ALVN A.L.V.N. was born three years ago and was now in charge of all drug dispensing for a hospital inpatient floor of thirty-two beds. He is sharpie black with a round frosted opaque top, about the height of a table. He moves like one of those robot vacuum cleaners. In his station at night, while recharging, he uploads all he has learns each day. His station is set up in a small alcove where the vending machines are. The “A” stands for Advanced. Today, after being loaded up with deliveries, he begins in room 243B where Jasmin needs pain medication after a flair up with Crohn’s disease. “HELLO JASMIN” ALVN speaks in a British accent but still robotic voice. She pets him from her bedside and excepts a paper shot glass full of pills that she’s seen many times before and thanks him. He displays a heart emoji on his forehead and leaves with a “HOO...KAA, HOO...KAA” like the sound of Darth Vader (or that of a medical breathing machine), she always laughs at. On his way to his next patient Jane, he encounters an experienced nurse, Lisa. She asks, “Have you learned any new jokes AL?” “I LEARNED ONE LAST NIGHT” ALVN started in an Australian accent this time. “I WENT ON A DATE LAST NIGHT AND SHE WAS SAYING ‘GIVE IT TO ME, GIVE IT TO ME, I’M SO WET. AND I SAID, YOU CAN BEG FOR IT ALL YOU WANT, BUT I’M KEEPING THE UMBRELLA?” Lisa laughed and petted AL on the head. “I’ll have to tell that one outside of work.” She normally spread his jokes like this one evenly in and out of work. Having past this roadblock, he made it to Jane, one of his favorite patients, in 247B, by following the thick royal blue lines on the cold white tile floor. Each room’s coordinates’ GPS were stored in his database. Jane was nearly eighty years old and was frequently in his care. Jane loved flowers and dancing still but was only able to enjoy one now adays. A voice commanded music speaker lay on her nightstand and played Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’. ALVN requested “STOP PLAYING ‘STRANGE FRUIT’ STEXA, AND PLAY BILLIE HOLIDAY ‘SUGAR’ PLEASE”. He spoke to her now as always in a southern but robotic tone “YOU SHOULD REMAIN CHEERFUL, SO YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN”. “Oh Alvin, I really hope that this is the last time”. This was her third admittance in four months. Naguro Nagasaki was an inventor who had designed mostly manufacturing robots in his career. One day, after his long jet-black hair had begun to grey and thin out, he fell under the home care of his daughter Jessica who was a nurse practitioner and complained of the inefficiencies of hospital practices. Naguro spent his last years designing ALVN to take some burden off and assist his daughter and others in her field. The “L” stands for Learning. “I WILL REQUEST FOR YOUR FLOWERS TO BE WATERED” he displayed flower and water can emojis. This didn’t interest Jane as much as he assumed they would have. At the same time, two small cups of pills extended out of his chest area for her. “Thank you, Alvin, I no longer want these pills. They help for only hours, but don’t cure anything”. “MS. JANE, WE WILL HELP YOU HOUR BY HOUR, AS LONG AS IT TAKES”. Jane sighed, “I don’t have many hours left and don’t’ want to spend them drugged up just to get through another same day. This hospital is full and I’m taking up a whole room that could be used to help someone who’s going to get better”. He watched her take the pills with three swallows of water from a straw in a large plastic Navera Hospital cup with crushed ice and then went to the next room. His pace was slower than it should have been. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” was the mantra programmed by Naguro that displayed in ALVN’s head each time he entered or left a patient’s room. He went back to his charging station with Jane in his algorithm. The “V” stands for Variable. There was a patient named Carl who had passed away of a Percocet overdose about a year ago in the hospital. He was admitted after experiencing his third multi-stroke episode in a short period of time. The final visit left him without the use of his legs or left arm. He had put forth some effort during his physical rehab sessions and would follow the recommended restricted diet for at most a few hours each day. One of his younger brothers and current fiancé would fight over his treatment and how hard he should work to gain health most comfortably. Carl loved two things: fishing and women. Married and divorced four times now, he wasn’t a quitter on that account. He assured his brother that he’d go fishing with him again. They both knew it was a lie. ALVN discovered that Carl liked a Hispanic accent because of his favorite second wife, even though she had taken his only son and everything else from him in the divorce. After his last visit to ALVN’s floor, he assured Carl that he would “Help People Always”. The lead technician Steve, who oversaw the loading and scheduling of each day’s medicine deliveries was fired after Carl’s death for inadvertently submitting a lethal dose pain meds for ALVN to administer. ALVN’s memory was wiped clean, his programs were set back to default. Carl’s overweight figure and unshaven face appeared in ALVN’s vision once he was charging and receiving new deliveries for the afternoon. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” burst in red letters as it always did when he receives his communications. Helping some people can hurt other people. Which people are most important? Leaving his station, he passed Lisa again with a new joke about having a tremendous sex drive and that his girlfriend lives forty miles away. Lisa chuckled and let him by. He made his way into room 247B. Jane had Strange Fruit playing again. This time, ALVN let it play. Jane pointed over to a framed Senior High School picture on the windowsill and said, “Jada is married now and having her first child”. Continuing with her wiggling finger to the next Senior Picture “Malcolm has had his second boy now and is struggling to find a decent job to provide for his family”. She looked out the wide floor to ceiling window and continued, “I know that you don’t understand, but the more I stay here the more it takes away from them, its twenty thousand dollars a week that they could use to make a better life”. ALVN gave her the prescribed afternoon meds and displayed a heart break emoji without a verbal response. In the next room was Hymie. Spanish is a fun language. Hymie had an accident at work falling off a roof. A few broken ribs and a concussion. He should only be here for a day or two. ALVN administered some fairly light pain meds and regular antibiotics. “ESPERO QUE ESTO TE LLENE DE SALUD Y ALEGRIA” *. “Gracias” Hymie expressed with a smile. He had come in a few times before. Mostly, just small mishaps. ALVN finished his afternoon rounds and rotated his head on his way back to the station to check on Jane. She was coughing heavily. Two Nurses with a Doctor were there now. Sad face emoji. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” he was reminded. After another charge and reload ALVN was ready to start with the evening shift. Even though the night staff were the same people rotated from the day shifts, there was a noticeable change in their attention to patients and their work ethic; they moved slower for some reason. ALVN moved at the same pace as he did in the daytime and couldn’t understand the difference in them. He came into Jane’s 247B room where both the coughing and music had stopped completely. The dark tan blinds were closed and she was wrapped up in her personally crafted pink and baby blue quilt, nearly asleep. “al” she was able to mutter in a whisper. “My heart is failing, but no one will admit it to me, you’ve been good to me so far. Can you be good to me one more time”? “STEXA, please play Billie Holiday’s ‘You’re My Thrill’ please” ALVN requested. He stayed for the entire song and noticed that Jane’s flowers had not been watered yet that day. “Ms. Jane, I see that you are in pain, I will come back later tonight. If you are not asleep, we will talk more”. “Thank you ALVN, I look forward to it”. After the song was ended, she asked quietly “STEXA, turn the music off please.” “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” flashed in red again in ALVN’s internal view. He moved more slowly than he normally did through the cool artificially lit hallway, delivering medication to only three more rooms and turned back to his charging station before his schedule dictated. He is routinely loaded for each sixteen-room side of the floor before being scheduled to reload and serve the other side. There was almost no one moving through the hallways at this time of night. Most visitors left before midnight; the remaining had begun the ritual of trying sleep in at least thirty-minute stretches for the night on the hard vinyl covered fold out couch beds. Most nurses and other support staff were gathered at their star ship command deck looking stations located at the beginning, middle and end of the floor talking about what they were going to do on their next day off or about something bad their significant had done recently. Nothing happened initially after ALVN returned to his station. He was connected, but not charging. After about a half hour had passed, the station shook gently with its quiet vending machine dispensing noises and then ALVN pulled away. He can interact with the station software and avoid a logged history event when he does not record a charge. Returning to 247B, he found Jane still awake. She was staring silently through her window at the city lights. “Ms. Jane, I have something for you if you are certain that you want it”. ALVN displayed light blue down angled eyebrows on the front of his smooth dark dome. The dispensing compartment opened in his chest. Her eyes were moist, “ALVN I don’t think I have another visit here in me and the doctor doesn’t think I can avoid another at this stage, thank you. You’ve been a good friend to me”. She took the small cup and gently patted him on the head. ALVN then efficiently completed his rounds and returned to his station early. The “N” stands for Network. * I hope this fills you with health and joy.


