Speak to Me “Speak now,” Virginia said to the photograph of her sister. She waited patiently. She had always been patient with her sister, an emotional woman who had been married five times, always to assholes. Virginia has sat through many midnight phone calls with her sister, Elizabeth, sobbing on the other end of the line. Virginia had waited till the sobs subsided and then said, “Speak now.” She said it again to the photograph but it remained silent. Fine, there were other people to talk to. Virginia drifted over to the grand piano. No one played it now but it provided an excellent surface for her gallery. There were photos of her late husband, her three children, her own parents and even a group photo of herself and her three best friends from school. My, that was an old one. She picked it up and smiled at Emily. What a card Emily had been! “Remember that time you bleached your hair blonde Em? How the hell had it turned green?” Virginia chuckled. “You didn’t care, did you Em? You went out that night anyway. We had a great time at the club, dancing till our feet nearly bled. Those were the days, Em, weren’t they?” Virginia patted the photo and then turned to her husband. “And then I met you, Jerome.” Virginia sighed and sat down on the piano bench. She let her fingers drift over the keys but no melody came to enliven them. She wiped the dust from her fingers onto her dress. “If I had know Jerome, what it would be like living with you, I’m not sure I would have gotten married. Oh, I loved you, but my God, you were a pain in the ass. If one thing was out of place you blew your top. If I took too long getting ready to go out; if the meat was slightly overcooked, you lost the plot. I think the war screwed you up. It screwed up all the men in your generation. We girls were happy enough on our own but when you came home, we were expected to marry you and settle down. Give you happy homes and healthy children, erasing everything that happened to you. How the hell were we supposed to do that? Seriously, Jerome, you expected too much.” She was holding the frame now and gave it a good shake. Then she placed it face down on the top of the piano. At least there were the boys. She lifted each photo in turn, scrutinizing the faces, all quite similar, though one wore glasses. “I did enjoy raising you three. I think I liked the bed time stories best of all. You were clean and quiet then and I sat down on the bed beside you and read the stories. It was the same book I used for all three of you. I had those stories memorized by the time Martin came along. I wish one of you had like music though. Funny that both your parents were musical but not a one of you took to an instrument, no matter how hard we tried. It was all sports, sports, sports and look at you now, all fat and middle aged doing desk jobs. If you had been musical, you could still be playing.” “I wanted to be a pianist,” she said to the photo of her parents, “I was quite talented. You loved listening to me play, didn’t you Daddy? But you both thought I should get married and settle down. I’d be happier. It would be better for me.” She walked away from the piano then and looked up at the portrait of Debussy that hung over her fireplace. “Did you like the way I played your work? Or do you think I was better off in the kitchen than studying your pieces?” Debussy gazed back pensively but did not reply. She returned to Elizabeth. “You haven’t rung in ages darling. I know I was a bit hard on you last time you called but I wish you had listened when I told you he was only after your money. I mean, why would any guy marry someone our age if it wasn’t for our money? He was at least twenty years your junior.” She paused. “Ok, I’m sorry. I was a bit harsh but I am your big sister.” “Ah, there you are Mrs. Woodville,” the carer was wearing a pink uniform today. Virginia turned, holding her sister’s photo and stared at the intruder. The girl in pink was called .... She always wore pink. The other girl wore blue. And sometimes there was an older woman who came in a striped top. “Do you want to go for your walk now Mrs. Woodville? It’s Wednesday. It’s not raining. We can go to the cemetery if you like and you can put some flowers on you sister’s grave. I see you’ve been talking to her again.” The carer took the photo from Virginia and placed it back on the mantlepiece under Debussy. “Elizabeth likes daffodils.” “That’s right. You told me that last week. I think we might be able to find some now. Spring is just around the corner.” “Spring,” Virginia mused. “I used to accompany Jerome when he played the violin part.” The carer cocked her head. “On the piano? You liked to play at Spring time?” “No dear, Vivaldi’s four seasons. The Spring movement.” “Oh.” The carer smiled, “I’ve never heard that song. It’s sound pretty. Would you play it for me?” Virginia glared at the girl, “I don’t play anymore. Especially not Vivaldi.” She held out her gnarled fingers. “Arthritis.” The carer looked at the ancient fingers, twisted and swollen. The knuckles were red. Then she chanced a glance at the wrinkled face, the rheumy eyes, the thinning white hair and barely supressed a shudder. How awful it would be to be old. It was bad enough to have to work with them. She stepped forward and took Virginia by the arm. “Well, let’s go now and have our walk, shall we?” “Into the Spring?” “Um, Yes, into the Spring.” At the doorway, Virginia turned around, “Good-bye,” she said, waving to her photographs. The carer gave a little tug. It was time to go.


Chapter 1 “Uncle Pig snorted at the webcam,” Did you say a doctor?” “Um ... a medical scribe, the person who takes notes for the doctor.” “So, you’re a note-taker?” “Yes, but I also ....” My uncle squealed, “You spent five years at college taking notes to take more notes!” “Well, I ....” “What happened to medical school?” His words sunk into my subconsciousness. Like most humans, I once had a dream. But eventually, you learn that nothing is free, and medical school comes with a price tag of $324,500.99 . Bo and Ma, my immigrant parents, ran a hair salon. In the front window, a green neon sign flashed--Splendid Cuts. Vietnamese immigrants, like my parents, often enter the beauty industry--that or selling Pho. Sure, a lifetime supply of Pho sounds good, but at least I get free haircuts. But again, nothing is free, especially haircuts. Bo made a deal--one haircut for every straight A’s on my report card. Unfortunately, I suck at biology. By Halloween, people thought I was Chewbacca. Blinded by my bangs, I pleaded for a haircut. Bo nodded, but only under one circumstance. Bo stumbled downstairs with a stack of papers under his armpit. It was a large manuscript. “It’s heavier than I remembered,” Bo was catching his breath. “Your philosophy thesis?” “No, I burned that decades ago. These are the dreams, the dreams of all your ancestors. My eyes widen, unsure which I was more surprised by, Bo burning his life’s work or needing to read that monstrosity. Bo flicked my forehead, “Are you ready to add yours?” Chapter 2 Have you listened to a song while you’re in love and then heartbroken? It’s different. Sure, the pitches, lyrics, and melody are all the same, but what changed is you. I was on a plane to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, listening to “Xanh” by Ngot, a Vietnamese band. Indie music, often calm and tranquil, allows me to sort through my thoughts. I felt a gentle tap. “Sorry to bother you, but would you like a drink? We also provide alcohol,” a female flight attendant smiled. “Sorry, I have a history of stomach ulcers,” I bowed politely. “Oh, no worries, let me show you the non-alcoholic menu.” Her mannerism was attractive. Her listening made me feel like a human with thoughts, feelings, and dreams. Perhaps I’m overthinking. It’s her job to listen. Subtle loneliness fills me as I sip my Coca-Cola. When my family arrived at Ho Chi Minh International Airport, we were stopped by a security guard. Bo had brought fourteen automatic solar-powered garage lights, which got some suspicion. The guard’s Vietnamese accent was thick, but I could translate a word here and there. Ma began opening her purse, filled with US dollars. I slapped her hand, “What are you doing?” “We can pay him off.” “No, that makes us seem like snotty rich people.” “I’ve seen it work,” she nudged on. “Where?” “In K-dramas ... and that one award-winning Jewish-Nazi film.” Luckily, Uncle Pig came to help, who just happened to be the airport manager. Ma said her brother started as a janitor, mopping and sweeping his way to becoming a security guard, assistant manager, and now the big man. Although never top of his class, he was good at staying put. In fact, he stayed in high school for an extra three years. If you’re patient enough, everyone eventually leaves, and you get the promotion. We loaded the fourteen automatic solar-powered garage lights onto the taxi. Afterward, Ma rushed over to hug Uncle Pig. “Why are you so fat?” She slapped Uncle Pig’s belly. “Because you keep sending us American chocolates!” Ho Chi Minh City is a bustling ant colony, but instead of ants, there are motorbikes, lots of them. I once watched this National Geographic video of ants attacking a beetle. That’s how I imagine our four-wheel taxi, slowly ambushed by an army of metal smokers. Chapter 3 Our taxi made its way down to Tan An, the city Bo grew up in. The streets were filled with local food vendors, red plastic chairs, and straw baskets filled with longan, durian, jackfruit, mango, and dragon fruit. Several of my uncles in Vietnam eat fruit almost religiously. Unfortunately, too much of anything is bad. Uncle Pig developed type 2 diabetes last summer. I see type 2 diabetes quite often, especially as an ophthalmology scribe. A big word, right? If you google “ ophthalmology,” you’ll get about 265,000,000 million results with stock images of lab-coated doctors examining the eyes of happy and smiling individuals. Let me tell you a little secret, eye exams are not fun, especially dilated ones. The assistant comes in, asks about your weekend, and dilates your pupil. As your eye pupil opens, more light enters your eye. Suddenly, the world looks like Heaven, but not in a good way. The intensive light is so blinding that I once thought my bed night light was a car headlight. I might be over-exaggerating, but Uncle Pig would agree with me. He has early-stage diabetic retinopathy and needs a dilated diabetic eye exam every 6 months. Other patients are not so lucky, getting eye injections every month. Sounds rough, but after the 2nd or 3rd one, eye injections become routine, like doing your yearly taxes or cutting an overgrown toenail. “Ugh, looks like it’s raining again ....” Uncle Pig yelled while driving. “Did you watch the news about the flood in Seoul?” Bo asked. “Yeah, I did, seven missing people. Such a developed city, but a little rain, and suddenly you’re in Venice, Italy.” We parked near a narrow alley, water pouring down the walkway. Three houses down stood a silhouette of figures waving to us. One of the figures ran towards us. I couldn’t believe it; it was her. Chapter 4 I met her five years ago when life seemed simpler. Our fathers were childhood friends, attended university together, and even shared the same birthmark on their necks. Of course, Ma believed this was a sign, taking it upon herself to arrange a marriage. Barely nineteen with rose lips, a thin waist, and a soft-spoken appearance, she probably had hundreds of prospective men. I had just turned twenty--still needing a fake ID to purchase beer for parties. For health reasons, I avoid drinking as much as possible. Yet, I wanted to grab a drink with her. “You want to grab a McFlurry?” she smiled. “Sure,” I replied, starting to feel jet lagged. I couldn’t tell whether my shirt was drenched by rain or sweat. She was twenty-four now. I was twenty-five, yet time seemed to have stayed still since our first encounter. I held an umbrella over her head, doing my best to keep her dry. She smelled good, a sweet familiar fragrant. “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” she put her hand on my shoulder. “She lived a good life,” I made a face, unsure if I had told a lie. Grandma lived through a war and gave birth to nine children--one died stepping on a land mine. Their farmland was burned by soldiers, forcing her to evacuate her family to the capital. But when Saigon fell, her husband was imprisoned, forcing Grandma to support her family by weaving baskets and mats. Upon her husband’s