Evelyn Harper stood in the middle of her new, old house, hands on her hips, surveying the chaos around her. Dust motes danced in the rays of the late afternoon sun that filtered through the grimy windows of Hawthorne House, a crumbling brick 150-year-old Tudor-style home she saved from demolition a month ago. Like her, it had seen better days--weathered by time and neglect but still standing, resilient. The house was a reflection of her current state: aged, weathered, but not without hope for restoration. Recently divorced after 25 years of marriage, Evelyn was grappling with the aftermath of her husband leaving her for a younger woman. The parallel was painfully clear--both she and the house had been abandoned, deemed outdated, and past their prime. She rolled up her sleeves and decided to take on the renovation herself, not just to revive the house but to reclaim her own life. Stripping it down to the studs felt symbolic, a way to lay bare her soul and rebuild from scratch. With a hammer in hand, she began to shatter holes in the old, stucco walls in the living room, releasing decades of rot and forgotten memories. As the material broke away in brittle, yellowed chunks, Evelyn’s hammer struck something solid and unexpected behind the wall. She paused, curiously prying at the wallboard until a small, hidden compartment was revealed. Inside, wrapped in a tattered cloth, lay a manuscript. She carefully unwrapped it, revealing a sheaf of aged papers handwritten in an elegant script. The title, scrawled across the top page, simply read: "The Mirror." Intrigued, Evelyn settled into an old armchair with the manuscript, the room silent except for the occasional creak of the house settling around her. The story began innocently enough, describing the life of a woman named Constance. But as Evelyn read on, a chill ran down her spine. Constance's life mirrored her own in uncanny detail--her struggles, her heartbreak, her resilience. The more she read, the more she felt an eerie connection to the character. Constance, as it turned out, had lived in the house nearly a century ago. Her husband had left her for another woman, leaving her destitute and alone. Desperate to make a new life for herself, Constance moved into the old abandoned house, hoping to restore some semblance of it and herself. The structure had seen better days and was dilapidated even then, according to the narrative. Its very origins seemed to be shrouded in mystery. Evelyn paused her reading to retrieve and inspect the closing documents for the house. Inside the folder her realtor provided was a yellowed document--the house’s deed, revealing that it had stood for over 150 years. The property had passed through many hands since its beginnings, each owner seemingly drawn to it during times of personal crisis. There was one peculiar clause in every transaction: the mirror above the mantle must remain. Every owner had agreed to keep it there, including Evelyn. She found herself staring at the ornate fixture, sitting on the oak mantle above the woodburning fireplace, its gilded frame tarnished but still striking. It was as if the mirror held the secrets of every soul who had ever lived there. What stories had it witnessed? What pain and suffering had it absorbed and reflected back at its occupants? Determined to uncover more, Evelyn resumed her renovation work, now with a heightened sense of purpose. She found herself frequently drawn back to the manuscript after a long day of demolition, piecing together Constance’s tragic story. Constance’s journey mirrored her own too closely to be a mere coincidence. As she tore down more walls, Evelyn discovered hidden compartments and items left behind by previous tenants. An old pocket watch, a child’s toy, a faded photograph--each relic told a story, adding layers to the house’s history. It was as if the place was a living entity, its walls imbued with the memories of those who had once called it home. The manuscript described how Constance had discovered similar items, reminders of previous tenants, during her renovation. Each discovery brought her closer to understanding that there was a dark presence haunting the house. Constance believed the restless soul of the house’s original owner, a woman named Eliza, who suffered a great betrayal and loss, was attached to the house somehow, perhaps through the mirror on the mantle. Evelyn felt a growing unease, but she couldn’t stop reading. The manuscript had a strange, almost hypnotic pull. The story of Constance’s confrontation with the spirit was both terrifying and compelling. The more she read, the more she felt the boundaries between her life and Constance’s blur. One evening, as Evelyn was reading, the lights flickered, and a cold draft brushed past her, raising goosebumps on her skin. She glanced around the dimly lit room, her breath floating on the air as if it were winter, yet it was the middle of summer. Was it her imagination, or did she hear whispers? Determined to shake off the fear, Evelyn continued reading on the off hours of her work. This manuscript was simply the ramblings of a lonely old crone, yet it was compelling. Constance recounted experiences similar to Evelyn’s as they practically mirrored each other’s efforts in turning this home into something worth celebrating versus another forgotten relic. Evelyn reached the story’s last pages just as she brought down the final wall and began to plan for the house’s upgrades in plumbing and electricity. In the story, as Constance also approached her renovation’s turning point, she was faced with another setback. One of the men she had hired to help with some of the more technical work had run off with the money she had fronted him, along with some of her most valued possessions she had locked in a trunk in the basement. In her anger, Constance picked up a hammer and threw it at the mirror on the mantle. To her shock and horror, the hammer bounced off the frame and hit her right between the eyes. She dropped to the floor in a daze. As she lay there, certain death had finally come for her, Constance swore the mirror followed, hovering over her body as if someone were holding it aloft. Unable to look away, she was forced to confront her deepest fears and face the parts of herself she had hidden away. Paralyzed, either by terror or her wound, she watched as it revealed her darkest secrets and most painful memories. She saw herself as a young woman, full of hope and dreams, then as a heartbroken wife, and finally as a lonely, abandoned soul. The mirror reflected her insecurities, failures, and the pain she had tried to bury. It showed her the moments she had been too afraid to face, the decisions she regretted, and the love she had lost. Constance had to confront each of these reflections, acknowledging the pain and guilt she carried. The mirror demanded that she accept her past and the choices that led her to her current state. It was a brutal, emotional battle, each image a blow to her already fragile spirit. But as she faced these impressions, she began to understand that the only way to free herself--and the house--was to let go of her despair. Evelyn glanced at the mirror and thought of her despair and unresolved pain. Did the house, like her, need to be cleansed of its past to embrace a new future? With trembling hands, she turned the page and read the final words Constance wrote. As her eyes flew over the words, the house seemed to shudder. The air grew thick, and the whispers she'd heard over the weeks of reading and demo turned into a cacophony of voices. Evelyn felt a surge of energy, a powerful force pushing against her. She held the pages firm, rereading the final verse when the lights blinked out. A popping sound and the shattering of fine glass pulled her from her trance. Then, complete and utter darkness like none she'd ever experienced. “It appears to have been some kind of power surge. Not surprising in a house of this age. Although, my guys swore they had disconnected the main circuit from the grid outside before they left. In my twenty years as a general contractor, I’ve never seen every light in the house shatter at the same time,” Dave, the project manager, explained to Evelyn the next day. She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. “I was using battery-operated LED lights throughout the house. It doesn’t make any sense. Literally, nothing was turned on.” “You’re lucky it didn’t start a fire!” “Yes,” she whispered, looking at the mirror on the mantle, then down at the wrapped pages she held against her chest. “Is it fixable?” “My guys are double-checking everything right now before they bring in the new meter and wiring. We’ll have this place lit up like a Christmas tree before you know it.” The thought sent a profound sense of peace through Evelyn. With the house filled with light and warmth, it would no longer feel neglected or abandoned. A light breeze blew through the open front door, rustling her hair. It was as though the end of Constance’s story had released some terrible blight from the very fibers of the house. Evelyn smiled, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The house, like her, had been given a second chance. She knew there was still much work to be done, but for the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful. The past, with all its pain and heartache, had been exorcised, leaving room for new beginnings. As she looked into the mirror above the mantle once more, she saw not a reflection of despair but of a woman and a home reborn, ready to face whatever the future held.


