Daniel pulled the house key he had carried since he was 12 from his pocket, and jiggled it into the defiant doorknob. Why hadn’t Dad just replaced this old knob years ago? “Doorknob is fine! Helps keep burglars out.” Burglars aren’t using keys, Dad. The lock lost the battle, and Daniel stepped into the foyer. Motes of dust floated in the afternoon sun streaming through the half closed blinds, tiny apparitions in a house that had always haunted Daniel. He threw his keys instinctively on the buffet, scratched in the one area from years of this ritual. The floorboards creaked underfoot, an alarm that had betrayed him more times than he could count as a teenager. He stood silently in the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed with the task ahead. Daniel had tried for years to convince his father to start decluttering, maybe have a yard sale. “Your Mother spent a lifetime filling this house. I’m not giving the neighbors the satisfaction of rummaging through her life’s work.” It’s sewing patterns, Dad. Not the Sistine Chapel. It had been a month since his father had died, and Daniel had been putting off cleaning the house out, but he now had some prospective buyers, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He had decided on the drive over to start with his mother’s sewing room. It would be the easiest. Drag a trash can into the middle of the room, and toss the old patterns and scrap material into it. Daniel wasn’t surprised to find a thick layer of dust on everything; he doubted his father had entered the room since his mother died 8 years ago. The sewing machine was still in good shape. Perhaps his mother’s pride and joy would find a second life in the high school’s home economics department. The guest bedroom was next, and was deemed more difficult than the the sewing room by virtue of being his mother’s catch-all room. Unable or unwilling, she never threw something out that might be useful five years later. Daniel quickly sorted things into two piles: trash and donations. The local mission had better bring a U-Haul. From here on, Daniel knew it would be tricky. For decades, his mother had hidden money throughout the house. When his father drank, he spent. And he always drank. His mother wanted to be certain that the bills were paid and the pantry was full, so she stashed money everywhere. Unfortunately for Daniel, she never drew a treasure map before the Alzheimer’s arrived. He was certain there were thousands of dollars chipmunked around the house. He just didn’t know where. Which meant that, going forward, he had to be meticulous. He thumbed through every book, dug through each drawer, looked for envelopes taped underneath furniture, and ran his hand over every cabinet. He found almost $1,500 before deciding enough was enough. If someone shopping at the mission thrift store bought a lamp and discovered $100 somewhere inside it, good for them. He had saved his father’s room for last. Three days of sorting through the rest of the house while that bedroom door remained shut. Unable to put it off any longer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and walked in. Daniel swore under his breath as he stopped to survey the room. What a mess. He went to the nightstand first. He had quietly held out hope that his grandfather’s watch was still here, that his father had not sold it or traded it for a bottle of liquor. His grandfather had brought it back from the war, and gave it to his son. It was rightfully Daniel’s now. The nightstand drawer was stuck, and as Daniel yanked it open, the mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey sitting on top rocked, the smell of the bourbon wafting by him. Daniel was late. He had lost track of time at Tommy’s, and had sped home, running two stop signs as he went. He hoped against hope that his father was out somewhere, drunk and oblivious. His heart sank as he turned the corner and saw his truck sitting in the driveway. Let him be passed out already, Daniel prayed to no one in particular. The creak of the floorboard gave him away. It always did. His father was on him before he could get out of the foyer. Daniel was no slouch at 16, but his father was bigger, and was a mean drunk. Daniel grabbed the tottering bottle. His face was flush, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. The watch was gone. Of course it was. Pushing himself up off the floor, Daniel crossed the room and walked into the bathroom. Maybe the watch was here. Rummaging through vanity drawers and the the cabinet underneath only confirmed what Daniel had known for three days: that watch had been gone for years. When was the last time he saw it? Not since he was a teenager. Having lost any motivation to continue, Daniel absentmindedly opened the medicine cabinet. Vicks VaporRub, an old safety razor, a rusty tin of bandaids, and a yellowed bottle of Old Spice. Daniel reached slowly for the cologne bottle, and gently pulled the gray stopper from the top. He turned the bottle over, and realized it was empty. He lifted the bottle to his nose. Daniel,dressed in his footie pajamas, was sitting on the floor in front of the television, a bowl of Frosted Flakes in his lap. Always the first one up on Saturday, he would have the cereal poured and the cartoons on at 7am sharp. These independent mornings left Daniel feeling much older than 7. Daniel usually devoted the commercial breaks to his bowl of cereal, but Christmas