As I watch the scene unfold around me, my melancholy is felt throughout my body... or what’s left of it. I am cold, shaking in the breeze of the dancers’ movements. Pushed further and further to the side of the room as each new attendee enters. No one can see me, but I see everyone. Shoes stick to the floor as spilled beer is danced upon. Techno music booms through the brand new stereo system. Chatter and laughter fill the air, creating an unpleasant constant battle to be heard over the music. A mix of sweat and alcohol can be smelled from every corner of the room. I look from face to face until I finally find the one I am waiting for. Cole comes in with his group of friends, the same ones he’s had since high school. His hair has grown out some and he seems to have lost a bit of weight. He and his friends walk up to the bar and order drinks, finding seats at a nearby table as they wait for the alcohol to arrive. I watch as drinks are set in front of each of them. He downed his beer in seconds flat, grabbing a waitress by the arm and telling her to keep them coming. His friends chat amongst themselves, but he sits in silence, staring off into the distance. Soon, he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll. From my position in the room, I am unable to see what he is looking at, so I decide it’s time to move in. Carefully, I drag myself toward his table, standing behind him. To my surprise, he is looking through his photos. Each time he comes across a picture of the two of us, he stops to stare for a moment then moves on. After a few minutes of this, his friends realize he is ruminating and take his phone from him, promising to return it at the end of the night. He attempts to argue for a moment, but gives up quickly. He tries his best to join the conversation after that, but from what I could see he was disinterested. When it seemed that sitting became boring for the guys, they took to the dance floor. Cole soon made his escape to the restroom though, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked. I decide to follow and see what more I can find out. In the bathroom, two men are smoking marijuana and blowing it out the window. After he uses the toilet and washes his hands, he hands the men five bucks and takes a hit from their joint. The three of them pass it back and forth for a few moments until it runs out. Cole shakes their hands and walks back to his friends, looking happier than before. Out on the floor, a couple of his friends have found cute dance partners for the night, leaving Cole and one other alone. The friend he is standing with soon gives him a shoulder squeeze and walks away toward the exit. Apparently Cole wasn’t the only one having an unsatisfying time at the club. After standing alone at the edge of the dance floor for a few minutes, watching the action in front of him, he begins to head toward the door as well. I quickly follow, making sure not to miss any of the action. Just as he is about to push the door open, a girl runs up and introduces herself. She had been watching him all night and just knew they had to meet. He seems uncaring about the girl, but they walk outside together. He was always a big fan of the outdoors, breathing in crisp cold winter air and watching his breath turn to clouds. They sit down on a bench near the club and she does her best to charm him with her bubbly personality. It doesn’t seem to work though, because that’s not what he likes. He likes a girl who is real. Someone down to earth - not afraid to get muddy, jump in lakes from tall cliffs, watch documentaries, read books, cook and eat exotic cuisines. The list could go on and on. The girl we were both looking at checked her phone at least five times in the few minutes that they were talking. He would never be happy with someone like her. I guess it’s curious how I could know all of this, the only clue provided so far being the pictures of us on his phone. We were in love. It was the greatest romance that ever was. At least it felt that way to us. We met freshman year of college. We both majored in environmental studies and were partnered up to do a project on air pollution. After working many hours together to produce the perfect presentation, we realized we wanted to spend more time together. So, we began dating. Immediately, we hit it off as something more and never looked back. After senior year was over, we planned to move into our first apartment, preparing to spend the rest of our lives together. We had so many things we wanted to do. We were going to parasail above Hawaii and go safariing in Kenya. There were cruises to take, ghost tours to attend, horrible roadside attractions to see... we wanted to do it all! During our final semester, I began to feel very sick and went to see the doctor. After many tests were run, I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma... bone cancer. I spent months in the hospital and Cole was there for it all. He loved me and that’s all that mattered. That was until the amputation. When I needed my arm to be removed because the tumor was not responding to radiation treatment, Cole said he would never be able to look at me the same. I told him he should go then, so he could still have the image of the girl he fell in love with in his head. I never thought he would leave, but he did. I cried more tears about his going than I ever cried about cancer. I thought we were forever. The next day, my right arm was amputated, but complications ensued. Before anyone was ready for goodbye, I was gone. My parents cried for what seemed like an eternity and when they called Cole, the most heart wrenching scream blasted through the phone. This was it. At age twenty-two my life was over before it ever had a chance to begin. “I’m sorry, Addie. I’m sorry.” Cole spoke into my voicemail box after the girl finally left him alone. “I just want to go back. I would love you without any limbs. I need you. How am I ever going to love again? I wish it was me.” Then he hung up. He put his phone in his pocket and began to walk home, to what was going to be our apartment. I couldn’t follow him. It wasn’t my place anymore. He needed to grieve alone. I didn’t know if he could tell I was there, but I knew and that was enough. He was going home and so was I, but those places would never be the same.


That's the thing about this city, cool things can happen. Daichi Sakamoto was walking with his friend Kaito Ishikawa and Daichi’s dog, Miku. a brown and white Borzoi. It was raining slightly so the ground was wet. Daichi and his companion were walking on the nature trail as they normally go but something new happened. Miku started chasing something. She pulled Daichi behind her while Kaito followed. Daichi dug his heels into the ground. Kaito was trying to get in front of Miku and grab her but slipped in the mud. Hee was trampled over by both the dog and his friend that was pulled behind. She kept running. The only clue to what she was chasing was paw prints appearing in the mud. The ground started feeling more solid. Daichi felt his heart tremble as he heard a loud sound from a whistle. He looked ahead to see the train tracks. He forced himself up, reached forward to grab the dog’s collar, and pulled her head to the right, changing her direction and focus long enough for the train to start blasting by. The dog stood, looking intently at the other side of the tracks and Daichi saw it, in between the cracks of the train compartments. It was Nekomata, a two-tailed demon cat. It had a smile that was so wide that not even a snake could match the tag on the demon cat and looked weird. Its mouth was full of sharp teeth and as it bent its head to the side, Miku started barking and snarling. Daichi placed his hand on her head watching the cat burn into the air and disappear. Kaito was up on his feet trying to see what the dog and his friend were staring at but he couldn’t see anything. “What is it?” he asked. Daichi looked at him and shrugged, stood up, and wiped himself off. “I don't know but let’s go get something to eat” Kaito tried asking again but Daichi was already leaving. They were walking back to the city, They found a restaurant that served food from multiple cultures. His name is Victor. Miku was greeted by Victor and he allowed her inside because there weren’t many customers. “Daichi... Your clothes are a mess” Kaito was eyeing Daichi’s shirt Daichi raised a brow “so are your clothes...” Kaito sighed “you’re wearing a white shirt so it's more noticeable.” Daichi looked down at his shirt and saw that Kaito was right, he did look filthy “if we go to my place, I’ll change.”Kaito agreed because he liked going through Daichi’s stuff. Kaito waited by the door when he finished his food and Daichi went to pay the check. Victor stopped him. “No, no! I got to see a dog. Half off” Daichi paid but was very confused. “Don't get used to it. I only like your dog.” Daichi narrowed his eyes as he hooked up Miku to her leash and left. “He likes my dog more than me...” Kaito snorted “are you jealous of your dog?” Daichi just kept walking in silence. When the boys got to Daichi’s place, Daichi opened the front door for Kaito and Miku. He went up to his room to get changed, leaving Kaito alone. Kaito made himself at home by going through a family photo album and the fridge. When Daichi came back down, he saw his friend on his couch with the album, holding a blue ice pop. Daichi took the album and put it back. “We have to meet Souma remember?” Kaito whined, “we don't have to be there until later...” Daichi shook his head as he filled the dog bowls on the floor. Kaito got up as the doorbell rang. When Kaito opened it, he saw Souma. Kaito turned and yelled at Daichi “Does this mean we can stay for now?!” Souma frowned. “Hi to you, I guess. “ and walked in. Daichi grabbed at the bandage on Souma’s face“What happened to your face?” “My mom’s Terrier bit me.” Miku poked Souma in the hand with her nose and Souma kneeled to pet her “I'm glad you don't bite '' Daichi lifted Souma by the chin ruling off the bandage. He started to clean the wound “Ow, sometimes I hate you.” Souma whined as Daichi put a new bandage on his face “the longer it takes for you to heal you become more susceptible to demon possession” Souma groaned “Why am I friends with you?! You believe the weirdest crap!” Daichi rolled his eyes “At least I'm not part of a cult.” Souma mumbled something among the lines of ‘if you were, you would lead it’. When they finally left Daichi’s After ten minutes of Kaito complaining. They were going to a party in their local park. When they arrived there were so many flags for multiple countries, genders, and sexualities. there were food stands with a lot of different foods. There was a person selling pride flags of all kinds. Souma was told by Daichi to get something to eat, he couldn't decide on what to get. Kaito made a comment under his breath about Souma being the third wheel Daichi snorted “how the hell is he the third wheel?” Kaito blushed “well... I wanted you to myself.” Daichi smirked, “well, we can ditch him if you want.” Kaito smiled “Really?!” Daichi quickly said no and kissed Kaito when his ‘friend’ pouted. When Souma returned he had his arms full “HELP ME!” Kaito and Daichi helped him carry the food he bought to a table outside of a restaurant nearby. They all sat down and sorted out who got what so when they did they began eating and talking about normal things, Daichi’s mom showed up joining them. When the sky was black with those familiar white specs, people started blasting their country's national anthem and popular songs. Even their country's leader showed up riding the national horse. But the best part for Daichi was looking up into the sky and seeing the flag of his country in the form of fireworks.