The sounds of the fireplace slowly died and Lyla began to hear her grandfather’s cabin come to life. Without the crackling of the flames, she heard the creaking of the old wooden structure as the wind outside relentlessly pounded against it. With every gust, the walls whined, giving the impression that soon the roof would peel off and expose her to the elements. She was alone, it was getting dark, and she was terrified. Lyla’s grandfather had built the cabin when he had first arrived in Canada as a young man. He raised her mother in it, and it was Lyla’s weekend refuge as a child. She had fond memories of playing outside in the woods while her grandfather collected the sap from his maple trees to make her candy. However, every time the night came and darkness crept in on those woods, she would be rushed inside and sat in front of the stone fireplace. Her grandfather would tell her never to go outside when the moon came out, and that something evil lived deep in the forest. She hated these fireside stories and resented him later for scaring her as a child. He spared no details as he lectured her on the horrifying creature he claimed to have seen. Tall and pale, with skin pulled so tightly over the bones you could see every detail of its thin skeleton. It had bright-coloured eyes that glowed in the darkness. Its fingers were long and slim with nails like claws growing to a fine, sharp tip. It ran faster than the eyes could follow and was able to draw you out with the call of its many voices. He would always finish his tirades by telling her, ‘Lyla, if this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’ Many years later, Lyla lay on the rough wooden floor of the cabin in front of the fireplace where her grandfather used to scare her, wishing he were here as the sun went down. His delusional lectures made many around him think he was insane. One night, he disappeared and was assumed to have wandered off into the woods surrounding his cabin. They never found him, and every weekend since his disappearance, Lyla would return to the cabin, hoping he would walk through the door. The fire had died and the once warm floor quickly grew cold. She knew she needed more firewood if she had planned on making it through the harsh Canadian night. The stock was empty and her only chance to avoid hypothermia was to go into the place she had been terrified of since she was a child-outside. She buried her fright and rose off the floor and onto her feet. She walked across the room to the small wooden table next to the door, picking up a packet of matches. Pulling one out, she dragged the grainy tip across the table and a small light illuminated the room. In the soft orange glow, she was face-to-face with a picture hanging on the wall of herself as a baby in the arms of her grandfather. His smile beaming through his thick red beard, he looked down on her with eyes full of love and happiness. A tear rolled down her cheek as she wished he could look at her like that again. Next to it, another photo drew her eyes as his bright yellow touque made him stand out against the snow surrounding him. His sleeves were rolled up and he was carrying a bucket of sap. On his bare forearm, red from the cold, she saw his tattoo. The name Lyla clearly inked onto his skin with her birthday underneath it. He got it the day after she was born. Wiping the tears of these memories off her face, she shoved the match into the lantern on top of the table and the small orange light became a shining beacon, bringing the whole room to life. She picked it up and reached for the rusting doorknob. Her grandfather's words echoed once more in her ears as she grasped it. ‘If this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’ She hesitated as she remembered every terrifying lecture, but she needed wood to get the fire burning again. She had no choice. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind of her grandfather’s monster, she grasped the ice-cold handle and opened the door. She stepped out of the cabin and into the night. The cold air stung her face so intensely it burned as if it were hot. She pulled a scarf over her nose and continued further into the snow. The woodpile became visible on the edge of the glow from her lantern. She trudged through the snow, lifting her legs up high to free her feet and reach out for her next step. She trekked forward, just steps from the covered pile of logs when something caught her eye. A line of tracks in the snow emerged from the woods, circling the pile of wood and leading back out into the tree line on the other side. They were long and spaced apart as if a person had made them, but Lyla shook her head. ‘Probably just a coyote or something,’ she muttered to herself under her scarf. ‘Just grab your wood and get back inside. Grandpa was sick, there is no monster.’ She stepped over the line of tracks and reached for the tarp covering the wood. She wiped a layer of snow off the top and whipped up the corner to reveal the wood pile underneath. The partly frozen tarp ripped at her pull, and she fell back into the thick white blanket of snow. She was partly submerged and struggling to get back to her feet as she stared up into the trees. The light from the lantern shot up into the sky and revealed a pair of bright yellow eyes staring down at her through the branches. She screamed in horror as the eyes that haunted her childhood dreams were no longer a thing of fiction. Unable to get to her feet, she crawled in the snow as if she were swimming in a white lake, trying to return to the safety of the cabin. She heard the snapping of twigs and branches behind her, followed by a loud thud. She reached the doorway of the cabin and threw the door open, then turned around to face the noise. It stood on top of the pile of wood, illuminated by the lantern she forgot in the snow. A tall and thin humanoid creature with skin as pale as the white snow it stood in. It was so skinny she could see its bones pressing outwards as if they were trying to escape the skin containing them. She slammed the door shut, locked it and pulled the heavy wood table in front to barricade it. Lyla burst into tears as she backed away from the door. Her body was not frozen with fear, but convulsing in horror. Her shaking was so violent that she could no longer stand and she fell to the floor at the base of the now dark and frigid fireplace. Her monster was no longer fiction, it was very much alive. Years of therapy to recover from the fear her grandfather rooted within her were thrown out the window. Her seemingly crazy grandfather was telling her the truth. He was not trying to scare her-he was trying to warn her. Lyla lay on the floor, praying for her grandfather to help her when she heard a deep voice cry out from beyond the door. ‘Lyla please help me! It’s so cold out here!’ She sat in silence, still vibrating from shock. The voice, though muffled through the door, was familiar to her. ‘Lyla don’t leave me out here, please open the door!’ it called out once more. ‘Grandpa?’ she thought to herself. She stood again, her legs gaining strength at the thought of her grandfather being just outside. She walked towards the door, troubled about what to do. Her grandfather had been missing for months, she knew it could not be him. The voice kept calling from outside as she got closer and closer to the door. She propped herself up onto the table and grabbed the dusty curtain covering the window at the top of the door. Pulling it aside, she cautiously peered out, the lantern still lighting up the front of the cabin, but there was nothing there. Suddenly, a figure stepped in front of the window, its yellow eyes staring directly into hers. It shrieked so loudly that she covered her ears to protect them from the sharp note. The figure rammed into the door and the barricading table gave out, throwing her onto the floor. She rolled over to face the door as the figure stepped into the darkness of the cabin and grabbed her ankles. It had hands so cold to the touch they felt like ice through her thick denim pants. She was pulled out into the cold once more, screaming as she went. The creature dragged her through the snow while she kicked and screamed. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to free herself from its long talons. She got closer to the lantern that still burned in the snow and saw the arms gripping her legs tightly in greater detail. The left forearm had small blurry numbers which she recognized as a tattoo stretched thinly on the pale skin. Above it, clear as day to her terrified eyes, the name Lyla in blue ink. Her prayers for her grandfather to come for her were answered, but not in the way she had hoped. Her grandfather released her right leg and the tattooed arm swiped at her head with his long claws. She fell motionless into the soft bed of snow. The light from the lantern now faded as she was pulled into the darkness of the woods. Her grandfather's words echoed in her head. ‘If this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’


"A french cheese? Why would anyone do that?" the other cop asked. "Hell, I don't know," said the first cop, "there are weird people out there you know, weird, weird people. But anyway she supposedly couldn't get it out anymore." "It was stuck?" "Yes sir," the first cop nodded, sipping from his coffee and looking into the distance. "My God, that's gross." "At least that's what they think happened. And she must have been too ashamed of it to tell anyone or to go see a doctor and have it removed. She was a high class woman, you know. It probably was stuck in there, quite some time, stinking, rotting, before sunday. You know what these cheeses can smell like when they get ripe." "Eeew." "So she was walking in the park late sundaynight..." "Airing her cunt so to say," said the other cop. They laughed. "Hahaha, yeah airing her cunt, when..." the first cop laughed some more puting his cup on the table, "when this guy... this guy snug up behind her and pulled her into the bushes. Apparently he wanted to rape her, but when he pulled back the curtains..." "That smell, that smell!" "Yeah, that's what they say happened and he must have fled, leaving the classy woman there, lying om the ground." "God..." They where silent for some time, looking at the passing cars. "And what happened then?" "Well, she killed herself. They found her in the attick, mice running in and out of her." "Mice?" "Yes sir." The sun set on the other side of the boulevard. "They like french cheese, you know, mice like french cheese.


Imagine a room. 4 walls, cold, hard. They surround you. You're standing in the middle, palms facing outward, eyes forward, head straight. You're suffocating. Slowly. Tightness, it grows, stronger and stronger. You glance up, you see others. Parents, friends. All family. You're distracted, for just a second, one beautiful second. Like a dream, it infatuates you, lulls you, but of course you wake up. You look forward again, the walls have moved closer. You can touch them, you do. They're not so cold, warm almost. Not warm enough to be comfortable, enough to be enough. You glance upward, one last time. Goodbye. The walls collapse, envelop you, grasp you, molest you. Yet you survive. You stand. Palms outward, head straight. Another day, the walls erect. Try again they will, try again you must.


