If digging graves was easy, then everybody would do it. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. If he were a brave man, he’d stand up to his mother and tell her just that. Jack was no coward, but he’d known better men who’d gone toe to toe with Nettie Sims. Their only consolation had been divorce papers and a bus ticket out of dodge. Instead, he solemnly took the lasagna pan, from her gloved hands, rinsing the remaining bubbles and a stray bit of burnt noodle down the drain. Jack’s mother blabbered on. “You were a terrific police officer. Could have been a detective by now if you hadn’t thrown it all away. It’s sad really. Embarrassing even, to tell my friends that my fifty year-old son moved back home.” “I’m sorry you’re embarrassed of me, Mother. I’m doing the best I know how.” His words were clipped, just as they always were when the subject of his old life inevitably crept into their after dinner conversations, especially since he should have left fifteen minutes ago. “I know it, Jackie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Will you be home late? I can wait up, and we can play a round of Scrabble before bed, or listen to a book on tape.” She always took extra care when drying her antique bakeware, so she didn’t notice as he took two brown paper sacks down from the top of the fridge. He stowed them both in the waist band of his Wranglers and adjusted his quilted flannel to conceal them from view. Mother would not approve. In fact, she’d given him a list of rules he had to abide by if he wanted to live under her roof, and Jack couldn’t think of a single one he’d left unbroken. No drinking, no swearing, no guns, and worst of all, mandatory attendance at the early service every Sunday. Nettie had gotten the misguided notion, Jack’s soul could still be saved. The thought was laughable, but she meant well. He crossed the kitchen, and planted a quick kiss on her temple. “Please, don’t wait up for me. And make sure you remember to lock up before bed.” “I’ll do it for your peace of mind, even though there ain’t no point in it. This isn’t that kind of town.” He grunted his disapproval, and she rolled her eyes. It was that kind of naive thinking, which made small towns the perfect target for criminals. It’s why phrases like, “Until that day, nobody locked their doors”, had become such a cliche in true crime specials. Everyone was capable of wearing two faces, and it was impossible to know who was prowling the streets at night, especially in sleepy little towns. Jack had first hand knowledge of that. He started up his truck, letting it idle so the engine had a chance to warm. The past couple of weeks had brought the first hints of Spring and the warmer weather to come, but the night air still had a bite to it. Jack didn’t mind the cold, just as long as it didn’t penetrate the ground. Nothing was worse to dig through than frozen earth. He settled in, taking the paper bags from his pants. The sack crunched beneath his fist as he put the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. He swiped his sleeve over his whiskers before replacing the cap and wedging the bottle between the seats for safe keeping. He carefully slid the pistol and holster from the second bag, and made quick work of securing it to his hip. By the time he finished, the truck was warm and ready, and so was Jack, now that he had a nip of whiskey in his system. It was time to go hunting. Everyone has their own personal scent. And, no, not a fragrance that can be purchased behind a department store counter. This is the scent unique to every individual, due to biology or their environment. Jack’s signature scent was graveyard dirt. Most normal people would be hard pressed to describe it. If jack was ever asked to do so, he’d say the smell is a mixture of freshly turned earth, the mustiness of the worms which wriggle beneath, and a subtle brightness reminiscent of grass clippings. He’d been thrilled when the preacher man offered him a job as a grave digger. It was the perfect cover, because no one batted an eye at his dirt covered clothes and truck. Even Nettie didn’t seem too concerned when he left for work at all hours of the night. Although he’d never been asked to dig a grave for the cemetery after dark, people tended to conflate the meaning of, graveyard shift , with how Jack made his living. When that happened, he never corrected them; instead, choosing to use their confusion to his advantage. The hole he’d steadily been chipping away at for the last two hours was nearly complete. Jack stepped back, leaning on his shovel to survey his handiwork. He ran a hand over his sweat drenched face. Using his own height as a measuring stick, Jack decided he’d dug plenty deep. He scooped out a few remaining shovelfuls of loose dirt, before hoisting himself up and out of the hole. He checked the time on his burner phone. It was nearly eight, and he needed to make a call before the real fun could begin. Not that Jack minded digging. He enjoyed working with his hands, because it gave him an outlet for the unbridled anger he’d been accruing over the last two years. Even before he’d become, The Body Man , Jack had struggled with aggression. After years of sitting behind a desk, toiling over a never-ending mountain of paperwork, he was glad to finally be out in the world. Glad to be sweating under a crescent moon, instead of fluorescent lights. He felt lucky even, to have banished the part of himself that once cared about promotions and paychecks. Revenge was a better motivator than ambition. “9-1-1. Where is the location of your emergency?” Jack went through the same song and dance, he’d done a dozen other times. He gave his exact location to the dispatcher, refusing to provide his name. The dispatcher’s voice was timid, as she asked, “Is this the Body Man?” Jack hung up the phone. Back when he’d still been Officer Jack Sims, he’d known guys who were willing to sell their souls just to see their names on the front page of the Sunday paper. Guys who got off on the notoriety. Jack wasn’t in it for that. He’d gladly let someone else take the credit for his deeds, if it meant he had one more night like this. One more opportunity to stalk and trap and torment. Call complete, all he had left to do was wait. He’d done this enough times to know, he had about ten minutes before the blue light cavalry would make their valiant entrance. Now, it was his time to play. He glanced at the hog-tied stranger in the back of his pick up, and grinned. He retrieved his hockey mask from the cab, securing the elastic band behind his head. The worm realized the digging sounds had ceased, and was screaming. Howling like a wounded animal before Jack laid a single finger on him. Overcome with adrenaline, Jack turned his face up at the moon and howled along with his prey. An hour or so later, Jack stood with Detective Rick Daniels, as a second officer shoved the handcuffed worm into the backseat of the squad car. It pleased him that the man was still trembling. He hoped his efforts would be enough to fuel the worm’s nightmares for the rest of his miserable life. Jack remembered when he’d first gotten the idea for his Body Man persona. He’d been tired of sitting behind his desk, unable to do anything about the backlog of unsolved cases. One day, he and Rick had been passing a bottle of whiskey after work, just like they were now. Rick had looked at him and said, “If I only had a body, I know I could solve this one.” He had been referring to one of the many missing girls. One of the many cases that went unsolved each year. It was a catch-22, and although the idea made Jack sick, he understood too well that closure was better than not knowing. Better than the plague of constant worry. He felt a kinship with the families of the missing, because, unfortunately, Jack understood the torment of being unsure if your loved one was gone for good, or if they were still out there suffering, waiting for someone to save them. He hadn’t actually expected anyone to answer when he’d placed the add on the dark web, offering his services as a grave digger to those who, for whatever reason, needed to dispose of a body. But, he offered and they came. That’s when his work truly began. The blue lights faded into the distance, and Jack was happy knowing that another family would find some measure of peace tonight. That the girl, the one the worm tried to throw away like trash, was safely in the back of the coroner’s van. He liked knowing she would get a proper burial. Rick passed the bottle to Jack as he asked, “Do you ever get tired of digging those holes only to fill them in later?” Jack shook his head. “No. It’s effective. Making those sickos think they’re being buried alive is a better punishment than they deserve.” “You ever worry you’ll go too far one day?” Jack stopped mid drink, raising a brow at his friend. Rick continued, “I mean, do you ever worry that one day you’ll become like them? It seems like a slippery slope.” Not that he’d admit it to Rick, but Jack spent countless hours contemplating this exact question. Where was the line between vigilantism and criminal? But the truth was, he didn’t actually give a shit anymore. He would do the work until the work was done with him, because this was his calling. He wanted to ask, Who Cares? Instead, Jack simply said, “No.” “It’s been two years since Caroline disappeared. If you’re still looking for her abductor, I think he’s probably long gone. Maybe even in a new state by now.” Jack bristled at the mention of his daughter’s name, and images began flashing behind his eyes. Jack holding up his daughters picture. Jack screaming at the worm to remember; that he would stop filling the hole with dirt if the worm would just tell him where she fucking was. He’d done the same all thirteen times. Some of the worms lied, giving him random locations or fake names, but Jack could always tell. It didn’t matter how many times he’d been disappointed; he would keep searching. Jack would never stop looking for his Caroline. The Body Man was nothing, if not patient, like a spider waiting to trap his next meal. He smiled sadly and said, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Rick.” Jack felt his friend’s wary eyes trained on him, as he walked around the truck to the passenger side, and opened the glove compartment. Rick called out to him, clearly not finished with the conversation. “You know you don’t have to be an unsung hero. There’s always a job waiting for you with the force. All you have to do is ask.” His only answer was to pop in the cassette tape and press play. Jack turned the dial, and Neil Diamond’s, Sweet Caroline, drowned out anything else Rick had to say. The Body Man returned to his weapon of choice--his beloved shovel, and began the satisfying work of filling the empty grave. The next morning, Jack attended Sunday service with his mother, dutifully singing along with each hymn, and mouthing the words to every prayer. After driving them home, he helped set the table by setting out her favorite china and silver. “Your detective friend, Rick, was in this morning’s paper. That boy is doing the Lord’s work, I tell you.” Jack did his best to sound attentive, between mouthfuls of biscuits soaked in sausage gravy. “Good for Rick. He deserves that recognition.” His mother crossed her legs under the table, and used her knife and fork to ruefully saw through a biscuit like it was a porterhouse steak. “He doesn’t seem to think so. He was quoted saying as much.” Jack’s brows shot up, sheer panic gripping his chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” “He said that all the praise should go to the unsung heroes. The stubborn ones who refuse to take credit where it’s due.” Jack smiled at that, silently adding, “And to those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.” Soon enough, a new worm would come along, and the Body Man’s shovel would be ready.


