The Sea “Have you found yourself yet?” “No. But that's okay. Who I am isn’t concrete, it never was.” I stood up the hills of York, looking out upon the rolling fields and grass covering the world below my heels. A farm off in the distance puffed smoke like an old pipe left in a man's mouth. The ends of my jacket fluttered off into the winds, my eyes not caring I stared back off into the grassy sea. “Then what was the point of all that sailing? Every week you spent far from the shores out beyond the thin white line that closes off all that I can see?” “Self discovery. I never found who I am but I discovered there was something there to begin with. I stared into the largest mirror on the planet and guess who stared back? None other than me.” his clothes were dirty. Covered in filth and mud from working in the quiet pastures and fields sowing whatever he could to give back to his mother in that quiet farm, off in the distance that puffed smoke like a pipe left in a man's mouth. “Was it beautiful out there, father?” “It was as if I was staring into an endless mine of lapis. A glistening and glimmering sea filled with adventure and possibility. But adventure gets boring. Endless running and seeing new but old places. The best parts were the silent times. The times where there was nothing to do but sit and stare out among the waters and bask in the infinite expanse of nothing. The ocean is a beautiful wasteland.” I could smell it now. The salt on the air, water lapping at my feet as I let them dangle off the side, the wind carrying salt and sand off into its home once more. But I am here, standing very much on the shore, watching the sea of green waves ripple like the ocean tides, watching the clouds float past a farm in the distance that puffed out smoke like a pipe left in a man’s mouth. “What came of your father?” “He had come with me, out to seek himself like we all do. Out to learn what he is. I remember how he would laugh at my staring at my reflection in the waves, how he would teach me to fish over the side of the boat, how he would tell stories from his past to me as we laughed together. And finally after all that he lay under the mast and looked up at the clouds overhead. He asked me to bring him his pipe and I fetched it for him. He lit it up and said to me: “I have found who I am. And what I am. Out here, amidst the mystery and majesty, amidst this grand body of water we call a sea, I found what I was looking for all this time. And that thing was me.” He lay his eyes to rest, and as he drew his last breath, the pipe puffed out smoke as it was left in a man’s mouth.” Sorry if the formatting is a little rough, still getting used to writing.


“I knew it was you,” the man said, approaching Ired with his arms extended. They had passed each other about a half mile ago. Ired and Siro had been surprised at seeing someone else on this path. Ired first tried to ignore him as he stopped in his tracks and turned to follow, but the strange man charged after Ired and quickly overtook him. “At last, I have found you, Ired of Browerdale, the Chosen one! There is much I have to tell you, but first we must hurry. There are those-” Ired’s blade pierced the man’s heart, silencing him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “What the hell?” Siro cried. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about all this, but it was going to happen at some point.” “I...What? You just killed that guy!” Siro gripped her sword tightly, but did not yet draw. Ired unceremoniously removed his weapon from the man’s corpse, cleaned and sheathed it. “I’m not going to hurt you, Siro. This is just something that happens to me on occasion.” “Murder?” “No. Well, yes, but it’s more complicated. I can explain if you’ll listen,” Ired implored his friend. Siro waited a long second. “Fine,” she finally said, not removing her hand from her sword. “Okay, do you know what Prophecies are?” “What am I, five? Of course I know. Everyone fantasized about being Chosen when they were a kid.” “Yeah, well I *am* Chosen.” Siro’s hand finally dropped. “Really? How? You’re like thirty or something, right? I thought you guys got called when you were sixteen.” “I’m twenty four, thanks. And, yeah, that’s what’s supposed to happen. Thing is, my dad was Chosen too. It’s a family thing, I guess.” “You never talk about your dad.” “He died before I was born. Chosen, remember? We don’t live that long. Thing is, my mom was...I’ll say ‘less than happy’ about what happened to my dad. She did a *bunch* of research on the Prophecies. She read all of them. Seriously. And not just the holy books, she investigated Prophecies that had already come to pass, and learned what actually happened. “She found two things that matter. First, that I was Chosen too. She obviously couldn’t be sure about this, but the circumstances of my birth met all the criteria for one of the Prophecies.” “No way. Which one?” “Don’t know. That’s the second thing she learned. Out of the hundreds of completed Prophecies in history, all but three were self-fulfilling.” “How so?” “It’s not always the same, but more often than not, something a Chosen does early in their ‘quest’ or whatever, causes the whole catastrophic event that they end up dying to stop. So my mom’s theory is, if the Chosen never sets out on their quest, the crazy event never happens, the Chosen doesn’t have to die.” “So, what, when the church tried to call you, you just killed the emissaries?” “Not me, my mom. Poisoned them. One emissary refused to drink the tea - too good to accept hospitality from commoners - so my mom ran him through with a wheat thresher. Hit him in the throat so he wouldn’t scream. I reacted about the same as you did. Mom calmed me down after a while and we had a very similar conversation to this one. We packed up that night and ran. Over the years the church got more aggressive with their calling tactics. A few years ago, they got mom. I’m still here though. That’s what she wanted.” “And you really believe this is going to work?” Siro said, indicating the body. “Well, all Chosen die, right?” “Yeah.” “Yeah. And most of ‘em die as teenagers. A few make it to twenty. As far as I know, only one Chosen made it to twenty one. I’ve got three years on all of them. So, yeah, I believe it’s working.” “Huh...I don’t really know what to say here.” “I know, Siro. I’m sorry. I’ll stay out here tonight, take care of all this. In the morning, I’ll be gone. I won’t tell you where, so if the church comes looking, you won’t have to lie.” Siro silently began her long walk home, but stopped after only a few steps. “No,” she said. “I’m coming with you.” “You can’t be serious. This last year has been amazing, but this is my life. One day, I’ll either get called, or caught dealing with an emissary. Either way things aren’t going to end well for me or anyone with me. Stay here.” Ired began digging a shallow grave for the dead church official. “No. I’m coming.” Ired started to protest, but she cut him off. “You know what it’s like there,” Siro indicated the village they had been returning to. “I don’t want to die, but I sure as hell don’t want to die *there*. I’ll only get out if I run, and my chances won’t get better than now, with someone I trust.” Ired had no response. Losing Siro was something he had prepared for, he had thought it inevitable. This he was not prepared for. “I...Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” “We can’t go back, even for clothes.” Ired estimated how much daylight they had left. “We bury him quick, put as much distance between him and us as we can, and sleep where we fall. When we reach the next province, we can find a real place to rest for a few days and some new clothes. That ok?” Siro nodded, grabbed her trowel and went to work.


You look concerned, watching through the window for hours now, and more anxious than normal. That could only mean that you saw the news. It is there, isn’t it? Terrible news, absolutely, but everything would be okay, you know that. You had been planning it for so long, that there were no mistakes. You made sure of that, there would be no problem. Could you stop? Why are you packing your clothes? Improvising in this kind of conditions is not good. You do not have a backup plan, when did you decide this? Was it today? After reading the news? You were certain that you would not be discovered, ever. This was going to reach the news any time, and it is fine, you do not need to rush. So, you are thinking of running away now. Is this for real? Is that what would solve all your problems? Perhaps the fact of you gone makes you look even guiltier. On the other hand, you should not feel bad, he totally deserved it, but that is not enough in a trial, so, okay, it is completely understandable that getting the hell out of here should be the best choice, but what if it isn’t? Giving up life is never easy, that means starting over, starting from scratch, at least take some time to figure things out in a better way, make arrangements, and sell some stuff to have money... hey! Don ́t look away! Consider it, at least, for your own sake. Stop! Do not cross that door, please. Think! Who saw you? Who could know about this? They will never find any evidence that links you to that man, so, why leaving? Just play dead, you know? Keep on with your life as customary, no one has to know, no one will ever know. Case closed. Period. Put that suitcase on the ground; you are not going anywhere, okay? Have some dinner, and go to bed. Just relax; do you believe that you would be still here if they know you did it? That door, that very same door would be on the floor right now if they had a clue. Yes, the fair thing to do is facing consequences and paying for what you did, but this is your life, and you did what you had to do to protect it! For sure, you have no regrets about it, you are just afraid of being caught. That is reasonable, however, frightened people use to act mindlessly and erratically and end up messing everything up, it is like returning to a crime scene, that is exactly how people are caught. Calm down, analyze every detail of that night, and really think if you could be associated to that crime. ... There are not proofs, you have an alibi, nobody saw you there, you are the only one who knows, and you are the only one who can take you down. So, what is it going to be? What else could it take to convince you? Not a step further, please! Just stop already! This situation is ridiculous. You are ridiculous! You are safe here; there is no way someone ever finds out. Look at you, you are pale, you are trembling. You are hesitating. Why are you hesitating? Please stay! Please close that door! What are you doing? Don’t... ... Okay, you know what? Get out! Flee! As you constantly do! My god... Such a stubborn. And stupid! You are going to be the end of yourself, don’t listen, and just do what you want then... get out... get out! Wow! Leaving town, what a great idea! Not suspicious at all! Fool! For Christ’s sake... Hey! Hey idiot! Look back, nobody is chasing you and nobody is trying to stop you from leaving town either, that is just pathetic. Could someone be more alone? Could someone be more insignificant? That’s right, you are completely invisible, so invisible that they would never know you did it, you know you will never see a day in jail, that is absolutely guaranteed, but go ahead and mess it up like everything you do. Such a pathetic loser. ... ... Wait... Come back. Sorry... Please come back, let’s drink some water. Sorry! You are not a loser, you are okay, you are normal... you are not insignificant, sorry, really! But please listen, whatever you do, escaping is not an option. That would put you right in the spot. Here is what you are going to do: you will continue living your life like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, keep going to work, keep the same routine, you are going to be fine, nobody suspects anything. He sure had some enemies, a lot of people despised him, it could have been anyone! And nobody saw the two of you together, you were very careful, the plan worked, right? You were very meticulous; they will not find that out. Do you see? You are safe, here. Don’t cry. Just enter the house, leave that suitcase. That’s right, come inside. Breathe! Come on, inhale, exhale, that’s right. You are calm, you have to be calm. Breathe... Let’s unpack. Eat the sandwich. You have been so worried all day that you have not even eaten anything. Is it good? Just as you like it. It is simple to know what you are thinking at this time, and it is funny, you know? You got exasperated today that it had become news, but not the day it happened... Do you see? You are not repented, you only fear of being locked. You fear the consequences but you don’t fear the deed, you don’t fear yourself, what you are capable of, and it is impossible to escape from it. Is it ironic? It is getting exhausting that you always go through the same process. This was not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Just accept who you are, it would make things easier. Finish your meal and go to bed. Rest. Sleep tight.