My eyes opened as the sun rays pierced through the glass pane windows. It was another new day. Lately time seems to be getting shorter and shorter for my 800-year-old self. I needed to fulfill my final task. My gaze panned across the table top that was beside my bed. It stopped when I saw my phone rested on a knitted mantel. I grabbed and swiped the screen in a secret pattern. The phone unlocked. I tapped on the reminder of what I needed to do today. Among them were things that I was unable to do. Visiting Auntie Mary was one of them among the other stuff. I peeled away my thick blanket and glad that the bedding was recently washed. I stood up and looked at my image on the mirror. I have a habit of looking at myself in my younger years. All was well and as I stood there staring, I noticed something strange from the reflection. A trail of blood was dripping down the wall. I’m not one to be easily startled especially at my age. Curious, I turned around to investigate. But as soon as I turned around, the wall was dry and bare. I took a deep breath and gave an annoyed sigh. My day had always started this way ever since I was 540 years old. For breakfast, I headed down to the kitchen. In it were just four vending machines of different colors and a table and chair to where I would sit. The red vending machine contained hot & cold drinks. The orange one contains instant meals like noodles & rice toppings. For dessert, the yellow vending machine contains pizza and cakes while the rainbow colored one contains candies. These would dispense a uniform portion of drinks and meals in the shape of cubes. It also has a feature to monitor my food supply and keep track of my food cost. Oh, the wonders of technology! After quickly having a hot coffee and egg sandwich, courtesy of my vending machines, I pushed the disposable utensils and packages into the opening of a trash bin. Before I left home, I turned to an android named Nora and commanded it to auto-set the home security to the alone setting. Then, the main door swung open. It was Petro who haphazardly dashed inside the house. “Master, you only have till midnight before the New Year will be ushered in.” He said. I remained calm. Time may not be on our side, but the formula and set of equations had already been inputted to the controller ahead of time. All is still going according to plan and it would be complete before the clock strikes midnight. The future awaits us soon. I told him not to worry about it and Petro trusted me. He then left bearing witness to my oath declaration to complete the task. I then walked outside towards the garage. Inside it, there were numerous vehicles from your standard flying car to the solar powered motorcycle. I made a decision to ride motorbike as this will make my trip quicker. There was a cabinet in the corner of the room and I opened it. Inside hangs a body protect outfit and a full-face helmet with a go-pro perched on top. I eagerly fitted into it and hopped onto the motorbike. I reached for the start button and pressed on it. A loud engine comes to life. On the way to the site, the scenery was a mountain range of red granite stones peppered with periwinkles. The strong wind was cold as I drove down the long winding road. I reached the foot of the Starcrust mountain in just a few hours. There was a valley in between the huge mountain that opens to a vast desert that reaches as far as the naked eyes can see. With a click of a button, the motorbike wheels transformed into a set of tanker tracks. It sped fast in the desert towards the horizon. I can see desert animals getting strewn about as soon as the motorbike’s rolling tracks passed by. Several hours passed by before I could see some lights ahead. I unmounted from my bike as the rest of the way can only be reached by foot. I opened the quantum compartment from the motorbike and pulled out a machete. I then chopped my way pass the tall metal-like grasses. This artificial grass was so thick and glossy that you could not see what was ahead of you. Even though I remember the path, I still had to constantly look up to find the North star to guide me to the right direction. A few more hours passed before I saw a huge digital billboard was glaring down on me. It was broadcasting live news featuring the current disasters and calamities that was going on right now. This was the result of mankind tinkering around with fruitless scientific experiments. The outcome was disastrous such as plants becoming sterile as a side-effect of genetically modifying plant cells. Radioactive waste under the ocean slowly leaked and killed the sea life. Antibiotics that created super-pathogens which mutilated our body’s natural defenses. Numerous factories dumping chemicals and city garbage polluted the river and its banks. Humans were blinded by amassing material wealth. Now the so-called material wealth of metal coins was a useless heap of metal mountain, rusting away and had no value to anyone. I felt my cheeks starting to get wet... Tears were the only relief to the pain. The memories of the yesteryears when the earth was thriving were now gone. Even I myself succumbed to some of these ill effects. I rubbed the annoying lump in my shoulder. I get easily bruised for no reason and my chronic cough does not go away. Courtesy of my vending machine lifestyle. This is the new normal of the regular gal. Then I heard a flying saucer overhead. A robot hovered down from it to meet me. A laser reader scanned the identity chip on my head. It coldly gave me a green light to pass. A pathway then guided me to some sort of an elevator. I entered and as soon as it descended, it felt like an eternity before I felt a thud. I reached the bottom of a volcanic pit. I have been inside a volcanic molten lava of 1,000 degrees temperature as part of a tour once. But now things were different. The elevator served as a protective capsule. A joy stick was then popped up from the control panel. It allowed the passenger to traverse freely within this lava pit. After some time, I arrived at a chasm where I exited the elevator. Air filters and a few lighting turned on as soon as I put my foot down. But the stench of sulfuric acid still lingered around. On top of this it was still dark so I had to turn on the flashlight from my helmet. I can hear moans and cries deeper within this chasm. It felt like hell as mankind knew it. As I walked closer to the sounds of the moans, the temperature started to cool down. A bluish smoke was rising up in a twirling motion. Here, other people are present and milling around with their own work. They had hollow cheeks and empty eyes. They all look like soul-less bodies. I saw one turn to look at me with desperation but I immediately looked away. Suddenly I heard a grave like scream. “You.” Everyone stopped and looked at my direction. “You are the bearer of mankind’s rescue. Reveal it now or you shall perish along with us.” I was stunned and stood motionless. It was eerie silence. My emotions are so hyped up. I started to speak up. Then people crawled towards me to lend me their ears. “I traveled far and wide. With a time ticking like a bomb set at midnight. The Plan needs to be executed now or forever mankind will be wiped out on the face of the Earth. Do we comprehend that this is our end? There is nothing else we can do to reverse the damage that we inflicted on our adopted planet, we called Earth. Now, we all just need to continue like zombies, rot in whatever small time left. So, did we learn our lesson? We thought we are smart. Now we know all bad things we done is a curse on ourselves.” Everyone started to bow their heads in resignation. I continued. I screamed “No! mankind will not end, not today, not on my watch. I arrive here and with me is our last resort. Please look up above, the invention that I bring, is a time machine.” A loud cheer erupted. Everyone was in tears. I pointed up to the time machine before I pressed the button. A bright blinding light started to flood the dark pit. Then one by one, the people in the room began disappearing into a mist. The mist was then sucked into the time machine. It was set so that when everyone was on board, it would emit a greenish glow. It took a while but we were just in time. Minutes before the clock struck midnight, I immediately pulled the heavy lever to send us back to the past to reset this current future. One last chance for mankind. Every memory flashed and spinning before me. It all then fell into what seemed like a black hole. There was darkness and all was quiet. “Wake up! Wake up!” They said. It was a young and familiar voice. I had tears trickling down my cheeks before my eyes opened. I then saw my children jumping on my bed. “Hurry up mummy, you promised that we will visit the strawberry farm today.” Krissy, who was my daughter said. Tommy, my son on the other hand saw my face wet with tears. “Mummy are you okay?” he asked. Overwhelmed with joy I then hugged Tommy and the rest of my children. “It is okay my children, we will take care of our planet Earth.” I said as a huge smile was shown across my face. The future is ours.


The wind blows the small boat from side to side. Windows shudder in their frames. Alfred doesn’t even look at them, his clenched fists hold the steering wheel in place, fighting the current underneath the boat. A wave slams Augusta down and Alfred’s knees burn as if on fire. He doesn’t even hear his screams over the roaring wind. The dense rainfall limits his view, but far off in the distance, he spots the lighthouse of Fischer’s Eve. He should have listened to her. This was no weather for Augusta. The light in the cabin flickers on and off. It jumps up and down, occasionally hitting his head. A vicious wave yanks the wheel out of his hands and he tries to grab it with all his might. Its rotation slows down, before rapidly spinning the other way. He puts his hand on one of the knobs but it gets hit with a strong blow. He has lost control. Without hesitation, he turns off the motor and braces himself on the bolted-down table. After fifteen minutes, the wind lessens and the waves drop. He grips the wheel again, turns the motor back on and leads the boat back to port. A small layer of water has accumulated in the cabin. Alfred sighs. On the pier, the woman from the fish stall stands. Her sou’wester is drenched. Thin streams of water fall down from her hair onto her boots. She shakes her head when Alfred ties a rope around a bollard. “You’re as stubborn as a cod, you know that?” “Leave me alone, Mollie.” He walks back inside and takes the key from the ignition. The captain’s hat rests on top of the table. “I don’t want Augusta to get beaten down. She might be yours but she’s still a part of Fischer’s Eve.” “I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t.” “Don’t say that, Alfred. We still care about you. But maybe it is time for you to stop-” “Stop sailing my boat? Is that what you want? So she can rust in this port ‘til the end of her days? I care about her, Mollie.” “You used to care about more than her. You cared about Lauren,” she mumbles. Alfred starts walking down the pier. “Alfred, I...I didn’t mean to.” She tries to catch up with him. “I said, leave me alone.” He fastens his pace. “Don’t be like this, Alfred. We care about you.” “I don’t.” He steps onto the boardwalk and walks home. Small puddles lead from the front door to the bathroom, where Alfred is taking off his clothes. He turns on the shower and lets the water fall on his face. Another sigh. He remembers the first time he turned on the shower, thirty years ago. Lauren had always complained about the size of the one in her apartment, so when she finally moved in with Alfred in her new house, she couldn’t wait to try the new one. She had turned around in the shower and stretched her arms out, hitting Alfred. She never could stop saying sorry when she hurt someone. It took him five minutes to assure her that he was fine, before grabbing the showerhead and spraying all over his fully clothed fiancé. The lightbulb in the bathroom blows and the only thing he can perceive is the water falling down on him. He fumbles around, looking for the shower handle. With the flick of his wrist, the shower turns off. In the pitch black, he walks around, his hand against the wall until he finds the doorknob and twists it. He takes a towel from the ground and starts drying his face while walking around. A small cupboard hits his leg and he hears glass shatter. He tosses the towel aside and looks down at the thing that has dropped. It’s a small oval-shaped photo frame, containing a black and white picture of his wedding day. The corner of his mouth slightly curls upwards, before he puts it back.