was around the corner, and each commercial was potentially something he needed to add to his Christmas list. But it was one commercial that caught his eye that morning. A family sitting around the Christmas tree, a fire crackling in the fireplace. A little boy carries a package to his father, who smiles and unwraps the gift. To everyone’s great delight, it’s Old Spice. The father scoops up his little boy and hugs him tightly. The boy turns to the camera and proclaims, “I love the smell of my daddy.” Daniel set the bowl of cereal down and ran to his room. Mom had been giving him some allowance for taking out the trash. How much did he have? $2.50. That should just about be enough. Later that day, Daniel and his mom drove down to Kimball’s Drug Store and bought the Old Spice. On Christmas morning, before his father could get a cup of coffee, Daniel was handing him the present, wrapped in the funny papers. His father acted thoroughly surprised, and marveled at the wrapping job and the bow. At Daniel’s bouncing urgency, he opened the gift and gasped. “Old Spice! Now that is a manly scent.” He opened the bottle, shook a bit onto his hands, rubbed them together, and slapped them onto his neck and cheeks. He looked down at his beaming son. “Want some?” Daniel nodded and held his hands out. Mimicking his father’s movements, he slapped his own face and neck, to his father’s great delight. His father picked him up into his arms and gave him a big squeeze. Daniel buried his face in his father’s neck and breathed in. It was the best smell in the world. Daniel leaned back against the vanity in the bathroom, the empty bottle rolling back and forth in his hands. Six months after that perfect Christmas, his father would lose his job at the factory. The drinking started and he was never the same. He was still in the house, but he lost his father that year. His father’s drinking had gone up another level after his mother’s death, an astounding feat Daniel had not thought possible. The increase had completely, irreparably hollowed the man out. He was a shell, and little more by the end. Old Spice and old men both seem to linger, long after they’re gone. Daniel was done. The mission could come in and take whatever was left. Setting the cologne bottle on the counter, Daniel walked out of the bathroom. Standing in his father’s room for the last time, he paused to take one last look around. He took a step toward the door, paused, and turned back to the bathroom. Daniel reached in, grabbing the empty Old Spice bottle off the counter. Smelling it again, he slid the bottle into his jacket pocket and walked out.


Paul Greenberg was the nicest man that lived in Bushwick. No, honestly, he was. The type to possess that supernatural ability to stem the tide of personal disasters before the waves of misery could crash. Whether it took the form of a kind word, late-night phone call, or a surprise present, he lit the path of life with kindness for not only his friends but each soul that stopped long enough for Paul to flash a grin and share a laugh. That's why it was so confusing when you faced his bright, kind, sympathetic face when he printed out your parking ticket. The anger inside you would burn into your guts as it struggled to release itself. Instinctively, your mouth would clamp shut or stutter as some essential subconscious part of you understood there was no malice coming from the man before you. Even worse, you could see in his warm, amber eyes a generous love for each person. You'd accept the ticket with a resigned confusion. A shock that comes from meeting real-life angels. So his energy swept through the boroughs as he continued to hand out tickets, smiles, and small prayers for harmony. Some took it upon themselves to try and muster an angry response or stern word for Paul, but it fell away like autumn leaves as his eyes crinkled with understanding. Life had yet to conjure a wave of anger too fierce for Paul to quell. The day those sweet, amber eyes didn't accompany a ticket, the people revolted. Four different meter maids found themselves at the mercy of enraged motorists as a frenzy swept through the boroughs. The absence of Paul's light created monsters of mere mortals. They stalked the street in a vain attempt to locate their blue vested saint. The last light of goodness to flicker and die in the city that never sleeps. A frenzied chant of "Where's Paul" echoed through the boroughs as the citizens seek their unlikely savior. The status of Paul Greenberg still unknown; the city fell to the riots within two weeks. But his legacy burns through the streets. Soon, every act of kindness met the battle cry of "You're not Paul!" even that quickly reduced to a screech that spoke only of hate. Hate that's born out of loss. The world could only watch as chaos consumed the crown jewel of the United States. Eventually, even the Pope stepped in as he decreed Paul, a saint for his love. Only the crowds wanted more. Being a saint made Paul equal to other saints, and their Paul had no equal. He rose to a God, and with it brought the destruction of the church. The horde tolerated no false idols. No Jesus. not even God was safe from their fires.  "Let there be light; let there be Paul. Without his guidance, we shall fall. We shall fall. We. Shall. Fall."  And so they fell. Upon the land, the people, and the backbone of collective knowledge. Humanity was undone- by the Sinners of Paul.