Disclaimer: This story is based off a real event and personal experiences of a child drowning. Names have been removed, genders and ages have been changed, some events have been altered, and location has been left out in effort to maintain patient privacy. Child found floating face down. Bath water still warm. Mother desperately crying while trying to save her child who’s dying. Twenty-nine, thirty, off the chest, deliver two breaths. Child’s older sibling stands back and watches as she, the witness, the discoverer, the one who was supposed to be watching, calls 911. Her hands shake, voice quivers, tears drop, heart pounds as the memory of her mother continues to try CPR on her drenched brother, imprints itself. Guilt, pain, and blame is not something she can tame. Distant sirens wailing quickly turn into screams at the front door. Paramedics run in with life-saving supplies in hand. Police stand aside until it’s their turn to take the drive. Mother is pulled away from son. Her grief so heavy, it is impossible for her to stand. Pulse checked, none. Heart electrocardiogram (EKG) shows a small quivering of the heart, ventricular fibrillation. A rhythm paramedics can shock. Defibrillator charged. All clear, shock delivered, CPR restarted and epinephrine (epi) administered. Pulse checked, heart rhythm read, shock delivered, compressions restarted, epi given every three minutes, again and again as the lifeless child is placed onto stretcher and rushed to the hospital. The sound of heart monitors beeping, IV pumps screeching, call bells ringing. People coughing, sneezing, many wheezing, and the yelling of nurse, nurse, NURSE!!! Hallways lined up with patients on stretchers and chairs, every room taken except the trauma room, nurses scrambling, doctors examining, triage (front door) overwhelmed, back door (medic entrance) flooding with patient after patient. A typical day in the emergency department. Finally, a moment to breathe and a millisecond to chart. Patient disoriented to place and time. 20 gauge IV inserted to left upper arm, blood cultures and lab work drawn. Patient is tachycardic, hypotensive, and febrile. One liter of normal saline hung to bring down heart rate, raise blood pressure, and follow sepsis protocol. “Hey Dr. V, can you put- “, red phone rings. Everyone looks up, stares at each other, then stares at the phone. Charge nurse answers, we continue to stare in silence. Phone put down. Charge nurse speaks, “code coming in, three-year-old drowning, CPR ongoing, approximately three minutes out”. All eyes widen, action begins. Respiratory therapist notified; emergency department pharmacist made aware, main nurse assigned. Rest of code team given tasks. One to two nurses for IV placement and lab draws, one nurse for medication administration, one nurse to obtain vitals, if possible, and use as back up to help with other tasks, two patient care technicians assigned for CPR. Police now take the wheel. Mother and daughter questioned. Daughter explained chain of events. Mother left household to pick up daughter’s seizure medication. Mother told daughter to do the chores. Daughter was vacuuming and stopped to check on little brother. Brother found facedown in bathtub. Brother unresponsive. Mother comes home to drowned son and daughter in total distraught. Cries of grief unbearable to hear. Daughter is taken to the hospital by police. Mother placed under scrutiny. Police refuse to let mother leave for hospital. Mother is now under investigation. Code team ready, waiting in trauma room. Paramedics appear through back door. CPR ongoing. Child is moved to stretcher and code team begins their assigned duties- IV placed, labs drawn, vitals taken, pharmacist draws up pediatric doses of epinephrine, respiratory therapist connects patient to ventilator. Heart arrythmia changed. Rhythm is no longer shockable. Doctor enters room. Paramedic reports to main nurse and doctor. Report given. Three-year-old child found face down and unresponsive in bathtub by older sister. Sister did not witness how even occurred. Downtime approximately 15 minutes since medic arrival. Downtime at home unknown. Patient remained in ventricular fibrillation. Three rounds of epi given, defibrillated three times. No patient response. Daughter arrived and placed in consultation room with police officer. Triage nurse nearby kept watch, as daughter was a minor. Mother was still at home being questioned about child neglect. Despite team efforts, patient condition remained unchanged. Doctor ordered to continue CPR efforts until mother arrived. Chest compressions, epi, ventilator, repeat. The team was silent. Every one of us were lost in our emotions. Due to doctor’s orders, the code team carried on with their duties. Not a single person wanted to prolong the nightmare they became a part of, but they did anyways. Word is out. The mother has finally arrived. She is brought back to see the code team putting all efforts into saving her child. Dr. V approached mother and explained the enormity of efforts taken. Her child was without oxygen for too long. Brain death likely. Her son was not going to make it. The mother fell to her knees. Her howls of lament broke the hearts of all those around. Charge nurse assisted mother into an empty patient room. Daughter was brought back to mother. Doctor orders team to stop CPR. Time of death called. Nurses break down into tears. The doctor walks out. A solemn look on his face. Inconsolable, the mother is admitted to the emergency department. Charge nurse assigned herself to the mother. She begged for the nurse to end her misery. Her wish was granted. Temporarily. Doctor ordered sedatives and anti-anxiety medications to ease her mental anguish. Wails turned to loud whimpers. For the code team, remaining tears were wiped away. Sadness and thoughts about the situation were compartmentalized. All but the main nurse and a patient care technician walked out. They traveled back to the nurse’s station. Fake smiles on their faces as if nothing ever happened. Back to their patients, they act happy. They pretend a child never died. They tend to every patient request. They move on because they have to. The emergency department never sleeps, especially during a code. There are many orders to catch up on, medications to give, more patients to bring back to a room for treatment. The nurses who were not a part of the code show exhaustion. They ran the show while half of the staff was in the trauma room. Now it is time to help them while helping our own patients. Chaos always exists. One way or another, it is always there. It takes a toll on the nursing staff. Just like it takes a toll on the families that suffer. Nursing isn’t for the faint of heart. It doesn’t matter how strong the nurse is, eventually the suffering will break them too.