Rain wasn’t odd for this time of year, or this particular time of day, but after a cloudless sky, it was disappointing to return damp to the party. The hazy glow of the lanterns strung about the gardens cast a demure orange beam up the fine gravel pathway, already lined with similarly hued festive gourds. From his office balcony overlooking the mossy grounds of their estate, Henry could see people mingling about in the fallen leaves. Although he couldn’t hear the crunch of them being crushed underfoot, the understanding of the inevitable permeated the misty air. He was still caught between socializing or bed, becoming more aware of the muted pressure of laughter slowly leaking into his head. He rubbed at his temple with a scowl, raising his hand to scratch at one of his straight horns only to discover it was still dripping wet. Their ridges had accommodatingly ringed themselves in small bands of water. He returned his hand to his forehead with a tired groan. Normally he would have little trouble with a gathering of this size, but Claudia had him out half the night fetching this codex from his most gratingly honorable lordship, Etwiff. He shook his head. He was done. He had no idea what its contents might be, but he fancied at least a brief look before he retired. “Well, now that I got you the codex, do you want me to give it a look?” His sister was leaning back in his chair with her feet on his office desk, manuscript in one hand, a scowl on her face, and a cigarette in the other. She glanced up from it to his expectant face as he turned away from their holiday gathering below. He had been awkwardly bent over the railing, ruminating. Being almost seven feet tall, the railing was as likely to save him as Claudia would be to catch him in a trust-fall. He noted her lip curling to the side as she took a drag. The silky, blue smoke slowly coiled out as she breathed, “No, I think I will hire a professional.” Henry narrowed his eyes, removing a pair of copper horn caps from his inner vest pocket. He carefully fitted them back on his long, straight, wickedly pointed horns, while walking slowly to his desk. He shook the dampness from his short blonde hair with one hand, flicking the residual droplets to the side. Claudia watched him fiddle about with his clothes. She closed the manuscript, placing it on his desk before slowly standing. The cigarette flared a neon blue as she drew in breath, stretching her arms above her head. She tapped at the point of one of her horns. They were much like his, but with the addition of a slight twist at their base. She had thought about capping her horns as well, but also enjoyed a good open threat. She re-tied her ponytail, and taking the cigarette between two thin fingers, tapped some ashes into a nearby white teacup rimmed with painted honeysuckles. She chuckled dark cerulean, “I don’t think we even need to know. The fact that it went missing should be enough.” Henry snorted, “This is why you failed out of university.” She barked a laugh at him, while grabbing up the codex. She tossed the rest of her cigarette in the cup and turned to leave. “Oh, wait, I wasn’t joking!” Henry stepped forward. “Do you want me to take a look?” “I wasn’t joking either.” She frowned down at the musty smelling pages. “I think I will hire a professional.” “I’m a professional.” She regarded Henry, pointing at himself with a polite, incredulous smile. It wasn’t that he couldn’t translate it... “I know, but I mean,” she rolled her tongue like she rolled the manuscript in her hand, “A *real* professional.” He stared at her in stunned silence. “I have a doctorate in historical linguistics!” His jaw was slack, but quickly tightened as he eyed her in suspicion. “What kind of professional are you going to hire?” “Not a linguist.” She grinned, wagging the manuscript at him. “That’s not funny.” He took a couple long steps toward her, but she darted back with astonishing speed. “When I stole th--” “Borrowed?” Henry cackled. “Oh, no. Not this time, sweet little sister.” She narrowed her eyes. “You mean, we can’t just return it tomorrow evening?” “You never told me I was bringing it back.” Amber eyes stared back at each other. A slow, insidious smile crept onto Henry’s face. He drawled out gleefully, “Have I heard correctly just now?” Claudia tossed the codex at him. Its wide pages slapped into him as he caught it. She reeled about, jerking open one of his desk drawers. He stepped to the side to relish in her panic. She bumped out the underside of a drawer, removing a small, sliding metal case and a short, spiraling glass quill. From another drawer, she pulled a single sheet of extremely thick, fabric-like paper. “Has my sister, the great *mastermind*, miscalculated something?” She leaned over the desk, hand on either side of the paper, brow knitted painfully. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the cigarette-size metal case with it. He leaned over the other side of the desk, sliding the case lid slightly open and wagging it before her. He gave a loud mocking gasp and held the codex to his mouth in surprise. “Young woman, are these,” he imitated their mother’s voice, “d-d-drugs?” “Yes.” She grabbed the tin from his hand as he started to roar with laughter. She dipped the tip of the stubby glass quill into the gelatinous fluid that quivered about inside, twirling a line of runny sparkling ooze up the spiraled nib’s length. Applying the ink-substitute to the pillowy paper, she painstakingly began scribing out her message. Henry did not often get to see Claudia like this, and especially not because of a fault of her own. He set the manuscript down and scratched at one horn. “You know, glitter ink at this age is--” “Shut the fuck up.” He grinned at her feverishly red face. She was writing quickly and accurately. After only a couple moments, the letter was done. She burned the residual ooze from the nib of the pen with her lighter. The air held onto the acrid metallic tang, but the smoke quickly dissipated. She collected the items hurriedly and stashed them away again. “How did you know where I kept that anyway?” “I know where you keep everything.” Henry winced, “I certainly hope not.” She blew on the faintly glimmering faux-ink, rolling the paper carefully once it was barely dry enough not to stick. Taking a small, fuzzy cloth bag from one of the many pockets of her long coat, she dug through multiple stamps before settling on one. “No, wait, hold on.” Henry rapidly pointed at the bag as it slipped into her coat again. “When did you get the Jesils crest? Did you nick that from his office?” She sneered at him. “Wouldn’t you love to know?” “I would, yah.” “Too bad.” She pulled some wax from the heated film on his desk, and pressed the paper closed with her chosen seal. She held it out to him. He stood straight, arms crossed, and grimaced darkly at her offering. “I’m going to miss my own party.” “I know.” He frowned at the letter. She shoved it up into his chest, glaring at him. Her panic had not subsided in the least. In fact, with how well he knew his sister, her panic might have started increasing after she penned the letter. “What did you have me steal?” “Something Nimet was going to pick up in a couple days.” His eyes widened, and arms slightly slacked. He laughed out a breathy wheeze. She took one of his hands and put the letter in it, giving him a prideful, but pleading stare. His smile twitched with a disbelieving chuckle, but he held onto the paper. “You had me steal something that belongs to the *queen?*” He looked down at the letter in his hand. “And now,” his laughter picked up, “you’re sending me back to drug the guy I took it from?” He shook his head. “I’m not following your logic this time.” “No!” She glared at him indignantly. “I’m sending you to Amelie.” “You’re sending me to drug your girlfriend?” She groaned in disgust, “Of course not! Just...” She grumbled to herself furiously. He scratched at a horn, grinning as she fumed. She looked down at his desk. Then, despairingly dropped back in his chair once again. “Just, tell Amelie what happened, and ask her to leave that on her mother’s vanity.” She looked longingly at the snuffed remains of her cigarette in the flower-rimmed teacup. “So,” he stared at her flatly, “You’re sending me to drug *the queen?*” “Of course not,” Claudia assessed the tattered remains, gauging how unseemly it might be. It was half a cig. She dug it out, straightened it, and relit it. She winced as she took a drag but exhaled watery wisps that dribbled from her mouth to the desk’s shiny, waxed surface. She waved the mangled cigarette at the paper in his hand. “Lord Etwiff is drugging the queen.


From the Shadows “Are you ready to take your medicine?” I asked my Momma on a gloomy Saturday morning. “Well, I can’t say no can I?” she laughed, taking the pills from my hand. Shaking my head I was about to go and read the newspaper when Poppa came into the room. “I’m gonna be going to town today, I’ve got something I gotta do,” he said, kissing my mom on the cheek and hugging me. He was in a good mood for good reason, because going to town was always special. I lived in the country with my Momma and Poppa...and three brothers. There was Michael, who just turned 15 and the was oldest, then Judah, who was 12, and Charlie who was 6. I myself was 11. Living in a house full of boys was definitely no fun, especially since I’m homeschooled. We just live so far from town. The nearest urban town was a 2 hour drive by car from us, so we normally went to town only once every 2-3 weeks. “Can I go! Can I go?!” screeched my brother Charlie. He may seem cute, but he really was a little devil - screaming and crying whenever something isn’t going the way he wants it to. I feel guilty, but sometimes I wish Charlie and the rest of my brothers would just disappear. “Sorry buddy, not today,” he answered, patting Charlie on the head. I could tell he was about to start a fit, but dad gave him such a look that Charlie knew that he better shut up if he knew what’s good for him. At that moment, Michael and Judah ran in. “Hey we heard you’re going to town, can we go Pop?” asked Judah. “I’m already 15 so I can practice my driving skills,” he continued but Poppa cut him off. “No one’s going to town with me today, understood?” he said sternly, but not angrily. “Yes Poppa,” they all answered as I nodded my head. My brothers rushed back outside to continue whatever they were doing. Poppa leaned his head near mine and whispered, “We all know the real reason those two wanna go,” as he winked at me and I giggled. Obviously, the two of them just wanted to look at the girls in town. Then Poppa left, leaving me all alone with Momma again. * * * Poppa came back around 5 with a giant smile on his face. He also came back with a gigantic, black piano. It was really big, like really, really big. Though I haven’t seen very many pianos in my life, or actually any but the one in old Mrs. Fitzgerald’s yard. But that wasn’t all. “And... I’ve invited all of our neighbors over to celebrate this momentous day,” he said. “All the invitations were already sent out, and they’re coming tomorrow at 12!” My jaw dropped. The only time we invite all our neighbors over is for Memorial Day because they all live at least 45 minutes away. My brothers all went crazy, running around the house - but Michael swore he would kill me if I told anyone about his burst of emotion. I just shrugged, I don’t really care about what he thinks is embarrassing, potential drama. Dinner was boisterous and even Momma was excited, talking about what we should all wear. Once everyone was done we started getting ready for bed. I don’t like nighttime. I don’t like the dark - no, I hate the dark. It is insanely spooky and even having to get some water or go to the bathroom is scary for me during the night. I know I sound like a wussy, but people don’t understand that part of the reason is our house. Our house is super old. I believe that it was built about a century ago by my father’s great grandfather. The floorboards creak, the walls seem to shake, the doors rattle, and the house itself seems to groan - especially when it is stormy outside. I am always so hot at night because I’m constantly hiding under the covers. My parents think