This is silly but I thought id better try rather than regret not asking... I remember reading a short story on reddit years ago, I don't even remember which subreddit it was on, but I do remember it was about a group of students or random teenageers that were transported into a different world. I think the world was in the medieval ages and the king was attempting to summon heroes to fight some monsters that were threatening his kingdom. Anyway I don't remember how but they each got the ability to pick a class like an rpg and the main character chose to be a clown. And they could only rely on their natural abilities and any special abilities they were given as part of their chosen class. Then they were sent to a village on the outskirts of the kingdom and the whole story is told from the perspective of the main character. And I remember for most of it he mopes around at the situation and the fact the he chose to be a clown until near the end of the story he levels up to level 10 and suddenly goes badass but I think the author discontinued the story and we never learn what kind of ability he got. I really liked it but I cannot for the life of me find it or figure out any search terms that help me get closer to finding it, so as a last ditch effort I figured I'd ask the good people of this subreddit if any of you know the story im describing. Cheers and thank you.


I clutched my coat tighter around my shoulders, the normally gentle snowfall turning harsh once the sun came down. My eyes, tears pouring from them, blurred everything in front of me. I couldn’t blink. Then they’d freeze shut. A cough overtook me for a moment and I stood, hunched over the sidewalk like a dramatic child, trying not to throw up what little I had for food the day prior. The storm would only worsen as time passed; I have to find somewhere safe. I seemed to stumble across a park of some sort. Few trees, now dead and covered in snow lined the area, a few benches placed few and far between. All covered in snow and offering no shelter from the weather. Nothing but panic overtook my senses. No sign of anywhere sheltering me from the blizzard. No one rushing over, tending to my infected wounds or cupping my face and telling me it’s alright. I brought my hand to my cheek, putting in the effort but lacking the emotion of a mother comforting her child. It was cold. Covered in holes and fraying in every place possible, my gloves did a bad job at keeping my hands warm. Everything I touched seemed more cold than the last. I almost hoped they’d fall off just so the tingly sensation that filled my fingers would finally end. My face burned where my hand had lain. I dropped it and continued walking. Corner shops had been closed a few days prior to this. In anticipation of the blizzard, people stocked up on gas, got fuel for fires, and bought non-perishable foods. And some of us searched and scraped the bottom of the can for any last bits of change that could be spent on some place to stay. I looked down to my pocket, the faint clinking of a few pennies and dimes all that kept me grounded. My head darted up. All I should be hearing is the wind, howling in my ears so loud it’s deafening without. But there was something else. Now painfully aware I haven’t succumbed to the weather, I turned my head, my neck flaming up in response. I could barely move anything now. Another one. Smaller. Lighter. Maybe some loose change, hitting something from the wind? The possibility of money got my attention. I heard it again. Clear as day. My legs sped up, though my body cried for a moment of stillness. I fought every urge in me to sit on the nearest bench, and walked around one of the few alleys in this town. A cat. No, two. A cat and a kitten. The kitten, just a small pile of black fuzz thanks to my blurry vision, lay huddled against the other, probably its mom, crying out to it. There was no movement from the other. Probably dead. A thousand things hit me like a truck. First, the inside of this alley was surprisingly sheltered from the weather. But not for long. The snow would build up and pile in soon. Second, this kitten could not be more than a few weeks old, judging by the size and baby fuzz. It would take a couple of miracles for this thing to live without a mother. Third, I was still cold. Thinking about it only made me shiver more. I could barely crouch down to get a better look at the kitten, and I didn’t make it back up. My body gave out. I collapsed next to this fuzzball, the screaming pausing as I came into view. Obvious frostbite had taken over both of us; I wouldn’t be surprised if neither made it out. I scooped it up with my free hand, the static my nerves gave off shooting fire into my veins at the small amount of added weight. The kitten barely made it to me before my hand dropped, and I unbuttoned my coat. The inside couldn’t be too much warmer than the outside, but the kitten seemed convinced otherwise. It darted into my jacket, whole body shaking from the small breeze that made it into the alley. I couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh? I’m about to freeze to death, and I just found a dead cat with a kitten that will die with me. How is any of that funny? I laughed despite the logical part of me being confused. The laugh turned to a cough, and the cough turned to a croak. I curled myself around this tiny ball of heat; though not much, it offered quite a shock to my system to feel after a long time. My thoughts grew warm, the light breeze reminding me of all the summer air I had felt throughout my life. Hell knows how much I’ll miss that. The gentle rocking of the body reminded me of fishing, the boat rocking back and forth and occasionally throwing me side to side. The bright flashes of color dulling down reminded me of a fun day coming to an end. Laying down to rest after playing in the mud all day, small scrapes and stories being all that ran through my mind throughout the night. I smiled, the cool air biting my teeth and I woke from my trance. Still in the alley. Still holding a kitten. The world around me grew fuzzy again, and I made sure to stay still just in case I could forever stay in this dreamy wonderland. All that came over me, the soft blanket of grass coating me as I rolled down a hill, picking up clumps of dirt and pebbles, grinning as I waited for the bottom of the hill to hit me. But it didn’t. I kept rolling, and rolling, but my body slowed. The rolls turned into painful heaves of breath, My arms moving on their own as I tried to tuck into another roll. The warmth stayed, though. I blinked and I was back in the alley. The warmth stayed. My eyes glanced to both sides, tears beginning to freeze as they ran down my cheeks. Something changed. A large, white rectangle with a red stripe through the middle obscured my vision of the outside of the alley. Maybe a vehicle backing in, and it’d run over me so this painful hallucination can go away. Blobs of white and red broke off from the box, quickly moving towards me. Odd. A ringing sound lightly filled my ears, one of the blobs leaning down to my eyes. It came into focus. A person. I tried to move the kitten. Maybe if I opened my coat more, they could see it, and we’d both be better off. My arms stayed at my sides, like someone poured tons of concrete mixture through the openings of my clothes. The ringing in my ears muted as I was abruptly turned over, the kitten jolting to the side and falling out of my coat. That’s good. They’ll see it and hopefully help. I got rolled onto my back again, now cold rods supporting a thin strip of cloth underneath me. I hissed in pain, though I couldn’t hear myself through the muted yelling. A few more of the blobs came closer, all going to a corner and lifting the rods. My sudden elevation brought the sky closer, and for a second, I wished it would forever lift me up. Something warm got shoved under my arm. I could barely feel my arms through the painful movement of the people, but I hoped it to be the kitten. What else would it be? I used to be a paramedic, they don’t usually put something under your arm. Unless it’s for an IV. This isn’t for an IV. They lifted me into the white rectangle, now recognizable as an ambulance, and the white lights on the ceiling brought me back to my previous state of delirium. The bright lights kept me sheltered from the howling of the blizzard outside. Warm, loving hands rushed over my body, checking for any infected wounds. A hand grabbed mine as they inserted an IV, the slight prick nothing compared to my previous experiences. They squeezed my hand, with the caring touch of a mother, someone with both the effort and the emotion thrown into the touch. My eyes closed. It was warm.


TW: abuse As mum avoided our piercing stares as she dropped the dishes on the table to occupy herself, hoping that today’s dinner would not end in a fight. She sat down quietly and looked like she was suffering from a heat stroke. We knew that was not the case, she was just trying to find her voice. “Let’s say our prayers” She said a bit meekly as she bent her head down. I glanced at dad, who did not care much for the prayers or the food as he looked at mum with disdain in his eyes, he did not even bother to hide it from us, his three kids...or so we thought until a few days ago. After mum had said the prayers without much contribution from the rest of us, she looked at Elsa, my younger sister with pleading eyes. Elsa stood up and served the food quietly. I looked at mum and she nodded. I was to pour the water. Why couldn’t everyone just serve themselves? I thought to myself as stood up and picked up the jar of water. I had a bitter taste in my mouth as I went over to pour some for my dad. He still had the stench of cigarettes and alcohol on him. I did not have to think much before knowing that he had been to the club. He looked up at me with a glare that felt murderous, and the jar of water almost slipped off my hands. I quickly left him and went over to my mum. As she handed me her glass for me to pour the water in, I noticed the fresh red bruises on her clear dark skin. I was immediately filled with a dangerous rage, I clenched my jaws because I knew I had to control it, otherwise the whole situation will go way worse. I tasted a strong iron liquid in my mouth, it was blood. I had bitten myself when I clenched my jaws, I got a headache from the suppressed anger. I poured the water a bit clumsily with shaking hands, spilling some water on the table. I felt my dads angry gaze on me, and I looked at mum, “It’s ok Betty, I’ll clean it up.” She said with a smile as she picked up a tablecloth that was on her other sides and wiped the table gently. I sent her a smile of gratitude as I walked quickly back to my seat. I looked at Tom, my older who was sitting by me. He had clenched jaws and I could see his hands were in fists under the table. He was sweating and looked like someone who would commit murder. I put my hands under the table and maneuvered my hand onto his sweaty palm and have his hand a gentle squeeze. He looked at me and I smiled comfortingly and understandingly. “It’ll be okay” I mouthed to him. He raised his eyebrows up in disbelief to say that I was lying. He knew me well, or he knew there was no escape from here. I unclasped my hand from his and took a spoon of my soup, which had already gone cold. Tom started on his soup too. We both knew that if we did not, dad would get mad and blame it on mum. Elsa had started eating a while ago and was almost done with hers. I felt the soup in my mouth as I put my spoon in, the way it slid into my throat as I was secretly praying that time would fly quickly to escape this dreadful dinner. Halfway through the dinner, dad dropped his spoon with a loud clatter as the spoon hit the plate. “This is the worst thing that has ever entered my mouth Ava. If the soup turned out like this, you should have just served me cardboard, even that would have been better witch!” he bellowed angrily as he stared at mum who was looking at him nervously. “I’ll find you something else. I’m sorry” She replied getting up and going into the kitchen. I could see her tensed shoulders, which was once as flexible as a gymnast. Her wrinkled face, that could have once been passed for that of a model. Her bruised skin, that was once clear and soft and the envy of anyone who knew her. She was one of the best cooks I knew, and I knew dad was only looking for a fight. Mum came back with a plate of noodles and as she was about to drop it, dad hit the plate out of her hands intentionally with a smirk as it landed on mum’s feet. “Aaah!” Mum shouted as she moved back instinctively. Elsa, Tom and I all stood up and rushed to help her. I could see the burn marks and glass shards on her feet. We helped mum to her seat gently and carefully. I