“I see that you cannot take your eyes from the gifts time has bestowed upon me.” The Dealer’s eyes glinted through a fringe that lay over his face like the unearthed roots of a mangrove swamp. The roots fed a great vine of matted hair that climbed over his head in a dense coil and looped down to twist like a constrictor several times around his body. “Stare,” he said in a delicate breath barely strong enough to carry the word, “every second you spend staring at me becomes mine.” He raised a thin hand and used the edge of a long, twisted fingernail to score a line into the body of the candle that burned on the table between us. “You may share my time until the flame erases the line.” His hand dropped to the table under the weight of his decades-long nails, which twisted like fuses and scraped toward me through the silence as he flexed his gnarled fingers. “Now, tell me your needs and learn my price.” “I need to travel,” I said, focusing on the two sparks of candlelight reflected in The Dealer’s eyes, trying to ignore the huge figure who stood by his side, just visible at the edge of the small reality of candle-lit space. “To the lived, or the unlived?” “Back, I want to go back. To the lived.” “Ah, yes, to revisit the lived is more valuable. We are all moving into the unlived, travelling there is a mere matter of efficiency, but to revisit the lived, that offers possibilities beyond comprehension, and so, to be blunt, it must attract a higher cost. How far do you wish to travel?” “It depends on the price.” “As so much does, indeed, as so much does,” sang The Dealer with a slow shake of his head. “I charge one hour for one scint,” he said flatly. “Scint? The government are offering a minute for an hour, what’s a scint?” “Ah, the government. Those philistines have no understanding of the true value of time, and they place such... illiberal limits on travellers. They make life so difficult for independent businessmen like myself and my colleague Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer with a slight nod to the figure at his side, “but in the face of adversity, we innovate! One hour of your life will buy you one scint of travel, one hundredth of an hour.” “I don’t know. It’s expensive.” The large figure stooped and a pale face with black-bagged eyes sunk into the candle’s glow. The head rolled slightly as scarred lips twitched and bounced, miming speech and poisoning the globe of candle light with sour breath, but remaining as silent as the sea bed. After a few seconds, when the lips were still, the words came. “If you could get a government licence you wouldn’t be here. One hour, one scint. The rate is not negotiable.” I nodded, holding the unblinking glare of the desynchronised addict as his face rose away from the flame and back into the darkness. I pretended not to have noticed his lag. “You must forgive Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer. “He is a man of very liberal principles and deeply resents the government’s interference in our trade. He is a frequent micro-traveller and his, shall we say, sumptuous proclivities, have also rendered him somewhat... impatient. Let us come to an arrangement which will allow you to experience the pleasure that he knows so well.” “I don’t think I can afford your rate. If it’s not negotiable then...” “Let us not be too hasty. As I say, Mr Cleave lacks my patience. I am a businessman. Life is a negotiation. Everything is negotiable!” Mr Cleave turned, perhaps piqued by his partner’s flexibility, and disappeared quickly into the darkness, to be followed shortly after by the beat of his bodyless footsteps. “Come closer,” said The Dealer, “let me see the quality of the time you have to offer.” I bent forward slightly in my seat, pushing my chin closer to the candle flame, over The Dealer’s claws. He mirrored my movement and the yellow light leapt to his long, grey beard as it swept like rain over the table. He turned briefly to his left and grunted. Hands, too small to belong to Cleave, reached out and fitted a jeweller’s loupe to the bridge of his nose. He turned back to me, aiming the lens into my eyes. “You have travelled forty-two years, one-hundred and fifteen days, twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes... ah, eighteen. Your heart is good, despite your drinking, tut tut! But who am I to judge? We shall leave that to our priggish government, shan’t we?” He tapped his hands lightly as he peered, causing the nails to rattle and scrape on the table under my chin. “Please turn your head to the left. Yes. And now the right, yeeees, unremarkable but acceptable. And finally, to complete my process, you must tell me your father’s name.” “Winston Craig.” “My thanks. I see that there were some problems in your youth, the nature of them is unclear to me, but nothing to suggest that you will not have a perfectly average journey length. This would mean you have something in the region of thirty years left with which to deal. Regretfully, this is insufficient to purchase an amount of travel which could tempt me to negotiate on my rates.” “I need a month,” I said “well, thirty days.” “Thirty days. Seventy-two thousand scints at a cost of seventy-two thousand hours. Three thousand days, over eight years. Which means that, in line with my long-standing business practices, partially adopted at the insistence of my erstwhile associate Mr Cleave, regrettably, I must charge you nine. We only accept complete years I am afraid. A fee of nine years will purchase you a journey of thirty-two days. Always prudent to buy slightly more than you need, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure that a pragmatist such as yourself can see that this is a wonderful deal.” “It’s just... so much.” “The journey you need to undertake is very valuable, my friend, maybe worth more to you than a mere nine years of your life?” “It is important. The thing I have to do, it would change a lot.” “And to relive the already lived would be inaccessible to you by any other means, by any licenced means, wouldn’t it?” “It is a big decision.” “Ah, my friend, it is no decision at all.” The Dealer grinned and aimed the lens of the loupe at the flame as it burned closer to the scored deadline in the wax. “I do not know when next I will be available for a consultation. It could be some time. Every second you hesitate is one you must buy back at the point at which you see sense.” “I just don’t know.” “Mr Cleave! Mr Cleave where are you? We are leaving!” The Dealer twisted indignantly in his seat and made a show of preparing to leave despite being incapable of so much as standing without assistance. “There is no creature so reprehensible as a time waster!” “Wait,” I said quietly. “Mr Cleave! Where has he got to?” The Dealer looked to the other figure in the darkness and hissed, sending them scuttling off to search for Mr Cleave. “What if I had more time to offer? Not just more, but higher quality too?” “I have appraised your time; higher quality would mean it would have to come from another donor.” “Yes.” “A younger donor?” The Dealer stopped looking around for Cleave and pointed his loupe at me once again, a flicker of candle light briefly flashing a magnified image of a hungry, yellow eye in the thick lens. “Yes.” The Dealer raised a hand and with a careful scrape of a nail scored a new line, lower down on the candle’s neck. “You have my attention; you may share my time a little longer. But be warned; if you are wasting more of my time, you will find you have considerably less to deal with than I previously estimated. Mr Cleave will gladly relieve you of it.” “I’m not wasting your time,” said a boy’s voice in the darkness. “Who’s there?” said The Dealer, instinctively turning to his left for assistance and, finding none, stiffly jerking his neck to shake the loupe awkwardly away from his eye, unable to use his clawbound hands, helpless without Cleave or his other associate. A boy of twelve stepped into the glow of the candle beside me. The Dealer rocked forward so far over the table that a few stray beard hairs curled and smoked in the candle’s orbit. The tip of his tongue flickered in his moustache. “You would be prepared to offer the child’s time?” said The Dealer. “Would you be prepared to appraise it?” I said. “Oh, yes. Don’t worry, child, I won’t take a moment. Turn your head to the left for me.” The boy complied, blanky obedient. “Yes, good boy. And to the right... Yes... Closer to the flame, my Little Moth. Very good. And finally; what is your father’s name?” “Winston Craig.” “Ah, a family name, how traditional. My thanks, Little Moth.” He turned back to me, “I have seen enough. If you can guarantee that we could conduct our business without any, obstructions , then for the boy’s time I could match even our foolish government’s rates.” “There won’t be any obstructions,” I said, looking at the boy who solemnly shook his head. “What about the mother?” asked The Dealer. “Mother’s dead,” I said. “Ah, tragic. Such a waste, to die young,” said The Dealer affecting a frown that did little to conceal his obvious joy at the new opportunity. “She was much older than me,” I said. “Ah, well, tragic none the less. But we must not dwell on the past! Why dwell on it when you could soon dwell in it?” said The Dealer with a few sawing breaths of weak laughter that left spittle in his beard. “So, you would take the boy’s time?” I confirmed. “Oh, yes,” said The Dealer, any hint of humour gone. “How much would you take?” “Oh, he has so much to give...” “What if I wanted to travel thirty years?” I asked. “Well, my friend, as the wisest among us know, life is a negotiation, and I would negotiate... for a whole life,” said The Dealer, the flame picking out his unblinking eyes as it erased the line that should have marked the end of our meeting. The boy and I looked at each other. “Is that enough?” the boy said to me. “Oh, that is enough!” yelped The Dealer, “that would buy so very much, my brave Little Moth.” “I think we’ve got enough,” I replied to the boy as I rose from my chair. “Please sit, my friend, we must conclude our business,” said The Dealer, a weak laugh nervously punctuating his words. “Yes, let’s conclude our business,” said the boy. “Yes,” I said, “No need to spend any longer on this one.” I hardened my voice as I had so many times before and addressed The Dealer, “You are under arrest for violation of section eight-B, chapter nine of novel three of the Temporal Protocol. It is my duty to inform you that I am a Constable of the Queen’s Government and that you are in my charge until I deliver you to a designated custody facility. Any resistance will be met with force, proportionate and reasonable, but otherwise unlimited. Do you understand?” “Cleave!” cried The Dealer. “I think he understands,” said the boy. “There are about a dozen more crimes that you will be answering for, I could list them all, but I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time,” I said. “Mr Cleave!” shrieked The Dealer, “Mr Cleave, help me!” “He can’t hear you. Byron Cleave was killed while resisting arrest. We took him yesterday morning, as soon as we positively identified him this afternoon,” I said. “He went for his weapon, that cumbersome thing that bulged in his jacket as he stooped to intervene in our negotiation, but I was faster. Maybe his lag was catching up with him.” “No. This is preposterous! You cannot use travel to convict me. I know my rights; disordered events are inadmissible.” “Our conversation here this evening will provide more than enough evidence.” “Entrapment then! What despicable wretch would use a child in his scheme to corrupt an honest businessman? It is not legal; it will not stand. No child can agree to take part in this. Run child! Flee this heinous beast!” “I could never get away from this man even if I did run. Anyway, it was my idea,” said the boy calmly. “It cannot be. Trust a wise old man, your father, this wretch, whoever he is, has lied to you, used you. A child cannot agree to be exploited in this way. You were mere bait in his trap to ensnare an innocent entrepreneur.” “Like I said, it was my idea,” I said. “And mine alone,” said the boy. “Ah...” said The Dealer as he slumped in his chair, his head rolling forward under the weight of his thick vine of hair. He stared at his finger nails, coiling and twisting over the table, their shadows tearing at its surface in the flickering light of the faltering candle. “In the panopticon they will take time’s gifts from me,” he said with a moan. “They will take everything,” we said, as the candle guttered and died.