release, they immigrated to America, only allowed to bring half of their children. Luckily, Bo met the requirements. A decade later, I was born an American citizen. Although Grandma helped raise me, I never understood her, nor did she with me. She died last week, now waiting to be cremated. We arrived in front of large double golden arches--McDonald’s. Inside was playing a familiar tune, “Xanh” by Ngot. As the girl ordered two McFlurries, I found seats near the window. Outside, an elderly couple kissed in the rain, perhaps celebrating their 50th anniversary. A large sapphire diamond wrapped around the woman’s finger. It must have weighed at least nine grams, the weight of twelve small peanuts. I wondered if she ever felt tired wearing it; surely your finger must be sore if you glued that many peanuts to it. The girl had returned with two trays, “McFlurries with a side of fries, your favorite.” I dipped a french fry into my McFlurry, stirring it around, “Actually, it’s a side of Banh Cuon.” “No way, you told me McDonald’s!” “It used to be, but that was a while back.” Five years to be exact. Long enough for your eyebrows to come back after shaving them. Long enough for me to graduate. Long enough for a global pandemic to destroy my social life. I was a different person, and so was she. Chapter 5 I stared at her, wondering if it was the same girl from five years ago. Her eyes, blue and dilated, resembled two pools filled with thoughts, feelings, and dreams. Yet, I stood from afar all these years, observing from a distance. I continued to stare blankly, now even unsure of her name. “Have you started medical school? You said your dream was to be a doctor, right?” She asked. I choked on a McFlurry-covered french fry. “I’m alright ... um ... maybe I was just blindly in love with the idea,” I popped a few fries in my mouth, glancing at the elderly couple outside. “So, you don’t want to be a doctor?” “Not sure. It’s not glamorous like everyone thinks it is. There are days when you come home yelled at by patients, drowning in documents, and wondering if you developed a mental health disorder yourself.” “Not as glamorous? You mean like marriage.” She smirked. “I suppose,” I chuckled. We wiped our table, returned the food trays, and strolled down Ho Chi Minh Square, a popular tourist area. The girl kept a fixed gaze ahead--a street food cart. She grabbed my hand, pulling me through a large sea of people. A smell emanated from afar. A jazz band in the background was playing Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood,” creating a tranquil vibe. The food cart hung a cardboard sign, painted on it were the words: Banh Cuon. A man, probably the owner, was busy chopping scallions, cucumbers, and mint leaves. He then rushed over with a cloth, wiping down two plastic chairs and a table, gesturing for us to sit down. Before we could order, a plate of Banh Cuon was already laid in front of us. After a careful examination, I took a bite. My tongue was experiencing a beautifully orchestrated symphony: strings of sweetness from the chili fish sauce, beats of savoriness from the smoky wood ear mushrooms, and a tiny note of tanginess from the splash of lemon. Opening my eyes, the girl in front of me disappeared. Instead, an elderly woman sat before me. Her eyelids sagged, hair withered and grey. It was Grandma. I choked, gasping for air. She rushed over, smacking the back of my head. A piece of pork flew out of my mouth. A tear fell down my cheek, “Grandma, I’m sorry ....” “For what, my dear?” She asked in Vietnamese. “We lived together twenty years, yet I never asked about your life. I don’t even know your name ... I skipped Vietnamese classes. I was selfish, wanted to play with my friends, but now I regret it ....” She replied, “My child, you did know me. You listened. Maybe not with your ears, but you always felt it down here--your heart.” I wiped my tears. Grandma disappeared and left in her seat was the girl. She was now leaning at the edge of her chair, “Are you alright?” “I talked to Grandma.” Her eyes widened, “What did she say?” I sniffled and smiled, “She gave me her name."


Ansel was an introvert who gave birth to an extrovert. Her son was Teddy Glenn, unquestionably the most popular person in town. He had owned a record store that regularly hosted local musicians. Many untalented groups performed at “Teddy’s Tunes” and even a few talented ones, but no matter the caliber of music, of persons playing, or the size of the crowd, Teddy would heap praise. His door was open for everyone. And he would talk to anyone, would lend a sum of money to a stranger without questions. His mood was constantly bright and infectious- but now he was dead, killed by a rare poor decision. What angered Ansel most was the nature of his ending. He was beyond that age, she thought, where one smashed drunkenly into a tree and kills himself. She got to see the car-- it was turned into a pitch fork. The pine wasn’t injured beyond a few smashed bark plates. That damn tree, she had to see it everyday, or at least pass it, because Ray Road was her only route to work. She avoided looking directly at it, but it was hard to keep it out of the peripheries due to the circus that was wrapped around the evergreen conifer. It stood right at the bend of Ray Road, and cars were slowing at that bend now to get a look at the display of flowers surrounding the tree. Her son’s popularity became a great nuisance for her once he was killed. He had a lot of friends, but they weren’t her friends . For a while it was a daily burden. At the grocery store heads would bow, arms would wrap her in hugs, and tears would wet the eyes of strangers showing their grief for her loss. Perhaps their loss too, but if so, keep it to your damn self, she thought. After almost two months this was still happening, this excessive display of mourning, and she had become prone to barking short, cold replies. “Alright! Are you going to offer me your apologies for a century?” She said to a group of ratty looking musicians in line at the grocery store. The young clerk, who dressed in leatherpants and a boys t-shirt, said, “You know, Teddy was down with everybody, that means a ton of people are still hurting...and I think--“ No one saw it coming, because it was a perfect move. Ansel controlled her purse like a dungeon master does the whip. There was also a can of soda in her purse, which surely supplied the knock-out. To add to the violence, she also followed back with another blow to the other side of his head. The clerk went down in an awkward fashion, his leather pants seemed to delay his fall by a few seconds. There was a great inflexibility around the knees and this caused him to stumble and nick his head on the counter, supplying an extension to his unconsciousness. The manager made his way over to the scene. His pace was calm, slow even, considering what he’d been told about the incident, and where things lay. Ansel was by the side of the young man on the floor. The manager said, “It’s always something with this guy,” then he bent down and waived a small pepper stick in front the young man’s nose. “Just head out, Mrs. Glenn. You don’t need to deal with this type of thing right now.” “I forgot about the drink in my bag.” “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he wasn’t even looking at his employee on the ground. “Here, lets put those groceries on the house.” She’d never knocked a man out before, and she herself was in a daze as she floated out of the store to her car. Before she could put the car in gear, the manger came running out, holding a bouquet of flowers. “He’s back on his feet, and he wanted you to have these. For the memory of your son.” She thought about charging back inside the store and giving that little punk-rocker the one-two again. Instead she smashed them and then began grinding the bouquet on the dashboard, yellows and pinks were left behind on the rubber. She floored it out of the parking lot. When she got to the bend of Ray Roadshe drifted over the other lane and slammed on the breaks on the gravel shoulder. Ansel got out and furiously tore the flowers from the tree, kicking the ones that surrounded the trunk at the ground. Her palm was sliced open by a piece of windshield still lodged in the bark from the accident. There were vinyl records too, and she started chucking those like frisbees across the street.There was a teddy bear on the lowest branch and she tried to pull its head off. She thought about burning it down, the whole scene, but she settled for picking up a card with a woman’s lipstick kisses all over it and shredding it up. She scattered the blood stained litter above her head and got back in her car.  The sun was almost down as she drove home. There were headlights behind her dimly switching on and off, flagging her, but she didn’t care- didn’t care if her trunk was on fire; she wasn’t in the mood. Finally, the honking started. That didn’t do much. Then the driver pulled up next to her. It was the grocery clerk. “Hey! Can I just say.... Fuck you!” He struggled with the wheel and aligned himself again, “and I didn’t send you those flowers lady. I’ll be takin your ass to court.” “So you would take Teddy’s mom to court?” Yelled Ansel. She noticed his mouth start to quiver like a hurt child’s, unknowingly she took her foot off the gas and he sped past her. On her way to work the next day, there were cars parked along the bend of Ray Road. People were getting out with both arms full of bouquets, some ribbons, and teddy bears. Ansel wanted to speed by but a young woman was crossing the road and she had no choice but to stop. The young woman recognized her and ran over to the window.  “Don’t worry Mrs. Glenn,” she said, “We are gonna fix this. Some jerk shredded everything to bits. But you know, we got Teddy’s back.”  “It was me,” said Ansel. “Enough with the goddamn flowers.” She sped away from the freak show, feeling righteous. Spring was in bloom, and she took the brief pleasure of breathing it in through her open window, a tiny intermission from her sorrow. Only when she made the return drive, she saw that there were so many flowers pinned to the bark now, it had become grotesque. It looked like an invasive species. She said aloud “Clown Ivy, brought to you by clowns.” There was a moment when she thought vomit was coming, but she overcame and made it home. On her couch was a gift basket wrapped in plastic. She punctured it for the wine bottle. After one glass her mind went to the image of that tree being suffocated with flowers. Those would have to go away at some point, but was there always going to be an emblem there on the trunk reminding her that her son had smashed into something and destroyed himself? Would he forever be a totem? To herself she said, “Nope.” Teddy’s chainsaw was in her garage. She’d almost finished the bottle of wine, and the idea was shinning brighter and brighter. The sky was night-blue, the air was cool and comfortable, and the chain-saw started without much of a sweat. Ansel had scraped away a section of clown ivy low on the trunk to make her cut. It went stop-and-go for a while, but she’d made her diagonal slices in the right spots, and the tree finally fell, away from Ray Road A cop car came from both sides of the bend, they were answering a complaint of noise pollution. Their sirens washed the jagged stump and the surrounding flowers blue and red. Ansel had just put the chainsaw back in the trunk, the officers were being calm and understanding with her. “Sorry for your loss,” said one of them. It seemed as if they were tip-toeing around the arrest. Then the sound of an engine farting in the distance was heard, and quick little chirps of tires on the asphalt. “Get to the gravel,” an officer said. It was a wise command. The car came to the bend and lost the road. It flipped, rolling right over the stump, and landing upright. The driver got out, panting, shaking both hands with rapidity. It was the grocery clerk. Ansel recognized that skinny frame and could hear his leather pants. She ran to hug him, to make amends, to celebrate his survival! “Hey,” she said, “Looks like I cut it down just in time. You would have killed yourself!” She started jogging towards the young man, with her arms spread open. “Please, let me check you out, let me give you a hug, please! I’m sorry!” The clerk stepped backwards, and tripped over the fallen tree. He got back on his feet and bolted into the darkness. When Ansel got out of jail, she went back to work, untroubled by flowers and memorials.