knew dad was not done; he never was. I was about to leave mums side when she held my hand quickly and gave me a questioning look. “I have to” I said freeing myself from her grasp. I headed towards dad and stood in front of him, giving him no space to maneuver me. I summoned all the courage I had and with trembling hands and knees, I said in the loudest and most commanding voice I could summon, “Dad, you have to stop this nonsense” I could not believe what I had just said. I could feel Tom and Elsa’s shocked gaze on me. Dad himself looked shocked, bust as he got over the shock, his pale skin turned tomato red with anger. “You do not tell me what to do missy” He said and now, I felt I could say anything. It was like someone had drugged me with courage. “Someone has to tell you what to do. It seems you weren’t given enough training”. I said in response. “You are protecting a witch and talking back to your father, you have committed a big sin. God will never forgive you.” He said bringing out a cigar and a lighter. He lighted it swiftly and took in a big puff. “I am not the one who beats his wife, has a lover and bastard kids. If there is anyone in this house who is a witch, and who committed an unforgivable sin, then that would be you!” I shouted in a matter-of-fact way. I could see his wrinkles become more defined and saw his lips twitch as I finished my sentence. I felt proud but not for much longer. Dad released a puff of smoke in my face and as I exhaled the smoke I started to cough uncontrollably. I staggered back as I felt my dad’s fist on my cheek. I felt the throbbing pain that felt like someone was injecting me on the cheek. I could not see clearly with my right eye and I felt the iron taste of blood in my mouth very strongly. Then I felt a hand firmly hold my throat and push me against the wall. Suddenly, I was face to face with my dad trying to choke me. I looked slowly to my right at my mum and siblings, and I could see the fear on their faces. Elsa was slowly moving towards the telephone while dad was busy with me and I could the anger brewing in Tom. I knew I had to buy Elsa more time, so I spat on dad with disgust on my face and then I felt another stinging slap on my face. “Who is the witch and sinner now dad?” I croaked out as he was still trying to choke me. I felt his grip tighten around my throat and I started to hit him and kick but that did not help, he was like a statue. I felt helpless and in pain. I felt my body go limp and weak and I started having black spots and could not see clearly with my good eye anymore. Just as I thought I was going to die; I felt my dad’s grip disappear as he grunted and a I heard a thud on the floor. I gradually started to see more clearly and the first thing I saw was my dad, on the ground, unconscious and my brother standing over him with clenched fists. Just as I was about to comfort my brother, I felt the world around me go dark as I collapsed on the floor. “She is going to be okay. They both are” I heard an unfamiliar voice say calmly as I opened my eyes to find myself in a white tin can smelling of bleach that just so happened to be a medical van. I tried to sit up, but I still felt weird and then I got a sensory overload from the lights and then the sound of siren. I tried getting up again and this time I was able to. I stood up slowly and I felt my hip throb in pain, I guess that was where I had landed on. When I got out, I saw Tom, Elsa and mum talking to police officers and that is when I saw dad’s angry face through the window of a police car. When Mum saw me, she rushed towards me with a hug as she said, “You were so brave, we’ll be ok now. Peter’s going to go to jail.” I smiled in relief as I breathed in the scent of her jasmine perfume as my head lay on her soft bosom.


(WP) The Real Housewives of Mount Olympus “Welcome to Mount Olympus, home of the great Greek gods and goddesses, as well as the occasional demigod!” Mena’s first thought was that these deities really, really liked pastels. Soft splashes of color were everywhere, and it was near impossible to keep her eyes trained on one place. The tour guide was an overenthusiastic young woman, dressed in the tackiest purple toga Mena had ever seen. This place was a far cry from what she’d imagined. It was the worst kind of tourist trap, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought mortals were sporting costumes and cheap dollar-store tiaras. But that thought was soon forgotten; Mena’s eyes were drawn to a bickering couple, who didn’t seem to notice that there was a knot of nosy people watching them. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: I’m not sleeping with anyone else, Hera!” “So you’ve said. But you’re forgetting that I found lipstick on your shirt collar not three days ago!” His companion retorted, tossing her head like an angry horse. She was dressed in a voluminous gown that brought to mind purple sunsets; her dark hair bound in an elegant chignon that was coming loose. “Do you think me completely dense? You’ve been doing things like this for eons!” A guy next to Mena was surreptitiously recording the disagreement on his phone, and she bit her lip to hide a smile. It was one thing to catch mortal celebrities biting each other’s heads off, but two godly beings? The kid would probably sell the video to the highest bidder, a filthy gossip rag that Mena hated. A god was sitting on a fluffy golden cloud, strumming a lyre, pretending not to listen, but his bored expression hid sharp, bright eyes that were more observant than thought of at first glance. Another pair of gods stood nearby, ones that Mena couldn’t immediately identify. Both were clad in armor, and their voices were muffled. “Come on, I’m bored!” One pleaded, brandishing a spear. “Please? Look, there are people here! They can watch us!” “You know I don’t fight unless it’s absolutely necessary,” The other replied, shaking its head, its helmet clanking with the movement. There was a groan of annoyance, but Mena’s attentions were distracted the arrival of another couple, in a cloud of cold blue smoke, and they were a contrast in every sense of the word. The man was tall and dark, clothed in a black cape and a dark gray suit; he had dark skin patterned with tattoos, and an afro that added a few inches to his height. His face was grim and unsmiling, and a dark aura pulsed around his body, forbidding and sickly. The woman was tiny, bringing to Mena’s mind a forest pixie. Her gown was pink, the color of cherry blossoms, and her long, brown hair streamed down her back, strung with bright blooms, and her feet were bare. Her olive skin was covered in what looked like moving vine tattoos, and she kissed the man’s cheek before flitting off to talk to a man with winged shoes. Mena felt like she was more in a dream than real life; this all had such a surreal feeling to her. But she couldn’t say that it wasn’t entertaining.


To Mars, by Hana Aianhanma, March 2019. This work is licensed under a . The story is made up. As such, similarities with real events and/or persons are coincidental. If, in spite of this, you see similarities with events in you own life, you may want to seek legal advice. ***** ### **To Mars** ***** Humanity was ready to send an expedition to Mars again. The technology had matured for decades, the finances cobbled together, and the will to go had been whipped up by a masterful campaign. Unfortunately, corruption put a spanner in the works. ***** **Part One** Leana was not happy. “What do you mean, that engineer disappeared?” After that short pause, inherent to any communication at such a long distance, the answer came. “We can't find him. In fact, neither can we find the people who were responsible for double checking his department's work.” This was not supposed to happen. Everything seemed fine right until leaving moon orbit. Constructions did look a bit fancy. None of the astronauts really cared for those flashy designs. Stuff would break, so repairs would wear down the glitter in no time. Still, they assumed everything would function as it should. After all, why polish things up, if it didn't work yet? “Let me get this straight. I've only got fuel for either touchdown or to return, but not both and,” she frowned at the screen's camera, “the people, responsible for making sure we had enough for both, disappeared?” That pause again, not enough to fully interrupt the conversation, but plenty to be annoying, especially at times like this. “Erm, yes,” mission control looked down, “with the funds.” “Great,” she sighed, “doesn't really matter that much, after last week's explosion.” “Ah, about that,” remarkable, the places one can look at whilst missing the camera, “we also tried to have an extra chat with the life support people.” “And?” “Turns out they forged their reports.” “What?” Her voice got louder a notch. “And they misappropriated about 90% of the budget.” The astronaut hung speechless. “After that discovery, the FBI butted in.” “Good!” “They really are thorough at investigating.” “They should be.” “They even questioned me!” “Stop procrastinating, who stole the fucking money?” She never cursed. This was a special occasion. “The FBI arrested about a hundred people. Their sleuthing also led straight to the head of NASA.” Leana face turned grim, “I hope they still have her when I get back.” “Errr...” Her face turned red in anger, “don't tell me!” “She's also nowhere to be found.” “Unbelievable.” “According to witnesses, she and all managers were picked up in black vans.” “Black vans, you don't mean?” “Yes, picked up, and deported by presidential order.” “Did they ask the president why?” “Well, about that...” She stared numbly now. She had thought nothing more would shock her. “... he's gone too.” ***** **Part two** Leana had worked for years. First she turned her dream of becoming an astronaut into reality, enduring the gruelling training programme. Then she got herself selected for the first mission to Mars and, finally, she was part of the national effort to actually get there. How naive they had all turned out to be. Murdered by their own president's greed. He had not been content with just a few millions, or even billions, but had taken all but enough to just launch a skeleton ship able to reach Mars, polished dramatically for the cameras. Despite looking the part, it was a miracle the crew transport even launched at all. From the awkward pauses from mission control she gathered that by all rights, it should have crashed then and there with everyone in it. It did not make much of a difference for her twelve colleagues, who died during that explosion in life support. Ironically, she herself would flourish, thanks to them not using up the supplies which would have been insufficient for a full crew. Her dreams had turned into a steady stream of nasty, imaginative tortures she would visit upon him when she got back. If he was ever found, that is. The worst part of it was that, after all that misery, she would get a good look at the planet from orbit, only to return to Earth. She really would enjoy pulling those nails. ***** **Part Three** Her anger was spent long ago, she stared down. Mars! The first leg of the journey was done. She had done well to keep this wreck going so far. Getting back home would be tough, but she and mission control were confident that, barring any external disasters, she would make it. Pity about the fuel situation. The news from Earth was not good. When the scandal became known, sentiment had turned against space travel again. It seemed that, for the foreseeable future, manned space missions, let alone a Mars one, were going to be out of the question. She kept looking at the red planet. A message from mission control, “this is the last update before your return blast. All telemetry indicates a go. Fire up the engines at five minutes after reception of the signal.” A beep sounded. She'd had to cobble together some manual controls. Most computers had broken down. Guess where the money for the shielding went. “Four minutes from reception of the signal.” Another beep. The ship itself didn't have enough fuel, so she would have to use the lander's for those orbital manoeuvres. A few carefully timed blasts, and Mars' gravity would be swinging her back in no time. “Three minutes from reception of the next signal.” Again, a beep. Still staring at the red globe, the destination of her dreams, unreachable. Beep. Unreachable? She had made her decision a few days ago, after carefully checking the calculations, modified where needed. Beep. The hatch was sealed. With the press of a button the lander, with her in it, detached. Time seemed to slow down, what was keeping that signal? Beep. The engine roared to life. The last leg of her journey had begun. She *would* walk on the surface of Mars, after all.