night-lights are dumb and are for baby’s so I don’t have one. The light from the stars sometimes shines through my curtains which makes things even worse because of all the shadows it creates in my room. Sometimes, I’m convinced that they move. This night though felt strange, it felt especially bone-chilling. The shadows seemed to be on the move which is why I decided to wear earplugs to bed and stay under the covers all night long. Little did I know that I would be regretting that more than anything the next day. * * * “Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby boy?!” sobbed my mother hysterically. We had woken up to the worst thing imaginable - Charlie was missing. Gone. Lost. Nowhere to be found. We had searched the whole house, the barn, and even the old tractor out in the field. Poppa had immediately left to look for him, going to town a second day in a row. I couldn’t believe that just yesterday I had wished for my brothers to disappear. I said it but obviously, I hadn’t meant it, but here’s what happened. Now, we weren’t very religious people but today we all were praying. I was trying not to beat myself over this possible curse I had started and the fact that maybe, just maybe I would’ve heard what happened to Charlie if not for my stupid fear and stupid earplugs. Our celebration, obviously, didn’t happen. However, a couple of our neighbors still came over to drop off food when they heard the horrible news. We would be eating casserole for a while. All day we moped around and tried to figure out what had happened. Why would someone take Charlie? For money? Blackmail? There is just no way I can believe he ran away. Charlie was scared of the dark and anyway, he loved his life - he’s only 6! When night came around everyone was terribly stressed. Father had come back with no news. He had printed posters to put up around town and had gotten some locks to set up around the house. We spent all day setting up security systems and by dinner everyone was emotionally and physically tired. We were all too scared to sleep, but eventually we were just too tired and decided to turn in. We discussed whether or not we should sleep in our own rooms or all together, but we decided that whoever took Charlie probably would’ve taken more of us if they wanted to the first night. Besides, coming back two nights in a row is very risky. It took me quite a while to fall asleep, but right before I did I heard some music - probably from Michael’s room since he loves falling asleep to music. I tossed and turned all night long, watching the shadows dance on my walls as if coaxing me. I was parched but I was way to scared to get out of bed to get water. The house groaned all night long and the storm outside wasn’t helping except that someone would probably not want to travel through all this rain - I felt slightly safer because of it. No matter, I was just trying to distract myself. The only thing I could think of was poor Charlie until I dozed off until morning. I woke with a start to a screech and a thud. I sprinted to where I heard the noises came from and it was Michael’s room. I saw my Momma on the floor, she had past out - and no Michael. “Oh no no no...” I muttered under my breath, standing in place, completely blank. After my mind starting working again I yelled: DAD! HELP!” as I ran out of the room and saw dad and Judah running in. “He’s gone! He’s gone! There’s nothing I could do! And mom...mom” I tried to explain but couldn’t stop sobbing. “I-I...Mom-mom...medecine,” I tried to get out. Why couldn’t I speak! “It’s gonna be okay honey,” my Poppa said, trying to calm me down. “We’ll go straight to the hospital. And so, for the third day in a row, Poppa went to town except with two crying children. * * * It was 6pm. Poppa and I were on our way home. Judah decided to stay with Momma in the hospital since Poppa couldn’t. Poppa and I had to go back to the house and pack cause we were getting out of there as soon as possible. But, that also meant we had to spend another night in the house. “We’re gonna have to pull an all-nighter honey,” Poppa told me. “I know this isn’t the way you wanted to, but we’re gonna have to do it,” he continued to explain. I wasn’t hearing a word he was saying though. I was almost too scared to breathe. Back at the hospital, Poppa said that either me or Judah had to stay with Momma. We had asked why both of us can’t stay but he said something about safety with numbers and that we could never be alone. Poppa said that maybe I should be the one to stay, but Judah basically had a mental breakdown at the thought which left me to be the mature one. “It’s okay, Poppa,” I told him. “Judah can stay. I’ll go with you,” and I did after Poppa asked me if I’m sure about a thousand more times. Obviously I wasn’t, but unlike Judah I kept my mental break down in my head. Entering the house was like entering a living nightmare. The house seemed to be extra loud and the shadows seemed to be monsters who were more prominent than ever. Poppa and I tried to be productive and pack, but eventually we had to stop because it was obvious nothing was getting done. We got into comfier clothes - not pajamas because we couldn’t get comfy - and went into Poppa and Momma’s room. We brought snacks, drinks, entertainment, lamps, and weapons so we could be as prepared as possible for the long, long night. We barricaded the door and windows and made sure all the lights were off in the house so no one could see that people were there - except our room which we put five pairs of curtains on. We had brought so much to do but we mostly just sat in silence listening to wind that was rattling the window. Occasionally we snacked or had a drink, but that was it. I suppose that not sleeping well for two nights isn’t going to help when you’re trying to pull an all-nighter - as well as sitting in silence. So, before I knew it, I was waking up to see my Poppa was asleep - and I had been as well! The problem was, I really had to use the bathroom. We had been locked in the room since 9pm and it was 3am and I had been drinking Sprite. The door was barricaded, but I knew I couldn’t wait so I quickly and quietly removed the chair from under the doorknob, opened the door then closed it, and ran two steps across the hall to get to the bathroom where I locked the door. Luckily, the bathroom had a night-light. No one wants to turn the light on in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and get blinded as well as wake up. This was especially good because I hadn’t brought a flashlight or lantern with me. I quickly relieved myself and was about to go back to the room when I heard something. Music. Then I realized that it was the same music I had heard last night! I had thought it came from Michael’s room, but now that I strained my ears...it was coming from the living room. Oh my god I thought it’s the piano . Normally, I was terrified of the dark but I actually felt strangely calm. I opened the door and walked over to the living room. I had been right. It was the piano - except no one was playing it. The keys were moving themselves as if trying to teach me how to play. I went over and sat down on the slick, black bench and tried to copy the keys. The piano led me through simple patterns at first, then got more and more complex. I was feeling so happy and relaxed that I hadn’t noticed how long I was there for - and frankly, I didn’t care. All of a sudden, from behind, my father jumped out, chair in hand, right as a giant metal crane grabbed my face. I tried to yell but I couldn’t. The shadows were coming back and I noticed how I was being lifted by the black metal crane or hand - that was coming out of the piano. I could see my father bashing the piano with the chair, but it wasn’t working. I realized that I was completely off the ground and the crane started to retract. The hand I screamed in my head hit the hand Poppa! Hit the hand! I tried extending my arm to give Poppa a clue and as I did I crashed to the ground. He had hit the hand. Gasping for breath, Poppa grabbed the hand and ripped it out of the piano and as he did something magical happened. From the piano tumbled Charlie and Michael. As if regaining consciousness of what had happened Charlie, Michael, and I all rubbed our eyes as Poppa continued to bash the piano with the very broken chair. Michale and I ran to the dining table and grabbed another chair each and helped break the piano with Poppa and Charlie ran to the kitchen to drink as much water as he possibly could. * * * “Momma! Judah!” yelled Michael and Charlie as they ran into the hospital room. “You’re not gonna believe what happened!” they yelled, interrupting each other. The morning of the piano fiasco we all set off to go to the hospital and bring Momma and Judah home (because the hospital called Poppa in the morning saying she was free to leave). “Fourth day in a row,” whispered Poppa to me. “Might as well have been living here this whole time!” he laughed and I smiled at him. “Let’s just say I’m completely on board with that idea,” I answered. I can say, for sure, that I’m never going to learn how to play the piano.


I awoke with a start, in pain, in the dark. Everywhere, pain. The biggest aches came from my right side and the inside of my mouth. I forced myself to roll over and try to spit out the blood. Like syrup, it slowly oozed out and gave the stone a slick, black coating. I wrestled my body into an upright position, sitting on my knees. Through my gaping mouth I took a long breath. Only now did I notice the rain. The heavens had decided to wash us away, our empire dissolving like dust across a window. I was humiliated as God pissed on me. I sat there, drenched and frustrated and in pain for a while. It might have been minutes or seconds or hours. My armor constricted my limbs and weighed me down. What an irony is it that a device created to protect the wearer and advance his strength anchored him to his humiliation. As I sat, I stewed. I pondered the post-modern foolishness and corporate greed and false security that we existed under and within. We had conquered a galaxy filled with strange and wonderful life, and in our pretend fantasy we lived in peace. We lived in peace and security and harmony; we made a country whose borders meant safety except for the unsafe. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I discarded my bracers, first the left arm, then the right. I tore off the chestplate, with a pure exertion of my will. I similarly removed my right pauldron, and my left. I was about to hurl it away, as I had before, but I stopped. It was decorated with a coat of arms, my family. I had painted it myself as a child when my father wore it to battle. Now, I pondered this. This was much of my identity. It was the old way, the way that lay in shambles around me, the way that had been demolished. I tucked it under my arm as I attempted to stand. I braced myself along the wing of a crashed starship, whose thruster had caused a small flame to start despite the rain. I stared at the will-o-wisp for a moment before I heaved with all my might to stand. For a couple of seconds, I was whole again. I held my own, before surrendering once again to the rain, falling forward in the mud. I exclaimed in my frustration. I moved myself to where I had been, on my knees, and from there I let loose my feelings, in a vulgar display that we would have hated before. I breathed in. I breathed out. Then, I tried again. This time, baring my emotion to the world before my attempt to stand. Urging myself on, I stood, shakily, before staggering forward a few steps. A low, crumbling wall supported me. The rain slowed. I took another step, holding the wall as the sky began to lighten. I stumbled and caught myself, as the sun forced the clouds apart. The now soft rain washed the mud and blood from my face, and in one hand I gripped my family tight. The other held the wall. As the rain wished itself goodbye, I stepped forward towards the beacon that lit the sky on fire, making the starship’s flame look like a cinder. With shaky steps and deep breaths I let go of the wall and straightened my posture. My back soared despite the ache in my side. Maybe I could meet some other survivors, and we could begin anew.