The eerie silence permeating the large, tall room was possibly more disturbing than the repetitive, slightly creepy jazz music that the weird woman in the adjacent room was listening to. It wasn’t total silence, though, as it was periodically interrupted by the relentless, slow ticking of a clock high up on the wall. The room where Mr Flores had been waiting for quite a while already looked like the study of an intellectual; two tall bookshelves, spanning the whole width of the room (and probably its height, too), stood on the sides of the imposing door behind Mr Flores, lit by several soft yellow lights. They were bursting with books, yet very tidy nonetheless. In front of the bookshelf on Mr Flores’ right, quite far from him, were a few armchairs and a sofa, resting on a large, dark carpet. At about the same distance but on the opposite side was a large grand piano, with a couple of tall indoor plants around it. The walls were mostly empty, except for a few disquieting paintings of cloaked figures and skeletons visiting terrified, desperate-looking people, and the candelabra mounted symmetrically next to each of the large, Gothic windows. Nothing in that room, or the adjacent one, felt particularly normal; things looked normal (except perhaps the paintings), but that’s not the feeling they gave Mr Flores. Not even the desk--an exquisitely elegant, dark brown writing desk, clearly an antique--felt quite normal, although there was nothing strange in its appearance. Few ornaments were orderly arranged on it, dividing short rows of equally tidily arranged books, probably appointment diaries. An ancient-looking quill and an ink pot sat on the desk, right next to a few yellowish sheets written in the neatest handwriting. It looked like nothing but the fine desk of an academic, and yet, it felt as oddly ominous as the rest of the room. Nothing, though, could look more ominous than the windows--or rather, what lay beyond them. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but pure black, as though there was no world outside that could be seen. More than once, Mr Flores had been tempted to get right up from his chair in front of the desk, where he had been waiting for his mysterious, tardy host for far too long, open one of those windows, and stick a hand out to make sure they weren’t painted black. He wondered what kind of an intellectual could live there. He had to be an intellectual; the nameplate on the door clearly said he was a PhD, a doctor--but of what? With a name like that... It was very much appropriate to the vibe he got from that room, although maybe it was because of that name, not the appearance of the room, that Mr Flores got that vibe in the first place. Every now and again, Mr Flores would cast long, hopeful glances to the door all the way to his right, where he thought his host would finally come from. If this was the study where he received people, whatever lay beyond that door must have been a private room of some kind. The wait was unnerving enough as it was, and the incessant ticking of the clock didn’t make it any better, really. Mr Flores turned his gaze towards the devilish mechanical contraption hanging behind the desk, and much to his annoyance, he found that the clock was as useless as it was pestering--it had no hands to speak of, so that he couldn’t even tell how late it was getting while waiting for his host. To think that Miss Coffins, the weird woman typing away by the main entrance, had said Mr Death was waiting for him! “I apologise for the wait, Mr Flores,” said the voice coming from the right. Mr Death--the tall, slender man in a business suit who had just come out of the room Mr Flores thought to be private--jogged lightly towards him, with mild enthusiasm. “Your case needed one final touch, but not to worry--it’s ready for you now.” Mr Flores observed Mr Death in puzzled silence for a few seconds. His skeletal appearance should have terrified him, and yet, all that Mr Flores could feel was confusion. Mr Death’s empty, dark eye sockets were staring right at him, or so it looked, and his face bore a sinister and only apparently cordial grin. Not for a moment did Mr Flores think that Mr Death was endeavouring to look friendly; rather, it was as though the façade was meant to be obvious. “My... my case?” he finally ventured asking, fidgeting with the ring on his hand. “You look nervous, Mr Flores,” observed Mr Death. “Is something the matter?” “Not really,” Mr Flores stammered. “It’s only...” “Yes?” Mr Death encouraged him. “This... invitation was rather sudden,” he explained. “And unexpected.” Mr Death snorted, stifling a laugh. “If I had a nickel... Ah, you will forgive me, Mr Flores. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I get that pretty much all the time.” Mr Flores looked away from Mr Death back to those dead windows, and swallowed hard. The situation was like the weirdest dream--nightmare?--and yet, he’d never felt more awake in his life. “Perhaps I could show you around, to calm your nerves, yes?” Mr Death suggested. “I take it you are already acquainted with my study, as I kept you waiting here so unforgivably long.” Mr Flores found himself nodding silently, slowly, looking nowhere in particular. Mr Death’s proposal wasn’t particularly appealing, but he felt he did not have an option. “Excellent,” Mr Death said, looking pleased as he showed Mr Flores the way. “If you cared to follow me.” As they made it for the study entrance, Mr Flores cast a quick glance at the door that Mr Death came in from. He now had a strong feeling that he would not leave the place without being shown that room too. He had a strong feeling he would simply not leave the place. “May I ask you a question?” Mr Flores asked, as they passed in front Miss Coffins’ desk. She didn’t even lift her head up from the typewriter. “By all means,” Mr Death replied. “You talked about ‘my case’.” He took a pause. Mr Death hummed affirmatively. “Are you a solicitor?” Mr Flores asked out of sheer wishful thinking. “Not quite,” Mr Death said, “though in my profession I do deal with people’s last wills quite a bit.” “I see,” Mr Flores murmured, jolting lightly as the door to Miss Coffins’ office shut behind them. Mr Death turned around and stared right at him. “I thought you might be a solicitor, or a barrister, or something,” Mr Flores justified himself, “because of your study, you see... And I understand you’re a doctor, so... Although, you don’t go by ‘doctor’, I gather?” Mr Flores was feeling an indescribable urge to prolong the small talk. For as long as possible. “That’s right,” Mr Death confirmed. “You know, I never cared much for titles. Right. Here we are.” Mr Flores looked around. Nothing but black everywhere. As he turned around, he expected to see a huge mansion behind himself, but there was just a door. An elegant, brown door, bearing the same nameplate as the study door, and nothing else. The door stood literally in the middle of nowhere--in the middle of nothing, as though it had been planted into the ground, as Mr Flores could ascertain by circling it a few times. Somehow, despite the total blackness, he could see Mr Death and himself very clearly. The place was completely silent, except for the howling of a wind that just wasn’t there. It was as though there was no air at all. Yet, Mr Flores drew in a big breath and sighed deeply. “It’s cold,” he said. “And dark. What is this?” “This is me,” Mr Death said, somewhat pleased with himself. “I am afraid I don’t understand,” Mr Flores said, slightly shaking his head. Except he did understand, all too well. “I am sure you will,” replied Mr Death, condescendingly. He opened the door again, revealing Miss Coffins’ office. “Shall we?” Mr Flores followed Mr Death inside, all the way to the study. He’d never thought it, but he was actually glad to be back in. The study was far less disturbing than that endless black, and for that he made it a point not to look at the windows ever again. “Tell me, Mr Flores,” Mr Death asked. “Do you remember getting my ‘invitation’? Or arriving here?” “Not really,” Mr Flores said resignedly, shaking his head with a glassy look. “What is the last thing you remember?” Mr Flores made an effort to recall. “I think I was watching TV. Last night, I think it was.” “Right,” Mr Death said as he moved towards the only other door of his studio, sheepishly followed by Mr Flores. “What next?” Now that he was closer, Mr Flores could see a sign on the door. He felt shivers down his spine as he saw what it read--Collectables. “I’m not quite sure. I think I wasn’t feeling very well.” “Regrettably, my customers hardly ever do,” Mr Death interjected with palpably fake mournfulness. “At the same time,” Mr Flores went on, “I think I was rather sleepy. That tells you something about the entertainment value of programmes these days, I guess.” He chuckled lightly, and Mr Death promptly followed suit. He was hoping that an improbable exchange of pleasantries might somehow temper the feeling of dread growing inside him. “Did you recover from your ailment?” Mr Death enquired. “Well, whatever it was, I don’t feel it right now.” “That is not surprising. At any rate, you don’t seem to recall what happened next. Do you?” “I... think I might have fallen asleep?” Mr Flores said, tentatively. “Indeed,” Mr Death nodded approvingly. “You see, Mr Flores, you’re one of my lucky customers.” “Lucky?” “Why, yes. Not everyone has the good fortune of arriving here in their sleep. But I digress; it is time for you to go.” Mr Flores felt as though he was coming back to life. “I may go?” he asked, hopeful and incredulous. “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Mr Death said, as he slowly opened the door to the Collectables room, “but as a matter of fact, you must go.” Mr Flores looked at the dark chamber before him. Mr Death’s words sounded even more ominous as they echoed inside the large, dark chamber studded with a myriad of small, dim lights stretching far into the distance. His hopes vanished, as quickly as they had been raised. “But I wouldn’t know where,” he stalled, trying to conceal his despair. “Not to worry,” Mr Death reassured him, wrapping a gelid arm around his shoulders. “I’ll show you the way,” he added, as their footsteps echoed deeper and deeper into the chamber.