It began long ago. Too long to express in your language, unsurprisingly - but think back to the beginning of the universe. What, Big Bang? Ha! I had forgotten about that, but no, I mean the beginning. While the fluffy stuff you call space was still in a jar and the thing which you call light was still enveloped in the dreams of my father. You’re right, I’m not making much sense am I? Forgive me, for it has been a while since I have spoken. In any case! Sat around the table, so to speak, was myself, still young then, gleaming with curiosity and mischief, and my brothers, Faa II, and Öm. It was the Ceremony of Ju, which, for the sake of communication, happened between us every millennium or so. And this particular time, the three of us waited for Sol, who was a leader of sorts. He was actually the father of us three, except more in a sense of consciousness rather than one of... biology. Yes. It was unusual for Sol to be late. He was usually the first one to arrive as he had the fastest means of transportation, not to mention that he was unaffected by the ease of distraction which so often redirected us - the more youthful. But it was not a bother, to wait. We amused ourselves by sharing memories, which we did in a way akin to telepathy, except we were not bound to language. We could also create and manipulate matter and light at our will, so we could show with extreme precision, or perhaps slight exaggeration, the most interesting moments of the past millennium. The three of us were laughing as Faa II shared with us his journey from Bak Bellu to the Dpla Contour, chased by a mass of dreaming dogs from the Fog Bog Planet who, to our amazement, all shared the same dream space. It was because of this, we decided, that the dogs of Fog Bog Planet did never fight or bicker over territory or other such matters of non-import. Sol arrived through the mist of Faa II’s memory and, in simple terms, sat down in his place. So, the ceremony could commence, and we became at once to an air of seriousness, which was held, of course, in slight humour. “Let The Ju begin!” boomed Sol who became surrounded in bright light of purple and white which shone throughout our realm, landing on every surface as a fine dust of sorts which glinted and sparkled as it disappeared. Everybody’s attention had come to me, as it was my turn to take part in what was perhaps the most important ritual of the whole cosmos. I had come of age, you see, and my days of mindless play were over. The responsibility which I was about to be given was beyond imagination. I hid my nervousness under confidence, which may come as a comfort to you; to know that you are not the only species to act with such foolish distance from your true selves. There is a reason for this, which I shall come to soon. I had observed my older siblings, as well as my father, perform this sacred rite with slight ignorance. It was impressive, without doubt, but when watching another perform a skilled task it is often easy to see only the task, for true skill does not show itself. I had thought, upon every millennium, thoughts such as: I could do that, or even, I could do better , and now that I had been given what I for so long had asked for, I squirmed uncomfortably as I struggled to remember the precise order of things. It began with a dance, of this I was fairly sure, and so I rose from my place and my limitless body grew into the surrounding space and I moved, lights shining and shapes spinning and merging into one and other. It was of utmost importance, I knew, that my thoughts were kept true to my intention, as the manifestation powers during The Ju were infinite - and room for error was nil. As I allowed myself to become to the universal rhythm of things, the others began to chant. Sol had the deepest voice and the whole cosmos shook slightly from its bass. Faa II had the most beautiful voice, and the stars could be observed to turn towards him to witness in awe the song that they had been missing for a thousand years. Brother Öm was shy, and his participation in the chant was empathetically intended to soothe me. I could sense him, and I knew that he was going through great effort to communicate to me a message without interfering with the flow of Ju that was growing at a tremendous rate. Do not fear, brother, he spoke. Do not think, brother . I began to concentrate on the far away place that I had chosen for my first and most important Ju. I began then to envision, like I had practised, the oceans, as I had called them, and the lands, and the creatures. As I allowed myself into my manifestation, which was already taking place, the Sun already having grown from its original form as a tiny speck into a great, flailing body of warmth, I felt my body disperse much like powder in water, and the chants became one, continuous vibration. The lands grew from the centre of the planet and took forms as I felt them. I had no longer a conscious will, or rather, there was no longer a space between intention and creation for thoughts to appear and manipulate the matter. The experience was pure beyond my ever having known possible, and in a way, I felt completely detached from it, as if I were simply an observer, and yet, I also felt like I were everything else but an observer. It was beautiful. It was even more than I had ever imagined or dreamt before. The Ju was almost complete, and I experienced with delight the harmony that my new planet sang with. The plants, the animals, and the elements, all complimenting one and other. Where one fell, another grew, and the balance was so true that I could feel its strength and integrity that would not give for millions of years to come. But it was at that moment that I felt a tickle in my mind. It was a memory, I knew at once, and a ghastly one at that. I had not mentioned this fact until now for I am still embarrassed - but it is true: I had met someone the day before the ceremony. The meeting was quite unusual, for it was while I slept. It was in a place that I had never before seen; awake, dreaming, or otherwise - but, I knew intuitively, it was far from my realm. I had fallen in love with them right then in our meeting; they were the most beautiful being I had ever seen. Not to mention the fourth being I had ever seen, and the first to not have been a relative. We spoke for what seemed to be years, neither one of us wanting to wake up. We spoke of all matters: family, solitude, loneliness, love! Oh, my heart! But then I made my life’s most grave mistake. “I am actually the king of my universe,” I blurted after a short pause in conversation. Why? I do not know. Silence makes me nervous. They may have been losing interest in me, who am I to say? I was just a child after all, I had never done anything of note. My father, Sol, was known throughout the cosmos and further, and for this I did not mention my father’s name. I wanted... to be somebody. All this flooded into my being and my intention and creation became at once separated by the meddler of all things! I felt at once insecure, jealous, envious, ashamed, embarrassed, angry, and so, so, sad. It was like this, in the final moment of my Ju, that your ancestors came to be. From a fleeting thought and rush of emotion. You see, how sensitive is Ju? It was a shock to me, because - since I’m being honest - you were a complete accident. I had never even imagined anything bearing any resemblance to you, and so when I first laid eyes upon you, I was disgusted. My beautiful world, I thought. What have I done? When the chanting faded and I returned to the company of my father and brothers, they all were looking away. They could not even face me! After some time of silence, my father spoke. “What happened, God?” he asked me. “I’m sorry father. It was an accident.”


Albert Capone, the son of the famous Al Capone, had always wondered how he was left penniless especially because his father had been a successful businessman. Everyone that knew his father also knew about him which ended up causing Albert to be looked at differently than all the other kids. He was always alone, but according to his father if you ever felt lonely the one place you would eventually find a friend is at the playground. Day after day he would go to the playground in look of a friend; as he lay on the roundabout spinning it using his feet, he felt comforted knowing his father had spent most of his childhood like that on the same roundabout longing for a friend. When he went to live with Aunt Ermina, his father’s sister, he was given a chain that his father had left him before he died; he always liked the chain that his father gave him, but he was always perplexed by the meaning of the three numbers written on one of the chain segments, 1, 25, 47. It had been 3 years since he lived with Aunt Ermina and now he was 12 years old going into middle school at St Patrick’s School in Miami Beach. He was not very accustomed to the different class schedules, lunch, and lockers. When he got his lock, the password contains 3 numbers which were 12, 25, and 47 which had look very familiar. Throughout the first day of school, the three numbers kept dwelling in his mind. After a grueling day of just introductions, school finally ended and now he could go home and figure out why those three numbers had him so confused. He then went to the roundabout at the playground thinking it might help him. In the same way, his father had, Albert did the same and held onto his chain with both hands. At that very moment, he realized that 3 years ago he had found the numbers, and then he realized why the numbers had him so confused. He also realized another thing, the numbers on the chain could be the code to a lock. With that in mind, he went back home to ask Aunt Ermina if there had been anything else left from his dad. Aunt Ermina thought for a while, but nothing came to mind so she just said, “No, I don’t think so”, as she shrugged. Albert was once again stumped. He thought to himself if I were to hide my money I wouldn’t hide it far from home. He then got a map and then located his old house, he looked for any places where there would be places to hide large quantities of money. Since he knew the playground was very special for his father he assumed that the money had to somehow be linked with the playground it was also only two blocks away from the house which was good. Since it was already past 9:00 it was pitch black outside, but that wouldn’t be holding him back; he got his flashlight and then headed for the playground. Once he arrived he began looking under the slide, stairs, and even on top of the structures. Having hit a roadblock, he headed for the roundabout, and at that moment he realized that his father had always liked it the most out of all the things at the playground. Albert knew the lock had to be somewhere there; he then had any idea, maybe the roundabout itself was like a gigantic lock like the ones you put on a locker at school. There was one problem though, he didn’t know where the numbers were on the lock. It was getting late and he didn’t know how to figure out where the numbers would go, so he just headed home. The next morning he was so thrilled to find out how to open the giant lock, aka the roundabout. Knowing his father, he knew he wouldn’t just pick a random spot to be the “zero” of the lock, the “zero” had to be something he could also remember, something that had sentimental value for him. Since the only thing that came to mind was his old home, he just went with his gut and believed in his prediction. If he was able to open it he would have to do it at night again when no one was around. He was going to try and play hookey, but there was just no point. At school, he had been able to not die of boredom because last year in 5th grade he made a couple of friends that he was just fun to be around. Since it had only been 2 days after summer break, everyone was still filled with energy. Since everyone else was happy it felt as if the day had gone by really quickly. During the bus ride home, he imagined what money could do for him and Aunt Ermina; he could finally get an Xbox, move into a larger house, and buy the nice clothes and shoes that everyone else had. He had waited patiently until it was dark outside and finally headed towards the playground. Once he got to the playground he held out the map to see which direction the house had been. He put the flash where he thought the “zero” would and began entering the code written on his chain turning the roundabout as if it was a lock. It hadn’t worked, but he knew he could guess which of the 8 handles would also be the “zero”. He kept entering the code then changing the “zero” handle on the roundabout, then on his 6th when he got to the last number of 47 the roundabout became really stiff as if he to turn the handle of a giant safe. At last, he got to 47 and the whole roundabout started to open revealing a long tunnel with lights that seemed to go down for at least 50 feet. He picked up his flashlight, map, and backpack and started going down. As soon as he was fully in the tunnel the roundabout had shut on its own like something out of a horror movie. He cautiously went down the tunnel having both feelings of anxiety and excitement. He reached the bottom and a man wearing a ski mask was pointing a rifle at him and yelled, “Who the hell are you?” A second later the man lowered his rifle and took off his mask and said, “Son? Is that really you?” and ran towards him to hug him. As both Albert and Al Capone held each other tears started falling down their cheeks. Al said to his son, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most, I know it was hard to lose both me and your mom.” After they had hugged for a couple of minutes, Al showed his son around the place where he had been hiding/living for the past 3 years. There were fairly big farms and one living room that served as his bedroom. Albert sat on his bed and Al pulled up a chair to begin telling his story. I know it wasn’t the right thing to fake my death since it caused you lots of pain and suffering, but I couldn’t live my whole life in prison away from you. I devised a plan which involved the roundabout and the numbers on your chain and now that I know it worked I have no regrets now for faking my death for the people that I loved. Although for Albert, this isn’t as he had expected he was still content with the work he put into finding his dad. The money which had been on his mind since the search began seemed to have left his mind completely, since all he ever wanted was to have company and feel loved. Now he knew that his father faking his death was all because he loved him and finally since the day he “died” he felt relieved as if a large weight was lifted off of his chest. Although the money would’ve been able to satisfy him for the rest of his life, finding his father would most definitely be enough to make the rest of his life more enjoyable even if it meant that he would have to spend most of his time underground secluded from the rest of the world.


