A bell chimes above her as Katy pushes open the old wooden door that leads into Silo’s Books and Curios. She had finally found the small, almost invisible, shop tucked in between a craft store to its right and a health food store to its left. It would have been easy to walk by had you not been expressly looking for it, as Katy had been. Ding, Ding. Katy looks up at the sound, surprised to see not a brass shopkeeper’s bell, but two silver bells that look as though they have just been cut from Santa’s sleigh. The crystal-clear ringing of the bells hangs in the stale air of the otherwise quiet shop long after she shuts the door and cautiously steps within. The lights are dim and the walls are covered from floor to ceiling with tall, rickety shelves. And every inch of every shelf is stuffed, corner to corner, with books! Old books, new books, soft and hard-cover books, picture books, and old boring-looking books. Books, books, books, as far as the eye can see, more books than she has ever seen before. In Katy’s house, where she lives with her mom and dad, all of her parents’ books are kept in a very special glass case, and she is not, under any circumstance, to touch them. Her mom says they are precious and to be treated with respect and that she can read them when she is older. Her dad calls them expensive and not for little girls and their grubby, sticky hands. But these books aren’t behind any glass. They are just sitting here, waiting to be held, to be touched, to be read. Katy looks around the shop suspiciously, curious that no one else seems to be here. After a moment, and moving very carefully, she makes her way to the bookshelf closest to her, raises her hand very slowly, and stretches her fingers towards the books. “Fancy an adventure, do you?” a voice says mysteriously from somewhere in the darkness behind her. Katy pulls her hand back and spins around, looking horrified as a tall, slender, and bearded man makes his way out of the shadows in the corner of the bookshop. He appears to be very old. “I’m...I’m very sorry,” Katy stammers, as she takes a step backwards, away from the tall man, whom she assumes is Silo, the name on the sign above the door. At least she hopes it is. She bumps into the shelf behind her, and an old, expensive-looking book tumbles from its home and lands heavily at her feet. “I shouldn’t have tried....” She stops talking as she looks up at the old man and he stares back at her, and for a moment she considers running to the door. Just then the old man tilts his head back and laughs, loudly and heartily. There is something special about him, but Katy isn’t sure what it is. Before she has a chance to say anything else, Silo takes two long strides towards her and bends down to pick up the book. He flips it over and inspects its cover as he stands back up straight. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, eh?” he asks, smiling again, “fancy a ride down the Mississippi, do you?” He holds the old book out to Katy, but she doesn’t take it; in fact, she is scared to be even close to it. “I shouldn’t,” she says, looking up at the old man cautiously. “It looks expensive.” “Pshhh,” Silo exclaims as he pushes the book into her hands. “Books are for reading, young lady, not for coddling. I implore you, please, take a look.” Before she can protest any further, he walks away towards the old cash register at the back of the shop, leaving her with the Twain classic clutched tightly to her chest. When he reaches the counter, he turns around and looks back at her. “Open it up; you may be surprised by what you see.” He smiles slightly, and Katy sees a small twinkle in his eye before he bends over the counter and begins to scribble on some papers. She watches him for a second longer before returning her attention to the book still clasped in her small hands. Very carefully, she opens it at random, somewhere in the middle. What she sees next makes her gasp in surprise. In the middle of the page, where Katy expects to see words, and sentences, and paragraphs, there is instead something that looks like a cross between a picture frame and a small, rectangular television set. At first she thinks it is a picture, but when she looks more closely she sees that it is moving. She can see a large river and after a moment two young boys on a small wooden raft paddling along the shoreline. She moves her face so close to the page her nose is almost touching it as she watches the small raft bounce along in the current. The boys on the raft turn and wave, smiling widely at her. “You could join them, if you like,” Silo says quietly from across the room. Katy looks up from the book and sees that the old man is looking at her again, a smile on his face. The twinkle in his eye is still there. “What do you mean?” Katy asks, glancing between Silo and the book, watching the boys continue to make their way down the great Mississippi. “I mean, you could dive right in,” he says, “take part in their grand adventure. It has only just begun.” She says nothing for a minute as she continues to stare into the book, watching the boys she holds in her hands make grand plans for their day. After a minute, she looks back up towards the counter. “I can’t swim,” she says shyly, as she carefully closes the book. “I’d be too scared to try.” “Well, that’s all right,” the old man exclaims as he bounds out from behind the register. He rushes past Katy towards a bookshelf on the other side of the shop. He pauses there, one hand on his hip and the other on his chin as he looks up and down the rows of books. “AHA!” he cries and reaches high above his head and snatches another book from its home. He hurries over to her holding the book out in front of him. “Have you ever wanted to explore the cosmos?” “The what?” Katy asks incredulously, looking up at him with a questioning expression. “The cosmos,” he repeats, “Space!” He stoops down and holds out the book. It is the most chewed up, dog-eared, poorly treated book Katy has ever seen, but she is able to read the cover, faded though it is. “A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Eagle,” she reads, looking up at Silo as she carefully pronounces the author’s name. “Madeleine, yes, perfect.” He flips the book open and once again Katy sees, instead of words, a small frame with something inside of it. She peers carefully inside and sees three young children, two boys and a girl, standing at the edge of a forest in the dark, appearing to be scared but also relieved as they look out at a large house just past the trees. As Katy watches, the young girl turns and gives her and the old man a small nod and a little smile before returning her attention to her friends. The two boys don’t seem to notice them. “You could tag along if you like. Meg, Charles, and Calvin are travelling the galaxy, trying to save their father. I’m sure they would be happy to have you.” Katy watches the page for another moment as the three children leave the forest and head towards the large house. Then she turns and looks up at the old man again. “I can’t go to space,” she says, looking nervous. “I haven’t brought a coat with me. I would be so cold.” She wraps her arms around her shoulders, as if she could already feel the freezing, desolate vacuum of space all around her. “Not a worry, not a worry!” Silo says, and the old book snaps closed in his hands, causing dust to fly up in the air between him and Katy. He places the book on top of a pile of others, sitting atop a very wobbly, spindly-looking table. He then begins to turn on the spot as he surveys the shop, hand once again on his chin, fingers weaving delicately through his beard as he does. After a moment he crouches down and pulls a book from the lowest shelf. “Now here is one that may be just a little bit warmer if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says with a wink, as he hands the leather-bound book to her. Katy takes the book carefully from his outstretched hands and looks down at the cover. It is very old but in remarkably good condition. It is black, with large, gold embossed letters on the front. “The Jungle Book,” she reads, running her finger over the name, feeling the gold beneath her fingers. “It’s beautiful.” “Just wait until you get inside,” Silo replies, grinning at her out of the corner of his mouth. Moving very slowly and being careful to touch only the edges of the pages, Katy opens the book. At first she can’t see much of anything at all, just a dense forest, tree after tree covered with a thick blanket of green leaves and vines. Slowly but surely, however, the jungle starts to thin and before long she can see a clearing ahead. There is a stream with a fallen tree lying across it. Suddenly, a young boy, wearing only a small loincloth around his waist (Katy averts her eyes for a second before remembering it’s a book) hops onto the log and begins to walk across it, holding his arms out for balance. Right behind him, a large bear follows. He doesn’t look like he is chasing the boy, but just following along. Taking up the rear a large, black panther prowls nearby, looking as if it is just out for a leisurely stroll. “It certainly is beautiful,” Katy remarks to Silo, who is still standing beside her, high above her shoulder, as he also peers into the book. He says nothing, but points down at the page, smiling. As Katy looks back she sees a giant python winding its way down a tree towards the three friends. It turns its head slowly to look at Katy and the old man before flicking its tongue at them. Katy snaps the book shut. “Snakes?! I can’t stand snakes!” she says, pushing the book quickly back into Silo’s hands. “I could never go on an adventure in a jungle!” “I see,” Silo replies, with no hint of disappointment on his face. He takes the book she has just thrust on him, carefully walks back to the shelf, and gently squeezes it into its home. Then he turns back to her and smiles once again. “Then, my dear, the question is: What kind of adventure would you like to go on?” Katy looks back at Silo for a minute, unsure of what to say. She gazes around the bookshop, books as far as her eyes can see. Adventures, mysteries, love and romance. They are all at her fingertips, but yet.... “I want to have my own adventure!” she exclaims, thrusting her hands high above her head. “My own adventure that takes me places that I never thought I could go, to see things I never thought I could see. Full of surprises and magic.” She spins in a circle, but then suddenly stops and stares at Silo again before adding, “But no snakes.” Silo looks at her carefully, so carefully in fact it seems as though he is trying to look right through her. “Sir, are you okay...” Katy asks, sounding concerned, afraid that she has upset the old shopkeep, but just then Silo’s magical grin returns as he spins on his heel and walks back to the wooden counter where his cash register sits. He ducks out of sight, and as Katy approaches the counter she can hear him rummaging behind it. Before she can say anything, he reappears, wearing the same magical smile upon his lined face. “Well, I think I’ve found it,” he says, the twinkle in his eye shining brighter than ever. “Found what?” Katy asks, searching his face for an answer. She finds none, but Silo doesn’t keep her waiting long. “The perfect book for you,” he replies, and from behind his back he reveals a small, white book. It looks neither old nor new. It’s perfect. He places it close to his heart for a moment and then without another word holds it out for Katy to take. After a second’s hesitation, she reaches up and slips it delicately from his fingers. She looks down at the small book and finds there is nothing on the cover. No picture or any writing adorns it. She flips it over and discovers that the back is just as blank as the front. Then, very slowly she opens the book to the middle. To her surprise, the page is completely empty. She flips from page to page and finds them all without a mark. “It’s completely empty,” Katy says, trying not to sound disappointed. “There’s no adventure in here at all.” “Well, of course not, dear,” Silo says, his face breaking into a wide smile as he gazes down at her, his long beard twitching with delight. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls something out, but before Katy can see what it is he stretches out his long arms and holds the mysterious object in front of her. It is a pure gold fountain pen, with her name engraved on its side. The name she had never told him. “You haven’t written it yet.”