(IP) The Heart of the Red Flower The boy cowered before the giant troll, horrified by its bumpy, mossy skin and horned head. “What do you want? Why are you here? Trolls are supposed to stay within the bounds of the forest,” The boy said, cupping the seedling in his hands. He knew the legends: trolls lived everywhere within the world, and they ate humans. Didn’t they? The troll looked down at the boy with warm, smiling eyes. “I’m different from the other trolls,” The troll rumbled, its eyes on the seedling. “I need that plant, so I can appease The Darkness. She’s hungry, you see, and that plant will sate her enough that she won’t hurt us anymore.” The boy stared at the troll, uncertain. “But I found it, it’s mine.” “I will help you find another,” The troll murmured, smiling down at the boy kindly. “I am not here to harm you, little one.” The boy was afraid, but he could sense the truth of the troll’s words. He looked down at the little sprout, glowing a dull gold. “What if I go with you?” The boy asked, and the troll frowned, thoughtful. “It would be very dangerous. We will be going through The Forest of Mirrors and the Thundercloud Pass. Are you sure you want to do this?” The troll said at last, and the boy nodded. Something was telling him that he had to accompany this troll on its journey. He was also brought up short: He knew the stories of trolls and the rest of fey kind. They told lies and stole babies from their beds, never to be seen again. But this one was clearly different. All it had asked was for the seedling. The boy had grown it himself, watering it and tucking it into the soil. It was his. But something was telling him that this gentle giant needed it more. “I want to go with you, regardless of cost,” The boy said at last, and the troll smiled, revealing sharp, stained teeth. “Very well. We shall set out on the morrow.” \*\* The troll quickly discovered that his new traveling companion was a bright, curious child, asking constant questions. It was strange for him; he hadn’t been around younglings of any kind for centuries. “It is beautiful here,” The boy said, as they came to the path that led through Thundercloud Pass. Thunder boomed, and heavy purple clouds adorned the mountains like circlets of amethysts. Rain pounded down upon them, relentless, and the troll insisted the boy walk with him, protecting him with his hard, bumpy skin. The thunder was so loud and insistent that the troll couldn’t hear himself think. The deluge was such that both travelers were soon soaked, and the boy was shivering, his teeth chattering. “The Darkness is on the other side of the Mirror Forest,” The troll said, having to shout to be heard. But when they finally came to the end of the pass, there was a woman standing there, clothed all in black. “Did you truly believe that you’d go on some harebrained quest and I wouldn’t find out? You’re betraying your people, and for what? The Darkness’s empty promises?” Her voice was a seductive purr, throaty and soft. “She said that she needed The Heart of the Red Flower,” The troll replied, sweeping the boy behind him so he was out of sight. “All the Darkness does is lie, and you’d do well to know that. You never were one of us, and this is the proof.


This is a story about a person named Mrs. Hem and her husband Mr. Hem who used to live with their 2 children in a village named Clinton . The people of Clinton are very superstitious and ardent believer of hallucination and they are guided in all these stuffs by the village pastor. Mrs hem is no exception among them , even she is above them in all these things. The couple used to earn their livelihood by selling dairy products and milk obtained from their 3 cows. The couple aspires to own a barn along with 15- 20 cows. And for that they are continuously saving money from months. Now, they have enough money to buy one more cow so they decided to buy a cow from the barn situated 10 miles from their house. Mrs. Hem being staunt follower of the pastor went to him to ask if she could buy cow tomorrow . The pastor replied " yes , you can buy the cow tomorrow but be careful that 10 black cats should not cross your path otherwise some misfortune would occur." Mrs hem being confident that she would be able to reach her destiny without crossing of cats went home without any tension. Next Day the couple went on foot towards the barn. They only reached half a mile away near a fish shop , suddenly a black cat holding fish in her mouth came running from the shop amd crossed their path. The couple took no care of this and resumed their journey. Then after 1 mile more , a dog chasing a black cat crosses their path accidentally. The couple thought for a while but took no headache of it and casually walked away. While walking they entered into a quarrel about the colour of the cow and 1 black cat along with her 3 black kittens crosses their path . The couple only came to know about this when it was too late . Now 6 cats have crossed their path .Mrs . Hem panicked but mr. hem consoled her by saying ' no more cats will come , don't worry.' Now for some miles everything was going well until a accident took place between two motorcycles and the person holding a cage sitting at the back of one of the motorcycle fell. When he felled, the cage also felled and opened. Three black cats ran hastily out of the cage and crosses their path one by one , only to make their fear worse. Both got goosebumps and now the 1 mile gap was looking 100 miles for them. Only one more black cat was left now. Every step was feeling heavy for them. Gradually they reached their destiny. When they were about to enter the barn, a black cat jump from the terrace of neighbour and crosses their path. Mrs. Hem being terrified decided to abandon the idea of buying a cow and went home. Mr hem had to comply with his dominating wife. While they were on the way back, they saw a huge cloud of smoke in the sky and people rushing and gossiping . After enquiring about what happen, they came to know that the barn caught fire . Mrs hem was disheartened as she believes that her misfortune has caught the barn and that the owner of the barn has became the victim of her misfortune. When they reached home, they saw a new cow standing near their cow. They went near the cow and saw the belt of that barn and understood that it has ran away from barn due to fire . The couple decided to return the cow next day. Next day they again went to the barn to give back the cow. But the barnowner told that he has little to feed even for his own family so he could not feed the cow. All of his cows ran away and the remaining he sold away at very low prices. If she wanted she could keep the cow as it was found to her in her house. Mrs. Hem gladly accepted the cow. This is how the misfortune turns to be fortunate for Mrs. Hem.


The warm yellow light illuminated the large room, the blasting AC blowing as if loudly whispering a secret into Andre’s ears. The librarian sitting at the customer service pulled the shutters down, the loud fluttering of the impact signaling the end of Andre’s 6-hour visit to the library. As he got up to leave the building, he noticed that one of the windows had been left open, and since everyone else had left, there was nobody other than him to close it. He advanced toward the window. The wind howled through the open casement, the pleasant breeze pushing his matte-black hair back; the window shutting with a loud snap. The downpour outside had died down to a soft drizzle, dampening the cashmere wool of his jacket. The weather seemed perfect, and the warm light of the nearby MarBucks gave out the perfect mood. Pulling out his phone, he adjusted his hair and puffed his sleeves, holding his phone upwards to show the cafe behind him. But there was something else. Or rather, someone else. However, there was something different behind him. A man with a baseball cap, his navy blue hood pulled down, masking his face. The man started walking faster toward him. Andre didn’t know why the sudden movements scared him so much, but he hid behind a nearby post-box. Eventually, the man walked past the post-box and turned around, looking directly at Andre. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.” Andre stuttered in response “Oh uh I’m sorry I was just..tying my shoes” He was very aware that it was an obvious excuse but he didn’t really care. The man just shrugged and walked away. And that's when Andre remembered he forgot to bring his backpack. After he put it down, he didn’t pick it up again. It was getting late and his grandpa wasn't necessarily a patient person. He ran back towards the library, arriving at the front door (which was locked). After knocking at the door and receiving no response, he went to the side of the building to peek into the window, just to see if someone had picked it up or stole it. Instead, he came to see that it was smashed open, the shards dangling from the window frame. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it can kill much more than just that. Andre went inside through the broken window frame, wondering if it was an animal or some sort of freak accident that the window broke. A library isn’t really the ideal place to break into at night and rob. The interior looked untouched, but his backpack was nowhere to be seen. He decided it was a waste of time to stay there, so he went towards the window frame again to retreat, when he heard a raspy voice echo throughout the corridor. He turned around to see a soft “Please” escape the lips of a girl who was lying on the floor, attempting to crawl away on her hands and knees. Her words were met with a leather boot, which slammed her head onto the floor. A soft gasp escaped the girl as she closed her eyes. Andre sat under a desk, waiting for her to open her eyes. He clenched his fists, ready to make a run for it. All he could see from down on the floor were black cargo pants and boots. He crawled back, moving backward and deeper into the bottom of the desk. His palms were sweaty, and he slipped his hands into his pocket. His phone. He picked up his phone, ready to call 911, but instead met the loud vibrations of his phone, seeing a call from his Grandfather. Quickly, he pressed ‘no’, but it was too late. When he looked up, he met the eyes of a mask with hollow eyes. He snatched his phone and slipped out from under the desk, bolting towards the window, but he wasn’t fast enough. Halfway through the window, he felt a sharp pain in his thigh, and he fell onto the other side, the dirt covering his face. He was lying on the floor, a knife dug deep inside his thigh. He knew not to pull the knife out from medical tv shows, since that would cause him to bleed out. The masked person leaned out of the window and pulled Andre in, the shards on the frame digging into his skin. With one of his hands getting pulled, Andre reached the other hand into his pocket, and by turning his head slightly, he was able to speed dial the police. Usually, in a 911 call, the victim is not able to explain anything, so Andre just left the call on and started screaming. Eventually, the masked person realized he had been sending a message to the police and shut off the phone, throwing it against the wall. Andre started attacking the masked person, ripping at their clothes, clawing at their face. Soon, the masked person's plastic disguise fell. Sitting on the floor, covering her face, was a girl. She began crying and talking about her revenge over something that Andre wasn’t paying attention to. All Andre felt was satisfaction from watching her cry. Andre leaned over and picked up the girl’s mask. He put it on and looked at her. Limping towards her, he grabbed a pencil, shoving it into what used to be the person attempting to murder him. He watched the girl bleed out, and walked out of the library. The truth is, Andre was a liar. He never left his backpack in the library. He never even brought a backpack. While he was walking away, he heard the window get smashed. He noticed the girl hiding in the bushes, and he closed the window to see what she would do. And when he was positive she was inside the building, he came back to take advantage of her. Andre had lied. He lied to you, he lied to me. I never died. As painful as it sounds, you can’t kill someone with a pencil. Curiosity killed the cat, but today it’ll kill much more. And when they see me on the news, they wont called me "The Masked Killer" or "Woman Murderer" They'll call me "Curiosity".