Murder! Murder! Murder! That is the word I most often hear in my line of work. People come walking through my door claiming a crime has been committed, begging me to solve it for them. They drop their coin on my table claiming they will pay any price, they beg and plead and threaten. Sometimes I say no, Most times I say yes though, I need the coin, it doesn’t pay to be stuck up. Many times the case is easy to solve, a loved one turns up passed out in a bar somewhere, sleeping it off in a dirty corner. Or a son has run off to the next town to be with his forbidden sweetheart. Murder, they all claim murder, a way of avoiding the monotonous answers to their own problems, but, as long as they pay it’s no skin off my nose. Every once in a while a case comes through that proves interesting, one such case came to me on a dreary day. A tall, cloaked man tromped into my office...the corner booth at Mel's bar and chow. He tracked mud across the floor, adding to the other trails of mud, that's all you ever get in this backwater town, mud. He sat across from me and stared from underneath a travel worn hood, wet from the perpetual drizzle happening outside. We sat in silence for quite a bit before I decided to start the conversation. "Tell me your tale and I'll tell you the price." I leaned back and lit my pipe, the match illuminating a set of yellow eyes staring back at me. I acted casually but I admit his stare was becoming unnerving and I didn't like it, didn't like it one bit. "Murder." He growled. "That's what they all say." I chuckled. "Murder!" He snarled, slamming a gloved fist onto the table. "Okay, okay," I placated, holding out my hand, "no need to get riled, tell me what happened." He settled back in his chair still watching me with a shrouded gaze. "Three nights ago," he grunted "found my nephew dead, murdered." "What do the authorities say?" I asked. "Suicide." He sneered. "They don't know." " Don't know what?" I questioned, he didn't answer. "Murder." He repeated, leaning towards me and staring more intently. I set my pipe down, feeling a little disconcerted. "Yes, as you said before. But if the constables have decided it's a suicide, you will have to give me a better reason to why you think it is murder." I told him, leaning forward to match his gaze. "There was a note." He growled, slamming a palm down on the table, underneath it was a slip of paper, he slid his hand back leaving the paper for me to take, I did so and examined it. It was a grungy, slip with strange symbols scrawled over it. I stared at it for a while, flipping it back and forth trying to understand what I was looking at. After a moment I slid the paper back across the table. "What does it mean?" I asked. He didn't take the paper back. "It means murder. We need you to find out who." He slid a large pouch across the table to me, it's sides distended with coins. "Three days." He stood up,I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "Why three days? How was he killed? What's his name!?" He stared down at me. "West Shire, 4th house on Brewer lane." His guttural one line was muttered as he turned from me and stomped his way out of the bar, it was then that I noticed the tail. I admit I shuddered a little, the wolf people are not usually ones who ask for help. Neither are they people you want to cross. I safely tucked the coins under my cloak and stood up, I had three days to come up with some answers, I knew I couldn't do it alone, it was time to assemble my team. First off I headed to the house of my greatest friend and helper. Weasy, an eccentric little goblin who, while a sneaky little asshole, who would steal the cloak off your back if he thought he could get away with it, was the greatest information finder in all the seven kingdoms. I knew without a doubt he would be able to find out everything I needed to know. Then I needed a tracker, someone who could follow whatever clues we found at the house of the alleged crime. This was a job for Mira. She talks way to much, and has a tendency towards being a ditz but when you get her to focus there is nothing she can't find. Finally I needed someone with connections. A crime scene that has already been inspected by a constable will almost be impossible to get into, and seeing the body will be even more so, but with the right connections you can get in anywhere. That's where Zolo comes in, the worst of all snobs, but like most elves his sense of honor is deep, I saved his life now he gives me his services, which in this case means all his connections. With my team together, for better or worse, we set off to solve a mystery. Day one: First things first, we needed more information. Such as; who was the victim? how was he killed? And where was West shire? Weasy spent most of the day doing what he does, to find out what we needed. He showed up at my place as I was putting supper on the table. He helped himself to bread and stew. "What did you find out Weasy?" I couldn't help but feel a tad bit impatient. Usually at this stage of the game I had enough information to start my own investigation, but this case had nothing for me yet, meaning I had to wait on my comrades. "A lot." He told me around a mouthful of food. "Our victim died three days