up to him. “You can’t do this! This is wrong!” The man was taken aback. “You dare lecture me on what’s right and wrong!?” he screeched. The people in the camp trembled at the sound of shouting. “Sir, don’t mind him,” Maera chimed in, trying to subtly tell Sol to shut up. “It’s fine, right Sol?” she glared at him. “No it’s not!” Sol insisted. “I’d listen to her, boy,” but Sol was not backing down. “You can’t do this to people! Who gave you the right?” Sol demanded. “Please, Sol. Stop talking,” Maera was desperately trying to salvage the situation to no avail. “I have been authorized by Pharaoh himself to run this place. Are you going to challenge my command? You worthless whelp! I’ll-” Sol grabbed the short man by his collar and hoisted him up to eye level. “Now you listen here, ya little twerp,” the feathers on the side of his head erupted into flame. “You aren’t going to bother these people anymore. Ya hear me?” The inspector squirmed under his grip. “You’re going to go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and you’re going to leave these people be, capisce?” he thrust the man on the ground. “You won’t get away with this!” the inspector scrambled away. “I’ll have your head boy!” he ran out of the camp. Maera was furious. “What was that for!?” Maera shouted. Sol was confused. “Hey, I just helped you out,” he said. “No! You didn’t! You just made it worse for all of us! Now he’s going to come back and make sure we all learn a lesson.” “I won’t let that happen,” he reassured. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know us. You just barely got here, and now you’re trying to protect us?” shouted Maera “I don’t need to know you to do the right thing,” he argued. Maera threw up her hands in resignation. “Great, now we got ourselves a hero. Congratulations!” her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What should I have done?” he demanded. “Nothing! You could have done nothing, and we would have been fine. But noooo, you had to go and be a hero,” she responded. An old man walked up to them. Maera paused in her rant. “Young man, we appreciate the fact that you want to help. We have lived in a world where we have had to endure these hardships. Many of us have lost loved ones doing this work,” Maera clenched her fists “but we have lived on. I ask you this, do you truly think you can stop them?” Sol did not hesitate in his answer. “Yes, I believe I can.


Navigation Coordinates J2000 Right Ascension to Saturn (Per the International Celestial Reference System) On board Spacecraft Module ZK8*11, two of Planet Exo’s top engineers sat together in the Goldilocks Lounge going over the day’s findings. EKK-&#@ and SPEC-%^+ studied a year’s worth of data points spread before them reflected in graphs and pie-charts. The table surface doubled as a computer screen. The two had their internal telepathy enabled so they could communicate without speaking. This had the advantage of blocking out other sounds in the area and was especially effective when sharing classified business. EKK-&#@: Look. The data supports our initial theory that Earth is, indeed, a doomsday planet, always has been. SPEC-%^+: Yes, but this is new. See this increase? Tells me there's hope. EKK-&#@: Those numbers elevated when we initiated the study. That shift was a direct result of our researchers’ influence; I’d bet my existence on it. SPEC-%^+: When can we expect a decision from the Elders? EKK-&#@: Anytime now. If the choice is demolition for the greater good, we’ll want our research technicians evacuated. SPEC-%^+: And the alternative? EKK-&#@: Do or die; they have to do better or . . . SPEC-%^+: They can still turn things around. They just have to stop, look and listen. EKK-&#@: For their sake, at least, let us hope they remember how. * * * “Mom? Where’s Zippy?” Chloe yelled from the playroom. Amanda was in the kitchen attempting to get Chloe’s little sister to eat more cereal. “I haven’t seen him. Did you check under your bed?” “He better not be!” There was only one reason her favorite toy would be under a bed; the family beagle, Oscar, had retreated with the stuffed creature to give it a good chew. Zippy was surprisingly resilient and hadn’t sustained permanent damage by way of rips or tears, but Chloe reasoned there could always be a first time. Zippy had become the most popular toy the prior holiday season. This was a product that just seemed to appear in practically every toy and department store across the globe one day and became an instant sensation. Every child either had one or relentlessly campaigned for one. Zippy came in a multitude of bright colors and sizes, no two exactly alike, but they all had Zippy’s signature ink-blue eyes and helmet with double antenna that, when you squeezed his plush belly, would shoot a harmless electric current back and forth between them. The doll also