In through the nose, out through the mouth. A mantra he’d repeated as long as he could talk. It was how his parents calmed him down during temper tantrums, how he’d prepared to act in his school play, how he worked up the courage to ask a girl to dance. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Nothing could prepare him for this. One of the only memories that lasted longer than his favorite eight words was standing on his kitchen table, bicycle helmet on, and arms spread wide. He’d announced, “I’m going to fly!” and jumped into his father’s welcoming embrace. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He remembered his conversation with his high school sweetheart at 3 a.m. She’d brought up that she would love the superpower to turn invisible. She could sneak up on her older brother and give him a nasty wedgie. She could sneak peeks at whatever she wanted, from test answers to gossip-inducing text conversations. He’d disagreed, that the only one he ever could want or need was the power to fly. There was no single reason, really. He just wanted to be able to jump out his window and leave at a moment’s notice. Just like that, there would be no one to stop him. To start flying and decide where to go once he was already in the air. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The evening air chilled his skin, with only his hot breath warming his lips. Regardless of the cold outside, his heart warmed from the memory, and the anticipation. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The music of the wind tickled his ears, and its gentle touch ran through his hair. It caressed his face as a single, joyous tear wrenched itself free from his tightly shut eye. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It was time. He unfurled his wings. Wings that had appeared only that morning, folded against his back. Wings that matched his hair both in color and in the way they felt when the breeze kissed them, each feather a reminder of the earthbound life he had lead up to today. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The day had rushed by, with him cautiously experimenting. He had glided from the balcony of his second floor apartment to the soft grass below. He had lifted himself off the ground by a good few inches with a single beat of his wings. He had wrapped them around himself like a blanket when his air conditioning was just a little too low. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He stood in a parking lot, vacant, except for himself and his two companions: the breeze and the setting sun. The former told him it was time, finally, to fly. It would hold him up. The latter told him how proud it was of him, and, despite its warmth leaving, its love would not. It would shine just a little longer if he could rise high enough. In through the nose. He brought his wings down, with as much strength he could muster. Out through the mouth. His body responded, the earth falling away. In through the nose. He repeated the motion, his feet now more than two feet off the ground. Out through the mouth. He noticed people watching, and elected to ignore them. In through the nose. The wind whistled past, giving him extra oxygen with which to fuel his already aching muscles. Out through the mouth. The sun whispered quiet encouragement. In through the nose. Each downward stroke more powerful than the last, he continued to rise. Out through the mouth. The stars began to appear, twinkling like cameras in a stadium. In through the nose. The moon began to rise, the lighted half echoing the sun. Out through the mouth. The dark half was silent. In through the nose. His wings pushed down again. Out through the mouth. He was above the rooftops now. In through the nose. The clouds came ever closer. Out through the mouth. The sun kissed him goodnight. In through the nose. He rose some more. Out through the mouth. He rose. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He was flying He was **flying**. He lunged forward, clumsily, and tumbled headfirst into an awkward, but effective position. His wings spread wide, flapping downward whenever he needed a boost up. He soared in a straight line. The city beneath him shone like the now very visible stars above. He shouted his approval to the heavens, for all to hear. He gave it his all, since no words could truly describe how he felt. It was exhilarating. Unbelievable. Life-changing. Indescribable. He banked left, his eyes wandering across the landscape. The wind rushing past his face made his eyes tear up, or was that happening anyway? He **flew** past a radio tower. He **flew** past the downtown skyscrapers, and he **flew** for two hours. He went sightseeing from the clouds, past the airport where his fellow aviators piloted their machines, never truly experiencing flight in the way he could. He dove low and skirted the coastline, watching with a smirk as the night surfers and potheads performed comical double takes at his visage. He had expected his friend, the wind, to turn on him when he was moving this fast, but it did not. It still caressed his face, only with more intensity. It did as it promised, and held him aloft, allowing him to soar among the clouds, under the watchful eyes of the half-moon and stars. Lazily drifting over the city, he realized his muscles were beginning to ache, and his lack of experience meant that could lead to problems, despite the help of the wind and his celestial guardians. He guided himself back to his starting place and spread his wings wide, not flapping until he was close to the ground. He landed with a little too much momentum. His knees braved the impact and didn’t buckle, though they wanted to. He stood, barely able to believe the last two hours were real. Knees bent, arms and wings held out to his sides, he stood, the memories replaying through his head like lightning cutting through a stormy sky. He straightened, his body aching, his mind on overdrive, an amazed grin plastered across his face. Suddenly remembering something he had forgotten, he breathed. In through the nose, out through the mouth.


I’m sat at the far end of a dirty bar, sipping from my pint glass trying to read the suds at the bottom like a fortune teller. I feel a pair of red hot eyes on me. I dare not look up from the glass in case it’s the heavy at the other end of the bar. Maybe he doesn’t like what he sees, maybe he fancies giving his wife a night off tonight and beating a stranger like a case of eggs instead, blow off a little steam. As it happens, it’s a beautiful red head sat alone at a floating table a few metres away. I succumb and look up and her eyes catch mine and pierce right through the iris, looking beyond and somewhere inside me. I’m drunk and my motor skills are fuzzy now, but I fumble for the stool next to me and usher for her to join me. As she walks over, her dress flows off her like cigarette smoke from a burning hot ember. “You look like you’ve had a bad day” she smirks as she sits beside me. She’s not wrong I guess, although I have a feeling she’s about to make this bad day worse in her own special way. “Starting to feel like a bad life, honey” “Tell me about it then, make me feel better about my own shitty life.” The left side of her mouth curls up as she speaks and then she takes a sip of her drink. Looks like whiskey, two rocks of ice and a dash of soda. “I don’t even know your name, maybe I don’t want to spill my guts to a stranger” “It’s Courtney” and she grabs the back of my head and pulls it towards hers, kissing me as my stool almost topples beneath me. “And now I’m no stranger, I’d say we’re quite intimate.” The back legs of my stool land with a shudder on the tiled floor. I sit there, quiet for a moment. “So?” she enquires between pursed lips as she goes to take another sip. I laugh lightly and turn back to the dregs of my drink and sigh into the stale beer. “Just an ex wife holding on to a couple of things.” “What sort of things?” “I suppose a few years back I was hiding a devil inside me that lay a firm hand on her from time to time. I’m not proud of it, hell I still beat myself up about it. I got sober for a bit, that helped. But she couldn’t let it go. Maybe she shouldn’t. I don’t know.” I drain the last drops from the glass and usher the bartender to pour me another. Courtney stops him before he reaches the tap. She looks at me for a moment, her eyes full with sympathy and something else - I can’t quite put my finger on it. ”You want to stay here?” She asks. It’s clear there is a right and a wrong answer. We climb the stairs in her apartment building, marble finished and wide enough to fit a family of four. She pulls her keys from her clutch bag and before she puts them in the door her palm is on the side of my face and she kisses me. This time it is soft and gentle and for a brief moment after she looks me dead in the eye and I feel a warmth I’ve not felt in years. It lasts only a few moments. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the black leather sofa in the middle of the apartment and I perch on the arm, cautious about getting too comfortable. Liaisons are precarious, I assume little. As she’s fixing us a drink, she calls from the kitchen. “Tell me about her. What was her name?” “You don’t even know my name.” I hark back. “I don’t think I want to know your name. It’s easier that way.” She’s now back in the room holding two short glasses of stiff whiskey. She hands me one. The glass is cold to touch but the drink burns and I grimace “So, tell me about her.” “Okay” I take another sip and feel each drop slide down my throat, already I feel the full weight of my eyelids as the alcohol enters my system. “We met when we were thirteen. She moved into the house next door. My mum used to make me walk her to school, I guess she didn’t like the idea of the poor girl next door not having any friends to play with while I rode my bicycle up and down the street with Eddie and the guys. Made her feel good about herself I guess. Anyway, as we got older we became close and eventually it just made sense. She was always nice, good to me, good to the kids. But I guess after twenty years, we just liked the idea more than we actually liked each other. We separated last year. Haven’t signed the papers yet, but that bitch wants everything. Doesn’t even want me to see the kids. Yeah I hit her, and I don’t know if she deserved it, but it was years ago and now she wants everything I’ve got.” The whiskey has hit me now. I can feel the blood flowing through my body, circulating the alcohol, carrying it straight to my head. My hands feel cold and my grip on the glass feels weaker. Courtney is watching me intently now. She notices every twitch and every bead of sweat. “...” I try to speak but a strained breath is all I can manage. The glass slips through my fingers and shatters on the hard wood floor at my feet. I slip backwards and my position on the arm of the chair is compromised as I topple to the floor. My legs are weak now and struggle to find a grip on the floor as they slip through the puddle of whiskey and shards of glass. Courtney stands above me showing no signs of concern. The corners of her mouth turn upwards as my body stops responding to the neurons firing at full capacity, desperately willing my my arms, legs, anything to just do something. All I can do now is look helplessly at the woman stood over my lifeless body. The walls and furniture are fuzzy now. My periphery begins to blur into shapes and colours and features are hard to pick out. Though my view is hazy, the fiery head of hair on my assailant cuts sharply through it all and as she stares into my eyes and past my iris in the same way she had done only a couple of hours earlier, I knew hers would be the last face I saw. Just as quickly as it had deteriorated, my vision clears and I can see things like crystal again. But what I see now confirms my fear. I look down on the red head and my helpless body lies at her feet. I watch as she reaches for a cushion from the sofa, plush and the colour of blood, and presses it down against my face, obstructing the air. I can see into my own eyes, I’m still alive, but there is no coming back. She pushes down harder. Courtney begins to speak but all I hear is a faint muffle as if she were in the adjacent apartment. I watch her mouth move and try to piece together the shapes with the rhythm I can just about make out. “Victoria says ‘hello’, she won’t be needing you to sign those papers after all.