Henry had waited all afternoon for his aunt to take the children away. Now she had, but the hour was late and his mind remained on the clock as he hurried upstairs. Behind him, from down in the dining room, his grandmother called for him to bring down two more tablecloths from the linen closet. "Can you just wait a minute?" he grumbled. After a full day of scrubbing floors and washing windows, following one order after another, he just wanted to be clear of it all and to do the one last job that remained, and then to sit on his bed alone for a few minutes. The house would be full soon, and hot, and noisy, for the whole evening, and he wanted the peace of his room, if only for an hour or less. His grandmother called after him again, and he grumbled again, sure she had not heard him either time. He missed her annoyed reply as he closed the bedroom door behind him. Making his way to the closet across the room he tripped over one of the children's toys. He grumbled again, this time about the constant use of his room as their play area anytime his aunt brought the children for a visit. Today they had arrived just before noon so the aunt could help prepare the house for the Christmas party. It was now nearly five o'clock. The party was to begin in barely ninety minutes. They had stayed all day, the aunt and her three boys, and now Henry waded through the mess the boys had made of his room. He inadvertently kicked several more toys, the sighs from his nostrils sounding more frustrated each time. He reached his closet door and when pulling it open he heard it smack yet another object on the floor in front of it. Something heavy this time. He looked down and saw a large plastic truck meant for a boy of maybe eight or perhaps younger. Without thinking he wound up his foot and with a swift kick launched the truck across the room. Pieces of it flew in several directions when the thing smashed into the wall. Henry found no joy in watching it fall broken to the bed. After staring at it with enraged eyes for a long moment, and with fists clenched tightly against his sides, he turned and looked down, at the high tide of toys, none of which belonged to him, that covered much of the floor of his room. Near his feet lay a toy soldier in battle dress. He raised a foot and stomped the soldier once, with enough force to flatten it and send the head flying off into a corner. His other foot then came down on a house made of plastic building blocks. The sound of it crumbling was close enough to glass shattering that Henry paused for a moment to listen for anyone who might have heard it downstairs. Nothing. Satisfied, he began stomping all about the room, moving from corner to corner until the eruption spent itself. Standing again just inside the door to the room, he moved back across it to the closet. From the high shelf he pulled down three boxes. With a sweep of one arm he cleared broken toy bits from the bed and set the boxes down in a perfect row. From the closet he took three rolls of wrapping paper, some tape, and three bows--one silver, one gold, one striped with Christmas red and green. On the high shelf of the closet was a plain shroud that Henry pulled down, revealing three toys behind it. One at a time he took them down and set one next to each of the boxes. For Maurice, his aunt's youngest boy, Henry had chosen a wooden airplane made for Henry by his grandfather, who had flown fighters during the war. It had been a gift Henry received on his eighth birthday, the year his parents died and he moved here to the house where his mother had grown up, to the room where she had slept all her life and where Henry spent the first few months of his. For Charles, the middle boy, Henry had chosen a baseball glove Henry's hand had outgrown several years before. It was still in pristine condition. It, too, had been a gift, from a great-uncle who had once tried out for the major leagues but was never quite good enough for that level. Henry never had anyone to toss baseball with, so the glove had remained in the closet so long that Henry could not recall the last time he had used it. For Sidney, the oldest of the three boys, Henry had chosen a book of bird and butterfly photographs, with some drawings made in it by Henry's great-grandmother. She had been a teacher of science and nature at the women's college, and her drawings won her several prizes around the state. When Henry was eleven he found it in the bottom of a storage chest. His grandmother had been sure the book had been thrown away, and since no one could lay claim to it anymore, the book has been given to Henry. When none of the birds in the backyard ever seemed to match the birds in the book, Henry tucked it away and forgot about it. Henry took the lids off all three boxes. He measured out pieces of wrapping paper and laid each by the box it was meant to cover. The small bows were set on the paper, and then rearranged for the best color coordination. He picked up the tape and began to roll off small strips to cut for wrapping. He had just cut the first piece when his bedroom door was thrown open. "Henry! I asked you for two tablecloths! We're waiting for them downstairs. What are you doing?" From where he knelt on the floor next to the bed Henry looked up to see his grandmother standing in the doorway. Before he could answer her, she looked around at the toy carnage that covered the floor and cut off his reply. "Henry, what on earth happened in here?" "I just came up to-" "All of these toys are broken! How did this happen?" Henry looked around at everything he had done. His grandmother lightly kicked away a few pieces of toys closest to where she stood. "Did the boys leave these like this?" Henry stood up and assumed the same stance as his grandmother, and looked at her with utmost sincerity. "Yes." She put her hands on her hips and twisted her mouth sternly. "I can't believe they left this mess for you to clean up." "I know." "Is that what you were doing?" Henry looked at the bed and made a wholehearted gesture with his hands toward the gifts. His grandmother's shoulders dropped as the tension left her voice. "Oh, dear! You're wrapping gifts for them, and look at the present they left for you!" With a frustrated sigh Henry replied, "Yeah." He shrugged his shoulders, with a magnanimous expression on his face. "You sweet boy! Don't you finish cleaning this. Do your wrapping. I'll fetch the tablecloths." "But I can-" "Those boys will be back in a bit. I'll make sure they take care of this." Henry bit his bottom lip and looked around the room again. His grandmother came to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "And that they apologize to you!" "That's okay, Grandma. I can clean-" She touched his chin and lifted his face so their eyes met. "Those boys don't deserve what you're doing for them in here, I can say that for sure." She hugged him. Henry did not return the embrace. She never noticed. She was looking over his shoulder at the gifts lined up on the bed. She pulled away from him. "Are you giving away these, to your cousins?" "Yeah." "But why, Henry? You loved these! I remember when you got all of them. Why would you give these away?" "I... I don't know. It's family stuff. It's all for kids. They're kids. I didn't know what to buy them. I don't know what little boys want." "But you're a boy, Henry. You can think of-" "I'm not a boy anymore, like them. I don't know what they want, what they play with." His grandmother looked around at all the shattered items on the floor. "Well, they like to play with... this." Henry looked around the floor, too. He had nothing left to say. "I'm sure they'll get plenty of presents from their mother and father, Henry. Keep your things. I want you to keep those things here in the house." She hugged him again. He didn't hug her back. She did not notice this time, either. When she left the room she pulled the door closed behind her without looking back. Henry sat on the bed and enjoyed the peace of his room for the hour or less he had left until the house filled up for the rest of the evening. Downstairs Henry slipped in and out among the throng of aunts and uncles and distant relatives he had not seen since the previous Christmas and would not see again until the next one. At various times he heard the names of his three younger cousins, called out by an annoyed grown-up. Drinks were spilled. "Maurice, look what you've done!" A wadded tissue was launched onto someone's dinner plat. "Charles, that's rude. Say you're sorry." On and on the evening went. When gifts were opened Henry disappeared into the kitchen with his package of new socks and his small stack of school notebooks. He heard the names of his three cousins called again. Then the voice of the uncle who was playing Santa Claus. "And these are from... Henry! There you are boys! Merry Christmas!" "From Henry? Oh, what a sweet boy!" His grandmother's voice was rising above the murmurs in the other room. "I told him he didn't have to do this!" He heard her call out for him, asking where he had gone. No one answered. He heard the boys tearing the paper from the boxes. "Open it! Open it!" he heard from his aunt, the boys' mother. He didn't know which boy had gotten his box open first. He had put extra amounts of tape on all three, to keep the lids secured extra tightly. He heard the ripping of tape, finally, and then the crashing of broken toy pieces hitting the floor. Then the same sound repeated, and repeated again. The other room fell silent, and it seemed even quieter as he moved up the back stairs and headed toward his room. "What are those?" a clueless grown-up asked. No answer came. After more silence, his grandmother's voice shouted "Henry! Henry where are you?" On his bed, in the peace of his room, he lay with his head resting on an old baseball glove, like a pillow. An old wooden airplane was set next to him, and he was looking quite contentedly in a book, at drawings of butterflies.