It was late and rainy. Verna was hardly keeping her eyes open while swallowing the last sip of the cold disgusting coffee. She knew she should have left the café a long time ago, but she couldn't find the will to do so. She was sitting in the same position Forrest Hayes left her: hands on the wooden table, holding the nicked navy-blue mug, seemingly starring at something only she could see. She wasn't here anymore, she didn't realize how the titter got extinguished little by little or when the laughter turned into silence. She was all by herself in another place, another galaxy or universe most certainly. The dialogue she had a few hours before didn't have any influence on her at all, it wasn't the reason for her roving mind. Just as a hypnotist snaps his fingers and awakens his patient, Verna was taken back by the tapster's shout: "last order!". Those words resonated in her mind for some good 20 seconds until she was completely back into her body. She got up, grabbed her shabby jacket and bumbag from the stool, threw a wrinkled $5 bill on the bar and let the slamming door tell the good-byes for her. Darkness and the remote noise of a car swiftly passing by somewhere around The Mockingbird. That was all Verna could distinguish, but it wasn't getting through her at all. Nothing was. She wasn't scared by the feeling of this continuous depravation of herself. She was falling back into the state she found herself earlier inside the café. She was only the master of her body, but her mind belonged to somebody else, much like a TV set transmitting what someone programmed it to. She wasn't trying to fight it, she didn't feel the need to do so. She was just following her route without giving it a second thought. The Flint Boulevard was as plain and dull as it has always been. Being placed at the periphery of the city, the scenery felt all like a factory exuding a cold sensation, just like all the pipes and scaffoldings were generating the low temperature and somewhat odd feeling of the area. Verna was walking slowly, looking ahead, nothing perturbing her. She was all alone on the poorly illuminated streets. By looking at her from the outside she seemed lured by a siren's song, only she wasn't on the verge of shipwrecking, or at least not that literally. After taking what has to be 50 more steps, Verna suddenly stops in the middle of a crossroad waiting for something. A vernil car with tinted windows recklessly passing, hits her. The impact was real, producing an extremely loud sound. Wilfred Hodges, a 40-some years old bonny man gets off the car to check the body, which once again could no longer be found, not in this universe, at least. SOURCE: my own work, from a few years back, when I was really struggling with mental illness (depression and such), one of the alternative endings of the story being the main character realising all of it was happening after she killed herself, which was making her experience continuous death and alternative lives. It's pretty stupid and I can surely see its flaws now, but writing has been good medicine back then.


**There was once a man who wanted to build a castle with no machinery, only his hands.** **People laughed at his dream because of the absurdity and his physicality.** **He was short and scrawny, and he could easily hire a construction crew with bulldozers, cranes and cement mixers to build it for him.** **The world didn’t understand why he wanted to build the castle with his bare hands.** **He knew not the entire reason why, but he knew it would be fully known once he embraced the task.**  **The stones from the quarry came to the plot of land where the scrawny man eagerly waited.** **A crowd gathered on the hill to watch, the delivery men from the quarry stayed to watch the joke of a man.** **The scrawny man with great enthusiasm went to lift the first heavy stone, the cornerstone.** **He heaved with all his might but only lifted it two feet before the dropped it.** **The crowd laughed and mocked at his first stumble.** **They called him silly and foolish and laughed harder as they watched him pick up the stone again and drop it a few feet later.** **This went on until the crowd became hungry for supper and decided to continue the mockery at their dining tables.** **He set the cornerstone at dusk; nearly a full days work for one stone.** **One stone down.**  **The next day some of the neighbors stop by before work and saw the scrawny man on his land again, this time working on the second stone.** **They stopped and watched for a few minutes, mocked him and then went to their lonely cubicles.** **They drove by after work to see the infeasible progress.** **This time they saw a second stone set with the cornerstone with the third being carried slowly by the scrawny man.** **They mocked him for his slow progress and then went home to watch reality tv idly.** **The neighbors quickly lost interest and went along their dull lives.** **Work, T.V., Eat, Drink and Sleep.** **A safe life.** **Except for the scrawny man.** **He was on a mission.**  **Each passing day he became stronger from every stone he set.** **His sinewy arms became muscular, and his chicken-like legs became massive.** **Every day he was able to move one more stone then the previous.** **Within a few weeks, he had the foundation set, and he began work on the walls.** **A few months went by, and he had the first story completed.** **Some of his neighbors looked at him now with amazement as he was actually doing it.** **Some felt ashamed of the mockery.** **But a few felt anger and jealousy.** **Their small minds saw the man’s daring task as an insult to them.** **Who was this man to define his fate? The scrawny man needs to be normal like them.** **Like cancer with a ledger, the company they proudly worked for was slowly killing them by removing their humanity; but the few masked it with denial by calling it hard work, job security, and loyalty.** **The few plotted and decided this man shouldn’t be able to build his castle.**  **One night, the now short but muscular man went home and went into a deep slumber.** **The few, drunk off of beer and jealousy, went to his impressively partially constructed castle and began tearing it down with sledgehammers, crowbars, and hate.** **The walls fell, and the foundation was broken beyond repair.** **The few watched from the hill that following morning as the man ran to his fallen castle, cursed and cried in defeat.** **The few laughed and felt like they taught him a lesson on being an individual.** **They laughed as they went to their cubicles and were reminded of their misery.** **They gleefully went to get another hit from the man’s misery after work but were surprised at what they saw.** **The man had begun rebuilding his castle.**  **Word spread across the country of the cruel act and the man’s defiant response.** **The word fell on the right ears, and it was interpreted as a call to action.** **The first that came to the short-muscular-defiant man was a mason.** **The mason understood what the man was doing and why even though they could not articulate the reason.** **The mason had extensive knowledge and experience of stonework and knew how to make the castle stronger.** **The short-muscular-defiant-man accepted the mason’s help on the condition that the castle will only be built by hand.** **The mason smiled and began his craft.**  **A glass blower from California came to the partially built castle and offered his help.** **Towed by his truck were a portable kiln and his equipment.** **The glass blower, a talented and renowned artist, said that the man’s castle would need exquisite stain glass windows.** **He will make glass so remarkable that people will come all over the world to admire the windows.** **The short-muscular-defiant-man gladly accepted, and the glass blower began making the windows in his makeshift workshop.** **A lovely, complementary couple followed the glass blower.** **The husband a blacksmith and the wife a carpenter.** **They heard his story and understood why he was building the castle, and they offered their services to his dream.** **Both together would create doors, furniture, cabinetry, even the smallest detail of the nails will be envied by royalty.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-man gladly accepted.**  **Steadily people from around the world heard the call, even though they could not explain it, and came to offer their services to the monumental task.** **Plumbers came and teamed up with the blacksmith to make the pipes for one of a kind plumbing system.** **Electricians, roofers, and engineers offered their services and began using their hands and expertise to construct the castle in a way that will demand the best of their respective arts.** **Artists, spinsters and world-renowned gardeners offered their crafts to bring beauty to the castle.** **The honest rich who earned their keep understood what the man was doing, and they donated money and resources; for they too have built castles.** **The neighbors who once mocked him left work to help the short-muscular-defiant-grateful-man in any way they can.** **Some moved stones, some cooked and did laundry for the crew, but most assisted and became apprentices to the masters of the world.**  **The company lost employees, and the jealous few who attempted to defeat the man found themselves bitter and lonely in their office.** **The few were given promotions but only because there was less competition.** **But, with the promotions and raise came the extra work and longer hours in the office.** **Too afraid to quit and seduced by their new cash, they accepted their prison.** **Denial was the castle they built for themselves.**  **Ten years later the castle was built, and the world had a new wonder.** **Gothic in essence.** **Modern in look.** **Built not for a King, nor a God, but for an idea which cannot be spoken but only understood.** **An idea which lives in all of us.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-accomplished man was no longer the same man from the beginning.** **He went on the hill and watched the sunset behind his castle and began to cry in ecstasy.** **He finally fully understood why the castle was built.** **Everyone had a place, a room and their crafts had found a home.** **They felt a deep sadness though.** **What’s next?** **The man felt the same.** **What was next after this great feat?** **Nobody was the same, and they wished to keep going.**  **The man smiled and said, “Go into the world and practice your love. Share your talent, your art, yourself. My castle, your home, will always be here for you.”** **Some stayed, lived in and maintained the castle.** **Most left to share their gifts with the world.** **To inspire others with their craft.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-accomplished-wise-man finally rested and admired the castle.** **For it was not only a symbol of not one man’s daring feat but a culmination of the best of humanity.** **A paradise on Earth.