ago." "Name?" I interrupted, Weasy glared at me and tore off another bite of bread deliberately taking his time to chew and swallow before answering. "Charles Lambobby." Weasy said. " That's not a very wolfish name." I speculated. " He wasn't a wolf, he was a Satyr." Weasy told me triumphantly. " A Satyr?" I felt confused, my wolf friend had said the victim had been his nephew, how was it that his nephew was a Satyr. I shook my head, that was further into wolf business then I wanted to go. "What else did you find?" Weasy had finished his meal and was now licking out his bowl. He paused long enough to answer. "West Shire is the name of Grungs,the wolf town, you can get there in half a day if you ride hard." Grungs was what everyone called the Wolf headquarters. Grung being the name of their overlord, a mob type leader who ruled by fear, blood and a constantly changing set of rules. We had all called it Grungs for so long I guess I never realized it had any other name. " You sure you want to take this case Gwenwé?" Weasy asked me seriously. "Anything dealing with the wolves is shady and bad business." "I don't think I have a choice." I admitted. I hadn't gotten the impression that no was an acceptable response to the interview, in any case, I had taken the coin and started the search, it was too late to back out now. "I'm going to head out with Mira and Zolo tonight. You coming with us?" The little Goblin shook his head emphatically. "Goblins and wolves get along worse than cats and dogs. There's no way I'm showing my face in a whole town of them." We were ready to leave in a couple of hours. It was dark by then but the road was pretty straight forward and with the time constraint we were on, I didn't have the time to wait till morning to travel. Day two: Dawn had broken when we rode into West Shire. We made our way to a travelers inn, got our horses settled in the stable and went to see about some food. The dining room of the inn was nearly empty, a few stragglers hunched over their ale. A tired looking woman came to take our orders, her wolf ears poking up through her hat, a layer of grey fur covering her fingers. When the barmaid had walked away Mira leaned over, "A half breed." She whispered to me her wings quivering a little. "I'm surprised Grung allows such things." She scoffed. I was a little less surprised. After finishing our breakfast Zolo headed off to visit with his connections, he vaguely mentioned knowing someone in the Mayor’s office. Zolo never gave us details about his connections, as long as I get what I need he can keep his secrets. Mira and I decided to visit the house where the crime had taken place, we had little hope that we would get inside. As we suspected the doors were locked, we walked around outside, Mira doing her thing and examining different things in the dirt and on the windowsills. “There’s nothing here.” She told me fluttering down from the window. “I’m going to go talk to the constable, see if I can see the body.” She headed into town, I lingered at the house, I had some thoughts, but I wasn’t sure about any of them yet. Zolo came through as he usually does, he got Mira access to the corpse, she did her search but didn’t come up with any leads. The only thing she could tell me was that while Lambobby mostly resembled a Satyr with his goat hooves and horns, he also had a few characteristics that showed him to be part wolf. Zolo informed me that the halfbreed was a runner for the Council of wolves, collecting taxes and protection fees from the various business owners around town. We all reconvened at the tavern and talked over dinner. “Tomorrow is the last day.” Zolo said, “We have nothing of real value to solve this case. We need more time.” “We will sleep on it tonight and tomorrow will bring what it brings.” I said, I wasn’t feeling too concerned, “I have some leads, I just need to figure out how they all fit together.” I was fairly optimistic as to what tomorrow would bring. My friends were skeptical but we all headed to bed to sleep on it. Day three: In the morning I woke to find the cloaked man waiting outside for us. His hood was thrown back revealing his canine snout. “That wasn’t three days!” Mira fretted, flitting back and forth from the window to me. “What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?” “Let me handle it.” I told her calmly, putting on my cloak. They followed me outside. On the street I stood face to face with the giant wolf man. He didn’t speak, so I took it upon myself to begin. “Goodmorning...” I paused realizing I still didn’t know what to call him. “Zerók.” He growled. “Good morning Zerók, I suppose you are here for answers?