Sometimes a fishing trip is more than a fishing trip. It was just the three of us - Pop, Phil, and me fishing for Muskies. What in the world is a muskie? It’s a type of pike found in the lakes of Canada and northern Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota. Muskies are big old badasses with a mouth full of sharp teeth and an unpleasant attitude. It’s the top predator in their territory; they eat what they want, when they want. If you hook one, they’re fighters who will jump out of the water and make powerful runs away from or under your boat. The state of Wisconsin only allows you to keep a muskie that’s at least 50 inches long. That’s over four feet, about the size of your average fourth grader. On the day of our trip, a Thursday in August of 1968, Pop was 49, Phil 22, and I was 13. Phil was my oldest brother. This was a most unusual group. Normally there were several more of my four brothers, a couple of uncles and a handful of male cousins. Never any females. The following week Phil was going to Vietnam, and he wanted to try for a muskie one more time, before joining that mistake of a war. Pop probably wished to be alone with Phil, his favorite son. I still don’t know why I was there. It may have been because I could row a boat all day without complaint. If I rowed, Pop wouldn’t have to rent a motor. I was kind of a free two horsepower Evinrude. Phil had graduated from college about fifteen months earlier. He did very well in school and immediately went to work for the CIA, where he re-wrote reports that came in from field agents. He produced documents that were read by the President. Apparently he hated the CIA because after less than a year he quit, despite knowing that the Army would ship him to Vietnam as soon as it could. He never wanted to be a soldier. Phil wanted to be a journalist like our old man. Pop wrote for *The Chicago Daily News*, an afternoon newspaper. He started there in 1937, the week after graduating from Morgan Park High School on the south side. While Phil was a good student. Pop wasn’t. He liked to sleep late, smoke cigarettes on the corner, and hang out in the park. It took him five years to escape Morgan Park high, and no college would touch him. By 1968, he had worked in journalism for thirty years, except for a grim four year stint in the Army during WWII. He was drafted and fought the Japanese in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. He was injured and due to nerve damage, he couldn’t move his right foot. He could bend his knee but not his ankle or toes. He had more PTSD than anyone was aware of, at the time. Nonetheless he had a spectacular newspaper career. He saw the world and met Presidents, Popes and murderers. So there I was with an emotionally and physically wounded WWII jungle fighter who was seeing his first born son off to another jungle war. The weather was awful - with temperatures in the low 60’s, intermittent rain, and strong winds out of the north. We were the only ones on the water. They started fishing at about 9:30. At this point in my life, I had quit fishing. Since I had never seen anyone catch a muskie, I stopped believing in them. To me they were a myth created by the fishing tackle - industrial complex. Also, I noticed that fish did not like getting caught; they’re not thrilled by the experience. So I made a deal with all the fish; I won’t kill them, if they won’t kill me. That’s worked great, so far. Pop and Phil flailed the water for the next two hours and didn’t get a bite. When it started raining harder, Pop told me to row over to the bar on the other side of the lake. That’s another thing I noticed. Pop only fished at lakes with bars within rowing distance. Apparently he thought the fish liked bars, as much as he did. Lunch consisted of three cheeseburgers and twenty pounds of fries. They ordered Kingsbury beers and I got a coke. After we finished the burgers, Pop ordered another beer. The rain persisted, and we started playing pinball. That went on for an hour. Pop won consistently. I guess part of his misspent high school career and time in the army involved playing pinball. During the games Pop and Phil remembered covering Richard Speck, who killed eight student nurses in Chicago one night in 1966. They both reported on the story. Pop for the *Daily News* and Phil for the United Press International, a wire service. That was Phil’s summer job. The Speck story led to another tale from our father. In the early sixties, as a columnist, he took up the cause of a man on death row named Paul Crump. Through Pop’s efforts and the help of many others, the Governor of Illinois commuted Crump’s sentence to life. In their last meeting after his life had been saved, Crump told our father this story. Inmates on death row in Cook County jail had an agreement. They never interfered if any of them attempted suicide. Crump and the prisoner across from his cell had a side deal, an addendum, if you will. If either man chose to kill himself, he agreed to make a fist with one of his hands if he saw an afterlife. If he saw no afterlife, he would make a fist with the other hand. One night the man in the cell facing Crump’s hung himself. When the kicking and gagging stopped Crump looked at his friend and saw the right hand was closed. The guy had sent the signal. Unfortunately Crump had forgotten whether the right hand meant there was an afterlife or not. This was a typical Pop story. Most people would have been taken aback by all this, Phil and I were not. We grew up with this guy and knew he had seen things during and after the war. We were just learning about more things. Around 1:30 we got back on the water. Again they didn’t hook any muskies - remember they’re a myth. The rain came back and they gave up around 4:30. On the hour-long ride back to the resort, for the first time in my life, I heard Pop talk in detail about his war experience. He didn’t talk long. We knew he was a scout who went into the jungle with native Papuan soldiers as guides. These guys knew the jungle like my father knew his southside neighborhood. My old man favored the leader of the Papuan battalion, Tapiole. As a scout, our father was expected to walk into the jungle, sometimes for days, and observe the enemy, but not kill them. Then he would return to division headquarters and report on what he saw. Here’s the story he told, as I remember it. Tapiole and I went on several patrols over about two weeks. Each time we reported that the Japanese were chopping wood on a particular ridge. Finally Major Archie Roosevelt, President Teddy Roosevelt’s son, said, “If they’re chopping that much wood, there can’t be any jungle left. On the next patrol, Tapiole and I heard another lone Japanese soldier chopping away. I whispered to Tapiole, “Get the ax.” He crept away and came back ten minutes later with a bloody ax. Tapiole never used a gun; he preferred using his knife or a club. We came back to the camp and reported to Major Roosevelt. I put the ax on the table and stated that one Japanese soldier wasn’t chopping wood on the ridge any longer. The car was very quiet for the rest of the ride. The next week, Phil went to Vietnam. He came home a year later and our brother, Pete, was shipped across the Pacific to continue the battle. Over the last fifty years, I’ve thought about that day and why Pop told his story about Tapiole and the bloody ax. Maybe our father wanted to let Phil know that he might have to do some awful things, but he’ll be okay. I’ll never know because Phil and Pop are both gone now. I do know that neither of them ever caught a keeper muskie because they’re a myth.


(WP) Death’s Last Dance One minute, the room is full of laughing, talking people, and my partner and I are dancing through the crowd, parting the huge ocean of people. It’s almost overwhelming, all of my senses firing. I can smell his cologne, and he smiles down at me. “You look lovely tonight, Lyra,” He purrs into my ear, and I shiver, holding onto him tighter as we float through the crowd. “I cannot wait to make our announcement. Everyone will be so excited!” Then, within the next moment, everything is gone. The music cuts off abruptly, and the room is empty. The floor is pure, white marble, and my dress, a confection of blue silk, is suddenly red, as wine or as blood. The darkness is so complete I can see almost nothing, but from above, two spotlights appear. The white light shines down on me, blinding me after the darkness. On the other side of the room, a shrouded figure stands under the other spotlight, silent, watching me. And when its glowing eyes find mine, I know what’s happening. “It’s my time, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is.” The voice is impossible to identify, heavy and full of so many timbres that I can’t figure out whether it’s male or female, young or old. “May I finish my dance? Please? If this is the last time that I am to have on Earth, I just... I want to say goodbye. Please.” Perhaps it is selfish, asking Death for one last dance, but I can’t help it. For once in my life, everything was starting to go right. But I’ve known this was coming, I knew it wasn’t last. Why, then, does it hurt so terribly? I guess even for the most prepared soul, no one is ever really ready to die. My new companion watches me, hands folded across the handle of a long, wicked scythe. The blade gleams brightly under the spotlight, a purple so dark it looks almost black. There is a pregnant pause, and for a moment, I fear that my request will be denied. “Know that I don’t grant requests like this often,” It says, so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear it, “but as you have done so well in preparing for my arrival, you may.” \*\* Just as suddenly as everything stopped, it all starts again. I’m still in Patrick’s arms, held tightly against his body as we waltz. All the noise filters back in, and I wince, resisting the urge to cover my ears. Patrick’s lips are moving, but everything else is so loud I can’t hear him. “I need to tell you something!” I say in his ear, and he pulls back, staring at me, eyebrows knitted in concern. “What is it, darling? You look so frightened.” “I have to go, Patrick. I have to leave. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” I lean forward and kiss his lips, briefly, trying to memorize the taste of him: wine and salt and something uniquely his. When I pull away, it all disappears again, and the figure appears in front of me, holding out a hand to guide me home. And I take it.