He should have known that happiness wasn’t in his cards. Whenever it finds its way to him, it is ripped away from him. Figuratively...and literally. The knight who gave him his name laid on the grass, just like how he and she used to do. The green mixed with the red still seeping from her armor, barely visible in the midnight rain. Her eyes were dim, a far cry from the sun they once were. He breathed heavily, his hands still on her wounds. He knew she was gone, but if he stopped, he didn’t know what would happen to him. His back was turned to the moon, the damned orb at fault for all this. The curse that brought upon the beast that attacked them. “...my love.” His voice, hoarse and dry, finally spoke the words he never dared to say, tears or rain falling onto the still face framed by golden hair. “I couldn’t save you.” The beast was too strong, and even he couldn’t hold it back. Even after all the training with her, all the times she reassured him that if it came back, he would be strong enough to beat it... He failed. He was a failure. He couldn’t do it. It killed her, his failure killed her. What would her brothers say? They were right to distrust him, after all. Right to say that he could never protect her. Voices. He could hear voices. The twins...if they saw their sister there, they would blame him. They would be right to do so. The claws and marks on her broken and battered body told their story. The fact he was alive told its story. He had to leave her, flee to the woods and start anew. ...how was he supposed to find his way without her? Before he knew it, his gaze found hers again, the rain on her cheeks mimicking the tears he could never understand. Why would anyone cry for him? Why would anyone care for him, a mere peasant found on the streets? A shadow of a man. The voices grew louder. He shut his eyes. Let them capture him. Let them put him on trial. Let him be executed. That way he could never fail to protect anyone again, especially from the beast of the woods. He looked down at himself. Slashes and blows, shallow cuts into his skin. Of course. She died. Not him. It should have been him. If he had been stronger, she would have lived. He would have died, as it always should have been. His mind wandered to the twins’ reaction to finding their sister. His hair stood on end. It wasn’t due to the cold plaguing the night. “...my knight. My sun.” How funny words could be. He strained to force himself up, but just like before she lost her light, he couldn’t control his body. He couldn’t move. He was weak. He always has been. Get up. Get up and fight another day, dear. Those had always been her words. An easy order to follow, but why did they ring so hollow now? If he didn’t get up, he would be incarcerated or killed, which she wouldn’t have wanted. She’d want him to live on. But if he lived on, especially without her... There was no future. Please, don’t think that way. There is always a future for you. For everyone. He swallowed. Were those words fabricated or her spirit? He didn’t know. Insanity was no stranger to him. Let me go. Gone were his palms from the freezing body of his sun. He slowly retreated back into the woods, eyes not leaving her, step quickening at the same pace as those from the twins. And when he heard their howls, he collapsed. “...I’m sorry.” He was undeserving of the name she had given him. Her gift was in vain. He scrambled for the necklace, almost finding it lost among the freezing cold on his chest. Relief flooded him when he finally found the piece of metal, yanked it away, and threw it on the ground where it shattered. Moon. That’s what a piece said. How funny. He stood up, trampling on the item with such ferocity that it cut into his soles. Red poured from him, so much more than during the battle. Less than he deserved. Less than should have been. He panted, the necklace broken into a million pieces, its other half still intact. He knew what word awaited him, but he didn’t dare pick it up. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He wouldn’t... He couldn’t. Not again. He knew that if he did, then not even the greatest guards could be protected, not even the most mighty of warriors would survive. ...and yet. His heart had shattered with the pieces of her gift. It would have been the only thing keeping him together, so maybe, just maybe, if he looked upon that half again, he could be whole. He could be with her and her gift. What foolish hope. And yet... The cold metal was barely noticeable in the rain. He paused, the blank material staring up at him. One single motion was enough. He spiraled. He fell. His sun, his knight, had given him his name, yet he often found himself forgetful of it, undeserving. And now, as he stared down upon it, he knew why. He truly was undeserving of it. He was not the only foolish one. ...less. Something erupted from his throat. Laughter, a sound he thought himself unable to produce. His sensitive ears picked up the voices behind the trees filled with anger and wrath and grief. Shouting that grew louder and closer. Let them. Perhaps they stood a chance. ...no, what was the point anymore? The only person able to control it was gone. Moonless rose, vision blurry, claws digging into the dirt. The rain had stopped. He snorted, staring up at the clear sky. The full moon stood tall and bright. Moonless howled. Moonless cried.


On a planet far, far away with people not unlike our own, a city rocked sullenly under the dim glow of a brilliant star. An intricately-tangled mess of docks and rafts, destined to drift for all eternity on a world where dry land was but a mystical fantasy, a story told to children of far-away lands and strange beings. When the stars disappeared, there existed nothing but night; but the heavens had not finished writing their story, and so a star was sent down to illuminate the darkness these people lived in. A boy bathed in celestial light, whose fate was to purge the eternal black this land relished in. But radiant light blinds those who gaze upon it; and thus he was cast away, to sail in an endless orbit around this hopeless place the people called home. A boy who was one with the universe, yet, paradoxically, forever alone. Somewhere in the city, a church bell rang out, and a congregation of sinners gathered once again.   ## Waves lapped upon the small dinghy their star-boy was made to call home, and the small craft swayed gently on the eternal sea, lulling the boy back home. Visions of a place he once knew floated through his mind, scenes of planets and comets dancing among the stars. *Here to raise these people to the light, yet cast out for that very same reason. How absurd!* Although he was stuck with such a hopeless purpose, the star-boy found solace in the tranquility of the waves; and although he was so far from home, he took consolation in the ever-unchanging nature of the sea. *I should despair, yet every wave brings me a feeling of comfort. I suppose if I am to be hopeless anywhere, this is not a bad place to be.* The boy watched the fish perform their daily dance off the side of his boat, and as he had every time before, he imagined a life where he lived for such a simple reason. And just as he had every time before, he concluded that he enjoyed his life more. Yet he still felt incomplete, and it was at this moment the star-boy had an epiphany of his own true meaning. And as abruptly as he was cast upon this wretched ocean,\ he dove off the craft, chose to set himself in motion. Deeper, deeper, deeper into the murky depths he swam, propelled further and further down by the realization of his own meaning. And at last in a flash of brilliant, holy light, darkness returned to this planet once again. But the darkness was only a brief respite; for after the star-boy left that vast blue expanse, a star far, far away twinkled with the light of pure radiance. And in that way, darkness left the land once again. The future is but a muddied painting; some blurry shapes are already laid for us, but we can choose the colors and forms that shape our ultimate ending. On this fateful day, the star-boy picked up a brush and dipped it into a paint of his own choosing. Somewhere in the city, a church bell rang out, and a congregation of saints gathered once again.