Have you ever heard the expression “The truth will set you free?” I am here to tell you that that statement is very accurate. I am going to tell you a story about a woman who always lied. Her lies got bigger and bigger until one day she had herself in such a conundrum and had no way out. Let her story serve to you a lesson on the importance of truth. Kennedy grew up in a large family. She was one of five children. Smack dab in the middle. She spent the majority of her childhood fighting for a spot in the bathroom to get ready for school, for mom and dad’s attention and for teachers to remember her for her individual characteristics; not just the family name she was attached to. One day, she grew terribly frustrated when she wanted to get into the bathroom to get ready for “Opposite Day”. It was Spirit Week at school and it was her favorite. She needed to make sure she looked just right! That also might help her be remembered by her teachers as more than just one of the “Crawford 5”. She hollered on the other side of the bathroom door and told her older sister Avery that she had to get in the bathroom immediately as she had stomach pains. Avery reluctantly opened the door and got out. Before she was even fully out of the door frame, Kennedy squeezed past her and slammed and locked the door. Now that she had the bathroom to herself she could get ready just the way she wanted. This was the first of many, many lies. Kennedy learned that if you said you didn’t feel well, you would get special attention from parents and teachers. Any time she craved attention or affection, she would hold her forehead to a heater or run around and make her face red and then say it was due to not feeling well. Soon enough, parents and teachers stopped what they were doing to swoon over her. If we fast forward a few years, as she entered college, Kennedy began to weave further lies about people other than herself to get extensions on assignments, an offer for special extra credit and even a placement on the cheer team. When Kennedy tried out for cheer, she initially didn’t make the cut to be on the team. When the cheer coach told her, Kennedy made herself cry and made up a lie that her mom had been sick and she was worried about her and therefore unable to fully focus on her tryout. The coach felt bad for her and allowed her onto the team. When applying to college, the admissions essay requested exploring a hardship one had overcome. Kennedy found herself fabricating an extreme exaggeration of a very minor incident that happened. One day after school, a friend of hers came over so they could help one another edit their essays. When Kennedy’s friend confronted her on how ingenuine her essay was, Kennedy became red in the face and found it impossible to make excuses for why she had written what she did. Kennedy’s friend then stated that she did not want to maintain a friendship with someone who was so comfortable with lying. She challenged Kennedy that if she was content with lying for something as important as college admissions, she did not care to find out what other things Kennedy would be okay lying about. When her friend left, Kennedy sat there in contemplation on how to untangle the mess she made but felt too far gone. It was then that she accepted that a life of lies was the bed she made for herself and was now being forced to lay in. The web of lies continued to grow well into her adult life. The sad reality is that at this point, Kennedy herself no longer knows what the truth is. She has lost all genuine characteristics she once had and now truly believes that lying and prescribing to the ideas that she thinks are best is the only way to be successful. Kennedy has had a falling out with all of her closest friends and relatives who all have told her that her company is not one they would like to keep. Her hometown is a small, close-knit community and if trust and truth are not foundations one operates on, the community will not have it as it will destroy the very foundation of values they created. When she was a young child, Kennedy could make friends wherever she went. For birthday parties, her favorite thing to do was pick out favors for all of those who attended. She loved being generous and caring. When her lies started, she lost all of her friends. Kennedy had no one in her life for whom she could rely on for support. It is a dark and lonely life when you have dug a hole for yourself so deep that you see no way out. At the height of her problem, Kennedy was alone on a vacation at the beach. She found herself unable to start conversations with passerbys about even the simplest of things. Kennedy was finally starting to see that this life she had created was not a good one. She continued to sit on the beach, staring at the waves crash against the shoreline and allowed herself to begin to come to terms with all the lies she had said over time. She remembered how happy and carefree she felt in her younger years before this full-time job of fabricating stories and lies took everything over. Kennedy found herself crying and smiling at various times as she sat there on the beach. She wanted to feel that freedom, that virtue again. She took out her phone from her bag and opened a notes document. There she began to write a list of all of the people she needed to make amends with. She tried to write out all of the lies she had told but there were just too many. Kennedy resolved with herself then and there that she was willing to do whatever it took to earn the forgiveness and acceptance of those she once held so close. Upon returning home, Kennedy got help from a therapist and began to make her amends. Though hesitant at first, her family began to slowly let Kennedy back into their lives, though they were all guarded initially. Kennedy spent a lot of time re-figuring out who she was, the things she enjoyed doing, the company she liked to keep. She was essentially building back from square one but the hope of having a normal, truth seeking and truth telling life was a force that pulled her through. Kennedy now has a podcast where she inspires people from all over on the importance of telling the truth. She is very transparent in her journey which allows leverage with those who may be struggling with the same past she once held. Her most recent podcast episode ended with her saying “Let this story serve as a lesson. Though the road where you tell the truth may be longer and the goals you may be trying to achieve may take longer to get to, the journey will be a much more optimistic one. When you live a life of truth, you can feel good about the steps you are taking and you have by your side to share the experience with. As the old adage goes, the truth will truly set you free. “


Lessons on the move The sounds of nightlife in Africa's largest gaming reserve were menacing to say the least. What was even worse were the growls, and glowing eyes that lurked hunching low in the grass. As morning came and the sun began to rise we moved through a field, in the humid African plains thankful to be alive. The blend of dried dead brown and stark healthy green blades of thick grass irritated our face with annoying little cuts. We edged slowly toward the extraction site, thinking about the dumb luck that landed us here. No time to worry about that now. We crouched low and moved through the grass hoping we did not hear the menacing growl again. We certainly didn't want to see the lion's face. This was his turf, he had every advantage here. I looked at Gary, and he glared back. We didn't like each other, but here in this moment our hope for survival far outweighed our longstanding feud. A feud that had kept us enemies for so long that neither of us could remember how or exactly when it began. Sergio, was the name the locals gave the "man eating" lion that was lurking somewhere in the foliage. Gary and I couldn't believe our horrible luck, ending up here together 30 miles from the camp. If he would have listened we would be on the air conditioned bus watching the wild cats hunting antelope instead of us. If I'm being honest here, (as we tend to do in life and death situations) the feud was probably my fault. I was young and immature when I first met Gary in the third grade and he already knew he was going to follow in his father's footsteps and become a doctor. His parents were wealthy and my dad struggled mightily to put food on our table. My mom and dad had divorced when I was seven. Gary seemed to have the perfect mom and dad. They traveled together and- "Yo, Marv?" He tapped me on the Shoulder, "You daydreaming again?" "Um no!" I snapped back, not willing to admit I could barely keep my eyes open from the nearly thirty -six hours straight without sleep. "Hey, Marv. Open that sissy fannypack and give me another drink from that canteen. Then check that map to see how far we have to go?" I ignored him and continued forward. We had just had a sip. The canteen was nearly half gone and I knew exactly how far we had to go. I just wanted to wallow in self pity just a little longer. Besides, now that I think about it; It probably was his fault. He was cocky, arrogant and driven for perfection. He was pre-med and I would be lucky to land a Job at a factory somewhere in our small town. What directly led us here was the fight at school. We exchanged a few blows in the hallway near our lockers. Even though the teacher pulled him off of me I felt like I got the best of him. Sarah thought so too, and that's all that mattered to me. He came here because he wanted to keep his precious scholarship and stay in his parents' good graces. I came here because, his parents talked mine into the stupid Idea with a few thousand bucks each. Can you believe it? "Earth to Marvin." He tapped me again. "What?" I snapped back. "You might want to look where you are going Marv." He said with a flat tone. I stopped quickly puffing out my chest. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind. Marv was reserved for my closest friends and family. He didn't qualify on either front. In an instant I learned what he was talking about. There was a large dead tree in front of me, and in that tree were several snakes. One of them was near my face about to strike. His hand reached forward with all the authority of a well trained ninja. He snapped his arm out, then straightened it in front of my eyes with a snap of the wrist. "What would you like to do with him?" Gary said, as he held up an African Boomslang (tree dwelling) snake in his outstretched hand. He looked down at him slowly and weirdly passionate. "He is, kind of, cute don't ya think Marv? I tried to warn you. If we want or get out alive you need to stay alert." "Okay Gare," I said, trying to give him back a little of his own medicine. I stepped toward him a bit. "I don't care what you do with him and and-" I searched for more words that didn't, no, wouldn't come out of my mouth. Instead I leaned in close and looked that boomslang directly in his beady little eyes. I would show him, I wasn't afraid. "Put him back, let him go, Gary!" I said with all the courage I could muster. We stopped moving and just stood there for a moment in silence. His eyes shifted focus from the snake's head to mine. The snake was surprisingly calm in his grip. "I said, let him go, Gary." "Have it your way then Marv." He opened the hand on his outstretched arm and released his grip from the snake's head. The white in his palm and fingers began to regain the reddish tint as the blood began to flow back into it. The snake flailed aimlessly back and forth, landing in the tall grass next to the tree. His head raised up looking toward us slowly, as if to say thanks for not killing me. Then he slithered away, disappearing into the thick undergrowth. I took a good look at the tree, the other snakes seemed utterly uninterested in us. In fact they never slithered a muscle. Gary and I eased around the odd tree and continued forward in the blazing heat. Gary may have just saved my life. I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead with my shirt, searching for a way to say thanks without sounding like I was saying thanks. "Speaking of snakes Gare, what do you think old Mrs. Gunderson thought when she pulled me off of you in the hallway?" I asked with a nervous chuckle. "She probably thought, my, you look a lot like Marvin, considering all things." He laughed. "I have a question for you Marv, since you got us into this mess. Why Do you hate me?" He managed to say this jokingly yet seriously in the same sentence. I had never really considered the question because I don't know that I ever hated him. I hated the idea of him, I wrestled with the questions of why were some people blessed and born into wealth and good genes, physical specimens (freaks of nature) if you will? But- in that very moment when he asked why I hated him, I couldn't help but to see him as a struggling human being. Did it bother him, to think that someone as gifted as himself wasn't adored by the likes of me. I blurted out, "I hate you because of Maria, and Susan, and that other girl from the fifth grade that liked you and wouldn't give me a second look. I hate you because you have a nice car, you are strong and smart you make all A's at school and Marvin Greenlee Jr. Plays second fiddle for no one. Got it?" "So that's it huh? You hate me because girls are interested and I work really hard in school while you are hanging out with those hoodlum boys you call friends. They will get you nothing but trouble. You know what your problem is Marvin?" I paused waiting for his harsh "truth" to spew forth from his lying lips. That's what I expected, and in a lot of ways it would have been easier than what I got. "Your problem is that you waste your talent and brains on nonsense. You have every excuse why Marvin Greenlee Jr., as you so eloquently put it, doesn't measure up. Your parents divorce, you don't have money, as if that gets you C's in school. Marvin you are smart, but you do dumb things and hang around trouble. You are afraid to apply yourself because God forbid you have expectations for poor little Marv!" I was seething mad. How dare he. I clenched my fist tightly. I wanted to punch his lights out. I wanted him, just once, to feel the pain of failure or just plain mediocrity. I took a deep breath and drew back my arm... A roar louder than you could imagine, snapped me back to the harsh reality of where we were. According to the pamphlets we received with our maps when we got in the bus this roar can be heard in the wilderness five-km away. The thick blades of grass parted quickly and Sergio emerged, leaping from about twenty feet away. I lept on top of Gary with my best form football tackle. Sergio seemingly flew over us claws swiping in mid air, his mane swaying back and forth as he tried to adjust in midair. I grabbed Gary's hand and helped him up as Sergio landed and slid to a stop several yards away. "RUN!" I yelled. Then I thought how do we get out of this. "The tree, the snakes, Gary. Maybe our only chance." I pulled him toward the tree where he saved my life. Hopefully the snakes were there. I released my grip from Gary's hand then stopped. "Get back to that tree!" I yelled. Sergio regained his grip and stood up straight. He turned to face me. Our eyes locked for a moment. He let out another ferocious blood curdling growl then lowered himself down. He disappeared into the thick grass. He didn't chase us directly. He blended into the lush undergrowth. The silence was unnerving, He could leap at us from anywhere at any moment. Gary made it to the tree first. I was close behind. "Gary do you see any of the snakes?" I asked in a panic. Gary and I scanned the tree quickly looking for the uninterested snakes. "Exactly what is your plan here and why do we want to be near a severely poisonous creature that can kill us?" Gary asked. "You don't remember, do you Gary? Mr straight A's. Maybe I am pretty smart after all. I guess it's time to apply myself. This tree isn't real Gary, its an emergency communication center for the reserve. Here take a look." I sat down next to the tree and wiped the sweat from my forehead once again. I unzipped my "sissy" fanny pack and took out the map of the place and pointed to E-9. I took a drink of water from the canteen and offered a drink to Gary. He stood trying to regain his breath while I sat back with a sly smirk on my face pointing at E-9. He sat next to me. "Have you lost your mind Marvin?" He asked. I didn't say a word. I just took another sip of water, stood up and located the small cluster of snakes. Then I picked them up in a quick scoop and tossed the whole painted plastic snake pit at him. He nearly fell over as he tried to dodge it. "The thing is Gare, this is a phone station and those imitations were hiding this phone!" I reached inside the hollowed cavern that the faux snakes had previously concealed and pulled out a large phone that looked like something from the eighties. I held it up and exclaimed. "E-9 Gary. If you had read the info they gave us and took that sissy fanny pack maybe you would be prepared Gare!" Oh the look on his face was classic. All we had to do now was call and tell them our location then they would send out a rescue jeep and we would be back in that air conditioned bus sipping on an iced coffee before noon. I pushed a big red button on the bottom labeled call. Gary scrambled back to his feet and inched close to me. The phone clicked and beeped and then we heard a glorious sound. The phone was ringing. I never thought the old generic ring tone could sound so good. One ring, then on the second ring someone picked up. "Hello, you have reached Selous home of Africa's largest gaming reserve. This is an automated emergency line. If you are lost and know your map coordinate please press one now." Beeep... I pressed one and listened intently for further instructions. The line clicked and beeped for a few seconds. "Please say your coordinate now. Letter first then number and we will connect you to the nearest rescue station" E-9 I pushed the letter then number on the monstrous phone. Beep...beep...beep- connecting. You think it's nerve wrecking waiting for a utility company well think again. The thirty seconds we waited seemed like hours. Finally a voice, broke the series of clicks and beeps. "You are located at phone station E-9. Thank you for your patience. We have dispatched a jeep to your location and it should arrive before sunset." Gary plopped back down, sprawling out in the thick grass. "Well that's just great, before sunset they say. That could be thirty minutes or eight hours." He slapped the ground with his hand causing the plastic snake den to hop on the grass nearly scaring him again. I smiled then began to laugh uncontrollably. I looked down at Gary offering him a hand up, still laughing like a mad man. I think it was a combination of lack of sleep and euphoria. "Oh Gary lighten up." The laughs kept coming. After a few minutes I was able to get my hilarity under control. "Okay Gare, now I'll ask you since we have some time to kill." I paused for a moment and began laughing again. "Or be killed. Ohh look at the grass move it's Sergio coming for ya Gare!" "You are not funny." He managed to say through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath, then stepped close to me. "Is everything a joke to you Marv. Is this just another day in the unfulfilling life of Marv. Jr?" "My life is fine Gary! You asked me earlier why I hate you. Now I'm going to ask you the same. Why do you, Gary Sinclare Adams hate me?" His eyes lit up, he brushed a hand through his perfect hair and shook off the drips of sweat that collected on his fingertips. "That list Marvin would get us past sunset." He chuckled then looked around as if he were checking for someone else listening in. "I don't hate you Marvin that would mean I give a damn. But I'll answer your question. One, you think I have it so perfect, you raze me every chance you get about having money and parents who stay together." He took a deep breath and continued. "My mom, is having an affair and my gutless dad doesn't have the guts to say a thing. She had the nerve to take me to his house and act like I wasn't smart enough to figure it out." A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away. "I hate you Marvin because you don't have to live under pressure. No one expects anything from you. You have it easy, just sit back, do nothing and play the victim card!" I wanted to be mad. I just couldn't. He may have been the first person to actually tell me the truth. I had no idea that people saw me that way. I also never even considered that people like Gary, that seemed to have it all together, were just as messed up as me. I walked over to him and embraced him in a bro hug. I half expected him to push me away and take a swing. Anything. He didn't. Gary and I hugged and cried together under that fake tree next to some fake plastic snakes. It was ironic in this moment of truth between two struggling teens entering adulthood. We both wanted the same thing. We both wanted what most men really want. Respect, its as simple as that. Before we could mend all of our brokenness and share our darkest fears the roar of an engine broke our embrace. We couldn't have a group of rough and tumble men in a rugged jeep rescue us in Africa's largest gaming reserve see us crying and sharing feelings. Yuck. So we did what any red blooded American men would do in our situation. We vowed to never tell a soul that we understood each other and connected. Even if for the briefest of moments. Gary and I spent another month there in the Selous summer program. We learned a lot about each other and life. When we got back to the States we remained and became even closer friends. I stopped making excuses and he stopped being so hard on himself. For the first time in my life I'm excited and looking forward to my future. I'm studying to become a veterinarian. Specializing in large Cats and with a little luck someday my good friend Gary will mend a broken human heart and I will mend that of a beast like Sergio. One thing is for sure Gary and I will never be the same again.