In the news, they told us it would happen in three years. An explosion in the night sky. Trillions and trillions and trillions of miles away. Something that had, in all actuality, started almost two thousand years before. A collision. Two stars. Originally, so far apart from each other, one spiraling in toward the other for billions of years until both became locked in a gravitational death dance--ever so slowly, each pulling the other back, closer and closer. The expectation everyone had was to be able to look into the night sky, across trillions of miles of space, and see an increased luminous glow. Two becoming one. A birth. The galaxy becoming new parents of a bouncing, baby red nova once again. A baby new. A new baby sun. So there it was, this news, and the expectations, and the excitement about the idea of seeing these things that we know so little about. Like looking through a neighbor’s window, watching a brief moment of vulnerability, or capturing some mundane-to-them-thing that you’ve just in fact learned in that very instant. The birth of a memory. This new, temporarily brightest star would still not be as bright as the sunlight reflected off of one of our neighbor planets in the just-right moment of orbit in our night sky. It would be more catching a glimpse of a Natalie Portman through a crowd at an airport, and less bumping into your local weatherman in line, buying groceries. (Which, like all moments, are analogies to be picked apart.) As three years turned to two, turned to one, turned to months and then weeks, the strength of anticipation grew--not unlike the speed at which the distant lovers danced toward one another. And, much like a one night stand, this would all be a brief moment in passing. Until it wasn’t. Weeks turned to months, one year to two, turned to three. And the light from this newborn star grew. And its mass grew. And its gravity along with it. And two stars that had become one began to reach out across space, pulling everything in, swallowing anything that could be put in the flames of its mouth. We’d waited billions of years to see a part of our past from thousands of years before now. A temporary moment of brightness in the night sky. But it wasn’t just the brightness that grew, and it took us a few years to figure that out. Like the clarity of time spent with another that only decades and loss bring about. When they told us, in the news, that this star in the night sky appeared to be getting closer, that we had nothing to worry about, that these things exist on timelines too long to envision, that we’d still have thousands and thousands of years before we’d ever see a direct effect, that the most significant thing would be the loss of trust in and brightness of the North Star... It all put perspective to how we--as a collective--we were simply just a moment in passing. Us, here, out on our galactic one night stand. Everything is so bright now. And the heat had driven us underground what must have been a year or two ago. Those with the foresight and luck, or paranoia and money. Or money and foresight, paranoia and luck. The floods caused by the warming came and went just as quickly. With the ice melt, the waves rose, but the heat grew, and grew, and grew, and carried the waves away, up into the sky. All that’s left to the surface is a landscape of crumbling brick and concrete buildings, seabeds of skeletons coated in melted plastics, and dust, and the ashes of wooden homes, forests, and modern living. This last Tuesday will be the last Tuesday. Our sun and that once-distant-star-that-was-two-but-became-one will fold into each other by Sunday--at least, in the news, that’s what they told us to expect. By Monday, it’s anticipated that we’ll all be part of the brightest thing in the night sky. For someone. Somewhere. Until they join the gravitational death dance they’ve been part of for billions and billions of years. The way it's been forever.


Growing up I can remember my dad regularly telling my sister and me about how when he was pursuing his Masters in architecture, one of his professors liked him so much that he tried to recruit him to come work for a new firm that he was starting in London. As my parents would tell it, they had actually seriously considered the offer. My mom had decided that she could finish her schooling abroad while my dad got established in his career, and they would start their life together in the UK instead of in the States. The story goes, however, that when they were almost completely certain that they were ready to go ahead and embark on this adventure together, my mom found out she was pregnant with me, my dad’s dad got sick, and my dad’s old friend from high school asked my dad to move back to their hometown of Roca Roja, California and open a business together. And so their briefly considered dream of moving to England and carving out a life for themselves there had ended shortly after its inception and they stayed in the US and had me and my sister and lived happily ever after. Well, not really, as neither of them ended up living past the age of sixty, and they had to grieve my sister’s death when she was still a child. Still, there *was* happiness there. A lot of it, if you happened to be looking at the right times. I guess that applies to most people’s lives, really. If you only see people when they’re happy, then you assume they’re always happy. So we weren’t much different from any other family in California, or America, or the world. But the point I’m getting at, I guess, is that my parents would always tell my sister and I that if things had gone just slightly differently, we would have grown up in England. We would have had Londoner accents. We would have called chips ‘crisps’ and elevators ‘lifts.’ And growing up, I always indulged this fantasy wherein my life could have played out that way. I imagined a whole other history for myself where somehow I’d still be me, but everything in my life would be different. But it’s occurred to me recently that it just doesn’t really work that way. I could never have been British. I never could have lived anywhere but where I lived, and I never could have done anything other than what I did. If my parents *had* moved to England prior to my birth, they would have had a daughter, to be sure, they may even have named her ‘Karen,’ but she wouldn’t and couldn’t have been *me*. See, I have come to the epiphany because of events both recent and recently reconsidered that no one on the planet could be anything other than exactly what they are. We are, all of us, the sum total of our experiences, and any change to those experiences, however minute, results in a different person. So my parents could have had a daughter my age named Karen, with my birthday, my hair color, my exact genetic makeup, my propensity for procrastination and my god awful sense of fashion, my love of Mexican food and cheap margaritas, but no matter how much we had in common, she still wouldn’t have been me nor I her. And that’s to say nothing of my younger sister, who wasn’t even mentally or emotionally conceived, nevermind physically, at the time my parents had been considering the move. So there wouldn’t even have been a little British girl genetically identical to my sister in that alternate world. The number of possible genetic combinations from two people is just too insanely high for someone with her exact genes to have been created at any time or in any place besides the one she was created in. So maybe my parents would have conceived a second time, but it might have been a son, or twins, or a little girl who was nothing like my sister. And maybe that other child or those other children might even have survived into adulthood. God, what a fucked up thought. And by the time they came to the decision to move overseas, my parents too would have become different people than the parents I knew. The moment their paths diverged from the histories that I’m familiar with, they would have stopped being my parents and started being other people entirely. And the further removed from that point they got, the less and less like my parents they would become. All that is to say that my parents, my sister, *me*, we all were only the things we were because of the things that happened. Any other series of events would have necessarily made different people. Maybe better people, maybe happier people, but definitely different. I think it’s comforting, sometimes, to look back and imagine what else and who else we might have been if things had gone differently, or if we’d made different decisions. If we’d just done *that* thing at *that* time, maybe things would have worked out differently. Sometimes it’s fun to think about, and other times it’s a crutch to help us get through our daily existence in this reality to imagine that things are better in some other one. But it’s only ever a fantasy, and not just because you can’t change the past. It’s a fantasy because, even if you *could* change the past, you would no longer be *you*. And, after all, sometimes these fantasies go far beyond comforting, and instead become the subject of unhealthy obsession, unobtainable desire, impossibly frustrating ideation. I know this all too well because any time I would imagine my sister and me living in London, my daydreams inevitably led me to believe that in that version of my life, she might have survived her cancer, or might never have gotten it at all. Maybe the healthcare system in the UK would have caught her sickness earlier, treated it better, saved her life. Maybe she’d have been at my wedding. Maybe I’d have been at hers. But she wasn’t. And I wasn’t. And who would that other me have married, anyway? Probably some British guy. Maybe an American if for whatever reason her parents moved back to the States at some point, or if she had come here for school or something. But whoever it was, it almost certainly wouldn’t have been Jason. And maybe that other Karen and her husband would have found themselves preparing to bring a child into their world at this stage in life, just as Jason and I are now, but it would have been a different child, not the son I’m carrying inside my body right now; not the little boy whose bright eyes and beautiful face I can’t wait to see. And this, more than anything, is what’s allowed me to reevaluate how I feel about imagining alternate lives and divergent realities, because I have realized little by little that I don’t want some other version of my life. I don’t want to be that woman who grew up in Britain. I don’t even want to be that woman whose sister lived to see her teens or twenties or beyond. I only want to be who I am. I only want to have experienced the things I’ve experienced, to know and love the people I know and love, and to wake up in a few months in the middle of the night to a screaming newborn baby who already owns my heart even before he’s arrived on this earth. Now, instead of dreaming of and longing for some other life someone much like me might have had, I find myself waking up in a cold sweat, struggling to shake the fear that all the things I have that I hold dear in this life might have been somehow imagined, that they might be just as gaseous and ethereal as all the lives I never lived, until I turn over in bed and there’s Jason, as solid and real as the life growing in my womb, as real as the air I’m breathing and the ground beneath my feet. As real as the fact that my parents and my sister are all long gone. As real as the fact that I have never set foot in England. And sure, there are still many things I want in this life that I don’t have. There are still experiences that I hope to have. The difference is that now I only want those things to be in the future. My past, for all its faults, is the only past I want, because without it I don’t get to be me, and I don’t get to look forward to the bright future I dream that I’ll have. "What are you thinking about, babe?" I look for a while at Jason before answering. He looks tired. He always looks tired these days and I keep telling him that he needs to work less, relax more. But today he looks especially tired, pale, sickly even. But he's still Jason, and he's still smiling warmly at me. "I'm thinking about you." "About me?" "And us. And our baby. About my sister ... about England." "About England? Like how you could've grown up there, right?" "Exactly. Except I couldn't have. And I'm glad I didn't.