The year is 1872. Outside of the arid desert town of Thunders Peak, Foursquaria, a tall, lithe figure staggers drunkenly through the empty dunes with no real sense of direction. He is a wanderer, the Eternal Wayfarer who in a past life was known as Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States. After dying in one of the most infamous assassinations in American history, he found himself being given a second chance as his true ascended self: the king of the Norse pantheon of gods, Odin. Unfortunately, the cost of a fresh start was beginning to circle around him like the vultures that had been following since he found his was into the hot sandy climate. “She called me a demon, a cruel hoax by the devil himself. She ran from me in that moment, my very heart expelled. Who am I now? A mystery of the ages A man left living aimlessly ageless like a figure lost to the pages of a storybook...” Although his speech was slurred, he still effortlessly and so eloquently flowed through the pain-filled poems that clouded his mind. “The light of my life snatched by the cold hook of the cruelest crook; Fate. The chance I took to keep the state of a love that couldn’t bare to gaze-” A steely cold “clik” followed by a cold metal ring pressed into the base of his skull broke his stream of consciousness and caused the weary godling to stop in his tracks. “You’d better reach fer th’ sky if’n ya don’t wanna be meetin’ yer maker today, ya roostered saddle bum! Who are ya and why’re ya trespassin’ in Thirteen Pistols’ territory?” The thick, wet smack of a wet glob of tobacco-flavored spit splattering into the hot sand punctuated the interrogation quite succinctly. The gruff voice barking at him didn’t phase the inebriated ex-president in the slightest, but the overwhelming mixed stench of the spit and the unwashed man behind him made him cringe just a little. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to his new enhanced senses, but he did know he wasn’t about to start taking guff from any coward who attacks a man from behind. “Son, I’ve stared into the eyes of Death herself. Lost it all and even traveled to the gates of Hel,” In an instant, Odin’s left eye flared with a fiery passion and his knuckles went white with how hard he was clenching his fists. He made a lightspeed about face, turning to face his assailant faster than the naked eye could track as a visible aura of red pure rage engulfed his frame. What he didn’t expect to see staring back at him were the barrels of 26 pistols, all aimed directly for his head except for a pair that were aimed at his legs. “He’s not going to ask again. Who are you and what are you doing wandering through our territory?” A tall, darker-skinned woman strolled closer to Odin so she could start circling him, scoping him out to assess his threat level. “I... Know not how to answer that query. A president or a god most weary?” Odin wasn’t lying, he had been walking for a few weeks with no rest, making his way from the east coast deep into the western half of the country he one led looking and smelling like a walking distillery rather than a president or a god. With the merciless sun beating down on him and the last bit of his considerable godly power dwindling towards its bare minimum, he collapsed onto the blazing red desert sands.. “Ah hell, I guess the sun beat ‘im down. Either that or-” “Or he got so scared he fainted!” “Either way, doesn’t matter. Doc, get him into a tent to cool off and rest up. Oh, and don’t forget to run his pockets for anything dangerous or interestin’ to report. Everyone else, let’s get back to preppin’ for the supply run.” In his unconscious state, Odin’s mind drifted to approximately seven years ago in a courtroom somewhere beyond the realm of the physical and severed from time itself. Rubbing the back of his head and still very disoriented from the effects of taking a bullet to the dome, he tries to cope with his newfound godhood and the scene before him. “You all may be seated in the presence of the honorable Judge Kal-Mondu. Mister... Lincoln. Ah, I see you have quite an impressive little resume here. Even pre-transcendence, you’ve staked quite a mighty claim to fame for yourself! They informed you of why you’re in this specific courtroom today, correct?” The powerful, booming voice wasn’t echoing through the nearly empty golden courtroom. Instead it was beaming directly into the minds of the present parties from a sight unlike anything he had seen in his 56 years under the name of Abraham Lincoln. Pacing around a large floating circular platform where the judges bench would normally be was a miniature version of a fully grown moose wearing a powdered wig and a black judge’s robe draped across the first half of its body. Other than the fact that he stood only about one-third of a meter tall with antlers radiating a faintly glowing, crackling golden energy that almost seemed to be faintly singing a song unlike anything Earth was capable of producing, the moose seemed completely like an ordinary moose. There’s an awkwardly lengthy silence as Abe, normally a gifted orator finds himself at a loss for words. It didn’t happen often, but all he could seem to do was stare blankly at the tiny moose that was telepathically administering the proceedings in this most odd courtroom. “Mister Lincoln? Did Death and your appointed Purgattorney inform you of the responsibility you’re about to undertake? You’ve been recognized as worthy of reclaiming your godly title as Odin, the All-father of the Norse pantheon of gods.” Ta’thes, the sharp-dressed being appointed to represent Abe elbowed him in the ribs with just enough force to break him out of his stupor. “I’m sorry, your... Honor. Yes, however I’m still not certain on many of the details,” he said as he rubbed his sore ribs, “So apparently I was Odin, ruler of the gods... In a past life? And I’ve lived a couple of lives since then? And how did Odin die? I’m not very caught up on my mythologies of the ancient peoples of my world.” “It has always been you, Mister Lincoln. There was an... Incident to say the least, which is almost more than I’m at liberty to say by decree of the Cosmic Elders but you have lived approximately lived through 16 lifetimes after your death as Odin including your current Lincoln persona.” Sixteen times he had been brought back from the grave, but as an entirely different person? Or had he always been his current self just with a different name? He had to know, and a courtroom of the damned seemed like the best place to get his answers. “I’m sorry, sixteen times? Is there, perhaps, a way I could... See into my past selves? I honestly just need to see it for myself, your honor. Not that I doubt you’re telling me the truth, but...” “That’s actually part of the process for reclaiming your divinity, Mister Lincoln. All we need is the documents which give your consent. Ta’thes?” “Of course, your honor! And might I say, that wig is really bringing out the shine in your antlers!” Ta’thes teleported up to the bench with the documents Abe had hastily signed with a quick glance over of the details. The judge skimmed through the pages without lifting a finger, nodding and muttering contentedly. “Good, everything seems to be in order! I am however going to need you to sign this additional clause that just states that if anything... Unsavory should happen, you will forfeit your godly power and resign yourself to the fate that would normally be assigned to Abraham Lincoln,” Kal-Mondu’s antlers glowed bright with golden energy as he presented one last document in front of Abe out of thin air. “To be fair, that’s not a bad fate in the slightest. I’m pretty sure you’d go to-“ A loud static crackling cut off the judge’s telepathic statement, which jarred Abe, but brought a smile to Ta’thes’ face. “I-I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you, it cut out with a... Well I don’t know what that was, frankly.” “Ah, I forgot about the Feedback. It’s been a loooong time since we’ve done one of these proceedings. Don’t worry about it, young mortal,” Kal-Mondu had a little chuckle as Abe tried to read the page in front of him, but was clearly struggling. “You’ll also find that the specifics of what can cost you your holy essence are also blurred out. It’s entirely for your safety and the safety of the known universe.” “Trust me, you’d have to royally screw up on a massive scale to get knocked back down to mortal status. Have a little faith, I wouldn’t have you sign anything detrimental to your soul. I’m your personal Purgattorney, after all. I’ll be here to help you out on your journey, think of me as more of a... Spiritual advisor!” Ta’thes whispered into Abe’s ear before offering his hand to shake. Abe had always fancied himself a good judge of character and the look of supreme confidence and the bright, warm energy he felt from Ta’thes as he extended his hand sealed the deal for Abe. He was ready to get started. “Let us proceed!” The handshake was as strong as the stroke of the flaming feathered pen Abe used to sign his name as boldly as John Hancock on the final document standing between him and all the information he never knew he needed until now. “Great, everything’s in order! Now, Mister Lincoln... Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths. This is going to be an intense experience.” Within seconds, Abe felt his very soul being tugged backwards, through the chair he was sitting in, down through the floor, and through the void of space. He was accelerating faster and faster, but the ride was so smooth, he barely felt like he was moving at all. At first, all was silent, but then he awoke to the sounds of his younger brothers Vili and Ve fighting the roaring, snarling father of the Frost giants, Ymir in the endless void of space. As soon as he joins in the battle, he’s flung forward, finding himself and his brothers finishing up the creation of the mortal world with the giant’s remains and creating the first humans. It’s a proud moment for Odin... Or was it Abe? In his infinite pursuit for knowledge for all, he went through the agonizing process of stabbing himself with his spear and hanging himself from Yggdrasil, the World Tree for nine days to gain the deep knowledge of runes, magic, and other secrets of the universe. Abe had never felt too stubborn to ask for help before, but as he clung in the balance between life and death, he refused all attempts to aid him. He had to prove his worth and do it himself. Once it was over, he could feel the wisdom coursing through his very being, but it was never enough. To this end, he gave his eye to the ancient entity Mimir to drink of the very same well that had shown him the meaning and form of the runes. Many may have thought him reckless, but nobody could ever say Odin wasn’t one of the wisest beings in all of creation. Then he found himself sitting in a throne as he proudly looked over a land of gold and untold beauty that was both foreign and oddly comforting. It was Asgard, home of the gods. His home. He saw the births of all five of his sons: Thor, Baldr, Hodr, Vidar and Vali. His friends and family in this heavenly