Misty looked at the classroom clock in desperate, childish relief. Her classmates were not so relieved, going up to the teacher saying how good the lesson was, and how they wished they could get another practical. Mr Moren smiled and gave his gratitude but the falseness in his voice was present in the timbre. Low between syllables and higher in vowels. Misty always had a dislike for Science yet today had seemed longer and painfully boring. The first week of secondary was over though, and she could finally rest. Her pencil case was the first to enter her bag, then her sketch book and notepad quickly followed suit. Her light brown skin complimented her dirt blonde hair so naturally that it was near impossible to believe that she wasn't a model, on the other hand Misty's lanky figure, never ending scowl and tomboy fashion sense were a constant reminder to her parents that this was but a dream. To persuade Misty to model would be the equivalent of teaching a bottlenose dolphin to play soccer. By the time she had finished packing her bags all the children of Class 7A had already sprinted out of the building. The falseness of her peers was almost laughable. She saw right through their disguises. Her father had taught her to, right before he left. For Caroline. Leaving her and her mother.... No. He was just as false. As false as the smiles on the adults that dictated her life. She vowed to never become like them, and to quote her favourite heroine, Keep it Real. The corridor was also empty. The light blue walls shone dimly at the hour of 3pm. Faint noises in the distance could be heard, but Misty didn't trust them. Her doctor said that only she could hear these and so making her special. "Sometimes, being special can hurt you and those around you, so take these meds and you'll be normal in no time", said Doc Leake. The same transparent smile on him. Her medicine tasted weird, and was most unpleasurable. At least it kept Him and His friends under control. They would go after Misty constantly, but however bad humans were, the meds they gave her worked. These thoughts swarmed Misty. Unusual but then again everything in her life was. It was the norm. Before she knew it, she had already arrived at the market near her house. No recollection of how she got there, Misty pondered for a good 5 minutes, then ultimately concluded on that she has been on autopilot mode again. Pavement was bumpy. The workers really didn't do a good job on Queen Street. Misty frowned upon this and vowed not to be a lazy worker. She frowned again, but for another reason totally worker unrelated. The marketplace was empty. The stalls were there however no one was running them. This Friday truly was strange. The blue door was back once more. Behind the fruits stall laid a curious little blue door that had light emitting from the bottom. There were rumours of course about the little blue door, the famous one being that Mrs Watson cheated on her husband with the young lad that ran the fruit stall, but Sandro never seemed to be the kind of guy running around with other mens wives. Mrs Watson however, Misty wasn't so sure. Today must be the day. If I start somewhere in stopping lies, then I'll start here, thought Misty. Her bag in hand ready to be used as a club, she approached the little blue door with caution. A rumour always had a tiny bit of truth, and if any of the rumours she heard from the neighbours were true, it was that this place must've been quite dangerous back in the industry days. The light shone more intensely as she came closer. Her hand rested on the door knob and the light began to throb. Like a pulse, the light followed through with a 4 step beat. Bum, bu-bum-bum, bum, bu-bum-bum. Though now regretting her decision, she opened the door to find a dimly lit alleyway. It's walls were clean, free of any signs of delinquency. The end was shrouded in darkness, unrevealed. Enough light was reflected towards it that Misty could see that the trail didn't end there. There was a corner she could follow. Their voices began to ring again. They were all panicking, some pleading her, others threatening her, but they all said one thing: "TURN AROUND NOW!" She didn't. Never in her life had she listened to these voices. The advice given was to ignore them. But this time, they did make sense. As she walked down this mysterious narrow alleyway, the inbetween of two large houses occupied by her neighbours, shadows danced around her. They crept up onto the walls and formed hideous creatures with tendrils longer than an octopuses arms, goopy substances dripping from what could be assumed to be their mouths. Misty wasn't so sure. She looked to turn back but the shadows filled up the beginning of the alleyway, until Misty didn't even know which side she came from. She walked on, her only chance to escape this madness was to pressure forwards. She tugged and pulled away the shadows in front of her, hoping some light would pierce through. The shadows began to talk. "TURN AROUND NOOWW!!" So they were the voices she heard. She ignored them and pressured on. She felt the wall run out. The corner had been reached. By now, the shadows had corrupted her eyes now, filling them up and putting her in agonising pain. Misty could see nothing more than just black. As she took a large step over the border of the corner, the shadows screamed and pulled away from her. Her vision was regained but so much blood had now dripped that it clouded her sight. She wiped it off and fell to her knees at what she saw. There was a mountainous collection of skeletons. They piled up on each other like gravy on roast dinner. But that wasn't the worst. The walls were now stained with blood, writing on the walls that said Amass. Misty didn't understand, but she cried and cried and begged someone to help her. Her bag fell from her hands, the cat charms disintegrating upon contact with the skeleton collections. She stared up in horror as to what she saw. Amass, the monster that she had been warned about. It was nothing more than the collection of rotting flesh and human skin, supposedly from the skeletons. It walked in her direction, bent down to her ears and whispered, "You shouldn't have come Around the Corner...." {Hallo, Makuto here. I'm a 14 year old with aspirations of becoming a writer. I accept all criticism and would be glad to have some feedback regarding my writing style.


Pain. My elbows, my knees ached. My mouth felt tight. I moaned, a sound like a wounded deer. “You’re alive!” he cried. I turned my head, my neck cracking. A man, with a head of unruly brown hair and a grizzled beard, looked at me with fervor. “Where...am I...” My lips seemed gummed together, I was parched; my throat burned when I spoke. “You’re here with me darling, don’t you recognize me?” he implored. “It’s Victor.” I put my head back down, for it seemed so heavy, and I closed my eyes, but he shook me and would not let me be. “Elizabeth, I’ve brought you back,” he said. “Wa...ter,” I groaned, and my voice was as harsh as the wind that blew outside, rattling the windows of the house. The following days I came back to life. He fed me and watered me, and my body regained strength enough for me to think. But this wasn’t my body. This was a stranger’s body. My skin had been smooth and supple, pink with a tinge of gold. This skin was pale and dry, wrinkled and ashy. My hair had been long and brown, cascading to my bosom in glossy ringlets. Now it was coarse and scraggly like the fur of a wet animal, and I could feel that I was balding in various spots on my head. I did not ask for a mirror. I saw no one save Victor who would come down into my dark basement to feed me and talk to me. “My love,” he would croon, “my heart, my sunshine.” “Take me back,” I wailed, when I regained my voice. “Take me back.” I meant for him to take me back to that dreamless slumber from whence I had come. I could not remember what it had been like to sleep, and now I did not sleep at all, even though the sun rose and fell many times. I saw the cat sleep, Victor sleep, even the cockroaches sleep. But when I closed my eyes, sleep did not come. That’s how I suspected I had died. “We will travel,” he said to me, “We will see the world. We will do all the things we said we would do together.” But I remembered very little of what we had said we would do together. I remembered glimpses, here and there, of light, of a book curled up on my lap, his unruly brown hair leaning against my knee. I remembered that. But I did not remember who he was. In fact, I did not remember who I had been or any others I had known. Glimpses visited, detached visions of faces flitting past like the shadows that danced on the walls from the candlelight. The faces scurried through my mind like insects across the walls, and told me I had had a mother, a father, a brother who died young. But as to what memories we had shared together-those things were missing. My ability to speak remained intact, as did my knowledge of how basic physics worked in the world. But so much more was missing. “How long has it been?” I asked. “Many years,” he said. He said he had found the secret to immortality. And then he had come for me, frozen in my cryogenic slumber. He would give me what he had found for himself, that which had come after my time. “I’ll help you remember,” he said. “Just give me a chance.” So I did. We traveled the world, my face hidden by a veil. We saw a great many things, from the icy cliffs of the North to the humid jungle tropics of the South. Alligators basking in rivers, lions in a hunt, a flock of flamingos darkening the sun. We saw them all, and more. But still I was unmoved. I felt nothing. Saw nothing. Everything felt as cold and far away as the moon. Even the kisses that he lavished upon me. “Take me back,” I said, finally. Resigned, he took me back to the house, and prepared a fluid that would slow the beating of my heart. That’s when he gave me a kiss, on my lips. He never cared that I now looked different. Again I remembered the book on my lap, the light, his hair upon my knee. I still could not feel what he said I once had felt. But I felt something now, like a small nudge of warmth. I kissed him back. “Thank you for trying,” I said. “I loved you, I think.” “I love you still,” he said, and injected the solution into my arm.