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Well we have some.” I told him confidently. “I admit when you first came to me I was intrigued, but then we got here and we began learning a few things that left me a little baffled. Why would a member of the council hire a hick town detective to solve their problems? And why would any one dare kill a personal messenger of the council?” I paused watching Zerók for any reaction, he didn’t give me any, his yellow eyes just watched, a heavy frown on his face. “Then I began to think, it wasn’t a matter of who wanted Charles dead, it was a question of who would dare cross the council. That list doesn’t exist, not in this town anyway, the only ones who would kill Charles Lambobby would be the council itself. “So the council were the ones who put out he kill order?” Mira asked, Zerók glared at me, I felt a chill move down my spine, but I maintained a neutral face. “I think that the council did put out a kill order.” I said, but I think that when they got there Charles was already dead.” I maintained eye contact with Zerók, not an easy thing to do with a wolf man. “He's not your nephew is he? You were his assassin, finding him dead didn’t make you very happy did it?” I asked him. He didn’t acknowledge the question, I knew I was right. “Why did they hire you f they wanted him dead?” Zolo asked raising one delicate eyebrow, obviously disbelieving my theory. “The council didn't hire us.” I told him. "Zerók did. I don't think the council could have cared less, long as who they wanted dead was dead. It was Zerók who was miffed that he didn't get to make the kill." “Who did it then?” Mira asked perplexed. “A disgruntled lover I think.” I said keeping an eye on Zerók. “Satyr’s are known for their promiscuity.” I said lightly. “Doubtful that we will ever find out who.” Zerók growled low under his breath. “We hired you to find out who.” He threatened. “Yes, you hired me to find out who had killed your nephew, but come to find out, he was not your nephew and you were trying to kill him yourself.” I said, my hand clutching the knife I had hidden under my cloak. “There is not enough evidence to find out who killed him. I did my best.” The wolf man stared at me, his brows lowered. “I knew this waste of time.” He grumbled. “A waste of money. Our business is done.” He said. “Leave town tonight, never show your useless face back here.” He told me, spitting at my feet.” He stomped away leaving us alone. I let out a slow breath, trying to calm my heart beat. “Let’s go.” I told my comrades, “before he changes his mind and we are left dead in an alley somewhere.” It wasn’t until we were on our horses and a good few miles away from Grunds that Mira spoke. “You know who did it don’t you?” She asked me. I rode silently for a few moments. “Yes.” I admitted. “What?” Zolo gasped, coming alongside us. “Who?” “The barmaid.” I told them. “The half breed one?” Mira frowned at me. “Why her? How do you know?” “It’s quite simple actually.” I told them nonchalantly. “ She told me.” “Spill it Gwenwé!” Mira demanded. “No more of your cryptic answers, tell us the story plainly.” I gave in and began my answer. “It was the paper that Zerók gave me in the beginning. The one with the strange symbols on it. I had no idea what they were, and to be honest I had forgotten all about the paper, until we arrived in Grungs. When we went to the inn there were two Satyrs sitting beside us at the next table, I noticed when they got their tab it was written in the same symbols as our mystery paper. The killer left Charles’ bartab on his corpse.” “How would the council not have figured that out?” Zolo interrupted, he always questioned my answers, always doubted my intellect. “I don’t think the Wolves had ever been in that tavern. It was a human establishment, more or less, they collected their taxes and their protection fees, but Charles is the one who collected those, other than him I don’t think a single wolf has ever walked into that place. On top of that the council didn’t care about who killed Charles, they wouldn’t dig around trying to figure out the scrap of paper.” "Tell us the rest about the barmaid.” Zolo said impatiently. “Well after Mira went to check out the body, and you went off to talk to the Mayor I went back to the tavern, I showed the maid the paper and she confirmed it was the tab, I asked if she knew Charles Lambobby, she laughed in my face and then proceeded to tell me the whole story.” “Of course I knew Charles Lambobby, everyone does. ‘Nuffin’ ever good came when he was around. He’d come in ‘ere demanding the taxes and other fees for them wolves, then that night he’d coome back spending our coin, getting drunk on the money we worked to make.” She spat on the ground, crossing her arms under her breasts. “He thought he was all that, all because his mother was a wolf, tried so hard to be one of them. He came in here one night, bragging about how he had gotten himself on the counsel, I had ‘nough, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I waited until he had drunk himself crazy, followed him home and did him off. I don’t care who knows it, I tain’t ashamed, I’d do it again if given the chance.” “So how do you figure that Zerók hired us against the counsel’s wishes?” Zolo asked. “Well that is more of an assumption. First of all. Why would a council of Wolf people connected to every aspect of the town hire a nobody from another town to solve their problem? Second why would they just let us walk away with their coin when we didn’t actually solve their case?” My comrades rode in silence for a little while, I couldn’t help but feel a little self satisfied, this case had tied itself up neatly. Murder! They all cry murder! I take what I can get and I solve what I can. Gwenwé, private detective at your service.