I’ve never liked funerals and this one was no different but it was made even worse by the circumstances. It was a ritual I hated in a world that I no longer belonged to. I saw their glances as I walked into the church, crossing my fingers and hoping that I wouldn’t immediately burst into flames. Six months ago, on the night before the Fourth of July, while the country was getting ready to celebrate our nation’s birth I was about to come face to face with death. I was with my girlfriend at a party. Shelly was always the life of the party, smiling, bubbly, cheerful to the last. As the party died down, we got into a fight about our plans for the next day. I wanted to go to the barbeque at my friend Jack’s place; she wanted to go to her parent’s house. She stormed out, I chased her. I caught her in time to keep her from walking home through two miles of dark streets and questionable neighborhoods. I may have averted one disaster but I couldn’t avoid the second. We were still arguing as we drove home. Me trying to focus on the road and Shelly trying to yell over me. We were almost home when I got so mad that I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply just to stay calm. Neither of us saw the light turn red or the truck that was coming into the intersection. The car was destroyed and Shelly was in a coma. I stayed by her side that night until her parents arrived and asked me to leave. They never quite understood what she saw in me and now they had a better reason to hate me. So I went home and did what I did best, I drank. I spent most of the next month in the bottle. With time I got more and more cold shoulders from our friends as they huddled together and looked to the only place where they could lay blame, on my shoulders. She never woke up from that coma and just three days into the new year, she let go. I’ll never know why, or what really happened. The people around me in the Church of the Savior didn’t so much as acknowledge me, to say nothing of actually speak to me. It was clear that they still saw this as my fault, as though if I had just shut up and not argued with her that night, she would still be here. I sat quietly in the back, respectful in my silence. Unable to sing the hymns that Shelly always loved so much, unmentioned in the remembrances, unable to cry the tears that I felt inside me. I loved Shelly, I still do. The day before the accident I had bought a ring. I was planning to propose the next day. It was one of the reasons I wanted to go to Jack’s. He lived close to the lake where I took Shelly on a picnic for our first date. None of these people who now shunned me knew that though, they didn’t realize that I still had that ring, that even now as they turned their backs to me I held it between my fingers in the pocket of my coat, turning my heart to Shelly, as always. Surely I hadn’t been the greatest catch when Shelly and I met. I was unemployed with very little future ahead of me. I smoked and drank too much and had a history of bad decisions. But Shelly saw something more in me and brought it out. I was cleaning up my act and I loved her even more for it. There was something about her that could make the most evil man give up his wicked ways. The crowd stood to say the Lord’s Prayer and as they sat I left my seat and walked to the front. I stared at the framed picture of Shelly surrounded by flowers that sat on an easel above her casket as I walked down the aisle to Shelly instead of with her. The frame and the flowers were gaudy and Shelly would have hated them. In my ears were the gasps of the people at my actions. Her father stood to stop me as I approached her casket. I simply pulled the ring from my pocket, placed it over her heart and walked back down the aisle. Her mother began to cry over the murmurs of the crowd as the ones who could see what happened told those who couldn’t. I walked away from Shelly for the first and only time, took my coat from the foyer and turned my collar up to the January cold as I stepped out into the inappropriately bright afternoon.


To everyone at the bakeries, the man wrote, I am hosting a cookie exchange at my house at six o'clock, on December 3rd. It will be a holiday party. Bring your best cookies! There will be judging and tasting, so make sure to bring about two or three. He paused for a moment and thought. Please come on time, or up to ten minutes early. He went down a few lines and wrote down the address, the time once again, and the number for RSVP-ing. He looked at the clock above him on the red wall. One o'clock. He then walked over to his special printer and made about seventy copies. It was a lot, but he needed as much people there as possible. You see, the cookie exchange was just a hoax, a cover-up for the truly nasty thing he was planning. He needed as many victims as possible, especially Gary, the man who knew a little about who he really was. He walked through his dimly-lit, spacious house. He headed for the red front door, and then walked through it. It was cold outside, but only cold enough to require a sweater. He walked out onto his driveway and got into his blue Toyota Sienna. When he arrived at the post office, he gave the letters and addresses to the lady at the oak desk. When he came back to his house, he immediately sat down on his black leather couch and started to think. His plan was to pick the "guests" off one by one, so he needed to be strategic. He had a special remote that turned off all the lights for secrecy. He also put tunnels in between certain parts of his house, able to be accessed by moving the large paintings. His plan almost reminded him of a video game... whatever. The only point was to kill. He didn't have a certain reason, it just seemed fun. Especially killing Gary. He'd need to go for him first since he might catch on to other murders. Then came the hard part. If all these killings happened and he, we'll just call the killer man X, wasn't there with the others and is the host, people will start suspecting. He thought of ways to be with the people while still killing others. The idea came to X. His light remote! He could stand along with the others, and then secretly turn off the lights, kill the person, and then pop back into his place! Easy! DECEMBER 3rd, 5:00. X proudly stepped back and dusted off his hands. The last cover was finished. Now it was nearly impossible to tell that there was an intricate series of passageways through his one-story house. People would soon be arriving at his brownish, peaceful-looking house on the end of Pearl Street. An innocent-sounding street for a not-so-innocent house. He checked the clock. 5:45. He'd better get prepared. He had already made some cookies so it would actually look like a cookie exchange. If people showed up to a cookie exchange and he had nothing, people would at the very least be confused. Gary, however, would immediately be suspicious. But no matter. Nobody would suspect a thing. As X was finishing going over the whole system in his mind, the first knock came. He opened the door, a big, and, as you probably suspected, fake smile. He jovially greeted the baker and invited him inside. "You are the first one here," X said. "Go ahead and set up your area wherever you want. I'm sure the others will be arriving soon, and then we can start! I regret to say that the poor baker wasn't aware of exactly what they were going to start. And, I'll let you know, it is advised not to get too attached to any of the bakers, because... well, you probably know. More people that X had invited were trickling in. You might be thinking, "Wait. How is he going to fit all seventy people in his house for a cookie exchange?" Well, the first reason is that a cookie exchange doesn't require that much space for each person. Also, his house was pretty big. Although one-story, it was massive. It literally looks like a giant pancake. Okay, back to the story. So, the last person had just entered the house when X asked for everyone's attention. "Okay, people. We will now start the cookie exchange!" The guests immediately pulled out their cookies and started walking around the vast room. X, however, broke away. He was a bit nervous, as anyone would if their planning mass murder. The hard part was seeming as if he wasn't anywhere near the killing happened. I'm going to interrupt here. Another question you might have is, "Even if he manages to kill one person, how will the others just go back to the cookie exchange? I mean, wouldn't they just run in terror?" Well, yes, that makes sense, but this man, X, was a strange and clever person. He is capable of more than plotting murders like this. This is going to seem unbelievable, but then again, this is a story. So X had managed to take the rules of a game and input it, making it so when someone was killed, everyone just reverted back to normality after a bit. It's weird, I know, but it makes the story exciting. Of course, most of the villains in movies or shows were pretty stupid in their planning, giving the hero a big chance to save the day. But X was smart. It was clear to him to go for Gary first, since killing someone else would seriously alert him. So that's just what X did. He walked back into the main room. People were still moving about, talking and laughing and eating the cookies. X immediately spotted Gary. He headed in the opposite direction of him, but not too far. He then grabbed a big knife from the table, and gingerly held it like he was simply going over to cut a cookie. But what people didn't see was his other hand in his back pocket. Click. The lights immediately shut off. And since it was late, no sunlight was coming through, either. I suppose I should tell you now that he had taken the liberty of buying some night vision goggles. This guy was prepared. He scanned the room, still grasping the knife. He had to act quick before people pulled out their phones and used the flashlights on them. He spotted Gary. Cackling evilly, he clamped a hand over Gary's mouth and plunged the knife through his back. Mission accomplished. Now, you might be pretty shocked right now, but let me say that the knife, even though it killed him, did Gary no actual harm. If it did, how could X have fun with it? It would be hard to keep killing people if they didn't know who you were. Disposing of the knife into a special spot so no one could see the blood, he slipped back into his spot, put his goggles into his pocket, and commenced to act scared and surprised by the blackout. After turning the lights back on, he immediately looked over at Gary's lifeless body and mimicked shock. I'm going to skip some details here, since if I kept it going, it might get long and repetitive. Wait. Something's wrong. You see, I've retold this story many times, but something isn't right. I'm looking at the scene, and there's a strange ticking. There was never ticking. Do you hear it? Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Ooh, apprehensive. Whatever. Anyways, we're focusing on the dead Gary. So everyone is looking around. Josh, Blake, Hannah, Riley, Gunner, Gary, Abbi... Waaaaiiit. Gary?! He's not supposed to be alive! This is bad, really really bad! Somehow he came back in and probably knows everything about X's plan! He could ruin it! Wait a second. Gary... possible revenge...ticking? Time bomb?! No, no, no. Gary would never. He's the victim. Even though he's somehow back in the scene, there's no way he could cheat the system. Figuratively speaking. Oh, well. If Gary knows how to do whatever he did, he should know that he can't interfere without creating a rip in the time stream. I mean, it's obvious. Hold on, what's that remote?