Thoko helped to carry some of the chicks that were failing to climb up the ladder of their home. Once they were safe inside the pen, she closed it and picked up her handbag that she had abandoned when she saw the struggling chicks. "Mum, you are home!" Thoko looked up and saw her five year old son running to her. She opened her arms in time to catch him and they embraced briefly. Her son offered to carry her handbag inside the house and so they walked gingerly together while the boy explained happily his adventures of the day. Upon entering the house, the mother of four gasped when she saw how untidy and dirty the house was. Angrily, Thoko called out the names of her children who walked out of their rooms to see why their mother called. "How many times do I have to tell you to clean the house before I and your father come home? You are big enough to clean after yourselves!" "But mum, I'm tired. Why can't Dalitso and Sara help me mop or clean the plates? It's not fair to let me alone do the hard work." Flora, Thoko's older daughter complained. "Are you talking back to me?" "No." Flora murmured before making her way to the kitchen. Dalitso and Sara started tidying up the house while Thoko proceeded to her bedroom. She sighed as she sat on her bed and began undressing the work clothes she had on. She debated on whether to take a bath then or later and she decided on the latter. She had to relieve Flora of her chores because if she worked without wanting to, the plates won't be cleaned thoroughly. Thoko's phone dinged which caught her attention. She took it out and found there was a message from her husband. He was notifying her that he would be later than usual since he was out with some friends. Instead of replying, Thoko called her husband right away and he answered on the first dial. "Before you start nagging, I promise I won't drink beer and I'll be home before 9." "Really, Aubrey? I asked you specifically to come home early today. I'm not feeling good and I need help with the kids." "I've just told you I'll be home before 9 and you are still complaining. What's your problem, Thoko? Do you want to embarrass me in front of my friends?" Aubrey seethed and Thoko sighed. It was no use arguing with Aubrey when he was with his friends but Thoko was desperate. She needed his husband home early. "I'm sorry, Aubrey but can you please come home. I need you, please." Thoko coerced her husband with a lovely tone but Aubrey abruptly ended the call. Thoko groaned and threw her phone on the bed. She quickly dressed and approached her daughter in the kitchen. "You can go, I'll finish up here." "Thank you, mum." Flora smiled and raced out of the kitchen right away. Thoko searched for the pain meds she kept in one of the drawers in the kitchen and took two for her headache. She needed the meds if she was to go through this night sanely. She emptied the plates cleaned by Flora and began the cleaning once again. She cleaned the plates, mopped the floor and washed a few dishcloths. By the time she was done, it was a half hour late from starting dinner but she didn't mind. What she prepared to make was simple and wouldn't take long. She had just turned on the cooker when arguing noises rose over the animated voices on the TV. Thoko wanted to ignore it but when it seemed to go on, she decided to intervene. When she arrived in the sitting room, her three kids were fighting over the decoder’s remote. Samuel, the five year old, was sleeping on one of the sofas. He looked uncomfortable but before Thoko tend to him, she decided on ending the fight first. “Give me the remote.” It was an order and the youngest two let go of the remote but Flora held on to it. By the way she was clutching it; she had no intention of handing the remote to her mother. “Now, Flora.” “They are just being brats. They know this is my time to watch my show but they insist on watching the stupid sponge.” “Watch your tongue, young lady, they are your siblings. Now hand me over the remote and go study in your room.” In a fit of rage, Flora threw the remote and run off. Unfortunately, the remote went straight for Thoko’s nose and the hit was hard enough to cause some bleeding. She staggered backward in shock and her foot hit a corner of the sofa Samuel was sitting. She yelped in pain and when Dalitso and Sara inquired if she was alright, Thoko yelled at them to get lost. It wasn’t long before two doors were shut simultaneously. Thoko used her chitenje to catch the blood that was flowing out of her nose then she turned her head and stared at the roof to wait out the bleeding. The incident then reminded her of when she lost her temper that afternoon at work. She had thrown a shoe at one of her coworker’s in a fit of rage and caused a nosebleed like the one she was nursing. She had never quarreled with a single client, let alone a coworker, in all her five years of work experience but one woman, one moment, one sentence and one decision had ruined it all for her. It didn’t help that she had injured the CEO’s daughter and it wasn’t a coincidence that on the same day she hit her, the CEO decided to see Thoko first thing in the morning of the next day. Would he fire her? Her other coworkers were fearing the same and as the time ticked on, Thoko started fearing the same too. Thoko stood up from the floor when the bleeding stopped. When she saw Samuel, she picked him up and carried him to the room he shared with Dalitso. The latter wasn’t in the room when Thoko entered which meant he was probably with Sara. After securing the mosquito net on Samuel’s bed, Thoko went to her room to discard the bloody chitenje as well as to change out of her bloodied blouse. As Thoko was walking towards the kitchen after cleaning up, she was greeted by the smell of burnt meat. She ran to the kitchen and in haste of hoping to save the meat, she grabbed the hot pot on the cooker. Since she had already picked it up when she registered how hot it was, she dropped it and it scattered on the floor. Thoko opened the tap to cool her hot fingers. She hissed in pain when the lukewarm water did nothing for her. She then opened the deep freezer and pulled out a frozen water bottle which she dropped in a basin of water and soaked her hands in it. She sighed in relief when that seemed to cool off the heat in her fingers. “Mum, your phone keeps ringing- woah! What happened in here? Mum, are you alright?” Flora, who had come in the kitchen with Thoko’s phone in hand, frowned at her disheveled mother. Her nose was a bit swollen from the remote earlier but Flora knew nothing of it. Thoko brushed it off and gestured for Flora to hand her the phone. Her fingers weren’t stinging as much so she dried her hands and took the phone from Flora. She found missed calls from her close friend and knowing Esther, she only called when Thoko didn’t reply to her Whatsapp texts. Instead of calling her back, Thoko opened her app to check on the unanswered messages from Esther. What she found on Esther’s chat however, made the slight pain she was feeling in her fingers to go away and as she scrolled through the images Esther had sent, Thoko’s heart was hammering painfully in her chest. Aubrey was on his knees, proposing to the same lady she had thrown a shoe at that afternoon. With how the images progressed, it was clear the lady had positively replied since they embraced, kissed and the woman posed a few pictures with the ring shining on her finger. The images were followed by Esther’s colorful words as she cursed Aubrey and the woman both. Just then, a message notification caught Thoko’s interest and she opened the message Aubrey had sent her. ‘I want divorce’ Thoko staggered helplessly with the intent to reach her bedroom to lie down and just when she was about to leave the kitchen, her foot slipped on the discarded burnt food that had scattered the floor and she lost her balance. She landed on the floor with a thump. Her phone that was in her hand was unlucky as it hit the floor with her. When she crawled to retrieve it from where it had ended up, the screen was cracked very badly and it wouldn’t even turn on. Thoko felt miserable and she sat on the floor while still clutching the broken phone. She was so drained both physically and emotionally that when the lights suddenly turned off, she didn’t have the energy to react in anyway. Her three children protested loudly and they called out to their mother. Throughout the whole day at work and the time she had arrived home, Thoko was trying her best to hold on as she reminded herself repeatedly of how strong of a woman she was but even the strong fall. After waiting at bay for so long, tears poured out of Thoko’s eyes like flood gates being opened at last. She couldn’t help it but wonder where she went wrong. Was it meeting Aubrey? Perhaps it was not heeding the warnings of her friends. Maybe it was when she thought she had it all to keep a man like Aubrey on a leash. Or was it the moment she took off her heels and threw them at Natasha, the woman who taunted her at work? After mulling over the facts, Thoko then realized she was the defeated one. Her job was at the verge of ending and her husband of 17 years had just dropped the bomb on her. She had nothing going on for her and not even the four weeks baby growing in her would do her wonders. How would she raise four and soon to be five kids on her own, without a job? She was doomed to failure from here onwards. “Mum, where are you?” Flora asked. “I’m scared, Flora. What if Mum has left us alone?” Sara cried. “Mum will never leave us, silly. She’s a mum and mothers never leave their children.” Dalitso lightly scolded his sister but from his voice, it seemed he was trying to assure himself as well. Thoko sobbed silently; she was grateful there was a blackout and her kids couldn’t see how miserable she looked and felt. She held on to the darkness around her as she counted the minutes before her kids found her. Until then, she let herself be miserable in the darkness surrounding her.


What I feel right now is inharmonious. The whole reason I came to these groups in the first place is to feel included, and now dead people don't even want me. The advertisement for the support group held at the local church stated that the support group was for the "terminally ill." How was I supposed to know that suicide didn't fall under that category? Besides, I had a few colds in my life. I was no stranger to the stomach flu. Who cares if I stretched the word "terminal" out to include myself? I need as much help as any of them. You see when you're in a room full of people who would do anything for a couple of extra years of life, they don't take too kindly to those who are willing to throw them all away over a broken heart, and a gallon of bleach. But I can't help it! I'm as helpless as the rest of them. It's as if they think I asked for an inflamed case of depression paired with an overwhelmingly low self-esteem. Still, when it's my turn to speak the room is furnished with exaggerated sighs, and rolling eyes. More and more it seems like the only time I feel alone is when I'm surrounded by people. If it were just about them I wouldn't be here. In fact if it were anyone else, but her, I wouldn't be here. As luck would have it I happen to be kind of in love with Jenna Lane. And the truth is I haven't spoken to her yet, but when you're as emotionally unstable as me feelings like love come pretty easily. Even if I wasn't suffering from any mental anguish, I would still love her. How could I not? Here she is suffering from brain cancer and still finds time to make a fresh batch of cookies for everyone each week. Her smile makes me smile. Her laugh makes me laugh. She's not the prettiest girl I've seen in my life, but there is something about her that is so endlessly beautiful in the most refined sense of the word. She's the Mona Lisa, not exactly divine, but still a masterpiece. I had it bad for this girl, and tonight would be the night that she would find out. I just didn't know how to bring it up. Do I tell her point blank? Stand on a table in the center of the room, and proclaim my love for this girl I have yet to meet? Ride in on a white horse, whisk her away, and ride into the sunset together? And just as my imagination started to get carried away the opportunity presented itself. Martha Goldstein was in the middle of detailing her struggle in the late stages of ASL, when Jenna was started dosing off. Her head slowly lowered, her eyelids began to shut, and by the time it came to Benjamin Bloom and his battle with Huntington's disease Jenna Lane had fallen asleep on my shoulder. And what I feel right now is elated. By the time the group is over my shirt is soaked in saliva. People stand up to put away their chairs and grab a cup of coffee, while I stay seated with Jenna content with being her pillow. After she had woken up she apologized profusely for the falling asleep on me, and apologized even more when she saw the lake that she had created on my shoulder. I accepted every apology she gave me, and asked if I could walk her to her car. As we walked she told me about what school she had gone to, and how she had to take some time off after she got sick. She told me about her parents, and her little brother at home, and to be honest I didn't retain much