Day -1 A day before the challenge begins. Dear Diary, Tomorrow will be the first day of my month-long challenge that I have planned for weeks. I have set a goal to wake up at 5 a.m. every morning and write a thousand words toward finishing the first draft of my romance novel. Over the past few weeks, I was torn between a few equally fascinating writing prompts, but I ultimately settled on one with the title 'A Dance in the Moonlight.' Since I usually stay up late, waking up early every morning is challenging. This will require a significant change in my sleep schedule. No more negative thoughts. I am determined to stick to my plan and complete this challenge no matter how hard it can get. I hope this experience helps me become a more disciplined writer and develop better habits in my daily life. Wish me good luck! It's quarter to midnight. Despite going to bed before 11:00, I am wide awake and unable to fall asleep. I hope I don't fail on the first day of my challenge. No more whining and no more blue light to disrupt my night's sleep. Good night. Day 1 Dear Diary, My peaceful sleep was interrupted by the piercing sound of my phone's alarm, which rang at 5 a.m., forcing me to wake up. Initially, I was tempted to hit the snooze button and fall back into a deep slumber, but I resisted the urge and stayed awake. I forced myself to get out of bed, exhausted, with heavy eyes and a foggy brain. I stumbled towards the bathroom and splashed handfuls of cold water on my face to jolt my sleepy brain cells awake. The street was peacefully quiet, interrupted only by the occasional cheerful chirping of birds welcoming the looming rising sun. I clumsily made a cup of instant coffee and headed to my dining table, which also works as my work desk. Then I powered up my laptop, created a new Word document, and typed 'A Dance in the Moonlight' at the top of the page using a large, bold font. As I sipped my coffee, I gazed at the computer screen, trying to come up with the perfect opening line. After a prolonged period of indecision, I finally wrote the first sentence but deleted it a few minutes later as it didn't sound right. At around 6:30 a.m., my mind finally decided to cooperate. By 8 a.m., I had only written around five hundred words, forming lousy sentences that didn't align with my writing style. I fell five hundred words short of my first day's goal, but it was time to prepare for work. Exhausted and discouraged by failing to write the planned thousand words, I left my home and walked toward the bus station. Day 2 Dear Diary, Since I couldn't sleep until midnight, waking up this morning was even more difficult than yesterday. Last night, I caught up with my old friends over dinner and then hit the town for drinks. Changing my routine to wake up early requires lifestyle changes and sacrifices I'm not ready to make yet. Going out at night no longer fits with my new lifestyle. Once more, with my coffee in hand, I walked up to my table and sat in front of my laptop, staring at the blank Word document. To jumpstart my creative thinking, I revisited the writing I had completed yesterday. To be completely honest, I despised every bit of the writing as if it were written by someone other than me. By 8 a.m., I had only revised my previous day's writing. However, I could expand it to a length of 800 words. When I left for work, I was 1200 words short of my goal for the second day of my challenge. Day 7 Dear Diary, It's hard to believe it's already been a week since I started this challenge. I began sleeping earlier, and waking up at 5 a.m. has undoubtedly become easier. I'm also feeling less restless at work. Yet, my writing brain willfully opposes the change. Each morning, I find myself spending a long time staring at my blank Word document, waiting for my stubborn mind to function. My writing progress over the past week was disappointing, as I only achieved writing around 3000 words, far below my intended target. Day 15 Dear Diary, I am halfway through the challenge, and I must admit, it's becoming easier to wake up early with each passing day. Although I believe that early morning is the most productive time for writing, I can't help but feel that it doesn't work for me. I have been making little progress in my writing for the past two weeks. There may be two distinct genetic predispositions regarding sleep patterns: individuals who are naturally early risers and those who are naturally inclined to stay up late. When I think about my past, I remember taking advantage of the quiet at night to study. In college, I frequently went on late-night adventures. These memories reinforce my belief that I am naturally inclined towards a nocturnal lifestyle. I finally broke my writing block today by writing over a thousand words, precisely 1236 words, which I haven't achieved in the past two weeks. However, I'm still quite far from reaching my target goal for the fifteenth day of my challenge. Day 20 Dear Diary, Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Last night, my siblings and I treated her to a fancy restaurant and stayed out until very late. So, getting up early this morning was quite a struggle. Once my phone alarm sounded, I wanted to hit the off button and return to sleep. However, I couldn't forgive myself for failing a thirty-day challenge on its twentieth day. I left the bed an hour later than planned, and even a strong cup of coffee didn't improve my gloomy mood. I wasn't mentally prepared to sit down and write. Instead, I stayed tuned to the TV news until I departed for work. My writing productivity for today was nil. Day 30 Dear Diary, I am proud of myself for persevering and completing the thirty-day challenge. Waking up at 5 a.m. is much easier than before, but I had to sacrifice my social life to reach this point. I haven't seen most of my nocturnal friends, and if I continue this new lifestyle, I will lose them all. Although I've made some progress with my creative writing in the morning, it's still nowhere near my nighttime writing. So, this month-long trial proved this lifestyle is not for me. I am nocturnal, and waking up this early is against my nature. I'm glad I've completed my thirty-day challenge and can finally stop waking up early. Day 31 Dear Diary, My eyes popped open precisely at 5 a.m. this morning, even without setting an alarm. I gave up on trying to fall back asleep after ten minutes and got out of bed. Holding a cup of coffee, I went to my table and sat in front of my laptop. In no time and with ease, my fingers swiftly moved across the keys, effortlessly bringing words and sentences to life without burdening my creative mind. By 8 a.m., I had written nearly three thousand words and knew there was more to come. However, I had to stop to avoid being late for work. Today was my most productive writing day ever.