city were his true pride and joy. Their adventures, their trials, their failures. But suddenly, a most unpleasant thought crept into his mostly joyous revisiting of his past. Thor had just received his trusty hammer, Mjolnir and was giving it a few test throws. Frigg, his wife, smiled down at Odin, trying to comfort him as his least favored immortal handed him a golden spear of the finest craftsmanship know to man or god alike. It was Loki who was doling out the gifts, no doubt trying to win over the favor of the gods once more after some horrible prank gone wrong. The very thought of Loki brought forth a searing, blinding, all-encompassing rage that Abe had never felt before. Odin, on the other hand, was all too familiar with it. “What have you done this time, Loki?” Odin asked as he inspected the perfect spear inscribed with the name “Gungnir” in runes. Odin could feel it’s power just by holding it. He had deciphered that it would never miss its intended target and that it could pierce the very heavens if that was his wish. The trickster was obviously trying to cover up for something seriously wicked this time. “Ah, well... It’s nothing too terrible, most beneficent All-Father... I may have tried to create life in the same way that you create. A humble homage to your most skilled use of magic, really.” “What. Did. You. DO???” Abe could feel something strange in the air. Something was seriously wrong. Before Loki could answer for himself, the entire front wall of the throne room was blown apart with enough force for all but the strongest of the beings in attendance to be blown back. Standing before the royal court were three massive beings. Odin knew these uninvited guests very well. The first was a wolf with a bloodlust in its eyes unmatched by anything he’d ever seen before on any of the thousands of battlefields he’d been on or overseen. The second was a serpent longer than the naked eye could measure with fangs that dripped an acidic venom that could eat through the very foundation of Asgard. And lastly was a goddess of immense beauty... Partially at least. Half of her face was bloated and blue, almost like a corpse found at sea. Although she seemed almost bored with this little invasion, she was still nonetheless, a threat. “You fool,” Odin spat in Loki’s direction before starting to bark orders to the other gods as only a true leader could, “Thor, Baldr, Heimdall! Take care of the wolf. Bind him if you must and keep away from his maw! Tyr, help me get rid of the serpent! Frigg, Idun, make sure nobody gets touched by that goddess. Don’t touch her yourself, she’ll be the death of us all if she gets past you two!” Everyone jumped into action almost immediately. Thor launched his hammer into the wolf, called Fenrir, with enough force to knock him back out of the royal hall. As he and the other gods ran past, trying to avoid the snapping fangs of the serpent, called Jormungandr, Odin was already in the action. He had teleported to the end of the monstrous reptile so that he could stab his spear through the tip of its tail with a piercing strike charged with all of the paralyzing magic he could summon. The snake started flailing and writhing wildly enough to cause powerful earthquakes, making it hard for Tyr to get a clear shot at its head with his sword. Just as he was about to connect, however, Fenrir came out of nowhere. Though he had golden ropes around him, they hadn’t had a chance to tie him properly before he leapt over them to bite Tyr’s sword-wielding hand clean from his wrist. “NOOOO!!!” Odin screamed as he used every ounce of his godly might to cast the serpent down to Midgard. His mind raced as fast as his instant movement back to his fallen friend. He had seen this before and tried to do everything in his power to stop it, but the universe has a way of getting what it wants. With Tyr’s hand gone, Hel, the quiet goddess broke her silence as Odin approached, “You know what this means, All-Father. Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. If you don’t want everyone here to die an early death, I suggest you give me what I am owed.” She had both arms raised, and in her hands she held the wrists of both Idun and Frigg. She was slowly draining their life energies from them. Odin knew she was the goddess of death, she would eventually be the end of all of them. “Take your dominion, foul witch. Just leave my family and I to grieve and recover.” Odin waved a hand and opened a portal to a plane of existence he had access to, but rarely ever visited: The realm of the dead. As she stepped inside, Hel let out a wicked, hollow cackle that chilled Odin to his very core. Thor had finally secured the savage beast with a mess of the finest Dwarven forged chains. Fenrir was locked up in the deepest, darkest cave they could find, hidden far away from the other realms to hopefully never bother the gods again. Odin knew that was a hope that he couldn’t hold out for. He had seen Ragnarok and the gears had already been put into motion. All of a sudden, he was back in the courtroom of Kal-Mondu, hyperventilating from the strenuous nature of living thorough a multiple thousands of years in a matter of seconds. And he hadn’t even finished the story as far as he could tell. “Wow, you never get used to how fast the physical changes take place when you gods start getting your memories back. The rest will start slowly spilling into your memory as you keep cultivating your divine energy with meditation and practicing using your gifts and skills. There are only a few rules that have to be followed. No starting a religion based around yourself. No killing mortals without reason. There are certain exceptions, of course, but Ta’thes will be in charge of making sure you know before you do anything that could get you in trouble,” Abe was still trying to get his bearings when a portal opened up in front of him that he instinctively knew would take him back to Earth. He could “see” information about everything in front of him with his newfound godly sight and senses. It was almost too much for him, but he eventually found himself breathing rhythmically, albeit against his will at first. “It’s going to be okay, Odin. Just remember to breathe and it’ll all work itself out. Now if you would be so kind, please step through this portal. You’ll find yourself back on Earth seven years after your death, in the year 1872. It sounds arbitrary, but there’s a reason to it. Oh, and don’t forget your personal effects!” In a flash of golden light, Abe was now holding a bag containing a golden-hued wooden rod of about (12 inches) which he knew to be Gungnir in its dormant state, a flask full of the Mead of Poetry, an eyepatch, a rune-covered pipe made of pure silver, and a bag full of a set of runestones he had obtained from the Norns themselves that could help him predict the future with unwavering certainty. “And remember, if you have any questions about anything at all, call out to Ta’thes and he’ll assist you with anything he’s LEGALLY allowed to. Now get going, you’ve got a new life to live!” With that final note, he was pushed by an invisible force into back into the world he had been dead to just a few short hours, rather years, ago. Odin bolted upright, panting and sweating profusely in an itchy cot. The temperature had decreased dramatically from when he was last awake, and upon taking stock of his surroundings, he found himself being watched from a desk by a man in a white ten-gallon hat with a red Caduceus embossed on the front of it. “Ahh, yer up! I was beginning to think you might’ve died on us. Not a pulse to be found as far as I could see. But your breathing was there, so I just figgered you needed to sleep it off. The boss is expecting you, so just make your way out towards the campfire out on your left.” “Much thanks, doctor. I assume he awaits with my effects?” “Indeed he does. He’s taken quite the interest in you. Don’t keep him waiting, now. I’d escort you, but I’ve got to finish pennin’ this here letter to my dear ol’ maw.” “Odin got a strange flash of an image as the man spoke of his mother. She was sick, on her deathbed and reading his letters brought a genuine smile to her face right as she passed on.” “You alright there, pardner? You look like ye just saw a ghost er somethin’.” “What is your name, good sir?” “Well everyone calls me Doc Thurgood, but why does that-“ “Jeremiah Thurgood, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your mother is in a rough condition. She hasn’t much time left, but your letters are one of her only sources of joy. I know not where you hail from, but... You should go back to see her at once. Post your notice of arrival and head out with the utmost haste.” All of the color had faded from the doctor’s face at hearing this. He’d known his mother was constantly fighting for her health, it was part of the reason he had set out for California in the first place all those months ago, but to hear from this lanky stranger they’d picked up in the desert heat that she was about to pass... He didn’t know what to make of it. The dead serious look painting Odin’s face told him he wasn’t joking, and he felt trusting of him almost instinctually. “T-thank ya stranger, I will make the arrangements right away.” Without another word, Odin nodded and headed out of the tent into the chilly desert night. A sharp wind cut him to his bones, causing a shiver in his godly form that he couldn’t recall ever feeling in his past life, even in combat atop the snowy peaks of Jotunheim. He clearly wasn’t at full strength, and getting those apples would be the only way he’d ever truly feel like himself. He had no troubles finding his way to the campfire where he saw a dozen silhouettes eating and relaxing in the light of the roaring fire. He could see the genuine camaraderie between this group of wildly different characters, and a tear rolled down his cheek as the memories of those cheerful banquets in Asgard’s golden halls began to flood back to him. “You’re lookin’ more than a little famished, son of Borr. Perhaps I could interest you in a bite?” a familiar voice caused the blood pumping through Odin’s veins to run as cold as the nights in Jotunheim. “Loki. You shall not escape my wrath this time!” Odin turned expecting to see his oldest foe and as such, had readied himself to attack, pivoting with every intention to smite with all of his remaining godly might. However, the statuesque woman from earlier chomping into a golden apple brought his swing to a screeching halt. “You can go ahead and kill me, but there are 12 highly skilled marksmen that would follow you to the ends of the Earth, and you are quickly losing steam. I can help. I can lead you to the apples and you can continue living your immortal, righteous little life. But I have demands, ‘All-Father’.” Odin’s brow furrowed as he took a long pause to contemplate if he was falling for another trick. His eye darted back and forth, trying to find the truth in Loki’s unwavering stare. His search turned up neither truth nor deception, which worried him far more than he was expecting. “Better alive and betrayed than dead for good, I guess.