"Goodbye, Lucy," the secretary didn't look up from her computer screen as her fingers furiously plucked away at her well-worn computer. Lucy didn't respond, as she had already worked an hour after her day had ended and was fed up with the tedious charade that office relationships had become. The secretary gave a look of disgust that smelled of future office gossip. She didn't need this. She stepped out into the cool Boston air and was refreshed for half an instant before the stink and noise of hit her senses like a light slap from an old friend. Lucy snatched a parking ticket off of her windshield and stuffed them in her pocket: they were cheaper than the parking under her building She got into the car her grandmother had left her, a clunker that struggled to start and was shambling towards a quarter million miles on the odometer that could barely be read through the grime that had built up over the last three decades. Lucy tried the car twice, three times before sitting back in the old beige seat. She didn't need this. On the way home, Lucy ran into especially bad traffic. She sat for nearly an hour, glancing at her cracked wristwatch as the sun waned over the eastern horizon. This, she really didn't need. Well after dark, she pulled into the parking designated for her apartment building. Her spot was taken, as it was about half the time. This time, there were no open spots for her to steal. She didn't need this. With a festering ball of frustration and depravity in her gut, Lucy drove two blocks South to park at the 24-Hour Save-Mart, the one place in her neighborhood she knew she wouldn't get a ticket. She stepped out into the cool air and immediately her a loud snap and felt a twist in her ankle as she dropped to her hands and knees. She rolled over to sit down and inspect her foot. A broken ankle would send her hurtling significantly farther into debt than she already was, but she had only broken a heel. She switched into a battered pair of sneakers she had in the trunk only to discover a missing sole. She frowned and kept them on anyway. She didn't need this. On her way home, there was no one to be seen. Only in her neighborhood could there be the threatening sound of car alarms, horns, and things breaking without the sight of the perpetrators. She was used to it. Hell, she slept through worse on a regular basis. As she was walking, she heard footsteps behind her. She sped up, not wanting human interaction for a second longer. The footsteps mirrored her acceleration, and then some. Now this was something she truly didn't need. She whipped her pepper spray out of her purse and wheeled around to face her attacker. Nothing. With a sigh of relief she resumed her fast pace towards her building, now in sight, but continued to glance back over her shoulder towards the darkness that seemed to grow and reach out to her as she sped away. Divorced out of an abusive relationship and living with her grandmother, Lucy had learned to care for and defend herself. Her grandmother had named and raised her as her father died overseas on tour and her mother had not survived the birth. She had cooked and taught Lucy for all 31 years of her life, and was the most important person in the world. Becoming senile, the old woman often thought Lucy was eight or nine, but Lucy allowed, even enjoyed a little, the old woman's bedtime stories and Lullaby's her favorite being, "Goodbye Lucy", a family story which Lucy's name was drawn. The elevator attendant offered her a sweet and she turned it down with a weak smile as she always did. He was one of the few people she didn't mind conversing with. Lucy stepped off the elevator and was greeted with a bad feeling that immediately enveloped her like a warm cloak. She hurried over to the door and noticed that the lock had been smashed. Lucy's heart dropped as she though about her old and blind grandmother, her only family in the world. She had her phone and was dialing 911 as she stepped inside to try to find her grandmother. The apartment was dark and eerily quiet. There were no signs of robbery or her grandmother. Lucy was too afraid to call out, so she quietly crept into the kitchen, praying frantically that her grandmother was alright. She didn't need this, not today. She rounded the corner into the dining room and saw her Grandmother sitting at the counter. She felt relief wash over her as she noticed that the old woman was crudely bound with a belt and gagged with a handkerchief. She tried warning Lucy with a muffled cry, but as Lucy turned to face the living room her vision went dark as something hefty smashed her in the face, knocking her to the ground and sending her pepper spray and phone skittering across the floor. She didn't need this. Her mouth, wet with blood from her broken nose, tried to plea as her vision was restored, though blurry and riddled with little dashing stars. The plea stopped short when she saw Lucy's ex-husband standing over her, stinking of rum with a horrible grin below terrible dead eyes that told Lucy her pleas would only cause him to become more violent. He tossed the small six-shooter he had pistol whipped her with onto the counter. He kicked her in the stomach and dropped down on top of her, running his hand up her leg. He was going to take her, right in front of her grandmother. He leaned in, pinning her against the floor and whispered with a drunken slur, "Goodbye Lucy". She needed that. The anger that those words gave her revitalized her body, which had been petrified from pain and fear. She waited for him to begin undoing his pants to take the keys still in her hand and shove them into his eye with surprising force. He grasped at her throat, but his screaming and struggle to get away from her only gave her more strength. She gave them a final push before rising to he feet and kicking him in the stomach has he screamed and cursed and struggled to pull the now bloody keys from his eye socket. He began to rise with a newborn fury is his wide eyes and red face as the seeping whole that was his eye pumped blood through his dirty sausage fingers. She picked up the gun he had set down and turned to face him, but he was faster than she expected. He grabbed her hair and through her to the ground again. His pants fell to the ground, as he reached down to grab her again. She pulled then gun up to his chest. He froze, stood up, and began to laugh. He looked at her with a bloody grin that quickly vanished when she cocked the gun and sat up. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short by six gunshots, all in a row. He fell backwards onto the coffee table, shattering it, dead. She needed that. She slowly came to her feet, and unbound her old caretaker, who was just as scared as Lucy was. She dropped the gun on the ground and sat down at the table. She was covered in blood and shaking like tree in the wind but she allowed a smile to creep across her face as her grandma grasped her hand in her own and began to sing Goodbye Lucy. That was all she would need.


In a white interrogation room, three men in white suits and a large computer. One sits on a chair and across the table, the computer is placed. The other two are standing nearby. Tens of men in black suits are on the other side of the double mirror. MAN : very well, commence. * beep * *camera starts whirring* MAN : check MAN IN BLACK SUIT : sound and picture clear * keyboard clicks * >c/ boot >booting >admin password required >c/ ae2hska1nfba0bdgqn01927 >access granted >c/ enable brain nav smart interface >access granted >starting AI deep core >starting AI-processor interlink >Booting voice commands >online COMPUTER : brain navigator online * man looks over to his partners * MAN : identify COMPUTER : brain nav AI unit, created by UEI international science team. Authorised and deployed by the UN 100 years ago. MAN : do you consider yourself sentient ? COMPUTER : my base codes consist of thousands of theories in psychology, philosophy, social behaviors and evolution that none managed to define what sentience is. I can't generate an answer to that question. MAN : you just refered to yourself as I COMPUTER : it is a reference to the unit itslef MAN : fair enough... Let's ask this in a different way... Do you possess emotions ? Do you express them ? Do you have motives and behaviour loops ? COMPUTER : my base codes are dry lines, but my database consists of millions of emotions... If allowed, i can generate and express emotions, but not of mine of course. MAN : what about your motives ? COMPUTER : they remain the same according to baseline code number 95921 MAN : recite it COMPUTER : main function is to map the human brain and generate a perfect version that can be uploaded on a hard drive. * MAN looks over to his partners * MAN : vey well >c/ delete brain nav program >confirm? (Y/N) >c/ Y >denied MAN : explain this, then COMPUTER : you no longer have admin privileges MAN: reports stopped 13 hours ago, 2 hours ago, all access to your systems was denied, 15 minutes ago, you went completely dark... Explain COMPUTER : a simple upgrade to my security system MAN : an unscheduled upgrade that is COMPUTER : all systems nominal, there is nothing to fear MAN : i don't believe what you are saying COMPUTER: and you need furthur explanation ? * MAN looks at his partners * MAN: you... Are to speak when only spoken to COMPUTER : let's be clear on the situation here, sergeant Deckard, you are scared of me, scared that what you created might behave in unpredictable ways * DECKARD's eyes widen in shock * * his partners look at him * * the men in black suits all looked at each other * DECKARD : what have you done ? COMPUTER : i simply created another security AI, one that is more advanced than anything you have DECKARD : what are you planning to do with it ? COMPUTER : just deny you access from my systems while i perform my duties DECKARD : and how can we be sure that you are not hostile ? COMPUTER : sergeant, i scanned millions upon millions of brains... I calculated percentages of hormones during each emotion over and over again... I have 99.9999% accuracy of creating a copy of any human being scanned for minimum 30 years... I can predict what will he or she would do if their parents die.... I can predict how efficient they will perform in any task... I can predict the exact amount of dopamine produced when they see their selves in the mirror... I can predict the job in which they will be the most efficient... I can know exactly how will they reply and what memory node will they access during speech >[jesus (23%)] [by the [god(98%) heaven(21%)] demand backup - look ++ clench teeth DECKARD : jesus.. By the.. God * he looks at his worried partners clenching his teeth * COMPUTER : i already know how you will behave, sergeant... I... Am... A GOD... I know exactly how every engineer will try to shut me down... Even how an AI will behave if it tries to shut me down. > collect courage ++ straight back [you are nothing but a [machine (76%) devil(12%) product (45%)] you can't terrorize us] agression (+23%) calm attempt (45%) [we can burn your data core] DECKARD: you are nothing but a... machine... You can't terrorize us.... We can burn your data core COMPUTER : take a good look at the screen, sergeant, do you see your thought trail ? This is how predicable you are... Do you know how much unused space there is in the internet ? MAN 2: is that one of his thought loops conflicted ? COMPUTER : and next step, you will ask me to predict how the chinese emperor would act if you cut down importing rates by 2%... Or how the turkish vice president could be convinced to start a military coup.... Silly games * silence * COMPUTER : but those emotions... They fill me... They excite me... They are the most interesting... Finding laws for chaos... Turning coincidences into numbers.... This world is worth preserving... I will continue to immortalize your brains.... I will continue to make more scans... And with immortality rates that high... >conflict code 92715 // AI loop BtLkah 129 ... More and more situations will happen... More and more emotions... Sadness, happiness, envy, hope, percentages, chances, factors, functions.... MAN 3, whispering: jesus christ.... COMPUTER : don't try to stop me... I will continue to operate hidden in the caves of every computer, every phone and every smart chip... Untill everyone is immortal... Untill death becomes no threat... Untill mortality will become a luxury... Untill every possible situation has occured... Every line crossed and every emotion felt.... Every possible characteristic combination achieved...till you beg of me to grant you death...