She stood on the clifftop where they had wed each other, letting out a pained sigh. There it was again; she could feel his breath on the side of her neck, like every other time he'd come up behind her and grab her swiftly from behind. He had this way of gripping her so firmly, that she would forget time existed. She stood staring off this cliff top, pondering about the way he kissed the back of her neck and it would create murmurs down every nerve of her body. There was no other way to describe it, she was enthralled with his enchantment. Nothing could separate her from the pain of having killed him at his wit's end. In this moment he wanted to devour their children, and was seconds from literally tearing them apart right before her eyes: a hex cast on his mind that ate him away slowly every single day until the one day he finally succumbed to its effects. Every piece of her could still see his soul trapped in his eyes, no matter how much anger fueled their glare. Saving him meant letting him fulfill the hex; letting all of their hard work and dedication which built their life go to waste on something as simple as a flick of a wrist. He rushed up the stairs after muttering a grotesque sentence under his breath, looking her dead in the eyes. The words he said rang through her like a thousand daggers as every emotion screamed out of her in absolute terror: “I need to finish this”. She knew immediately what he meant. She had witnessed every sign of this inevitable downfall, gripping onto the life they've built with every last piece of her existence. She followed him up the stairs as quickly as possible, screaming his name at the top of her lungs, her throat, her mind. There was no way she would let him, or whatever it was controlling him, follow through with this. He got to the door after running down the hallway and realized his error immediately. There was a newly installed lock he'd never seen before. She put it there for the safety of her babies, only recently though, as his appetite was diminishing to nothing. The day she got it, he had told her the dinner she made for him from scratch was worthless. “I crave skin” he said after throwing the plate as hard against the wall as hard as possible. That was when she knew without a sliver of a doubt he was cursed. He turned around and immediately roared at her as she stood roughly 20 feet from the doorway with a distorted, volatile screech that sounded like a sharpened fork on a dinner plate, but still with words that were completely decipherable to the human ear: “SAVE ME FROM THIS MADNESS. I NEED THEIR FLESH” “I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DIDN'T TELL ME” she screamed back at him “QUICKLY, I NEED TO FEEL ALIVE AGAIN” he screeched. Her ears began to bleed, as she screamed as loudly as she could, spitting out with every word as she let out every bit of pent up aggression she ever had about this entire 8 years of being his: “YOU CANNOT STAY IN HIM ANYMORE YOU NEED TO LEAVE, HE NEEDS TO BREATHE AGAIN” “YOU STUPID WHORE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DEALING WITH” Whatever was inside him had complete control. She still wanted to save him. There was nothing she could do but she couldn't tell herself that right away, so she dug more: “MY INNERMOST PEACE WAS WITHIN YOU, I DWELLED WITHIN YOUR LOVE LIKE THE BLANKET OF PURE GLIMMERING HAPPINESS THAT IT SHELTERED ME WITH” her throat was becoming raw. Calmly, he replied with the tone of an evil smirk: “I see nothing but pure insolence. You need to obey me or I have no choice but to eliminate you too". She sprinted and lunged at him with all of her weight, tackling him through the adjacent window and down to the ground three stories below. Once they hit the ground, she knew her left hand was broken. He wasn't conscious, so she let out a bellowing and blood curdling scream of agony for slight relief from the injury. When she had expelled every last bit of air in her body, she began to sob. Through her whimpers she could only let out pieces of sentences, speaking to him like she would have any other day. “My love, I don't know who or what put that curse on you, but I know this isn't you. I stood by your side through these 8 years and noticed the truth right after I became pregnant. I could see you withering away, your physical appearance has become that of a 75 year old male, while your age is only 30. I could see your eyes begin to shift from blue to red.” she turned her head to face him. “There is severe pain within me, I watched you and still loved you while you fell into this deep despair. Now I have to let you-”. His eyes shot open as he launched his body toward hers trying to eat a chunk of her face, only succeeding in ripping part of her left cheek off while she fended him off with her right arm until she was finally able to shove him to her left side. She immediately stood up as fast as possible, seeing an opportunity to strike. She was barely two feet away from him as he looked her in the eyes after seeing her raised leg about to come down on his temple. She screamed out a loud roar as she destroyed her husband's skull in one swift movement, wearing his brains on her leg. She immediately stripped all clothing off, she slung her broken hand in a makeshift cast from her clothes, and dragged herself inside to await the police after putting on a robe. The officers who handled crimes of magic had little to no research about spells because whatever casts them could be completely random. She had no idea, no way of knowing what caused this. She sits in her room and stares into Oblivion while wondering why. On the clifftop she stands, still wondering why, why did she let him stay? Was it for love? Did she think she could make it better? This clifftop has a nice breeze swimming through her hair, as she feels his invisible grip around her tighten.


Her tight smile never quite reached her eyes, and the irritable way in which she answered every question told me something was wrong with Tara. Staff and patients scurried in and out of the waiting room while she assisted each need with thinly veiled annoyance. On a good day, Tara's eyes were these huge, wide-set owlish things that seemed to evoke as much curiosity as wonderment. Today, the watery, unblinking tenor set a more uneasy tone. I spent the first half of my shift cataloging and dismissing all her cues, but interacting was unavoidable; the obvious nagged all night like an itch. “What’s wrong with you?” I waited until things were quiet, though I knew from experience it wouldn’t last long. As if following my train of thought, Tara's big eyes quickly darted left to right before landing on me with the same level of annoyance she’d possessed with others. “Nothing, I’m fine.” “Are you sure? 'Fine' is universal for--“ “Fine is universal for fuck off,” she claps back. Shoulders slumping, she apologizes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for.” I've always thought Tara was sweet, so I give her a break. She’s beautiful, certainly, in a strange kind of way. A work friend, nothing more, though I wouldn’t say no to a nightcap if we ever found ourselves together outside of work. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I gently demand. “I’m uh... I’m just a little irritable tonight." "It seems like there's more to it. You can talk to me, you know." She makes a strangled sound, followed by an awkward wince. “It’s really kind of embarrassing.” Intrigued, though I try to maintain an expression of concern, I lean forward on the desk between us. Tara's phone sits dormant beside her, the computer screen bright with the evening's calendar. When she realizes I'm not going anywhere without a little more information, reluctantly, she attempts to explain. “I’ve been in this sort of... recovery group. It’s just a little embarrassing to talk about, is all.” Her cheeks tinge pink, and she gestures with an aloofness she clearly doesn’t feel. “Oh, Tara, I had no idea. Are you okay? You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do you have someone to talk about this with? Maybe in HR--“ “No! Sorry, no, I don’t want anyone from HR knowing about this.” “You know, they have no right to discriminate against you for your addiction. It's illegal.” Another strangled sound escapes her. “No, it’s not that kind of addiction.” There's a commotion by the revolving front doors, a couple of security guards dealing with an unruly drunk. I can see the matted blood against his hairline from here. I wish I could say that was uncommon, but it would be a lie. Addiction comes in all forms. I never judge. Turning back to Tara, I remind her of this. She still looks uncomfortable, but at least she's no longer weaponizing those giant, expressive eyes, making me feel like a bother for my concern. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just... I don't think you'd understand." "That's not really fair, Tara. I mean, if you don't want to tell me, that's one thing, but don't use your insecurities against me." Her eyes narrow, but her shoulders relax slightly, falling further from her ears where they've been taking residence all night. "I guess it could help to talk about it. The truth is, I'm obsessed with reading." I wait for the punchline that never comes. She squirms, "Look, I know it doesn't sound like a real thing. But I can't go an hour without it. Since it's books, I always assumed it wasn't a real problem. So what, I'd spend a few extra minutes reading a few paragraphs in the line at the grocery store or stay up a little too late finishing a book because I couldn't sleep without knowing the ending." "Okay..." "I know it doesn't sound like a big deal." I want to dissuade her of that notion, to assure her I understand, but I don't think I can. "I started to realize how much I was using books to escape reality. I skip dinner plans with family or cancel plans with friends or first dates because I'd rather be inside a world created in my head than with other humans. Sometimes I pretend to work, but I'm actually on my Kindle on my phone!" "Tara, that's not good," I chastise her. "What we do here is very important--" "I know, I know. It's awful. I just couldn't stop. Anyway, I'm working on cutting back, it's just hard." "Okay... alright, that's good, Tara." I do my best not to sound condescending, but my fleeting crush on her has, well, fleeted. With a little more confidence, she sits taller in her chair. "I mean, some of it's sophisticated. 'Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.'" Tara's big eyes flutter, watery and distant, lost in some romantic quote from another time and place. Her wistful smile falls off, replaced with the fake, tight one. "That's James Joyce--one of my favorites. And last week, I finished this incredible book, Demon Copperhead. It won a Pulitzer ." "That's very nice, Tara," I give her my own fake smile back, standing a little straighter, ready to get the fuck out of this weird conversation. "But then... then there's this book, Mated by the Monster Orc." "What?" "Yeah. Or like, Seducing the Vampire King. Stuff like that." Blink. Blink. Silence. "Mostly, I like editing those books in my head. Can you imagine if they were done really well? Like, Tolkien meets Debby Does Dallas. Or Brontë meets John Wick. It would be amazing .” "Tara..." "I know, I know. I have a problem. My point is it doesn't matter what I'm reading. It can be the best literary piece of the decade or absolute trash; I just can't stop. It's interrupting my life, it's affecting my work. I love it, and... I don't. I just can't stop escaping reality, even for five minutes. It's so easy to fall into someone else's fantasy." She finally turns to me, but given the physical distance I've put between us, her brow furrows, and she shrinks away, shoulders climbing back toward her ears. I can't bring myself to care. I'm annoyed and offended that she thinks this is an actual problem. I take a deep breath, attempting to sound non-judgemental. "Addiction is a serious thing, Tara. It's complex and consequential--" "Exactly!" "And you're making a mockery of other people's struggles." Shame colors her cheeks, but I can't bring myself to care. "Dr. Matthews?" She calls out as I straighten my stethoscope draping across my neck, and stalk toward the entrance to the ICU. Slamming my palm against the swinging door, I look back at her slack-jawed expression and snap, "Why can't you just do cocaine like the rest of us!"