doubled as a nightlight and, if you squeezed his nose, would exude a warm glow. “Oscar! Do you have Zippy? If I catch. . .” Oscar scrambled past Chloe as she entered her room. “Hah! Thought so. Run, you slobbering thief!” She saw one of Zippy's arms beckoning from under her bed. She quickly went to gather her friend. “I turn my back for one second . . . no cuts or tears. Whew, good. But, ugh, slimy . . . gross, Oscar!” Chloe dangled Zippy between two fingers and took him to Amanda. “Look, Mom. Zippy’s been slimed again.” “I told you, Chloe, Oscar doesn’t know any better. If you want Zippy to be out of harm’s way . . .” “I know. I know. I was just brushing my teeth.” “Well, why don’t you try washing Zippy this time? You’ve seen me do it. I’ll bet you can manage.” “Sure! Hey, Zip, how ‘bout a bath?” Chloe pinched the sky blue material on Zippy’s back and flew him with accompanying jet rocket sounds upstairs to the kids’ bathroom that had a step-stool for her to reach the sink. She ran water. “Don’t make it too hot.” Chloe looked around. “Mom?” Chloe frowned. She looked at Zippy; he sat, matted and rumpled, on the towel rack where she’d placed him. She turned back to the sink. “I do not wish to alarm you.” This time, Chloe caught the flash of current between Zippy's antennae out of the corner of her eye. She stared in the mirror before her and focused on her stuffed friend, furrowing her brow. “W-was . . .” “Amanda always makes the water too hot. She thinks she’s neutralizing the proteobacterial content of the canine’s sputum when, in actuality, she’s spreading actinobacteria to further crevasses in my exterior. Well, not mine, per se . . .” Chloe stared at the toy with fascination and trepidation in equal measure. She tried closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. When I look up again, things will go back the way they were. One . . . two . . . “I simply have no touch, do I? Forgive me, Chloe. May I call you . . .?” Chloe slowly opened her eyes to see Zippy sitting up on the towel rack with his silver space boots dangling and two cloth hands adjusting his helmet. “I’ve never done this, you know.” Chloe turned around. There was no doubt. Zippy was alive, or something along those lines. “Are you going to hurt us?” Chloe’s voice sounded small as she began crumbling. Zippy looked up, alarmed. His electric currents buzzed. “No, no, negative, no. I’ll explain all that I can, but we are here to help you preserve your world.” Chloe took her toothpaste glass and had a sip of water. “You know I’m just a kid, right?” “Negative. You are actually much, much more, Chloe. You are just not aware.” “But I don’t know where to start.” Zippy sniffed his elbow and made a face. “How about a little wash-up?” Chloe took in the funny little creature that had been her companion for as long as she could remember. She sighed. “Bar soap or bubbles?” * * * EEK-&#@ and SPEC-%^+ sat with other covert project personnel around a long oval conference table. The esteemed gathering, made up of the galaxy’s top engineers, scientists, philosophers, and architects, prepared for an important announcement that could determine the next course of action in re: Planet Earth, the Doomsday Planet. * * * Zippy, freshly laundered and blow-dried by seven-year old Chloe, suggested they go to one of Chloe’s secret hiding places to talk more. Chloe packed juice boxes and snack bars in a backpack, placed Zippy in an outside pocket, and yelled to her mother from the kitchen. “I’m going to play outside, Mom.” “Take Missy with you.” Chloe looked at Zippy, who didn’t move. Missy was five years old and Chloe adored her but she could be a handful. Chloe sighed. What am I supposed to do now? Missy, dressed in pigtails and overalls, bounded into the kitchen. “Can I, can I, Coco?” Chloe smiled. “Coco” was Missy’s name for her, coined in the days Missy hadn’t yet mastered her “L” sounds. Tell her it’s all right. Chloe startled. Who’s that? She glanced at her backpack and Zippy. Oh dear, I’ve done it again. I hadn’t told you we can communicate this way, Chloe. It’s called telepathy. If you think something meant for me to hear, I will hear it. All else is private and won’t transmit. Is that acceptable? Chloe, staring at her pack, slowly nodded. “Coco?” Chloe shook her head, clearing it, looked back to Missy. “Oh, yeah, sure. I got us some snacks, Missy. I was going to the clubhouse. You can come if you want.” Missy jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Just as they reached the kitchen door that opened out to the backyard, they heard the clattering of toenails. “Oscar!” Missy knelt to greet the beagle. Chloe smiled, “Come on, boy!” Zippy’s voice in her head said, I must warn you that if I should fall out of this portapack, or whatever you call it, we shall need more communication concerning the matter of this bacteria-carrying