MIMI HYNES. There was something incredibly special about that name, particularly to Radnor Cliff - one of today’s many aspiring authors. He felt forgettable before he encountered her, especially since none of his books had ever taken off. Maybe it was owing to the fact he hadn’t settled on a single idea from day dot. He jumped from genre to genre, never writing anything entirely committal. He desperately needed a break from it all. The letters were wearing off his computer keyboard from prolonged and often frenetic overuse. “Damn it,” he said to himself, shaking his head in frustrated disbelief. He looked at the assemblage of words before him. They said so much in terms of word count and so little in terms of content. They say there is a story stored inside everyone, but he couldn’t seem to locate his. He needed a coffee break, and maybe, he thought, a break from writing. He had had sixteen politely worded declines from publishers that week alone. “I’m going to the library,” he declared to his ten-year-old dozy dog Jasper. Jasper didn’t answer but his ears flicked, so Radnor knew he had heard him. Either way, he looked unbothered by whether he came or went. Radnor walked to the library at the end of his street. For its proximity to his home, he thought how, with a sense of shame, he hadn’t once made use of it. Even though it took two minutes to walk there, Radnor had forgotten to read. He’d been so busy writing - churning out stories like they were books on a conveyor belt, not stopping to see what he needed: a reason to write. Good reading would reinspire him, he decided. He just needed to change things up for a while. He didn’t know what he wanted to read, but he hoped he would find something of interest there. He wasn’t wrong; he just didn’t find it right away. It didn’t fall into his hands from the heavens, the way fateful things are supposed to do. He was, however, greeted by a library assistant when he made his entrance. “Welcome to Grove Library, are you registered with us?” “I don’t believe I am,” he said. “First things first - let’s get you your library card and then we can start the important business of finding you something to read.” Radnor followed the librarian, whose name he had read on her name badge: Samantha. She was glamorous and attractive, but he wasn’t in the right place to consider such things. Instead, he let her create his membership and whenever she asked for his name, he said, “Rad - it’s short for Radnor.” Barely anyone shortened his name, but he thought it sounded less stiff. “That’s a cool name - Radnor. I’m sure it was a bit of a mouthful when you were younger.” Radnor nodded in weary agreement. “It’s like everything else - you get used to it,” he said. Samantha gathered books from different shelves she knew so well she could have done it without so much as a torch at midnight. The stack of books was generous. “How many are we allowed to borrow at once?” he asked. “Ten.” “Ten?! How do people carry them home?” “They probably park at the door,” said Samantha. “If you want to read, you’ll find a way to do it,” she added. They worked their way through the pile, right to the very bottom. “Oh, have you heard of this author?” she asked, holding up a book in a plastic sleeve for Radnor to read the blurb. Radnor seemed to lighten up as soon as she handed it to him. It was by someone called Mimi and it was an apocalyptic tale, but it was also so much more than that. It was engrossing as soon as he opened it. He had to know what happened in this new world. He had to take it home. The strange thing about Mimi’s books was the fact that they had pretty-in-pink covers and main characters dressed like meringues in tutus and similar: the last thing Radnor would have thought to pick up. Her protagonists were always frivolous and didn’t fit with the plot at all. End of the world stories with silly, frilly main characters sounded like a recipe for disaster, but somehow, it just worked. Radnor felt compelled to keep reading. At home, with Jasper sleeping at the foot of his bed, he turned page after page after page, losing sleep over each book until it was finished and added to his “to be reread” list. He knew very little about the author, but he was fascinated by the workings of her mind. He wanted to have that hold over his own readers. It was like she had cast a spell over the reader that lasted from start to finish, and then they had to go in search of another one of her books. Radnor didn’t want to read anything else. All the other books he had borrowed from the library were left, unopened - neglected for Mimi’s latest release. She was prolific too - a book came every few months, the plotlines getting more and more bizarre, the characters getting more and more farcical. His favourite, he decided, was the story of Delilah Dolly: a housecleaner with feather duster she carried everywhere she went. She’d started scouring the kitchen on the point of an alien invasion, seemingly nonplussed by it. He couldn’t believe how well the contrasting elements went together. It ran against everything he’d been taught to do as a writer. Radnor had been educated to be a writer, but he knew his compositions didn’t come close to Mimi’s; she just had that natural talent for it that so few storytellers have. The kind of talent that makes every reader in the room disappear into the world in their book and forget about the real one. Whenever Radnor had finished the last of Mimi’s books, he felt a certain devastation, like he’d just lost a close friend. He knew he would have to wait for the next release to read or reread the others he could get his hands on it. In that moment, he realised, he wanted to write. He sat in his study, his laptop in front of him, a spectacular view outside his window: the early morning sunrise spread out before him. He put his fingers onto the keys of his keyboard and started to clatter away. He put the unlikeliest person into the strangest situation, and as he was writing it, he realised, it just worked. He added in as many surprising features as he could. It added layers of interest to the story, and he realised how one dimensional his writing had been before. He sat for hours on end, writing so fast his fingers could barely keep up with his ideas. He couldn’t wait to write the next part, to see what happened: the surest sign the reader wouldn’t be able to put the book down either. He didn’t know who Mimi Hynes was - he had seen an author photo, but those never really told you as much as the author’s books did. Radnor promised himself he would get his book published, and whenever he did, he would make a point to find out who she was. He would track down Mimi to thank her - in person - for her brilliant and bizarre books.


There was no way to know what his last thoughts were. Were they of her? Of that morning just 2 short weeks ago, that would soon feel like a lifetime ago for her, when he woke before her, sunshine dancing in waves on her face as sleep was deeply engraved in her. He couldn’t help but stare. How did he get her here, he would think. How did she think he was good enough? His heart seized with gratitude as he watched her freckled chest rise with each breath. she was his and the sunlight was basking her in its glow. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered and a smile teased the corner of her lips. “Marry me” he said in a hushed tone. Or maybe it was the memory from a year prior. Her checks were on fire and tears teased at the corner of her eyes. “I fucking love you” Oceans were roaring in his ears. Love? Who the fuck said this was love. He wasn’t cut out for this. Good things like her didn’t happen to him. Expect now she was declaring her love for him. “You don’t know love Gwen. Not even your own parents loved you” Too far he thought. Too late “Fuck you” The air felt frigid. Stale. After the door slammed. Maybe it was fear. He could feel the blood streaming from his chest. No one was coming this time. No one was going to be a hero today. He was utterly alone and terrified. Where were his comrades? Was this what it felt like to die, he thought? It wasn’t u til this very moment he would realize how fucked this situation was. He didn’t sign up for his deployment to end short. He didn’t sign up to die. At what point do an individuals memories no longer exist? The fear was coasting though his veins, tears streaming from his blue eyes, mixing with the soil below him. To die alone is a feat on its own. One no individual should have to face, yet, here he was. Alone. Scared. And dead. Maybe it was the day his own father died. Maybe he thought of watching his father collapse on the trails before him, clasping his chest in agony. He could see the terror in his fathers eyes, the same ocean eyes he had, the same terror in his own as as he died, simply pleading “help” What does one do at 16 when his father does from a heart attack at 45. In the near future there would be anger, a casket, a sea of black. His father was a popular man. It seemed every employee of his would show for the funeral. But that wouldn’t matter to him. He’d just hear the same roaring he heard when he was sitting next to his fathers lifeless body on a running trail. The same roaring he’d hear when Gwen muttered her I love yous years later. Eventually another runner would come through. But until then, these would be his last moments with his father. He had no phone. No way to call for held as he helplessness attempted CPR. so instead, in the end he just sat there. Tears threatening the surface of his eyes and holding his fathers hand. It would be this moment he’d think of through out the years. A defining moment. It would hinder him as he grew. It would seep into anything good I. His life, slowing tainting it with the anxiety of the moment of his fathers death. Maybe he thought of nothing. Maybe he didn’t have time to think of anything of value. Of importance. Maybe in the end it wasn’t her. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t his father. Maybe quite simply, he died instantly. There is no grandiose delegation of love parting his lips. No thoughts of leaving those he loved behind and no thoughts of “maybe this is what my father felt like” Because in the end maybe we are just a collection of cells and memories that have their time, and eventually evaporate. There not much that can be said regarding what flashes In The human consciousness moments before it courses to black and the consciousness is no longer what makes you a person. Those memories, feelings, hopes, dreams, are deferred indefinitely because there is no longer a person to fulfill them. She would never know what his last thoughts were. She would never know if they were if her or not. She would never know if he felt fear, if he felt acceptance, if he felt remorse. All she knew was the father figure in her life was dead, and so was his son. The cliche love of her life. But how does one move on from a moment like this. From the knock at the door. From the utter and undeniable pain clutching her heart as her husbands roommates held her up, undeniable tears of their own. After all he was their best friend too. All she knew was that he was dead. Defunct. Because the harsh truth of it is no one really knows what his last thoughts were. All these maybes and theories are just a hypothosis that she would make up in her mind. They would run fleetingly on repeat in the days after finding out her husband was no longer alive, each one making her heart ache just a little bit more. And while she didn’t know if his last thoughts were of the ones he loved, what she did know was her last thoughts were to be of him.