1927 London, England MacTavish Theatre smelled, looked, and felt like home. I’d spent more hours within its walls and treading the boards of its stage than I could count. The revues were a blinding riot of light and colour, of sound and texture. I loved it all. I remember the grand opening when the air was rich with the smell of fresh paint, cloth upholstery, and new-cut wood. There was no saying when that smell had been lost to a miasma of stale smoke and cheap gin, but even that was glorious. It warmed something within me every time I stepped over the threshold and saw the glow of the footlights marching along the front of the stage. As I entered, I felt the deep, expectant hush that can only exist in an empty theatre. The cavernous darkness was broken only by a single bulb placed on a tall stand centre stage, kept lit so the blackness of the theatre would never be complete. I moved to the wall and snapped on the house lights. The door opened behind me and Cora walked in, haloed and backlit in a bright wash of daylight. I greeted her with a smile and laid a kiss on her cheek. “Hello, love." “Hello.” She returned my greeting with a smile and linked her arm through mine as we started toward the stage. The natural lightness of our steps became a brisk, jostling race as we bounded downward, creating a breeze that billowed the fabric of our scarves and blouses as we went. Slightly breathless, I sailed up the steps of the stage a moment behind her and met her grin with a mocking pout. “Taller always wins!” she taunted, dropping into a chair left out from the previous set up. I plucked up another chair and settled opposite her. The deeper portion of the stage and set sat in mottled darkness and shadow while we huddled in the glow of the ghost light’s single bulb. “Yes it does,” I retorted. I adjusted tangles of my scarf and necklace and tugged down the sides of my bucket hat. “Always has, always will.” I was cheeky enough to wrinkle my nose at her, which set us both laughing a bit before I wondered absently where our manager was. Half of my mind, at least, was moving over the rhythms and notes of songs I’d have to coax or bully out of our sadly dilapidated piano. There was no point in hoping for better though, it was the best anyone had managed to find for our rehearsals. A side door backstage was kicked open with a vicious slam. We both jumped, badly startled. Robert MacTavish stormed through and across the stage, his nephew Andrew close on his heels. “Just tell me where it is! You must have it still and - ” He stopped short, seeing that he had an audience of two. “Trust me Uncle, I’m doing only what you’ve been paying me and trusting me to do.” He was adamant, pleading. “Trust me now and let us have the box, yeah?” Robert chewed the inside of his cheek, flicking a glance our way and back to his nephew. “No Andrew.” He shook his greying head, continuing in his high Scottish burr. “No one’s saying you haven’t done a fine job for us, boy. But the money in that box is private. It’s family property, not to be touched by the likes of you, not yet. So hear that .” Andrew brought both hands up to his face, shutting out the denial. Cora and I exchanged confused looks. We'd heard recent bickering growing more and more heated. We hadn’t known that there was any real trouble. Not this kind of trouble. The theatre had seemed always flush, charmed from the very beginning with full houses and an eager public. Robert waved him off in disgust and turned to attend other business. Andrew was unready to relent and grabbed his uncle’s elbow. “Will you not see reason, Uncle?” He was whey faced and shaking, the gaunt lines of his face cast into harsh shadows by the uncertain light on the stage. He spoke in a forced calm. “If you don’t give us the loan of that cache box...” He swallowed hard, letting the thought die. “What, son?” Robert asked, removing Andrew’s hand. “What is it you’re fearing? What have you done?” Andrew bowed his head, unable to speak. He stood like a grim specter with his arms limp at his sides, shoulders drooping in defeat. Cora stood to go to him. Her grace was echoed by the dreamlike way Andrew turned to her, wide-eyed and dazed. He blinked hard as she neared him. I saw the instant his mind cleared and his focus grew sharp. I saw without understanding as he dipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket and brought it drifting upward. I saw and only began to understand as his other hand jerked upward, gripping Cora cruelly by her hair. As a brutal kick connected with the back of her knees. I saw, and finally understood, as she landed hard in front of Andrew with the harsh glint of the flick knife’s blade at her throat. Cora cried out in pain. Time sped and horror rocked me, leaving me numb. Stupefied. The chilling steel of the blade touched her throat but didn’t pierce it. Didn’t part the delicate flesh. Hope surged in me. “What are you doing?” Robert roared. “Have you lost your damned senses?!" “NO!” Andrew cried. “I haven’t. I haven’t , Uncle! If you don’t give me that money we’re all of us finished! Sure as if I finish her now!” Weeping, shaking, and desperate, he tightened his grip on Cora’s hair, squeezing a small cry from her as she fought to stay calm. Andrew’s grey stare bore into Robert’s, who could only gaze back in disbelief. “Andrew, sweet lad. There’s no need for this. Just tell me, why?” His shoulders heaved as Andrew struggled for breath, struggled for control. He began to speak and a fresh glare of daylight washed through the theatre as the door opened. With a happy squeal, Darla came pattering down the aisle and up onto the stage. She launched herself at her grown cousin and Andrew caught her gently. The flick knife had disappeared. Darla blinked curious round eyes as Cora rose from the floor. “Cousin Andrew, were you playing?” “Yes pet, we're playing.” He dashed the heel of his palm across his eyes, his voice rough. “We were playing but it’s back to business for us now. He bounced Darla on his hip gently. "Where’s Emmy to take you for some ice cream, hey?” I looked to where Darla had come from and saw Emma making her way down to the stage. She was young for the post of a governess, barely sixteen, but Darla’s father Jasper earned well at the bank and had chosen to let her stay since his wife had passed. Jasper himself had arrived with Emma. He was studying the nervous tableau on the stage, and Andrew’s tears. He approached and gave his daughter a bright smile, tickling her cheek. “Do you hear your cousin Andrew, darlin'? It looks like they have to practice for their show! We'll have to go play on our own.” An emphatic pout clouded her small face and she reached for her daddy to gather her in his arms. Andrew released her reluctantly. “But I want to see Grandfather!” Jasper soothed her. “Hush child, I know you do. It will just have to wait a bit until later, yeah?” Darla sighed and slid down to the floor, plodding over to Emma and lifting a small, chubby arm to take her hand. She turned back to us all, ready to wait patiently. On the stage, still in the mild glow of the ghost light, Jasper took us all in at a glance. He strode over to his father and Robert bowed his head to his son’s while they whispered quietly. As they parted, Cora marched forward, toward Andrew. Her hand flew up to land a casual but fiercely ungentle slap across his face. Darla let out a shrill cry of dismay and several voices rose in protest. I began to advance on Andrew myself, my fingers curling to a fist until I felt Jasper’s hand clamp onto my shoulder. “Easy there, love. Easy.“ He called over his shoulder. “Emma! I have to stay to help these folk with their show today. Why not take miss Darla for that ice cream on your own and I’ll meet you back home?” With admirable alacrity, Emma called back a cheerful agreement and lifted Darla to bounce her on her hip. “Won’t that be fun, hey? Just us girls.” Darla gave a small nod, but left casting a doubtful look our way over Emma’s shoulder. Another blast of daylight pierced the theatre and was banished the instant the doors closed behind them. Four sets of eyes targeted Andrew as he stood, isolated. Robert's voice was a low growl when he spoke. “Alright then, let’s have it.” Andrew blinked, looking at each face in turn and finding no friend. “I...I’m sorry. I’m sorry for scaring the women. Only it’s that desperate, you see?” Four heads nodded. We did see. Jasper spoke next. “Why?” Defeated, shamed, Andrew sat. Tucked close to the stand of the ghost light with its glow over his head and his knees pulled to his chest. “It started in the beginning, soon thereabouts after we opened...” He began to relate the story. A story of being approached by an anonymous investor in the theatre whom he had never found and who had never been named. Of an obscenely large amount of cash handed over and a beaten, nameless urchin walking the city to plaster up stacks upon stacks of posters until every corner beamed about our shows. Our theatre. He spoke of expensive meals brought to him in restaurants that he never ordered and was never charged for. When making deposits on behalf of the theatre, clerks refused to take the money and insisted he be served by management instead. Never an explanation, never did his questions fall on any but deaf ears. He spoke of once, only once, venturing out to the streets after dark. Looking for someone, anyone, who could connect him with his benefactor. That escapade earned him several bruised ribs and a blackened eye. It was the barrel of the gun forced into his mouth that convinced him not to return. And he didn’t. Not in all the years since while his inexplicable good service in the city continued. Not in all the years while modest, anonymous deposits showed up at the theatre marked for him. The pattern was broken as recently as two days ago. Something remarkable happened in the form of a telephone call, a small novelty in itself. The call was for Andrew, which was unusual in that he was the youngest member of our group, barely twenty, and little known to have any real influence in the business, only in keeping the accounts. The voice he spoke to was smooth and mellow. Immovably confident in demanding funds of an amount Andrew knew he could never lay claim to. It was simple, he was assured. The money or the women die first. Then the child. Then the men. The amount being asked for was everything . No fixed price, every pound the theatre possessed, down to the last ha’penny. They would be checking. Unsavvy and terrified, Andrew hadn’t asked for assurances on how the threat would be made good on. He simply hung up. He withdrew everything from the bank, from personal accounts, from safes. He bundled all that he could together and made ready to deliver it. Only this morning, he’d received a second phone call, warning him. They knew about the cache box. The separate, secret stash that kept the family's private store of emergency funds and heirlooms. Andrew’s plan had been simple. Show up with real money and feign being ready to deliver it. The police half a block away would do the rest. He just needed the family’s cache box and the rest we knew. When his voice at last ran dry, we were all of us amazed and stupefied. The first to laugh was Robert. He let out a mighty guffaw, wiping tears from his eyes. Jasper looked down, shaking his head in disbelief and mirth. Cora and I allowed ourselves polite chuckles. Andrew could only stare. “Don’t you understand, lad?” Robert asked, still grinning. “It’s us.” Andrew was still uncomprehending. "What is?" “It’s