of anything she said. I was too overjoyed that I, the suicidal self-loathing guy that not even people on the verge of death liked, had the opportunity to walk Jenna to her car. When we reached her vehicle I was disappointed by how short the walk was. We exchanged awkward goodbyes, and as I went for a hug she extended her hand. Jenna had stepped into her car, and slipped the key into the ignition before I had obtained enough courage to ask for her number. The words fell clumsily from my mouth but she didn't seem to notice. Instead she just smiled, fetched a piece of paper and pen from her purse, and wrote down seven of the world's most valuable numbers on the paper before handing it to me. This is how I met Jenna Lane. I know in theory you are supposed to wait a couple days before calling a girl, but with Jenna I had to contain myself from entering her number the minute I walked through the door. I believe I had made it approximately one day, ten hours, and forty-seven minutes before I finally caved. Before I called her I spent at least twenty minutes planning out what I was going to say, but the second she answered the phone my training departed from me. The sound of her voice escaping through the confines of my cell phone was simply euphoric. I fumbled my way through a couple minutes of aimless small talk, when Jenna finally stopped me. "Did you call me to ask me out?" she asks. And I recover just enough of myself to reply with a feeble "yes." "Well I would love to go on a date with you," she would say followed with something along the lines of, "that is of course if you're okay with dating a girl with an expiration date." And what I feel right now is lucky. I take Jenna to play mini golf, because that's what everyone who feels like a movie and dinner are too cliché does. I start to win, but decide to let her beat me because I want so badly for her to be happy with me. I buy ice cream afterwards, and when I dropped my cone face down on my lap she pretends not to notice, and offers to share hers. As I drive her home there is no room for silence. My car is filled with laughter and conversation the entire ride. I pulled up to her house, and walked her to her doorstep. We exchange awkward goodbyes, and as I extend my hand she goes in for a hug. She asks me when she can expect to see me next, and I say in the most confident voice I can muster, "How about next week?" She says she'd love that. I say I would too. She kisses me on the cheek before entering her house. Over the next couple of months I see Jenna Lane more and more. And over the next couple of months life doesn't seem so bad. It didn't matter what we did. We could watch paint dry for all I cared, but whenever I am with Jenna life just makes sense, the way I would imagine life to feel for people without suicidal tendencies, or brain cancer. It was a Tuesday when she told me to come over to her house. We had plans for a date Thursday night, but she called me out of the blue and requested that I come over. "I want you to have sex with me," she tells me. And being the smooth talking man I am I responded with a delayed "What?" "Sexual intercourse. You know what that is, yeah? Do you remember that expiration date we talked about? I don't know when it's coming, but it's coming soon. I just want to have sex. Is that so much to ask for?" She says comically. And the sad thing was it was true. She was dying. The light in her eyes had dimmed, her hair was slowly falling out, and her body had grown constantly smaller and smaller. In a perfect world I would have liked to wait. Planned it out, and done something romantic that may or may not have involved candles and rose petals, and maybe some fireworks, but who was I do deny a girl her dying wish? We fuck. At least that's what it feels like. Nothing more nothing less. I pray that she's a virgin, and wonder if she loves me or if this is just for sport. Because the truth is I'm kind of madly in love with her. What I want her to do is make a mistake, because perfection comes so naturally to her. I want her to be flawed. I want her to be vulnerable. I want her love me the way I love her, even though I know she can't. There are empty spaces in everyone's lives. I'd like to think that we try the best we can to make sure those places are filled. But no matter hard you try there are going to be those moments that leave you feeling empty. There's that pretty girl at the coffee shop that you wanted to talk to, but didn't. That trip you've always wanted to take, but never booked the flight. The paths of our lives are paved with missed opportunities, and hearts that we never had the chance to break. Jenna understood this. She had accepted her fate. She knew that soon she would be nothing more than a corpse rotting in the ground. She had no time for love, or petty crushes. What she needed was a friend. Someone to share these experiences with. She wasn't heartless. Jenna was just trying to make sure she didn't miss anything, before she was gone. And what I feel right now is cheated. Because all of this is an illusion. The walk to the car, the date, the sex all of these the fabric of my imagination. Everything but the saliva. The saliva drips through my shirt, and I can't help but wonder if it's a side effect of brain cancer. Hyper active salivation glands. As soon as Kathy Green wraps up her anecdote about her fight against AIDS Jenna is awoken. Still she profusely apologizes, and I still accept her apologies. She offers to pay me for a new shirt, but I tell her it's an old shirt. That I don't care about it anyways. After everything is taken down I help Jenna carry the platter in which she brought cookies on to her car, and the conversation stays light and general. The weather has been nice. School is fine. As she's packing the platter and leftover cookies into her trunk, I ask her what she's doing that night, if maybe she would like to go see a movie with me. "My boyfriend and I are actually going to play mini-golf tonight," is what she tells me. "Maybe some other time." "Sure, maybe next time," I say closing the trunk of her car for her. And what I feel right now is broken. We exchange awkward goodbyes. As I extend my hand she extends hers, and as we're standing there in the parking lot shaking hands she asks me what my name is.


I was eight years old, when the world stopped. I was at the playground. I just looked away for a moment, and everything went black for a split second, then everyone was gone, and there wasn’t wind anymore, any setting of the sun, any real sense of time. I fell off the jungle gym, when that happened. I was scared, of course. It didn’t matter. After a few months, I learned that I was all alone, and it didn’t particularly matter whether I cried or didn’t cry, since I was the only person listening. The clouds went away, too. I’ve always thought that was weird. I remember them. I’m far older, now. I’m too old to think things will go back to how they were; too old to care much about how things used to be, too old to be human. Not too old for superstition, though. I’ve always thought that maybe one day, something will change if I play on the jungle gym like I did on that day. I was right, in a way. I’ve gone on journeys. I’ve explored every house. I’ve walked across every ocean, read every book, discovered every kind of plant. But I always felt myself pulled to the jungle gym again, no matter how long I spent away from it, no matter how far I was from it. It was the only thing that still mattered, after everything else didn't anymore. I should’ve known that something living as long as myself would break it eventually. I first started noticing signs of serious wear when I realized the bars seemed thinner than they used to. Maybe I wore down the metal on an atomic level, after enough time. Then one day a bar was too thin to hold me, and my foot just went straight through it. I just ignored that particular bar, for however many centuries-or-millenia-or-whatever. But more bars broke. It didn’t even look like a jungle gym, eventually. I tossed them into a pile like broken puzzle pieces, and kept playing. This didn’t last, either. After long enough, they were reduced to dust, and there was no wind to carry the dust away, and I tried but I couldn’t keep all the dust in the same place for forever without making mistakes. I tried so hard. I gradually lost more and more while playing; I’d miss a single fleck on the sole of my foot, and it would get carried and deposited on a street or some dirt or in a home. And one day, there was no more dust left. I swear to God, I tried as hard as I could. I told myself that the jungle gym was gone, but there was still the rest of the playground. Same thing happened to the rest of it. Finally, I spent some eternities playing hopscotch on the blank pavement where the playground used to stand. It turned to dust, too. I don’t think there’s anything left here. Just some dirt to lie down in, and a clear blue sky to stare at. But I think I’m happier this way.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things ! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion There is no greater inspiration for fiction than life itself. It’s crazy and messy and often unpredictable. Whether you’re in the local coffeehouse, backpacking around the world, or playing board games in your living room on family night, ideas are everywhere. So I’m wondering.. - **How much do you pull from your own life when writing? Do you use events you’ve been through, or add traits of your own to your characters?** - **Have you ever based a character on a real person?** - **If not, where do you turn for inspiration/ideas?** - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


Have you ever felt yourself losing control, going onto autopilot and just watching the world pass you by? That's how it starts, or at least that's how it started for me. I am writing this as a warning to hopefully help prevent, or save, the few who are lucky enough to see it. Looking back i can see the patterns, the triggers, the replaced. It all started with "Have you seen.." or "Have you heard..". That was my vice, TV shows and movies. Always plugged in, it started as an escape for me, a way to stay out of my head and keep myself busy. It's almost funny now. I first noticed the change when watching a new TV show, there were times I would just notice moments slip by, then I noticed I had watched episodes, seasons, even full series without realising it. How many hours had I lost? Or was it days by this point? Or more. That doesn't matter now. Just as everybody else I paid it no attention as it grew stronger, the loss of my control, you might say my grip on reality. Until one day it was too late. I was stuck. Stuck in a world of my own watching my life happen around me. It is hard to explain if you aren't going through it, I was on autopilot watching from behind my eyes. No matter how hard I tried to scream or fight I just couldn't break through that window. I was lost. I was replaced. For me it was televised media, it's not the same for everyone though. Another I have seen is social media, that can be worse. There are even some who are swallowed by it. You may have friends you knew once upon a time who seem to have everything going, but actually they are also replaced, trapped. Just look at Facebook, your friend from school, Karen, she has uploaded the umpteenth picture of her now 3 year old baby. There is no baby. She is filling your feed to keep you scrolling, mindlessly scrolling. Just adding to the numbers of those who have been taken over. I struggled at first, screaming and banging on that window not being able to break through, fighting every day. Feeling powerless just watching this person live my life. Sleep in *MY* bed, work at *MY* job, ignore *MY* friends and family. It broke me, I thought there was nothing I could do, nothing but watch them turn more people into these things with "Have you seen...", "Have you heard...". I saw my life crumbling around me as I was forgotten as the person I was.. I am. Living the same routine day, passing through life with no impact, no purpose. One day I finally snapped, I lost it, I had enough of seeing people being pushed away or becoming another mindless replacement and I knew there was something I had to do to escape. Take control of *MY* life. I wish I could say I made it through straight away, but that would be too easy. I spent day after day attacking that wall, screaming for someone to notice me. Anyone. It was months before I had any impact. Cracks in the window. I was able to take some control, my first big stride to freedom. It took form as a moment of affection. Just a small change to a loved one. But it was better than nothing. To me it was everything. It gave me the strength to keep going, the knowledge that I could fight. I could win. I am sure you've already guessed I am much further than that now, I am writing this after all. But I am not free yet. I still have lots of work to do. I am writing this with the little time of freedom I have, posting it on your social media feed, to them it will be another thing to scroll through mindlessly. But if you can read this, from behind that window, if you can see my words. Don't lose hope. Fight. Take back *YOUR* life. I believe in you, good luck.