lifeform that seems to enjoy defacing defenseless objects. Chloe closed her eyes. Do you always talk this much? Well, actually, yes. I have been silent for quite some time, you know. They were greeted by a warm summer day, the kind of day that you would bottle, if you could, and keep always. Of course, there was nothing to suggest that all was not right with the world, or the universe for that matter. * * * The monitor onboard Spacecraft Module ZK8*11 buzzed and sizzled as it came to life, revealing several galactic guards with their identities digitized. The attendees at the conference table focused their attention on the 5-D screen. “IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT COMING UP - STAY TUNED” * * * Missy wanted to play on the swing set near the ladder to the clubhouse. Oscar playfully barked at her feet as she swung back and forth, giggling. Chloe watched them for a moment before climbing the few steps to the tree-house dubbed NASA Jr. It had posters of planets, constellations and rockets. Chloe sat near a window to keep an eye on Missy. Why now? Zippy relaxed into himself. Why . . . Talk to me? Why now? One of my assignments was to learn your language proficiently and communicate in a way that you will best be able to comprehend the important message we have for your planet, and you. I don’t know what you just said. So, you’ve been alive all this time? Yes. Studying, observing, taking notes, submitting reports . . . Why? What for? Who for? Zippy squinted, looking pensive. Hmm. I might be going too quickly. Wait a minute. Were you watching the whole time I had chicken pox? And the tummy flu? Rest assured, you have been a worthy specimen in all categories. Really? Can I tell my mom about you? Zippy shuddered. We don’t trust adults. None of us do. But my mom’s nice . . . us? Who’s us? The beings where I come from. Exo. How’d you wind up in a toy store? We were sent to study you. Me? Children. In my world, you would be considered a pupae. From our experience and information, the adult of your species is the greatest danger facing the universe today. Oh, c’mon. They’re not that bad. You, in your present state of development, are perfect, Chloe, I don’t expect you to be able to comprehend the horrors that await at the end of your growth cycle. Some of the words you say, Zippy, I really don’t understand. Trust me, Chloe, don’t tell your mom. * * * The monitor remained frozen in the conference room, the pixilated guards hadn’t moved a dot. The words “Stand by” remained fixed on the screen. Low murmurings began to form and slowly escalate among the gathered participants. * * * Chloe heard the back door close, then watched as her mother carried a tray to the picnic table. She heard the tinkling of ice and glass. “Lemonade, girls!” Amanda called. Missy skidded to a stop and ran from the swing, Oscar close on her heels. Chloe turned to Zippy. Wanna come? Wouldn’t miss it. Chloe looked at Zippy before picking him up. Are you ever thirsty? Hungry? No, we stockpile adequate sustenance before we leave the ship. How many of you are there? We are hoping enough to make a difference. “Chloe, lemonade!” What is it you want me to do? Patience, Chloe. I've already given you a lot to think about. Just understand that I want to help, not harm, you or your planet. That's a relief. Chloe joined her mom and Missy at the picnic table. She sipped her drink and barely nibbled at a gingersnap, thinking. “Where’d ya go, Chlo'?” Chloe’s mother was staring at Chloe as intently as Chloe had been staring into space. Missy’s concentration was being used to dip a cookie into her lemonade. Her little voice echoed, “Where ya go, Coco?” I still think you’re wrong about my mom. She’s great; you’ll see. Be my guest. Zippy’s voice seemed to shrug. Chloe reached for a napkin. “Mom?” “Yes, Chloe.” “Do you believe in UFO’s?” “Well, I can’t say I really think about it. There’s enough going on here to fill my attention.” “Do you believe in aliens?” “Not having given any real thought to UFO’s, I would put aliens in the same category. I don’t know.” Zippy entered Chloe’s mind. Good luck. Missy looked up. “What, Coco?” Chloe looked at Missy, puzzled. "What what?" Amanda reached over with a towel to wipe crumbs from Missy’s chin. Missy made a face as her mouth was cleaned. “I heard somebody say 'good luck.' Was it you?” Chloe stared at Missy, surprised. She heard Zippy’s voice again. Ah, see? T he children are all waking up. Missy looked miffed. “Not me. I’m already awake.” Chloe turned to her mother. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.” “What is it, Chloe?” “Something is happening, I’m not sure exactly what.” “Did something happen? Can you tell me anything more?” Tell her Planet Earth is at a tipping point. Chloe took a deep breath. “Earth is in trouble, Mom.” “Oh, honey.” Amanda slid closer to her daughter. “That’s really not something that you need to worry about.” “Aren’t you? Worried?” “Have you been watching the news? You have no idea how blown out of proportion things can get.” Chloe sat quietly, thinking. “This is different, Mom. These are things I know.” “Know? Sweetheart, how can you know? You’re letting your imagination run away with you, just like Chicken Little.” Missy dribbled lemonade, giggling. “The sky is falling!” Chloe shook her head, “You’re not listening. How can you hear me if you don’t listen?" Bingo! Missy was still giggling to herself. “Bingo.” Amanda cleared her throat. “Since your father left, Chloe, it’s just been us girls. I think we’ve done pretty well. Remember what I told you? You really only have two things to think about right now. One, be a good student in school. Two, be the best Chloe you know how to be.” Chloe sat quietly for another moment. “What if there is no school?” “Chloe?” “How can I be the best of something if there’s nothing left?” * * * That’s when the sirens began. “Let’s get in the house, girls, now. Oscar!” “Mommy, look at the sky!” Missy was pointing upward. The blue, cloudless sky had been blanketed with thick grey-purple swirls of pending gloom. The edges roiled with static and the low rumble of thunder. They gathered their things and hurried inside. Amanda turned on the television and was met with crackling static from every station. She held her dread at bay as she gathered candles, radio, batteries and settled Missy with a picture book and some crackers. Oscar would be wherever the crackers were. Chloe retreated to her room and closed the door. She sat on her bed holding Zippy. What’s going to happen? The electric current between Zippy’s antenna crackled and spat. The announcement's been made by the Panel of Elders that Earth currently is a doomsday planet. That’s not a surprise. Are we all going to die? Not necessarily. This can all change with certain steps. Did you notice when you said your mother wouldn’t listen? Listening is the beginning of wisdom. You know that, just as your mother once did. She’s lost touch. With what? Herself. Can she get herself back? She’s all there. She just needs to see it. You can’t do it for her but you can help. Chloe’s door popped open. Missy bounced in. “I want to help.” * * * EKK-&#@ lingered after the other project members had dispersed. He looked out into the vastness of space, relishing the natural calm of the universe, glad to play a role in keeping it that way. SPEC-%^+ joined him at the window, handing over a celebratory flute of spirits and raising his. It might be a little soon to celebrate. But our calculations were correct. All the feedback supported it. You know, this study was never about whether earth is headed for self-destruction. The concern’s always been to prevent neighboring or visiting lifeforms from being annihilated along with it. It still seems only a matter of time. So what have we been doing all this time? The adults are still in a state of contamination. Some have potential but, for the most part, the Earthlings have dug a hole for themselves, their own black hole, as it were. Does anyone really believe the under-developed humans can save their planet? Who knows? We’ll need to keep a close eye on them, in any event. With a model ZIP-321 in most homes, they may come out of this intact. Let’s just say it‘s too early to celebrate. Well, then, let’s recalibrate. Here’s to peace and harmony. And high ideals. Cheers! * * * Amanda knocked on Chloe’s door. “Chloe? May I come in?” Chloe grinned at Missy. “Come in.” “The storm’s over. That was so sudden! I’ve never seen anything like that before.” That was just a warning. You should tell her. Missy ran to Amanda and wrapped her arms around her knees. “It’s a warning, Mommy.” Amanda scooped Missy into her arms and kissed her cheek. She then turned her attention to Chloe. Chloe patted the space next to her on the bed. Oscar ran past Amanda and jumped on the bed, wagging his tail furiously and settling in close to Chloe. Amanda sat on the other side of Oscar with Missy in her lap. “You should listen, Mom. I'm not good at explaining . . .” “It’s not you, Chloe. You always amaze me with your super smart questions and wild imagination.” “Not so wild this time, Mom. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” “I’m sorry, Chloe. Life is a busy blur sometimes, for me anyway, and I think for lots of people. I get stuck. If I didn’t listen to you, it’s because I just didn’t have room for anymore.” “Anymore what?” “Anymore anything.” Missy looked up suddenly, stricken. “What about me?” Amanda pressed Missy’s sweet, sticky face between her hands. “There’s always room for Missy.” Chloe appeared to be listening to something. When she looked up, she smiled. “It’s a good start, Mom. We’re headed in the right direction."