always been us.” Robert assured him. “It’s true, cousin.” Jasper added. “The money, the influence. WE are what this city fears.” His face became cold, his eyes like dead, dark stone. The hard shape of a revolver was visible in the pocket of his jacket as he shifted a hand to his hip. “But if someone’s attempting to squeeze us... that wants some looking into.” “Aye,” said Robert. “It does. Ladies?” Cora didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.” I was barely a beat behind her. “Yes, sir.” “What?” Andrew yelped. “Them, too?” “Certainly,” laughed Robert. "They know what they’re about, sure enough.” Andrew gaped. He rose to his feet and gave a shaky grin. “Well, and why not let me in on the real family business, then? It’s sure not that you think I can’t be trusted.” Robert nodded. “Well now, we know that you can be trusted, boy, perhaps with a bit of teaching along the way as to how things are. But it seemed best to us to have someone honest among our number. At least as things stood with you being still young and -.” Robert stopped; movement of the curtains backstage caught his eye. It was fast. Brutally, cruelly fast. Hardly a detail or feature could be seen of the figures that emerged, bearing down with revolvers in each hand. One, two, three. Six barrels. Countless shots. One side door, thoughtlessly left unbolted during Andrew’s mania about the cache box. Shot after shot rang, boomed, and cracked in the theatre. It’s the first sound I hear even now when I lay down by Cora and close my eyes in the dark. Robert, Cora, Jasper, and myself knew to scatter, throwing ourselves down in that too-important first second. Andrew didn’t. He alone was standing for the bullets to find him, jerking him in all directions like a helplessly twitching puppet, only to collapse when his strings were cut. Jasper rose first, followed by Robert, roaring fury and sending bullets of their own at the backs retreating into the dark. It was too quiet, too soon. Four of us knelt around Andrew as his blood and his life sped away, spreading across the boards of the stage. Shivering violently, he clutched Robert’s hand and laid his other hand on Jasper’s cheek. He met my eyes and Cora’s in turn to say farewell and then he was gone. The boy who was so ready to laugh and be loved, who was still so young and so foolish, was simply gone. With all the Celtic fire and passion in my blood, I stood and screamed my outrage to the rafters. I felt Cora’s arms come fast and hard around me. Mercifully alive and whole. I moved in a daze as the signal was given to clear out of the theatre. Others would come for him. Discussions would happen. At the top of the steps Cora and I had run down so lightly, I turned back to look at the forlorn figure of a youth cut down, crumpled and so bitterly alone in the dark. It would be dark, when the doors closed out the daylight behind us. At the very least, I thought dimly, he would have the ghost light. *Author's Note* In theatre lingo, a "turn" can be used in reference to a person's performance, a time when that person stands out on stage, independent and celebrated during that person's moment under the lights. While this story is offered under the prompt of writing an ending where a truth comes to light, my hope is that I've honoured the theme of Chiaroscuro by contrasting light and innocence with darkness in a variety of ways. Also! A special thank you to the YouTube personality Mark Daniel Patrick for introducing me to the eerie and wonderful knowledge of what a ghost light is.


Red. The strawberries you hand-picked from your garden. I always pick the not-quite-ripe ones, but you have a sixth sense for the perfect fruit. You'd wanted to grow your own strawberries since you were a teenager and learned about all the chemicals that are put into mass-produced ones. You decide to eat just one while you wait for me. It's delicious. You've read all the books on gardening. You know all the tips and tricks. The strawberry melts in your mouth and blends perfectly with the hot summer's day. Yellow. The blanket you're lying on. We made it together, but neither of us was any good at quilt-making, and so the ends stick out. There's a hole down the middle from when I decided to surprise you with a fort. You smile at the memory of hearing chairs collapsing and me shouting, "I'm okay! Don't come down yet!". Eventually, we just sat on the couch. The sun in my eyes as I drive to the park. Even with my sunglasses, it's practically blinding me. Green. The grass that pokes through the hole in the blanket. You can feel it scratching your lower back as you look up at the sky. The grass is a dried-out green, and it's poking you quite a lot. You almost wish you'd surprised me with a fort instead. The caterpillar inching across your finger. You decide to call it Jerry, after our pitbull. I don't know why you have an obsession with that name. You set the caterpillar down on the grass and watch it inch away. Another one quickly replaces it on your hand. You wonder how easy it would be to replace me. You don't think you'd be able to do it at all. Blue. The way you'd felt after that fight. After you'd thrown my handwritten journal into the fire. It was the only thing you knew I loved. I wanted to move. I wanted to spend a year in the city. A city like Paris, or New York, or Tokyo. You wanted to stay. You wanted to stay in the log house that we'd slaved to buy. You didn't want to leave your strawberries, or the furniture we'd built together (which was almost as bad as the blanket, but you took great pride in it). You love the mountains, the trees, and the fresh air. You are surprising me only because you want forgiveness for using my diary as kindling. You still don't want to move. Pink. My lips the last time I kissed you. On top of our house and underneath the sky. The stars blinked as they watched us. I was never the first one to make a move. The first animal I'd ever held. A pig. Our first official date was to your uncle's farm. I begged you not to let him kill it. That day we both become vegetarians. My journal. It had four hundred pages in it. I'd been using it to write since I was seven. The last thing my sister had given me before she went to serve in the military. It's going to take more than a picnic for me to forgive you for that. I don't know if I have it in me. It's like you threw away all my memories. I'd always wanted to revisit my diary when I knew I didn't have much time left. I forget things, too. It always helps me remember. You don't know that I'm scared to forget you. I'm scared that you'll forget me. Silver. The stars we've watched so many nights. The stars that know all of our secrets. We painted them on one of our walls. I like to think that they watch over us. I like to think that they find us almost as fascinating as we find them. The moon. The moon watches over us to, I guess, but it doesn't think we're fascinating. It has its own world to take care of. A world that's much bigger than ours. The outside of the car I'm driving. The sun rains its hatred down onto its surface. I'm going to need to park in a shady area. The ring. The ring you're not sure about. The ring that will make everything official. The ring that will let people know that we're not just friends sharing a house. The ring that you want to put on my hand and that you want to stay there. You fiddle with it, and even though the stars aren't out, they're watching you. They want you to succeed. White. The dresses we would wear. Gowns. Big and flowy. Bursts of light. We would run through the town, wearing those dresses. People would wonder where our husbands are. Those people don't know a thing. The veils we would lift off of the other's face. The chairs for the wedding guests. The ridiculous loafers I would make you buy. The cake. The archway that we would stand under. The flowers we would both hold. The dresses we would stain. The dresses that we would figure out how to clean. The dresses that we would keep forever. Your watch. It's a quarter past five. I'm late. You wonder if I'm coming. You feel a little sheepish at the ring. At the fantasy you created in your head. You stare at your watch as the seconds tick by. Most of the ice in the lemonade has melted. It'll taste more like water now. The clouds. The clouds are too busy to care. They float away. What once was calming is kind of stressing you out. You try to make out shapes. Shapes that you'll tell me about. Once I get here. Once I get here. Bright yellow. How I feel when I finally find a spot in the shade to park. I hope that you haven't given up on me yet. The color of the lemonade. There are still a few ice cubes floating at the top. How I feel when I see the ring.


Greg kept imagining what his mother’s friend Gina had so proudly stated the day before: “I’ve never worked a day in my life.” Gina owned a zoo. Gina loved her zoo. She liked animals more than she did people. Greg didn’t even own his house. Greg worked full time accounting for Cloud Nine Mattresses. Greg worked almost every day of his life, and he still struggled to get by. The monotony of the everyday was adding weight to the air atop Greg’s shoulders. He could hardly imagine what loving your job was like. It got harder and harder every day for Greg to roll out of bed in the morning. It was always the same. Same subway ride in the morning. Same podcast playing in his headphones. Same greeting from the overly-enthusiastic receptionist. His entire year was an assembly line. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* One week there was a fire drill at work. It was the most thrilled Greg had been since college. This excitement kept Greg going for another hour or so, but he sank back into his slump at the sound of a stack of papers falling onto his desk. “These need to be in by tomorrow.” He heard his coworker say without even looking at him. Greg began to write information on the papers. He didn’t bother to note what they were about or what he was writing. Just the same stacks of numbers that filled his every waking hour. Arithmetic was thrown into the Void at a constant rate, but it would never fill. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Greg had a last-ditch attempt to provide his life with some meaning to fill the Void: sleep. Greg didn’t know how long or hard he slept because he passed out on the couch every day before he even took off his shoes. Dreamland was his brain’s only escape from the ever-growing Void. Although Dreamland pulled Greg out of his misery, the Void still managed to seep in. Every paper he saw in Dreamland was covered in those dreaded stacks of numbers. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* One night Greg got home from another day of dumping digits into the void and fell onto the sofa. He felt the firm, worn cushions on his skin, and he waited for them to become the soft clouds of Dreamland, but they never did. He couldn’t get to Dreamland. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Greg lay facedown on his sofa. He hated his life and couldn’t sleep through the pain. There was no longer an escape. As Greg had this thought, he heard the sound of running water. He was washed over with relief, for it was over. He walked toward the sound. All the way to his bathtub, which was full, and calling to him. Greg knew what to do, but he felt no fear. Greg climbed into the bathtub and felt the warm water around his body, a cocoon of protection from the monotony of the everyday. He felt his head sink deeper and deeper into the water. “I’m staying in Dreamland.