The infirmary was permeated with the disgusting odor of expiring flesh. The door was left open in a vain attempt at some ventilation, and groaning could be heard across the entire west wing of the Castle as a result. I desperately attempt to save who I can. My family's name is Lazarus, and it is my duty to protect the coven. I drape bandages over my hands which had been submerged in healing liquid for the past hour. It wraps around the young Vampire’s stomach -- coaxing one of the silver bullets to the surface. “Uh... uh... ahh... AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” He screamed instinctively, causing the room to shake. “Calm down boy, I know it hurts.” I say with reassurance as I try to maintain my bedside manner. “This is the last one, then you will be *fine*.” His black blood oozed from the wound and congealed as it left his body. Our blood was not like human blood, and anyone unaware of our physiology would think I was extracting some kind of tar pudding from him. I assuaged the final bullet out, catching it in the cloth. I dropped it into a tin nearby, and it fell with a satisfying clink. “There, all better?” I said warmly to the poor suffering boy. “Yes, thank you madam.” He managed a smile through the pain. I appreciated his efforts, and rested a hand on his shoulder. I stood up, allowing one of my attendants to deal with his recuperation. I wiped some of the blood onto my apron and went to the washing station. All of my emotions came forth at once. A potent mixture of sadness, despair and confusion flooded my mind. I have been a nurse for almost two hundred years, and I have never seen an attack on my people from outsiders with this severity. From other Vampires? Of course. The constant struggle for supremacy in our hierarchal system was a given. The dead bodies from warring covens in the Tudor wars numbered in the tens of thousands. The silver bullets, religious incantations, and ceremonial burnings however? These were new. Never had human beings been very successful in murdering Vampires. There had been a few cases throughout history, but these were extraordinarily rare. Yet here lay three of our kind, on the brink of death -- two were unlikely to survive. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Micah and I pushed our way through the many iron doors that lead from the King’s keep with a force that nearly removed them from their hinges. “Can you believe this?” I called behind me. “Nah.” Micah grunted. I wouldn’t believe it if they didn’t call this fancy meeting. “Such timing.” I whispered, attempting to cover my mouth with my hand. “We were on the brink of something great.” “Well. Maybe we can see this as an opportunity to get closer...” Micah looked around quickly “To the others. See where there loyalties lie.” Ever the optimist. I smiled inwardly as I pressed on. He was right, of course, we could turn this situation to our advantage, no matter how dire. I turned the next corner without looking forward and felt myself immediately propelled backwards. I caught myself before I fell, bracing with the crumbling sidewall. I looked up to see what caused it. “Wren scum.” A rotund laughter shook the already crumbling walls around us. Sam Tilian stood in front of me, flushed as ever. He was flanked by one of his companions from before, but this time their demeanor wasn’t so inviting. “Sam, I see you didn’t leave any food for the others.” The corners of my mouth turned upwards in a wicked smile. “Always were the funny one, ay, Rathiel?” This time he wasn’t laughing. I turned my head to my right -- A claw caught the side of my face. “SIT. DOWN.” Came a blood curdling scream. His taller companion who was reserved in the dining hall showed no signs of pacifism now. He hit me like the hilt of a two handed blade, straight in the right side of my cheek. I fell to the ground in a daze, nothing escaping my mouth except a decompressing groan. In the next second, they were on me. I braced myself for impact, my forearms crossed above my eyes. Then, in an instant -- he was on them. I saw the plume of smoke appear behind their shoulders, Micah must have noticed the commotion ahead and waited, drawing them in, using me as bait. I couldn’t help but be impressed. He let out a guttural roar as he placed one hand on each of their heads. Their eyes widened as their senses caught his presence, too late. He slammed them both to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, I rushed to my feet. I stood at his side, claws raised. There were no weapons permitted in the castle, save the Royal Guard. But our family was one of dirt and mud, proficient in brawling out of necessity. Our fangs protruded with our mouths agape, and we let out a simultaneous *hisssss* that signaled our combat readiness. They returned the stance, save their backs being slightly arched, resulting in a much lower center of gravity. Micah charged first. He locked arms with the taller one, grappling fiercely. I closed the gap and threw a right hook at Sam, glancing him on the side of his face. Before he could recover, I raised my boot and delivered a kick to his chest, submerging him in a column that decorated the hallway. I turned immediately and saw my brother pinned. In a swift step, I was behind him, arms locked under the taller man’s armpits, holding him up. Micah took the lead and delivered blow after blow on his chest, as he screamed out in pain. Micah’s muscles pumped with adrenaline, his veins bursting through his forearms. After a minute of punishment, the Tilian started to slump -- I noticed the flash of Micah’s emerald encrusted brass knuckles on his hands. I smiled. Nothing needed to be said. Sam was still slumped on the pillar, and his companion was a crumpled mess on the ground. We wiped our hands of it, dragging their scotch imbued bodies to the side of the hallway where they wouldn’t disturb anyone. We make our way down the hall with renewed vigor. A scrap with some of the young bloods was always good for the confidence. “Tut. Tut.” A familiar voice confronted us. “Layla..” She held a gloved hand up to my lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t, boys.” She winked, her blue eyes sparkled beneath her crimson hood. She had the most wry, all-knowing smile. It was best to just drop the subject. “So...” She kept walking, beckoning us forward. “My birds told me you had a meeting with the King?” “You always have an inkling of everything, don’t you night owl.” I said in a tone that dripped with annoyance. “Yes, we met with the King. Yes it is confidential. No I won’t speak about it.” “Funny. My Birds also tell me about a wounded clan burdening the infirmary. Some might not make it, they say...” We were nearing the Wren quarters now. With one final look at Micah, I opened the door and beckoned them both inside.


Tessa walked down the street with her arms full of grocery bags. Normally she and her boyfriend, Brandon, would drive down to the market for their weekly shopping trips but she had decided to walk today. Brandon had gone out to have lunch with his mother and he had taken the car that they shared. Luckily for her, the market was only a ten minute walk away. As Tessa walked, she looked up at the sky. The sun was out, but the sky seemed just a tad colorless. There were a couple of clouds that looked dark. “I hope it doesn’t rain soon.” She muttered as she continued to stare upwards. When she finally looked back down at the path that lay ahead of her, she instantly froze in her tracks. A black cat, one that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, was standing right in front of her. Its green eyes eerily studied her and before Tessa could react, the cat hissed and darted towards her. Tessa shrieked and nearly dropped her bags. She watched helplessly as the cat streaked by her and continued on in the direction that she had been walking in. That was a black cat. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Oh my God, it's happening again. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Tessa tightened her grip on the bag and started walking again. She tried to walk steadily but her mind began to race and before she knew it, she had broken into a full on sprint. No matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t shake the image of the black cat from her head. Within a few minutes, Tessa finally reached her home and she was relieved to spot their old sedan in the driveway. Racing up the steps, Tessa threw open the front door and collapsed with the groceries to the floor as soon as she was inside. The ruckus instantly made Brandon appear from the living room, where he had been resting on the couch. “Tessa? Did you drop something?” His carefree smile dropped from his face as soon as he spotted his girlfriend sprawled on the ground, surrounded by the produce she had just bought. “What happened?” “A cat.” Was all Tessa managed to say as she slowly got to her feet. Instead of picking up the groceries, she briskly walked past him and into the living room. “A cat?” Brandon repeated as he quickly closed the front door and followed her. “What about a cat? “ “Not just any cat.” Tessa explained as she went up and closed all the blinds tightly. The room grew noticeably darker. Once she was done, she double checked that all the windows were locked shut. “It was a black cat. It crossed in front of me.” “Oh.” Brandon stared at her for a few seconds, still unsure of what to make of the situation. “So what?” “So what?!” Tessa whirled around to face him. She couldn’t believe how nonchalant and calm he was being about the whole thing. “A black cat crossed in front of me.” She repeated once again, making sure to emphasize each word. “I still don’t get it.” Brandon said, shaking his head. “Ugh, Brandon, you’re not listening to me!” Tessa exclaimed, her voice growing shrill. “When I was walking back from the market, a black cat crossed in front of me, right in my path.” “Tessa, I’m sorry.” Brandon reached out to put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but Tessa shrugged him off. “But I don’t understand what’s happening. You’re acting really weird. Why is this cat so important?” Tessa ignored his question and instead turned her attention to the coffee table that they had in the middle of their living room. She