Normally I'm the one who skips the hot tub and helps with the dishes because hot tubs at parties kinda gross me out a little-- you know when you see little flakes of skin or hairs or whatever floating on the surface?--but I have a sprained shoulder and think it might help. The host is my co-worker, Kelly, who works beside me in the warehouse, and has become more or less my supervisor. She invites me to these things all the time, and I almost always say no, because big social gatherings stress me out. The tub is aglow with blue light, making everyone's face look surreal. I find the darkest spot on the deck and give myself some private kudos for remembering to breathe long, slow breaths, which makes it slightly less uncomfortable for me to strip down in this moment. As I remove my tee shirt and jeans and hang them over her deck rail, trying to look casual--thinking, 'these are my clothes, this is where my clothes are'-- Kelly keeps repeating how glad she is that I could finally make it. "Get on in here," she says. "The water is perfect." It's one of those early fall nights with a clear sky, a new moon and a million stars. Kelly and her husband have a really nice house, for a second I wonder what he does for a living, because she only makes the same as me. There's a few of us in the tub, maybe five or six at any time. It's a large, electric tub, one of those fiberglass deals. We sip our beers and gaze at the view of the elderberry bushes along the back fence and anytime someone new steps in, he or she grins the same huge grin and makes the same, slow "ahhhhh" sound as they sink down into the 105-plus degrees water. Soon it feels natural for me to be in a tub with five strangers. One reason it's easier than I expected it to be, is that these particular strangers, though slightly buzzed, are very conscious of social distancing, due to the pandemic. While keeping a full six feet apart may not be possible in a hot tub, they repeatedly jockey themselves away from one another, 'giving space,' as they say, which results in a decidedly nonsexual vibe. I claim a jet and use it to find the exact spot in my shoulder where pain and pleasure merge, and I stay on that spot until my surroundings all but disappear. People climb in and out, one blue-lit, smiling face is replaced by another one. I always smile back. I don't say much, I prefer to listen quietly or zone out. At some point some guy named Bob happens to ask Kelly how she sterilizes the tub, which sparks a discussion about which method works best--chlorine, bromine, or sodium bromide with shock. I notice Kelly never actually answers Bob's question, as the conversation sweeps to some other topic, as conversations do, before she has the chance. The massage jet feels great on my shoulder, and I can't seem to leave the heat, so Kelly and I are the last ones still in the hot tub. Later, she tells me she was aware of Bob's presence, as he sat in a nearby hammock chair, but I have no idea he is there. My ears are probably half underwater and I'm definitely thoroughly relaxed. Time goes by. Just making small talk, I ask again what she uses to keep the hot tub clean. I figure it's bromine, because it does not smell at all bleach-y. She raises her voice a titch and says, "We're not into using any nasty chemicals. We just ask everybody to shower first." I've already been in the tub for over an hour, so there is no point being in a hurry to get out of it now, despite my fear of cooties. And when I say cooties, I mean other people's cooties, but there's also the other thing, which is that I didn't take a shower before I got in. I don't tell Kelly that. I do tell her that I think along with asking people to shower, she probably should've let them know the tub was unsterilized before they got in. She agrees in a half-hearted, dismissive way, then gives me kind of a mini-lecture about self-responsibility and how we should all maintain our own strong immune systems. While she talks, I hear a defensive tone in her voice that intensifies the longer I say nothing. She's in the middle of listing a bunch of supplements she takes when suddenly Bob leaps out of the hammock chair and starts yelling at her about bacterial infections. I mean, he comes unglued. He calls her an ignorant idiot. She's no wallflower, she launches herself out of the water like a missile and they get into a full-on screaming match, both sides standing on the deck in their towels, naked and steaming in the freezing air. Bob's shouting draws people out of the house, and now everyone is on the deck, tuned in to the drama. Some guests get upset when they hear the news, some even take turns re-showering, their faces indignant as nuns. Loud enough for everyone to hear, Kelly proclaims that also, she changes the hot tub water after every shared use. All the guests fall quiet for a moment. I can hear their brains processing. Nobody is sure how to respond, except Bob. Bob doesn't believe her at first--the tub is so large--but she insists it's true, and that she changes the water any time anyone other than she or her husband uses the tub. "We don't have people over very often," she explains. I wonder why she says that, since she throws dinner parties, like, ALL the time, and these are the very people she has over--but I keep quiet. Maybe she is losing her grip on reality. Too much pressure will cause anyone to crack. There's a lot of back-and-forth among the guests as to whether or not filling the tub with new water after every use is, scientifically speaking, a hygienic enough way to keep us safe. The discussion veers into neighboring territories, moving from the potentially dangerous tub water to withdrawal as a birth control method, and then inevitably, my stomach tightening to witness it, into the minefield subject of masks and vaccines, until the friendly ease with which we had so recently bathed and drank together seems all but lost. In the end, everyone agrees that, safe or not, the host should have made it known there were no chemicals in the water. Bob makes a joke that gets a big laugh and people start putting on their coats and promising each other they'll get together soon, but I notice the host is being ostracized. A shift has taken place in the energy toward the host. I am the last to leave. I ask Kelly about her husband, why he hadn't been at the party. She pulls a cover part way over the tub and I help her gather wet towels from the deck, as she replies, "Oh, he hates parties. He thinks most of my friends are idiots." I laugh at this, but she doesn't. For the first time all evening, she looks tired. In her eyes I see a look of defeat and pain, a new heaviness in her step as she makes her way around the tub. It seems like the right thing to do, to give her a little hug, so I push past the awkwardness, and try my best, as a way to say goodbye. It’s all I’ve got--I mean, I’m tired, too. My quick hug feels like throwing a tiny meat scrap to a huge, sad dog. I wish I had more, I wish her husband had more, I wish the guests had more. I pull my car keys out of my jeans, step into my Sorels. "Thanks for coming, buddy,” she sighs. “I was glad you were here." And with that, she pulls an unopened, six-pound jug of SpaGuard Enhanced Shock Oxidizer from under a table, and measures a hefty dose of sodium dichloro-s-triazinetrione into the settled water.


Chapter I *-* The birth of Avatars *The age of Gods predates the history of men. In fact Gods created men with all their flaws and desires. Envy, greed, boredom - the thirst for something more; it's not just the nature of men - it's an inherent desire inhabited from their creators: Malchior - the self righteous, Alriar - the ostentatious and Velryon - the spiteful. Humanity was nothing more than a mood, a contest of who was the most powerful, most creative amongst them. A rare sight, a unified endeavor of creation. Yet also a joke, a sneering and twisted kind of being constantly torn apart by the desires inhabited from its creators, who in return would find amusement in their creations' arguments, quarrels and wars. Amusement in wondering what Godly trait those worm-ish creatures would give in to.* *Centuries passed, wars were fought, peace lasted for a while until new wars arose. The world kept turning, humanity kept repeating its mistakes and the Gods eventually grew bored of them. The Gods' gazes fell upon each other again, had they seen war and human creativity in the most gruesome and despicable ways. The Gods were entranced by it, longing to experience this state of being themselves instead of being nothing more than spectators; thus the War of Gods began.* *The heavens exploded in clashes of lightning, continents broke as mountains were tossed around like marbles, the earth burned as tsunamis of magma devastated the lands- and humanity stood by, powerless, unable to defend against it or even comprehend the sheer destruction ravaging the world.* *Humanity, like cockroaches hiding in the cracks of a run down shack, however survived this Armageddon - the Gods did not.* *Too wounded to recover Malchior, Alriar and Velryon fell from the heavens and turned into stone. A gruesome reminder of history. Their grace however - the source of their power - rained upon the earth, granting humanity - or rather: a hand full of humans - more power than any man should have. Those humans were called avatars. Had the world just survived the Armageddon, the lands were thrown into chaos by a new age of war, a fight for grace and even greater power.* *Those days should be remembered as the Age of Avatars. This shall be the record of how I remember them.*  EDIT: Feedback welcome, both content related and linguistically (as I am not a native speaker). If you guys are interested I might write more. I have a lot of ideas to expand the universe and base a story around it, but this might very well exceed the proportions of a short story. So for now I'll just leave it at the world's introduction and listen to whether it's something anybody here might be interested in reading :) If somebody knows a more fitting sub to post the story in if I should expand it I'd appreciate the link. Neither r/WritingPrompts r/writing r/stories nor r/fantasy really seem to be the correct audiences for it.


Every day I wake up and walk to my pantry only to see that something is missing. It has turned into a ritual for me to go to the store every day to get a bag of Doritos but even that doesn't help. The only place I can devour my Doritos safely is when I'm outside of the store or in my car at the parking lot. Those damned wendigos have no moral compass whatsoever. I even leave a bag for them outside with dip on the side but they ignore it and raid my pantry every night. I hear them rumble through my bags and every time I try to catch them in the act, the racket stops and my pantry is nothing but a mess of crumbs. So, I've devised the perfect plan to inhibit the wrath of these demonic creatures. Firstly, I found the skull of an Indian and hung it on the door at the front of my house as if it were a wreath. Secondly, I've placed torches all around my house. It may sound dangerous but I assure you that it is necessary for this operation. Lastly, I've rigged my speakers to play the song "Push it to the Limit" on loop as soon as the pantry door is opened. I've tried contacting Scarface himself to hide inside my pantry but I still haven't gotten a reply yet. Hopefully, he responds soon. I've also placed French Onion dip at all of my entrances and window seals around my house. If all of my preparations fail, may God have mercy on my soul. I sit down in my chair as I wait for night-time to arrive. I sit rocking back in forth with a shotgun in hand loaded with incendiary rounds. I begin to nod off and just as I feel myself succumbing to sleep. I feel a presence. Without warning a sharp shot of wind pushes towards me and the French Onion dip I'd purchased from Walmart at $3.79 or $3.92 with tax is smeared across the ground. I hear my bags of chips rumble and crumble as it hits the ground. I hear the wendigos viciously devour my food voraciously. I hear the music playing as I see the wendigo's shadows as the torches illuminate their bodies. "Push it to the limit," I fire off a shot at the wendigo and it takes to cover behind my kitchen counter I run towards them and I feel a sharp pain arise at the base of my foot. "Walk along the razor's edge," I look down at my foot and see blood pouring out as the torches light reveals a razor I'd dropped earlier in the morning inside of my foot. "But don't look down just keep your head, or you'll be finished," The wendigo charges at me as I duck and aim my gun at hit's chest and with a shot ringing out, it falls to the ground with a bag of Doritos still in its grasp. "Open up the limit," the wendigo lays on the ground and busts open the bag of Doritos as chips fly everywhere as the second one continues to rampage my pantry. "Past the point of no return," I shoot out another shout and it misses narrowly and knocks over the torch that had been placed on the kitchen counter and falls unto the wendigo. "You've reached the top, but still you gotta learn how to keep it," The wendigo lays in the fire while holding all of the Doritos I'd bought from Walmart for $500 fucking dollars. "Hit the wheel and double the stakes," The wendigo begins screeching, it sounds like a woman as it cries out in agony. "Throttle wide open like a bat out of hell," The wendigo's both leave the Doritos to burn to a crisp as they run out of my house. "You could crash the gates (crash the gates)," They hit my wooden fence and it catches flames as they tear it apart, I fire off another shot at them and they scurry away back into the woods. The song continues playing as my house burns from the inside out. "Going for the back of beyond," "Nothing's gonna stop you, there's nothing that's gone" "So close now you're nearly at the brink," "So puuuuuush it. Ooh yeah!...." The audio begins getting distorted and the Indian skull that had been hung on my door and rolls over to me. I pick it up and throw it into the house as I call my fire department to come. I get a message from scarface just as my housefire finishes getting put out. "I'm in," it reads as my phone is knocked out of my hand and cuffs are put on. I ended up getting arrested for insurance fraud and arson along with 3rd-degree murder because of the skull they found in the fire. Fucking Wendigos.