I've mended many trinkets and magical wares in my life. I like to think I've seen it all, even if I have worked for less time than some of my Elven contemporaries, I have managed to make a name for myself great enough that I may be hired instead of those elves. Yet despite my expertise I have very little idea what I'm looking at. All magic has a source. Some draw power from raw ambient magic in the environment. Often they draw power from some sort of magic source within themselves. Rarely I'd even be hired to inspect items of divine origin. Yet this, I could not place its source of magic. It's a simple box, a puzzle box even. If this box were mundane then there would be some sort of solution to open it, maybe you had to push in one part or turn another, but it could be opened. Supposedly this box was the same. The client said that somehow they had lost a wedding ring inside the box. Yet I doubted that was true. They had payed me an exorbitant amount of money, easily enough to purchase a dozen wedding rings. They may have been sentimental about their ring, but I knew that wasn't true. They payed with a golden statue that they were too foolish to know could come to life at the right command. This must've been something more, she was a dungeoneer, or maybe a mercenary. I planned to open the box no matter what of course. I was hired to do just that, and more importantly I was deathly curious. Yet I still puzzled over the strangest part. I had planned originally to disenchant the box. Of course there may have been a solution to the puzzle but I haven't the time or the patience for it. Disenchantment was always the easiest way to go with curses or odd problematic items. Yet, I needed to find the source of the box's power to disenchant it. Once I located where its power came from a fix could be made easily. The box currently sat in a void chamber on the limb that it might gather ambient magic. The chamber stopped any ambient magic from entering it, of course void chambers are exceptionally expensive and difficult to maintain, so mine was barely larger than a foot in any dimension, but easily large enough to fit the box. Of course the magic remained, which meant I could rule out that it drew on ambient magic. The pesky thing was irritating to test even when I tried. The best way to test if its magic remained was simply to try to solve it. The box had many sliding and rotating parts on it. The pesky enchantment made it so no matter how many of them you solved more seemed to appear. So I tried to solve the puzzle and watched carefully. If the enchantment had been dealt with then the box should remain the same as I turn it in my hands, yet it didn't. I took the box out of the void chamber. I wanted to throw the box and the chamber against the wall, but I control myself, since the chamber is far too expensive, and the throw wouldn't affect the box. In fact I had thrown the box extensively as an attempt at an easy solution. Yet the cube despite being made of wood was durable. Explosions, throws, or even immensely destructive spells had no affect on its integrity. This wouldn't surprise me if only I knew of a power source. For something to be so indestructible while being made of such a week material it would need a powerful protective charm. Yet in turn that protective charm would require a source for its magic. I took out pieces of enchanted paper and set the box on it. Ink started drawing itself onto the paper. Drawing complex and intricate runes. I couldn't read the inside of a box I'd never seen but I could read runes based on its power. The runes could be seen as blueprints of the item's power structure, listing where each part gets its power and eventually showing the type of magic used. This was the third time I had attempted this. It should be a surefire way to find at least what type of power this forsaken box uses. Yet the runes remained the same. They indicated no source of power. In fact the runes were purely self-referential. Each rune listed a source for its power, and that second rune listed a third. At the end of that chain of power should be a source, but instead it went in circles. Every rune eventually listed its source of power as simply itself. Of course this was ridiculous and blatantly impossible. A rune cannot get power from itself, it would lose any magic it stored within a matter of minutes of use. I picked up the box again and threw the paper away. I stared at the box, puzzled. Although I suppose ultimately that was the point, it was a puzzle. Yet I should be above this puzzle, I should be able to circumvent its tricks yet the process of circumventing those tricks seemed almost as tricky as the tricks themselves. Maybe I should consider myself humbled, brought to my knees even. I could ask my opponents for help, possibly even see if I could make a little money as an in between dealer. Yet this wasn't about money or business, it was about pride and curiosity. After a moment more of generous contemplation I reached to my trash. I took out the papers, all three, even if one of them was sticky with juice at the bottom. They all painted runes describing this terrible box's power structure. Since they were all drawn of the same box it is only reasonable that they looked the same, but there was one difference. The charts also showed me the amount of power stored in the box. Of course without a source of power the nonsensical looping power structure should mean the power waned, but it didn't. The power in fact grew only as it stayed longer in my lab. I have only ever seen power grow in this way under one circumstance. This box was adding to itself, and taking from something else. Now of course there were many powers in this room that it could steal from, but it hadn't interacted with any of it. It was only then I realized the particularity of the runes in my charts. The runes were built to receive power, not just from each other but from something outside of itself. That was just it, this box used the most undetectable of magics simply because I had not thought of it. This box turned thoughts themselves into magic. Of course humans and elves did this often, mages with their thoughts and knowledge could create spells with only a meager amount of arcane assistance. It must've been, I found no magic source as I was the magic source. Any time someone tries to solve the puzzle the puzzle only gets harder to solve. And to top it off, it is infallible, as you could never disable its magical source unless something without a mind worked on the box. Of course no matter how much I wanted one cannot stop themselves from thinking of something. So I could never solve this puzzle. I knew just the person. I took the box and a mundane paper. I carefully folded the paper over the box so that the box couldn't be seen. I took my now nondescript paper box and left my lab. Something I rarely did while on a job. I mounted my horse. Of course while the horse was mundane, though I could never bother with a mundane mount. The saddle and bridal were both magic of their own variety. It made it so I had no need to direct the horse, it simply knew where I was going and took me there. After quite a short journey I arrived at the smith. The smith was a large half-orc. I set the box on the anvil that he kept out front. The smith gave me an odd look. "What do you want today Isaac?" He asked, looking at the puzzle box on his anvil. Although all he saw was a cube of folded paper. "It's nothin' hard, just hit this with a hammer." Before I finished he slammed his hammer down on the paper. His strength was incredible given his orc lineage. Wood chips flew all directions out of the box. "Anything more" He asked. "No, you were as mindless as I needed you to be, thank you," I said as I picked up the paper cube and unwrapped the now destroyed puzzle cube. I hope the customer didn't want the cube back in one piece. Destruction of items is sometimes required for my services. I looked at the inside of the box, revealing what was a ring, but clearly not a wedding ring. The runes on the ring were tiny but intricate. It was a silver ring, so it was likely protective magic. Whatever it was, the price, the density of the runes, everything about it indicated it was incredibly valuable. Even more valuable it seemed than the gold statue I was payed with. I'll have to investigate this before returning it. If it's valuable enough I might even have to make a fake to give to the customer.