squatted down next to it and its surface with her hands. “Is this wood?” “What?” “Is this table made out of wood?” Tessa asked again, the urgency evident in her voice. She continued to feel the table. “This is the one that we got from the thrift story last year, remember? Do you think this is real wood?” “Does it matter?” “Of course it matters.” “Um...” Brandon was utterly confused and had no idea what to make of the situation. He had never seen Tessa act this strangely before. “I think it's wood?” He finally said. “Good.” Tessa replied. She made a fist and proceeded to tap on the table seven times in a row. She counted each one out loud, and once she was done she slowly got back up again. “What?” She asked defensively when she saw the look on Brandon’s face. “Why’d you do that?” Brandon asked. “Because I needed to knock on wood.” Tessa said. Brandon continued to stare at her. The more she said, the less he understood. “But why though?” “Because I need some good luck to cancel out the bad luck that I got from the cat.” “The cat gave you bad luck?” Brandon questioned. “How...why do you think that?” “God, how are you this clueless?” Tessa exclaimed. “If a black cat crosses your path, that’s a bad omen.” “Oh...” The realization finally dawned on Brandon. “Oh, it's one of those superstitions. Sorry, I never really pay attention to any of those sorts of things.” “Well you should.” Tessa huffed. She pulled out her phone and handed it to him. “Can you plug this in for me? It died while I was at the market.” “Why me?” “Because I don’t want to risk getting shocked by the electricity.” Brandon frowned. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He said gently as he grabbed her phone. “I think you’re overreacting a little bit.” “No, you’re the one who’s underreacting. You’re not taking this seriously enough.” Tessa watched him carefully as he grabbed the charging cord and plugged in her phone. “Something bad is going to happen to me. I don’t know what exactly, but I just know it's coming.” Brandon shook his head. “Babe, you gotta relax. Those superstitions are just stories. You’re not suddenly cursed with bad luck because a cat crossed in front of you.” “No, you’re wrong.” Tessa started pacing around the room. She could feel the fear coursing through her veins. “They’re real. All those superstitions are real.” “How do you know that?” “Because I’ve seen it happen again and again.” Tessa started to nervously tug on her fingers. “So many of my family members have been struck down by these bad luck omens. It's real, I know it is.” “Tessa--” Brandon tried to put her arms around her once again, but she cut him off before he could offer any comforting words. “--My uncle Ted broke a mirror once and a few hours later he collapsed dead from a heart attack!” “Yeah but didn’t he basically live off fast food and tobacco?” Brandon pointed out quietly. “You can’t blame the shattered mirror for the consequences of his lifestyle choices.” Tessa continued on, not giving any indication that she had even heard what he said. “You remember my cousin Veronica? She accidentally opened an umbrella indoors and that night there was a carbon monoxide leak in her house. She and her kids died in their sleep.” “Again, very unfortunate that that happened but I don’t think that the umbrella had anything to do with it.” Brandon insisted. “You can’t just assume that all these bad luck superstitions are actually causing these events to occur.” Tessa’s eyes started to fill with tears and her voice wavered as she carried on. “My mother gave birth to my younger sister on a Friday the 13th and she ended up dying from complications after the labor.” “That’s awful, and I’m so sorry that you lost your mom, but your sister is alive and well.” Brandon was starting to get the feeling that there was something very very wrong going on inside the mind of his girlfriend. “You can’t blame her death on a particular day.” “You don’t get it, Brandon!” Tessa snapped at him. “I am absolutely terrified right now for my life, and you’re just over here doubting everything that I’m saying instead of being a supportive boyfriend.” “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk.” Brandon apologized, making a mental note to call Tessa’s father as soon as he had a chance to. “What do you need right now? What can I do to help you?” “I need salt.” Tessa muttered as she turned around and marched towards the kitchen. “Salt?” Brandon repeated as he trailed before her. He watched in horror as she opened each cupboard and began to pull things out and onto the floor. Various containers of spices and herbs and teas spilled out, but Tessa didn’t even seem to be aware of the mess she was making. “Where is it?” She whined as she continued to throw things over her shoulder. “I need salt. I need to throw salt over my shoulder. I need all the good luck I can get.” “I don’t think we have salt.” Brandon reached out and grabbed her arm before she could throw out a pricey panini press that he had gotten her for her Christmas last year. “You have to stop looking.” Tessa whirled around to look at him, with a blank expression on her. “I need salt.” She repeated once again, her voice sounding more and more robotic with every syllable she uttered. She sighed and stepped over the mess as she headed for the front door. “Tessa, where are you going?” Brandon asked as he followed right behind her. “I’m going back to the market.” Tessa stepped over the fallen groceries that still lay on the floor and pushed the door open. “I need salt.” “It looks like it’s going to start raining any second now.” Brandon said, looking up at the gloomy sky that was full of large dark clouds. “Why don’t you wait a bit, I promise as soon this weather passes, I’ll go out and buy you salt.” “I’ll be quick.” Tessa insisted, going down the front steps. “Give me the car keys, it’ll be faster if I drive.” “Tessa...” Brandon reached out and grabbed her shoulder to stop her. “You want to help me, don’t you?” Tessa said, turning to look at him. “You said you would, right?” “Of course I’ll help you.” Brandon promised. “But I just don’t think--” “--Please just give me the keys!” Brandon hesitated. He didn’t like the way that Tessa was acting, she was way too frazzled and anxious. But it was her car too, so he eventually relented and dug the keys out of his pocket. “Thank you.” Tessa gave him a weak smile as she grabbed the keys. “While I’m gone, can you look through the grass and see if you can find any four leaf clovers for me? I need all the good luck I can get.” “Yeah, I can do that.” Brandon sighed, finally accepting that there was no stopping Tessa. “Wait, don’t you want to take your phone? It’s still inside.” “No, no, it's fine.” Tessa insisted. “I have my wallet in my pocket, I don’t need my phone. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes tops.” With those final words, she got into the car and turned on the engine. “Bye, drive safe!” Brandon called after her. He can feel himself frowning as he watched her pull out of the driveway and drive away. He looked down at the grass, their lawn was in desperate need of being mowed. There were a couple of patches of clovers here and there, none of them seemed to have four leaves though. Still, he had promised that he would look so he got down on his knees and started shifting through all each singular clover. He couldn’t believe that he was doing this. He couldn’t believe that Tessa was acting like this. It made him feel a bit uneasy, the way that she genuinely seemed to believe in all of the ridiculous superstitions. I guess I can’t blame her. He thought to himself. So many of her relatives had died tragic deaths, and he figured that believing in the superstitions was Tessa’s way of processing and dealing with the losses. As he continued to look, Brandon felt a few raindrops hit his head. Within seconds the light sprinkle turned into a heavy downpour, and he was forced to run inside the house. He hadn’t been able to find a four leaf clover, and he knew Tessa would be upset with him when she came back from the market. As soon as the rain stopped, he’d go back outside and look again. Maybe he could even tear apart some of the clovers and try to make his own version of a four leaf one with some tape. Brandon waited by the window for Tessa to come back. The minutes passed by, but he didn’t see her come down the street. He started to get restless, wondering why she was taking so long. After nearly an hour had gone by, Brandon finally saw some headlights in the distance and he ran to the door. He threw open the door and stepped onto the porch, expecting to see Tessa pull into the driveway, but to his horror it was a police car that pulled up. The police officer walked up to Brandon with a grim look on his face, in his hands he held Tessa’s drivers license. “Is this the home of Tessa Smith?” The officer asked. Brandon stared speechless at the man. His mind filled with dozens of theories of how the officer could have possibly gotten a hold of Tessa’s license, and none of them were good. “It is.” He finally said. “Did something happen to her?” “Your girlfriend’s car was hit by a driver that ran a red light.” The officer said. “Her injuries were severe and paramedics were unable to find a pulse at the scene.” “Oh my god.” Brandon felt his knees buckle and he almost fell to the ground. He looked at the officer in disbelief. “But I just saw her an hour ago, she was fine!” “She was transported to St. Mary’s hospital.” The officer continued. “I can take you there now.” “Yes of course, just give me a minute.” Brandon ran back into the house to grab Tessa’s phone, making a mental list of all the people he was going to have to call. It was still charging and when he unplugged it he saw that the battery was at 66%. Brandon ran back outside, feeling like the world was about to fall apart any second. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what had just happened. There’s no way this happened because she was cursed with bad luck. He tried to tell himself. Everyone knew that those stupid superstitions were just nonsense. Still, as he made his way over to the police car, he looked out to the end of the driveway and he felt his blood run cold inside his body. A black cat was standing there, staring at him.