I questioned her once more: “Wait, what do you mean you cursed me to be loved by all.” “Just that, from now on every human you cross paths with will adore you and kiss the ground you walk upon.” Her deep evergreen eyes glinted in the flicker of the candlelight that rested on the countertop. Her straight ginger hair fell below the palm of her hands which was rubbing her cheek as I spoke. “Well that isn’t very sanitary now is it?” I ask sarcastically. “Actually I was joking about that last bit, but still.” I peer around the shop, taking in more details from the relics with price tags and the vials of various colored liquids, some even appear to be swishing around inside. The closed sign was up as the darkness took over. “Can you reverse it somehow?” A blonde-haired woman, seemingly in her late 20s yet with the vocabulary of an ancient historian. “There is no cure for the curse,” she chimed in, “at least not in-store,” I lit up at that last bit, which was quieter than what she let out before. “Wait what did you say?” “Nothing. Look, I am terribly sorry but you missed your payment. I meant to stick you with a Rain Day curse. You know, flat tire chased by rabid dogs, minor occurrences like that. I wasn’t looking and grabbed the wrong vial,” the ginger-haired woman behind the corner explained. “I was late on one payment, and it was my last payment. I bought that spell from you guys nearly a year ago.” “Margaux’s right, if you made your payment on time, you wouldn't be stuck with Cupid’s Curse,” the blonde-haired woman added. “Cupid’s Curse? Can you at least tell me what exactly you cursed me with and why you hushed your sister when she mentioned a cure that, ” I slowly make quotation gestures with my fingers, “is not in-store?” “Pearah, did you activate the barrier for the front door?” Marguax shouts to her sister who retreated to the back of the store. “I think so, I’ll check,” Pearah shouts back. “Come back tomorrow, with the money for your last payment and we’ll discuss this further.” I sigh sharply, but with no other rebuttals worthwhile I head out, rubbing my hands through my spiked hair intensely. As I walk out the two watch me closely as I start my car and then head home. On the way, my phone rings incessantly. Everyone I seem to know calls, messages, emails, and even inboxes me. Occurring so rapidly I don't even get a chance to respond, though knowing it has something to do with this curse, I turn off my phone and then turn on the radio, attempting to drown out the swirling thoughts racing my mind. On the local top 40 station, I hear my name, I stare at the radio for a moment, shaking my head. I turn up the volume to find I’ve gone viral, yet I haven't posted anything in weeks. They announce today to be the official “Seymour Adoration Day”. I yell every curse word that comes to mind, slam my palm on the steering wheel, then turn off the radio. When I get home I take a brisk shower and then go to bed, taking two melatonin gummies to ease my mind enough to drift to sleep. It didn’t last long as I toss and turn all night long. The next day I head back to the Bartholomew’s store bright and early. The parking on the street is filled so I head around to park behind the store. I pull my hood over my head and keep my head low as I make my way around to the front. Just as I bend the corner I’m spotted. “Seymour! He’s right here!” A woman with a toddler shouts loud enough for the dwellers outside the storefront to pick up on. She pulls out her phone and then pushes it in my face as I hurriedly make my way inside the store. I’m cut off by people screaming my name and grabbing me every which way. Some offer me money, others beg for attention. I yell inside my head and then make a run for the door. Refusing to look back, yet hearing the pumping crowd behind me, I quickly shut the door and twist the look which seems to have been collecting dust for ages. “I’m here,” I shout, with a morning croak and annoyed crack in my voice. I’m met with Margaux, who’s clothed in the same color palette as yesterday. I set the money down on the corner, to the last cent, with an agitated thud. She stashes it away, mumbling the exact amount under her breath, though she didn’t bother to count it. “Now what questions do you have?” She takes a seat behind the corner while fidgeting with a small glowing orb. “I pretty much figured it out for myself, no thanks to the Bartholomew sisters!” She chuckles loudly, her entire body heaving. “My phone won't stop ringing, the city gave me a holiday in my honor and I was nearly trampled on the way inside.” My tone is sharp and my words shoot out quickly. “Calm down now child. I’ll tell you where you can find the antidote.” Margaux heads to the back for a quick moment, then after a shuffling noise and a quick comment to Pearah, she returns with a journal of sorts. She breaths on its spine gently then lets out a quick enchantment. With that, a click resounds from the relic. She flips a few pages, quickly reading the title of each. “I found it Pearah, I nearly forgot!” She pulls a chunk of hair behind her ear as she takes in the contents of the page. “That’s right. In order to make the antidote and reverse Cupid’s Curse, you must sacrifice something you adore.” My head drops low, a part of me expected a fairytale response like that. I pushed down the first thought that came to my mind then asked Margaux about another option. Pearah rounds the corner: “Well there is an escape clause, but you would have to carry it out yourself.” I implore her to go on. “Cupid’s Curse will reverse itself, if you will, after you’ve done something so agonizing, so crudely vile, everyone will be forced to hate you.” After Pearah reveals the escape clause Margaux lights up as if she genuinely forgot that part of the curse, I didn’t question it as I was eager to get this all over with. “That’s it?” I ask. They both look at each other and seemingly share a quick remake or two with their eyes. They then nod their head in unison. “I’d rather be hated and left alone than gawked at constantly, consider it done.” The two look at each other, then at me, confused. “You guys ever heard of cancel culture?” I pull out my phone then head to Twitter and begin typing away.


Nobody expects to face death, yet here I was doing just that. Both figuratively and literally. While not facing Death itself, I was face to face with my potential end. The city around me burned, freshly evacuated; the silver lining in all of this. What we're facing is powerful, and we're dropping like flies; despite being "superheroes". Right now, there was nothing super about us; fighting for our lives as we were. Our enemy looked human, but it was more than that. Though the others may not feel it, I could thanks to my own genetics. I was the long and distant descendant of some small time god that nobody even remembers anymore. Despite millennia of bloodline dilution, I was still somewhat divine. Even if it was less than 1%. "Hey, bird boy!", came a booming voice which snapped me out of my thoughts. I stood and looked out of the second floor window of a building I was hiding in to see Shadow at ground level yelling at where I was. Shadow was one of the top heroes in society. His power gave him minor shadow manipulation, as well as being able to turn into a shadow himself, and being able to spy through shadows. I wasn't surprised he was still alive. "This is no time to be scared, feathers.", came his voice again, "We bought enough time for the civilians to be evacuated. We can go all out on this guy!" My hero name was neither bird boy nor feathers, it was Angel. A little on the nose, but my lack of imagination settled on something that would be considered a cliché pick. You see, remember how I mentioned I was less than 1% divine? Well, when whatever happened that either gave or awoke abilities in people happened, it reacted to that less than 1% in my DNA and I manifested wings. Painfully. It was quite awhile back. Close to 40 years now. When it happened, I woke up screaming and screamed more when I noticed the blood on my sheets. My wings didn't just *magically* appear. They had to grow, and to start the new bones and everything had to rip through my skin. It was a painful three months in the hospital. It also turns out I'm immortal. It didn't end there, however. The government wanted to step in, and that is never fun. I would notice more suits walking around the hospital as I recovered. A nurse was kind enough to inform me the government was planning on taking all of us somewhere once we were recovered. Not only was this my first time learning there were others this was happening to, but the reason the nurse helped is due to this thing happening to her as well. She warned all of us, but the warning came a tad too late as only a few of us were able to get out of the hospital before we were taken away. As time passed, I became more familiar with my abilities. My wings were indestructible, yet soft to the touch. Apparently the god I was descended from was some kind of storm god, so I inherited some of those abilities. I could generate and expel lightning from my own body, manipulate storm clouds and lightning, turn myself into a bolt of lightning to travel faster, and heal quickly from wounds. Despite all of that, I was still considered to be on the low end of the mid-tier spectrum when it came to heroes, which should tell you all you need to know how strong some of the heroes are. So you could understand why I was hiding when most of the mid and top tier heroes were dead. The only word I could describe what we were facing is a "god". I shook those thoughts out of my head and focused on where Shadow was standing, but he was no longer there. I suppose he did not want to wait for me to come out of my reverie. ***\~BOOM\~*** ***\~CRASH\~*** The building shook and more windows shattered from the force of some distant impacts. The brief period of peace was over and the fight resumed. I moved away from the window and took in a deep breath. I wanted to run and hide some more, but I knew I wouldn't be able to do that forever. I was afraid, but those people who had to evacuate were even more afraid than I was. They didn't have superpowers, or quirks, or semblances, or whatever you want to call them. I had power. I had to use it. I unfurled my wings, and they sparkled in the sunlight that came through the window. I took one last calming breath before jumping out of the window and flying towards the source of the battle. It sounded like they were in the business district of downtown. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ What I saw upon arriving to the fight made my stomach turn and was enough to not kill my appetite for a week. Bodies of heroes and unlucky civilians, or whatever was left of them, littered the ground. I want to say it looks like a warzone, but it was worse. As I flew by, I noticed blood and... parts stuck to the walls of buildings or hung from what few street lights were left standing. "Hey, birdie" came that voice again though it was cut off by several bouts of coughing, "you made it." I found Shadow. It wasn't good. I slowed down and landed infront of him, kneeling as I did. He was sitting up against what I suppose was the remains of a large mailbox. The entire bottom half of his body was just gone. I was spared the gore-y viscera as what appeared to be shadow stuff came pouring out of the wound. I was silent for a few moments before speaking. "I'm sorry.", was all I could say. I had let him down. Hell, I was letting everyone down by being a coward and turning tail at the first sign of our inevitable loss. Shadow smiled, coughing up blood shortly after. "Don't say that, bird brain.", he said between coughs. "I know exactly how you feel. I was scared too. But, as heroes it's our duty to not let that fear get to us." His face contorted in pain for a moment, and he went silent for a few moments. I was conflicted. I wanted to turn around and get away from here. I wanted to hide. Maybe I could survive the vacuum of space and leave this damned planet behind. Many heroes better than I were dead; defeated easily when facing that god thing. Shadow probably saw the look on my face, because he reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. "Listen, kid. I'm not going to tell you not to be scared. But what I am gonna say is to use that fear for something useful. Fear can either freeze you in place, or make you do things you never thought were possible out of sheer desperation for survival.", he coughed a few more times and his arm dropped. "Don't let this be a regret, kid. After all...", he paused for a moment and his eyes locked with mine, "you're all that's left." He died. What the hell kind of pep talk was that? Use my fear? I'm all that's left? Kid? I was older than he was! My mind raced and my heart pounded. I was out of my league. At that thought I stood and my gaze swept across the destruction. Then again, so were they. It wasn't just the strongest heroes we had that fought and died here, but the weakest as well. As my eyes looked across this torn up street, I even noticed a few police uniforms. My breathing slowed. I was afraid. Scared shitless. I looked back at Shadow's body. Though it's what I do with that fear, right? Then I felt it. I had barely any time to react, but I managed to get my wing in the way of whatever blow was being directed at me. Something connected and I was sent careening down the street, with the only thing stopping me being the wall of a tall building. I bit my tongue from the impact, and I could feel the back of my skull bleeding. My wing was broken, but it was already slowly healing itself, as were my other wounds. I spit out the blood pooling within my mouth and stood up. My eyes rose and stopped when they met the gaze of my attacker, who floated several feet above the street. It was that god thing. My eyes wanted to look away and my brain raked against the sight. It was clearly humanoid with what appeared to be black wings hanging off of it's back, but I couldn't see much else beyond whatever it was doing to conceal it's true form. I now know why the other heroes couldn't beat this guy. Who knew my minuscule amount of divinity would end up being so useful. I could handle looking at this thing directly. I prepared myself to take flight. Perhaps I had a chance after all.