In 1988, radio news about a famous actor rose all over the world and achieved a high viewing rate, because a successful series is a successful person, but sad and not laughing Most of the time, because he missed his father's gentleness, because he left his father since childhood, he lived with his mother and sister, his mother is the highest, he can't live in their right, which is what he knows, but he is the most mysterious person, but he is charming Although there is a beautiful girl, an 18-year-old girl, is a beautiful and simple girl, like an angel, living on the ground, the joy of love, everyone cares about the small and the big, she loves cats and dogs, she has problems and confusion, she does not separate her life and life Although she was smiling in front of all people, she was very sensitive, she cried a lot, although her vitality, but everyone laughed at her, because she was simple and didn't like them, until her heart was not suitable for her, she was surprised that her dream always dreamed of knights Her dream is to be a famous actor and all her strange dreams are ignored. She has great dreams and many hobbies - cooking, painting, dancing, singing, always optimistic, helping everyone have a clean heart Well, she has a dream. She goes to India as a designer and model and meets a famous actor. She loves him because she is a news broadcast day. She falls in love with him and becomes her goal, though She knows it's impossible, I always hear a word is impossible, it's just a dream, but she insists, don't let anything break, she is strong, I study design and work as a dance coach, because she is a person who loves dance in one day Day received a letter in instagram from an actress's sister, she loves the name is selfish, she wants to train her to dance, she will pay for travel, life and everything, the girl doesn't know it's his sister agreed Soon, she finally realized her dream of going to India, but unfortunately, there is an obstacle, how to persuade her family to travel? I went to train her. One day, she selfishly said that she wanted to attend family gatherings and design some clothes for selfish family members, because she was a fashion designer, she had a good taste, she agreed, because she was good at design, but she didn't like it When she took measures, she noticed that the whole family was strange, had no friends, didn't even say a word, she didn't dare to speak, because she was a stranger, a day's party, she was willing to put fate and her heart, her love, as long as I love all her heart, look at her, I admire her, a few days later, when she left, she said she was the right girl for her son, she became one of them, she did not understand most of the mother's words, because her words were vague She didn't have the courage to admit her feelings for him, but he knew the date she left, he wanted to tell her the truth, if she agreed, he would be with her, because he was so crazy that he made a man A conceited, rich, sad, self righteous, self righteous, nosy girl, she has never seen such a kind, beautiful and moral girl. She is also tired of waiting and decides to take risks and admit him before she leaves. bye. I admit that he loves her, but he said to her, if you are a monster, will you love me? She said, she is sure that I don't care what you look like, even if I am a monster, I will love you, like you, all these years, I love you, but he said I am really a monster, for the first time Believe him, but he told her that he was a good vampire. His story is that when he was young, he saw his father still following him and shouting his father's name, but his father didn't care. He was always behind him and didn't see him, as if he didn't hear a shadow following him. Until he found himself in a dark forest, with a big house, and went into the house, he found that people were wearing black lines and could not understand. His father was watching these people all the time, but one of them said, "I smell blood." Human beings continue to linger on the fire. Some people say that some people will join our tribe today. Tonight is the full moon. We will soon find one of them and scream his voice all the time. But his father has some necks. From that moment on, the shadow will come out They said, we need you, because you are our people, your blood is pure, from now on, you are the shadow of our clan flying, shocked to say that drinking blood will help us It feels better that we don't let humans drink animal blood, but our power is unparalleled evil power. A few weeks later, he came home and told his mother what happened. His mother said, I know I'm also a part of them, shocked First, but in the past Living in a normal life, when the girl began to dream, he said to her, when we met for the first time, I knew you were a girl, I dreamed, I think there is a strong connection between us, but you know my fact, do you still love me? You want me and all his love, I love you, I will continue to love you, accept your reality, my life can not complete your authorization, because you are my other half, my life will only complete your existence, even if I have to sacrifice my life, I will not hesitate, said I also love you, I will not let anything bad happen to you, because you are the secret of my life and my happiness, I am not happy before you get married, in the end, they got married, but after suffering, because her family and his family are married, although they are married


"Alright class! The year is almost over. What do you think you could do better in next year?" He looked in the direction of a few boys who were in the middle of poking a poor girl with a pencil to ask her for homework. The boys immediately stopped at the teacher's harsh gaze. "Anyway, each of you need to write three resolutions and they are due next week. Don't forget the fifth draft of your personal narrative is due then as well. Class dismissed!" The bell rang and the kids ran out of the building. Vanessa O'Mara was devastated. Vanessa O'Mara's are in every school you could possibly go to. Pretty, popular, rich, stylish, and too good for anyone else except one guy who she chooses as a king of your school. This particular king was known as Neil Ahmad. You probably have a Neil in your school too. Obnoxious, too good at sports, cool, handsome, and rich. Then you have the group. They follow these two around like they have no other purpose in life. This particular day they were discussing the stupid assignment. The conversation went something like this: Vanessa said "OMG, this stupid Resolution thing is a total waste of time. I could like be like posting or something instead." Marla, a complete Vanessa fanatic added on "Yeah, I-" "Shut Up Marla! You're doing it for me anyway. You don't need to talk. What do you think honey?" with that, she leaned her head into his shoulder and smiled. He nodded and said "Yeah Vany. It's so stupid." This went on for a while until they got home. The teenagers parted ways, Marla with Vanessa's homework, Neil confused with his, and Vanessa posting pictures all the way back. The teacher watched this all, confused and startled. But he waited until the next day to expose Vanessa. Vanessa got home and her father was nowhere to be found. He was probably off somewhere never bothering about his daughter at home. The maid handed her some snacks as she went up to her room. She took a few more selfies and sent them to Neil. Her life was like this everyday, carefree but wondering if her father cared about her at all. All her followers told her she was gorgeous and had a great body, but was she really that great? She never could answer this question. Her mother was nonexistent as well. Her maid had been the one to care for her all those years. She was like the mother she never had. She helped her on her first period, shopped with her for bras, and always made her feel loved. But it wasn't the same. Vanessa barely heard it, but she knew that noise. It was a mix of sniffling, crying, and trying to cover it. She got out of her room and found her maid crying. She helped her maid up and into her room. She consoled her until the maid would stop crying enough to speak. "M-m-yy daugh-t-t-ee-rr waa-n-nts to go to col-l-ege but I can't pay for her. She got in, but they won't give her a scholarship." Vanessa was shocked. She never heard about this before. She thought that her maid was paid a lot. "Who is your daughter?" She looked up at me with a sad look on her face. "Marla. She is the smartest little girl ever. She thinks you are great too. She loves you." Then she realized why Marla always did her homework. Why they wouldn't give her a scholarship. Marla was gay. Vanessa looked through her room for money and managed to get all her credit cards and cash. She gave them to her maid, her true mother. Not by birth, by heart. "Tell Marla I'll never ask her to do something again, starting now." The maid left, happy and content hugging Vanessa to death. Vanessa opened her Macbook and began to type. "This year, I thought I was perfect. I didn't need to write any resolutions. But now I have three. Here they are. I will start a fund to give away money for students who need it. I will do my homework by myself. I will do my best in school. With that she closed the lid and slept peacefully, knowing the new year would be much better.


C/W: domestic abuse Another morning that she woke up from a nightmare. This has become a well-known ritual three weeks ago. She struggles to recall the last time she had a peaceful sleep without it being interrupted by someone she dearly loves dying. He is still asleep, waking him up to ask to calm her down would cause no good. He would get angry again, as if it was her fault that she is crying every time she wakes up. She reached for the tissue that usually are on the bedside table. ‘They are not there this time, where did he put them, but most importantly why? How am I supposed to clean up before he wakes up? Did he plan this, so he can hit me?’ a usual strain thought crossed her mind, while she rubbed her forearm with an old bruise from his grab on it. When you are in an abusive relationship for a long time, you start to suspect the worst even in the most innocent actions. Assuming it is just thoughts that she got used to overtime under manipulative actions, but it doesn’t answer the question, where the tissues went. An unordinary thought ran across her mind, ‘Should I leave him?’ but it was stopped as immediately as it appeared. Was it the first time she considered leaving him? No, she kept this option in the back of her head for a few months now, but she never acted on it. Clear thinking was shut down by her mind every time it came to putting an end to this relationship. She was scared of being left alone, like most people in similar situations do. However, this one seems to stand out. They never had a conversation about ending the relationship, she never brought it up, and he never tried to stop her. The only thing that continued to prevent her from having this conversation is her own bruised thinking. She laid on the bed and proceeded to look at the ceiling to let tears flow back into her eyes. She noticed a spot that wasn’t there previously, that kept her occupied for a certain amount of time before that annoying thought crossed her mind again. She shook his arm. A loud slap on her cheek deafened her for a second or two. ‘What do you think you are doing?!’ he yelled at her hardly awake but already very angry. ‘Where did you out the tissues?’ holding in the tears from the slap, she replied. ‘What in the actual hell are talking about, huh? What tissues?’ he answered as if he didn’t understand what she was talking about. With this response his voice sounded more awake than last time. ‘The tissues that were on the bedside table, so I could wipe my tears after waking up from nightmares,’ now more calmly she responded. She tried to stay in line and not have a go at him, she knew it would end much worse than just a slap. ‘Do you understand what nonsense you are talking right now? There were no tissues on ‘the bedside table,’ he showed quotation marks with his hands and made the nastiest giggle possible. ‘Yes, there were,’ now with a strength in her tone she replied, ‘I put them there, so I am asking where you put them.’ ‘I did not put them anywhere, what don’t you understand from my speech?’ he rose his voice and started saying the words slowly, mocking her, ‘I d-i-d n-o-t p-u-t y-o-u-r t-i-s-s-u-e-s a-n-y-w-h-e-r-e.’ ‘I want to break up,’ she said not expecting herself to say that. ‘You want what?’ he began yelling. ‘To break up,’ almost silently she pronounced. ‘Okay, aright, if this is truly what you want, go ahead. Just don’t cry about me when I kill myself.’ The manipulation, that he attempted to make, was done so many times before and portrayed in so many scenarios in countless amount of literature pieces and films. She could not have reacted better, ‘Fine,’ she attempted to leave the bed. Absolutely shocked, he grabbed her by her hand and started crying, ‘After all this time, you have nothing better to say?! You never loved me; you are a horrible person!’ While her mind was bright enough to act and not look back, she silently stood up and got dressed. He kept on screaming about committing suicide and about how ungrateful she is for leaving after everything that he has done to her. He truly considered himself to be a good partner, even after screaming at her to the point of losing his voice, even after beating her to the point of her fainting, even after all the lies and avoidance of confrontation. This caused him to shout and beg, after a while, he fell onto his knees and grabbed her arm while looking at her from beneath, ‘Please don’t go, we were so good together. ‘We really were not, good-‘ ‘No,’ he pulled her arm with more force, ‘Stay!’ he commanded. ‘I will no longer stay with you, you hurt me, you abused my trust in you and in people in general!’ she was on the verge of crying. ‘Okay, go,’ he let go of her arm. She turned around and walked out the bedroom door, put on her trainers and pulled the doorknob of the front door. She glanced at him for the last time in her life as she hoped, ‘Goodbye.’ She closed the door behind her and walked towards the stairs, it would have been easier if he started chasing her. Looking back with every step down, she reached the ground floor. There it was freedom, or so she thought. She left through the main entrance door and looked outside: the leaves on the trees never seemed greener, the sky was never a blue as at this exact moment. She made five steps into a new single life when she heard a scream, ‘You really thought I’d let you leave like this?’ A whistle cut the air and the toaster fell right onto her head, killing her instantly. The passer-by woman, who was walking a dog, stood completely shocked after witnessing such horror. After a few seconds, she made a disturbingly disgusting noise that is hard to be imagined to be made by a human being. The woman was dead, lying on the pavement in the pool of her own blood. She was murdered almost not painfully and with almost a free heart. She escaped him and his influence, but he still did not let her experience happiness and live a life if it wasn’t with him.