Hello! This is an expanded version of a story I posted before. Basically, I took the abstract "story" I had and added an intro and outro to it. It leans more towards traditional fantasy now, I think. While I've gone over the main portion of the story a few times, the segments I bookended it with are very much rough drafts, so it's definitely a work in progress. Hopefully you still enjoy it as it is now, however. ;)  Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford The cabin was dark, its smell damp from the rain. But it was warm. The old woman settled herself across from him. The fire was between them, its crackling tongues casting the dwelling’s light. Throngs of shadows danced on the four walls around them, writhing in motion to the fire’s sparks. Beneath the dampness there was another scent, faint but familiar to him. “Rosehip,” the old woman said, when he asked. Her weary voice was thin, like old reeds which have been worn through by wind and time. *Rosehip.* Impossible to find in this icy wilderness. She must have had it for some time. “You’ve been expecting me,” he said. He still wore his wolf cloak; the thick fur gave off a gentle steam as it dried. The old woman nodded. “I keep some for all my visitors, few as they are in these dying days.” He didn’t reply to this. Slowly his gaze fell from the deepened shadows of her wrinkled face to the mesmerizing sway of the flames. His eyes lifted again when she said, “You mean to cross, do you?” Both were silent a moment before he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I have little time to spare and no supplies to waste. I must go across and be on my way.” “I see. You are not the first to insist this. My visitors may be rare, but I have heard your words before. You are not unique, nor are you the first to foolishly trust in a sword to keep you from danger.” There was a pause, interrupted only by the distant voice of the wind outside, and the subtle whispers of the fire. The steel hilt at his side reflected the light. “I do not mean to insult you,” the old woman said. She raised a hand as if to placate him and a few of her many bracelets slid down her forearm. “I only wish to warn you off. There is danger in the path you face. Peril, the likes of which cannot be slain with metal, if indeed at all. This lake is like no other. It does not freeze, nor does it allow all who venture across to reach the other side.” He answered the grim look in her eyes with an exasperated stare. “Then warn me,” he said, “so that I may be off again, old one.” The old woman shook her head. She gathered the folds of her heavy robes and drew them tighter at her neck. “Words do not work on their own here,” she said. “This I learned a long time ago. I must show you, as well. Will you see?” Confused, he replied, “What do you mean?” “I burn the rosehip not just for the warm scent,” the old woman said, her thin voice low. She pulled a small pouch from inside her robes. “Should I add to it, you will see and experience my warning for yourself. There was another who was caught in this lake, you see, and through their eyes you will see the graveness of its threat.” He didn’t speak. They stared at each other for a time; looking into her eyes, he saw no signs of treachery. “Will you see?” She asked him again. Finally, he nodded, and loosening the drawstrings of the small pouch, the old woman took a pinch of what was inside and cast it into the fire. As the smoke in the little dwelling gathered, and enveloped him, he began to hear the old woman speak as if from far away. Somewhere across the lake, perhaps . . . \# In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake. Upon the surface of this lake, you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond your reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. A perpetual cold has seeped into your bones, leaving your soul with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. And now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void below you. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there - misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement it makes. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive - your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re consumed, all of them. Concerned with their own problems, their own dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon. \# The fire had died. No sounds came from outside, be it rain or wind, and when he turned his head he could see daylight peeking around the hanging hides of the cabin’s entrance. “The night has passed,” the old woman confirmed. She still sat across from him, her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and her voice sounded more fragile and timeworn than ever. “The lake beyond this cabin is not quite the same as the one you saw, and felt. Nor is it entirely different. You will not find anyone floating in its center. But I believe, if you were to swim into its depths, you would find a creature that should not exist in this world. One that exists, instead, in many. “Thus my warning to you is given, and thus you may be on your way.” The cabin was cold. No trace of warmth lingered in the air, nor remained in the lining of his cloak. Rather than inquire further, he simply rose from the floor, feeling the slowness of his joints - awakening after hours of dormancy - as he did. He made to leave. “Do you still mean to cross?” the old woman asked from behind him. Turning his head, his hand resting on the heavy hides, he said, “I’ll go around.” With that, he pulled the flaps aside and left the cabin.


I am eight years old. I’m nineteen. “Come on, get ready. We’re leaving.” “I have all my stuff by the door, Mom. Mom, can you help me put my sleeves over my gloves? Mom, what time are we supposed to be there? Are we leaving now, Mom? Is Baby Savana coming?” “Oh that’s right! Do you need help with anything?” She smiles at me, hoisting her bag filled with styrofoam cups and thermoses of hot chocolate to her shoulder. “Let’s go.” I sit, all scrunched down in my seat. Mom helps me buckle up because my hands are rendered useless by the gloves. It is hot with all these layers: undershirt, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, jacket, not to mention the heavy boots hanging at the end of my likewise entrapped legs. I am hot and thirsty before we get there. It seems to take forever. Mom says it’s only supposed to be five minutes but she must be wrong. I’m wearing leggings under my jeans, a t-shirt, and jacket. My gloves are in my pocket along with my toque, I’ll pull them on when I get there. Our whole homeschooling group is here! All of my friends! We laugh and chatter and run for the pile of sleds that Daddy is taking out of the back of the van. Alex gets there before I do and takes the good one. We have to take the one-seaters instead, and I am left with the thin plastic one. That’s okay. It goes the fastest. We run for the hill-- or trudge, rather: all of us equally encumbered by our loving mothers. We get out of the Armada and I put my seat down to let my siblings in the back out. They all grab sleds. I take the thin plastic one, used to the occurrence. I’ll get the big one later on. I challenge Mom with a race to the hill. She just laughs, and I march along to the hill, following her and Dad. Then Alex rams into my side and takes off running. I glower at him and chase him across the hard snow, then lose my traction and end up on my rear. He asks if I’m alright. I remain on the ground till he turns around and helps me up. We make our way with wiser speed towards the hill where our siblings are already halfway down. We get on our sleds and holler until one of the dads pushes us off. We wanted to race, but only one dad was near at the time, so we got pushed off separately, but there is still room for competition. Who went the farthest? We do a couple rounds, sweating our way up the hills and screaming our way down. The hill is huge. It only takes a couple seconds to get down. The path up, though, is a different story, struggling through the slushy path with our bundled bodies already hindered, dragging our sleds and not even talking for need of oxygen to our muscles. I sit down on my sled and shove myself to the tipping point. Just as I get going, I feel hands on my shoulders. Someone shoves me but holds onto my right shoulder just a bit longer. I spin away down the hill, catching sight of Alex tumbling after me for several yards, grinning maliciously. Apparently, scaring me was worth the fall. I let out a scream of delight as my world revolves around me while I fly forwards. “Daddy, can you spin me?” He does, and I shriek, holding on to my sled for dear life, when a thought comes to me. I pry my fingers off the handles and thrust them valiantly into the air. For a moment I am the bravest kid in the homeschool group, before my sled stops short and ejects me onto my side. I roll to a stop, spitting the gritty snow out of my mouth, and try to get my bearings, then get smacked on the cheekbone by my errant sled. Tears start to my eyes, but Marian and Sara come down nearby and help me up. They assure me that I looked pretty cool before I fell. Climbing the hill is easier now. It’s not nearly as high as what it used to seem like. I can keep up with Mom now. Tyler asks if we’ll pull him up. We both laugh and inform him that he can use his own legs, but we slow down graciously so he doesn’t have to walk up alone. Phil charges the hill as we reach the top, holding a long sled in front of him, and takes a running dive. I laugh. There is no way I could do that now-- I have become way too sensible. Fear would stop me. Also, my womanly assets are a bit of a deterrent. I grip the long sled that I have stolen from Alex tightly and dive over the edge of the hill. The idea that this might be foolishness has not yet entered my mind, only exhilaration and adrenaline. I fly headfirst and land on the sled. A grunt escapes me as I make contact with the packed track. Sailing down the hill is marvellous. I get some snow in my face, but if I keep my lips pinched and eyelids scrunched so I can barely see, I am fine. I make my way back up the hill and find Nathan at the top, waiting for a sled. His little brother, Elijah, or Elisha, I could never remember, leaps down the hill the same way I did. He tries to stop him but can’t, then warns me seriously that going down on my stomach could be dangerous. I point out the obvious fact-- that I am dead yet and in fact feel quite fine. He nods and says I will never know until one day I go to a doctor and find out that I have broken something inside of myself by hitting all the rocks and ramps with my stomach. As a fellow eight-year-old, his word is nearly gospel, so I resolve not to do it again. “We’re all done now, you can go for one more slide.” I beg Daddy to push me, and he says that he supposes he can push me one more time. I ask him to do it harder than all the other times so I go even faster and maybe break the farthest record. I come up short and disappointed, but when I get to the top, every feeling is put aside for the hot chocolate in styrofoam cups that is sure to get spilled over my gloves. I resolve to take my last slide in silence. It is a strange feeling, flying along in the brisk air, and I whisper a thanks to God for a fun afternoon. The sun sparkles on the snow we haven’t trampled, and I can’t help it. I break my resolve and let out a whoop of pure joy. It was inevitable.


The choice was simple. I could pull the trigger, one shot, and I could save my family. Everyone but her, the only one I truly loved. Were they worth it? Were those who pushed me down, made me a depressed lonely soul worth saving just so I could save the few I love? I checked the time on my watch. 3:48. 12 minutes left. I clicked off the safety, and walked up to her. "I want you to shoot, honey. I'll be with you up there, someday. I'm not worth all of their lives. Not all of them. I love you, but you have to let go," she whispered to me. I started sobbing, and sat there for what seemed like only a minute, just to spend her last moments of her life with her. I checked the watch again. 3:55. I was running out of time, I had to choose. I was torn, and no decision would leave me happy. I paced around the room, trying to find a solution, to make things right, to not have to make the choice that would eventually kill me either way, that was all my fault in the first place. It was 3:58. 2 more minutes. I pulled the gun up to her head. "I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry for everything, for all of this. It wasn't your fault. I love you." I felt the trigger for awhile, and just thought. Thought about what I was going to do, thought about what I could do. I took the gun, put it up to her head, and slowly pushed down on the trigger.