"- and occasionally I drink milk out of the carton, I KNOW. I'm me," I replied sharply, turning my wrist slightly to test the cuff that held my hands to the table. The fuckers had arrested me- at least that's what they claimed it was. But they were Home Office, even had flashed credentials, and I was an American in fucking America. A few sharp questions about my friend and BAM, face down on the dining room table, hands up near my shoulder blades and cuffs on. There was no question that they were dead, I was an internationally licensed operative, upper class, and did I mention that I was an American in fucking America- where and when this was going down? But did they really have to torture me by trying to impress me first? As long as they kept their hands to theirselves I didn't necessarily have to blow up their country, but with their attitude problems it was starting to sound tempting. They were going out of their way to let me know they were monitoring me- like I didn't fucking know. I turned off my cellular, my mic, my security system, and played YouTube if I wanted to fuck- and that was just for privacy during sex. I was aware of the fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry in America wanted to sell my info, especially the Dicks. "Your mother debatably had dementia before she died, claimed it was from psychics. Do you suffer from similar ideas?" Bob asked me, his ugly mug rendered intolerable by his smug British expression. "My family was fairly openly psychic. Barring fiction, I don't believe I've ever expressed similar notions. I'm a Christian Reverend, but I imagine you already know that." The fucker punched me. People think capture and escape scenes in movies are funny, they're not. We only laugh and make jokes because the people who are holding us are dead and we're just making time until that happens, and walking away with a decent story instead of a traumatic experience. By this point I was probably going to crack Intelligence one as well, just for letting the country work itself up into a state where an Operative was considered vulnerable. Between Privates thinking we were their own personal vending machine for wishes, and their bullshit reaction to their own mercenary programme, they had it coming. "Tell us a little more about the man you were sheltering," Tom said to me. He didn't look inbred, but he had the slightly off accent that Americans associated with it. His brown hair was curly, but not every dude sprang for the gel, even in Europe. Blue eyes cruel. "Well, he refused to fuck me. Which is a crying shame, given that he's a whore and he owes me money." Bob and Tom both looked disgusted. I didn't know their real names, but I was trying to construct a framework to track them, so I could politely suggest that someone who cared infinitely less about their reputation remove them from their government positions and explain to them everything that was wrong with what they'd done. If possible I wanted teeny tiny little Christmas trees planted over their remains. I'd deliberately adopted a lower class accent. It made mouthing off easier and hunting them down afterwards even easier than that. They'd run their wrong ends about me. "Are all Americans this belligerent when dealing with Intelligence?" Tom finally asked. "I wouldn't even say that it's belligerence," I answered poking the inside of my mouth with my tongue as I paused. I was bleeding. "It's more like a natural camo. I don't think you can classify it as anything but specious." Tom got up and dragged his chair around to sit far too close to me. I was insulting him in English and he knew it. Bright one, Tom. "Domhnal McGregor. How do you know him?" Tom said. His breath was natural smelling, which shouldn't be a scent. He hadn't brushed recently, or too far in the past, and apparently didn't drink coffee. "Cor, when did we cross paths? I think I rolled the poor bastard back when you idiots were trumpeting off about your political power so badly that the EU kicked you out of your own party. You should probably show up the next time we have a war. It's slightly more intimidating than just advertising that you sent a unit in all over the telly." Bob shot to his feet so quickly that his chair tipped over. He looked impressed that I didn't flinch. I was genuinely starting to believe that I could kill these fuckers with my wrists cuffed to the table but, like I said, that sort of shit is only cool in movies. They fuck you up pretty badly if you miss. It's better to just get through it and keep the damage to a minimum. I wished they'd start questioning me about American Intelligence already, instead of my contacts. I actually needed those. Data I could trade. "Could you be more specific," Tom questioned me crisply, showing more English restraint. I eyed the cuffs, musing over the differences between American and English security devices. I had friends who were cops back in the day, I could slip them, but not quickly. "Right before you buggers got politely invited to leave, took umbrance, and declared Brexit before standing like an unruly cat with your ass in the house and your head out the door, I had the pleasure of running into one whore, Domhnal McGregor, who knocked me up, stole my plane ticket, and headed for the O.Z." "And you continued your acquaintance, despite this... indescretion?" Tom ask, distastefully appalled. "It's how Americans make friends," I answered cheerfully, "I thought he wanted to marry me." They exchanged looks. My file would have told them that I have a genius level IQ (so do some truck drivers, it's a question of what you do with it), but I was also female. Dudes still haven't gotten to the point where they believe that genuinely smarts are stored up top. They probably thought I was joking. I was actually deliberately being serious. In America, that's how he would have done it. In England, he was playing me pretty hard, it's why I still talked to him- he'd genuinely just been on a job. Tom placed the foot of his chair on my own and started leaning forward. It was painful. I also liked my feet, you know, functional. "You realize your life is at stake Ms. Jindra," He told me solemnly. "I'd like a priest," I responded, handling the whole situation with aplomb. Some of the pressure eased off as he lost control from shock. Mind you, first he leaned forward, but he backed the chair off. "A priest?" He asked incredulously. "Why on Earth would we go **fetch you** a priest?!" Bob chimed in, leaning across the table out of habit, trying to press the intimidation factor. "Well, if I'm in fear of my life, I've the right to a priest, according to international law. Also, I keep a blog, so I'd like to be able to go back and have a reliable source for recounting. I'm told you're not technically a reliable witness at a scene if it's centred around you, but I have other theories." "You're threatening to BLOG about this?" Bob lost his shit and threw his chair at me. It wasn't made of goose down. "It's billed as fiction," I explained calmly, plowing straight on, "As true Gonzo Journalism, this doesn't work at all -- and even if it did, I couldn't possibly admit it. Only a goddamn lunatic would write a thing like this and then claim it was true." I'd read them their rights, up was the only way out now, Tom punched me for forms sake but they fell back to conference. I'd have a ride out in about a half an hour, I was far to well informed on international policy for their taste and it had finally dawned on them they couldn't just dump a body (not mine anyways) and they were going to pay out the ass for everything they'd just done. In a moment of sheer lucidity they left the room, no longer wishing to add to the tab. Before the door clicked shut, my mouth opened. It happens if you pissed me off badly enough. "Return the whore as well, he owes me money. I'd hate to have to find you to collect.


\[\] “Now, what have we talked about fighting other magic users?” asked Father Lee was sitting across from Father, who was working on his magical orb, in the library. “Never do it where regulars could see,” said Lee, “but in my defense, It was Michael. He always jumps me outta nowhere.” Father sighs, “Then it falls on you to take the fight away from the public eye,” said Father. He walks over to Lee and puts his hand on Lee's shoulder. “Be responsible.” Father walks back and continues to work on his Orb. Lee stands up and walks out of the library. Maddie and May were waiting outside as the library doors opened and Lee walks out. “Hey man, how'd it go?” said Maddie as she and May walked up to him. “Guys, chill,” said Lee, “It was just a talk. he just told me to do better next time.” “*Do better?* Didn't you win...again?” said Maddie. “Yeah, after making a big splash that anyone could have seen,” said Lee. “Forget it, I goofed, that's all that matters.” The library doors open again as Father walks out. “Ah, good, you're both here, a new Grimoire is on the board.” \[\] Lee, Maddie, May, and Father stand around the orb as an image of an orange grimoire appears. “This grimoire belongs to an old college who, sadly, passed away recently,” said Father. “I'm sorry,” said May. “Thank you May,” said Father, “anyway, he left his grimoire in his old home in the abandoned district, I want you two to retrieve it.” \*Ahem\* Everyone looks at Maddie. “Is there something you wish to add Ms.Hatborc?” said Father. “Just wondering where my invite's at?” said Maddie. “Forgive me, I didn't wish to impose, given your history,” said Father. “But if you wish to join I won't stop you.” “Missed you too, boss,” said Maddie, winking at Father. “And don't worry-” Maddie pulls out a red and black card. “-we're all good.” \[\] Lee and Maddie wait for May by the exit. “So, how long has *this* been a thing?” said Maddie. “What? May coming on missions?” said Lee. “Yeah,” said Maddie, “Last time I checked she could beardly hold her own in a one-on-one.” “She helps out where she can,” said Lee, “Kinda hard to do this job solo, ya know. Not that I'm mad or anything.” “Good, because I'm not sorry,” said Maddie. The two stand in silence for a couple of seconds. “I mean...” said Lee as Maddie sighs, “You could have at least said something before you left.” “Wasn't really in a talking mood,” said Maddie, “ Still ain't.” “Still too tough to talk?” said Lee. Maddie shoots him a glare “You're one to talk,” said Maddie, “or do I need to remind you about Bridgeton? Then again you probably know more about it than me anyway.” 'That...that wasn't my call,” said Lee, “besides that was years ago, things changed.” “So if it came down to it, would you have told us the truth?” said Maddie “I'd do it in a heartbeat,” said Lee. Maddie scoffs and opens the door. “I'll meet you guys there,” said Maddie, “gonna make sure we don't walk into another surprise party.” Maddie closes the door behind her. Lee crouches, planting his face in his hands, and groans. Just around the corner, May stands there curious about the conversation. \[\] “In a heartbeat,” thought Maddie as she walked, “out of all the things to say.” She turns into an empty alleyway, checks her surroundings, and points her hand upward. A large amount of blood seeps through her pores, forming a tendril. The blood tendril elongates to the edge of a nearby roof and pulls Maddie up. “things have changed my ass. Why did I even come back?” “Because you missed him.” said a deeper version of Maddie's voice. “Of course I missed him, but...wait,” said Maddie, “Edge?” Blood seeps through the back of Maddie's shirt as a red man in a vest and trench coat appears out of the blood. “Yes ma'am,” said Edgeworth. “Don't you have better things to do than eavesdrop?” said Maddie. “No ma'am,” said Edgeworth, “Besides, I miss the human drama, it's so entertaining.” Maddie rolls her eyes and begins jumping from rooftop to rooftop. “So, what's the scoop?” “It's none of your business,” said Maddie. “Ma'am, you are my business,” said Edgeworth, “and I'm just making sure business is good. I'd hate for you to kick the bucket too soon.” “What, my immortal soul not good enough for you?” said Maddie. “No,” said Edgeworth, “Not yet anyway, but enough about me. What's going on with you, come on, talk to your demon.” Maddie stops and looks over the abandoned district. “...I almost killed Lee,” said Maddie, “and it was all his fault.” “Oo-o-oh!” said Edgeworth. “Go on!” “Later-” Maddie notices three guys walk into an abandoned building, “-we've got a job to do, and I'm feeling violent,” Edgeworth reveals a terrifying grin as he seeps back into Maddie's back. Maddie pulls out a phone and dials Lee. \[Inside The Building\] “Mr. Rick, are you sure....” “Capitan Rick,” said Rick. “Capitan Rick,” said Grunt One, “are you sure this building is safe? I mean these places are condemned for a reason.” Suddenly Grunt Two's foot falls through the floor, making a splash.” “Aw please let this be clean water,” said Grunt Two. “Man up! we've been given a mission,” said Rick, “the safety of the building is-” a wooden board falls and breaks over Rick's head. “-a nonfactor.” The two grunts stop dead after seeing that. “This is the last time you volunteer me for a mission,” said Grunt Two. grunt One cowers a bit and the two follow rick. \[Outside\] Maddie looks over the building, her eyes black and red. “I got three guys on the third floor, that's it.” “Even numbers,” said Lee, “We'll wait here, May, you fly up and see if they found the Grim. If we get confirmation then we jump them once they leave.” “Or,” said Maddie, “May and I could hit them from above and below, stealth style. Take them out of the equation entirely. You can wait out here just in case things go south.” “We don't know what kind of magic they have,” said Lee, “It's too much of a gamble.” “And I'm feeling lucky,” said Maddie “besides they're probably prepared for the two of you, but not me. I'll throw whatever plan they have into the shredder.” “Fine,” said Lee “but you'll go up top and I'll take the bottom with May.” “Deal,” said Maddie. \[Inside\] “How many floors are in this stupid death trap!” said Grunt Two. “sixteen,” said Rick, “and quiet down or you'll alert the enemy.” “Enemy! What enemy?” said Grunt One. “There's always an enemy,” said Rick, “lurking and waiting to strike from the shadows. which is why we must always stay vigilant and be aware of our surroundings.” A tendril drops from the ceiling and grabs Grunt One. Grunt Two tries to yell but is grabbed from the side by another tendril. Rick stops and turns around. “Useless rookies.” Something wet drops onto Rick's nose. He wipes it off and looks at it, his eyes widening once he notices that it's blood. Rick takes off, running up the stairs to the top floor as crazed laughter begins to follow him. Suddenly a powerful gust of wind pushes Rick to the top of the building. He flies into the hallway, quickly gets up, closes the door behind him. A green and white card appears and rick slams it against the door. The door quickly turns white with a quiet \*Thump\*. Someone tries to open the door but can't move it, this doesn't stop the blood from seeping under the door. Rick turns around and runs into the only open room just as the white door shatters open. Lee, May, and Maddie walk down the hall. “What the hell was that?” said Maddie. “Cornering him,” said Lee, “We're three stories up with no usable fire exits.” “Could have warned me, almost took me with 'em,” said Maddie. May bows her head in shame. “It's fine May, I wasn't talking about you,” said Maddie. “You want this now?” said Lee. “I didn't want to do *this* at all,” said Maddie. “If you have a problem with me then just say it,” said Lee, “quit dancing around expecting me to figure it out!” “It's not that hard to figure out,” said Maddie, “we never really finished anyway.” “Fine! Fine, I'm sorry ok,” said Lee, “I'm sorry I saved your life and didn't tell you.” “Don't you dare make it sound like I'm being unreasonable,” said Maddie, “You made a stupid deal because you didn't want to tell me I was dying from my magic.” May notices an orange glow coming from under one of the doors. “Guys,” said May. “I was just trying to help,” said lee “You know what would have helped,” said Maddie, “if you told anyone else instead of taking on all the responsibility like you always do!” The floor begins to shake as the wood begins to creak and break behind the glowing door. “Lee, Maddie!” said May. “It's my job as a leader to...” said Lee “Dating me shouldn't have been a fucking job!” said Maddie. Suddenly shards of rocks shatter the door and fly at Lee, Maddie, and May. *“Sdnah Enacirruh*,” said May. her hand turns into a gust of wind, pushing Lee and Maddie into a room. The wind also causes the rock shards to go everywhere, destroying the infrastructure of the building and causing the who building to collapse, with everyone inside.


Sometimes when I can’t sleep I find myself turning on the light, to burn through every shadow in every crevice. However, tonight I decided I should stay under my covers for protection. Something just knocked on my door--it’s not uncommon though. I’m always convinced it’s real, but nobody ever ends up knocking again. My least favorite time of the year is the middle of October. When the rain starts, the leaves fall, the shadows thrive, and haunted decorations are abundant. Have you ever seen the silhouette of a claw fenced by dim moonlight at the other end of your room? Only to find that when you trace it back to the source, it’s just a shredded leaf chained to the window by hydrogen bonds. October is dreadful, mainly because October is when my insomnia returns. It becomes difficult determining what time it is, and even worse, reality from nightmare. Sometimes I am startled awake in a nightmare, convinced it’s reality. Then I find myself again startled awake by the clash of wind-blown leaves on my window. A few minutes later I hear it again, the most terrifying three knocks I’ve ever heard--knock, knock, knock. It has to be real. I should just wait for it to go--KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK--away. Between me and the shadows that surround me, the shimmer of moonlight coming through the dampened window, the chaotic air--CRASH--and the famished anxiety. The anxiety slices through my blanket, through my skull, and releases a flurry of images in my head; IT’S A MAN, a man that will kill for the sake of pleasure, for the feeling of a knife puncturing the skin, for the sweet crack of a skull, for the cascade of hot blood pouring from every wound. My imagination shifts, perhaps a werewolf? The weight of each footstep might as well be one, each one gets louder--thump, creak, **thump, creak, THUMP, CREAK**. I hear the abrasion of its claws dragging along the stucko layered walls in my hallway. But when it gets to my door, all sounds halt. An echoing silence fell about my room. After a short while the anxiety has left and I can finally get some fresh air. I ease off the cover and discover everything to be normal. The claw still sits, the rain pitter patters, and the shadows are still dragging themselves through the light. A wave of relief briefly falls over me, only I don’t recall leaving a crack in my door. I didn’t leave a crack in my door. I open my pupils and grasp every photon from every shadow that resides in my room. I feel a faint tug of my quilts and instantly slip back into my imagination, the Boogie Man? The Grim Reaper? A Werewolf? I try to heave my sheets back over me, but there’s resistance on the other end--my eyelids stapled shut. The blanket gets heavier and harder to keep hold. It’s stronger than me. My hands slip and I can hear a tear echoing from the other ends of the sheets. The weight of something presses on my bed by my feet, the mattress begins to sink towards them. It’s starting to crawl up my bed, crawl over me. Every crawl closer creates a new valley next to me, starting from down at my feet, to my knees, to my hips, torso, face. It hovers over my body. My senses heighten and I can feel the warmth of it engulfing me. The breath of it is heavy and offbeat, maniacal. A drop of saliva drags down my face. I force myself to open my eyes, there’s no other way to stay sane. I expose my eyes and everything is still black--the image is still being focused. Eyes start to creep into the picture, but everything else is still being pieced together. Still trying to gather as much light as it can. I start to see the outline of its head; then its teeth, the creeping benevolent shining smile--the teeth of a man. His face edges closer to mine, until he’s less than an inch from mine. He pauses and stares through me--as if to avoid a sense of pain. In the split seconds that I tried to piece his face together, I didn’t notice him scuttle his hands closer. They are on my neck with pressure. The squeeze comes quickly and suddenly as a boa constrictor would strangle its prey. It’s impossible to escape, no matter how much I struggle. The smile just gets brighter. His face lights up, but the picture of his face reverses. Shadows smother his smile, then his skin, then the outline of his skull, leaving only his eyes. I wake up, only to find myself still intact. In a cold sweat I analyze my body; nothing but unscathed flesh. My body feels like there have been no wounds, cuts, stabs, burns, tears, rips, or punctures of any sort on it. It’s all the same; everything in my rooms back to normal, serene. I look at the clock and it see that little time has passed--although it’s difficult to tell on these rainy days. It’s only 1:42 A.M. I must’ve fallen asleep about an hour ago. I sit up on the side of my bed, listen to the crackle of rain calming down outside, and see the shadows still dancing about; there is no leaf greeting me anymore, I am home. I stand up to go turn the light on, rub my eyes, stretch, and start walking towards the switch. I freeze, staring to the corner of the room. My heart starts racing again, almost as if I were in another dream. Next to the light switch something is out of place. Right next to my door stands a sliver of light peaking its head through the opened crack. I don’t recall leaving my door open.