Take 1 . Pushing through the throng of suit jackets, the smell of sweat haunted by stale aftershave. The bar was crowded. A typical Dubai drinking hole for advertising and film people. They called it the Red Lion, pretending that it was the same as you find in England. Except it wasn’t. Like the city, it was faux, built on dreams and hopes, rising from the sand of dry dusty life. It was my escape, this city, a haven for a film director. Being busy, pushing for the next job, networking was the way to fill life with money and meaning. From the hollowness of nothing. But that realization came later that night. After I reached the bottom. When I saw depression. Not felt it, saw it, like a glowering creature that enveloped my body with sadness, a fear that, if this was all life was about, then it was not worth it. As if it saw me, the real me, naked. Tonight though, I played at being buoyant, enjoying the noise of revels, inhaling the camaraderie of the film crew who smiled and offered me my double J@B scotch on the rocks. Any noise. Until there was none. Film crews, like theatre folk, believe the dream they are living. On location, away from family and kids and school trips, they hold onto each other, supporting the excitement of ‘Action, Roll Camera’ life until the next take. And then after the grueling day in the desert near Sharjah, in heat of forty degrees, they bond with alcohol and stories of the day. “Did you see how we nearly lost the camera in that shot of the Land cruiser sliding down the sand dune.” “Ja...I thought we were going to lose the light.” “Did the director know what he was doing?” The driver of the car wasn’t there to tell his side of the story; how I had insisted he breast the sand dune at high speed so that I could get a shot of the car in the air over the sand. “Cheers!” “Terrific day, Sir,” the cameraman said. “Here’s your Scotch!’ I downed it in one gulp. Exhausted, from the day’s concentration and the tension of being the director- the man in charge of the shoot. It is all an act- I must appear to be in charge, that all questions can be answered by me. Major imposter syndrome. They tell you that the best directors choose the most experienced crew to lessen the pressure. I found the reverse. Better people expect better knowledge from the man in charge. And I did not know enough. Constant questions which bludgeoned my creative vision to death. “What lens do you want, sir?” “Where do you think we should put the light. Sir?” “Don’t you think we need to have the car tyres blackened, sir?” “How long do you think it’ll take to clean the sand of wheel marks before the next take, sir?” “What time do you want to break for lunch, sir?” “Can we see the driver if the car in this shot, or do we use a double, sir?” “Time is running short. We will miss the sunset shot, sir.” “I’ll have another one, “I said. The barman nodded and I downed the scotch. The barman was used to film crews who over worked and overdrank. He smiled, handed me my change and I turned to watch the crew, most showing the effect of their drinks. They included me as manners, but not as one of their own. Directors were the people who were papal if they were considered good at their job, but unforgiven if they failed to meet the crews’ expectations. On this shoot I sensed a disdain behind their smiles. I sighed. The scales were falling off, I was beginning to hate this business, my ability to play the game. Perhaps I was just tired. “Reduced crew tomorrow,” said the assistant director. “You handle it, “I said. “It’s just postcard shots of dunes and thorn trees. I’ll begin the edit.” He looked chuffed to be given the responsibility. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He assumed a straighter posture when he told the crew. “The wanker said I will take the shot tomorrow,” he said. Well, that’s what I would have said. I pushed through the sweat and cigarette smoke, the retelling of the landrover flying over the sand dune; again. I left. The street was quiet outside the noise of the pub. It felt safe, away from the pressure of people drinking to enjoy themselves. I was empty. Double scotches had not filled the gap. These crew members weren’t friends; they were, at best colleagues. But the sinking thought, the realization that I did not respect them, that they certainly did not respect me hit me like the humidity fogging up my glasses. What was I looking for? That they should like me? That they should be impressed by my artistic skill? I had no answers. I did not want these thoughts. Another drink. I hailed a cab and headed for a bar in Satwa, where local Emiratis drank and picked up prostitutes. Take Two It was a fug of smoke and the feeling of being an outsider was comforting. No one knew me, had any expectations of me. The thobes and gutras thronged the bar. Ethiopian and Moroccan women perched on stools glad-eying the men. “Need a friend?” said one to me as I finished my first drink. “La, habibti,” I said. I was not in the market for sins of the flesh. The crowd was dense, and I caught a young dark man looking at me. Not visible at first, hidden behind customers and smoke I caught him staring again. His face came in and out of the light, as if he was dodging a spotlight. When I got a full view, I saw that he looked familiar, but I did not know him. I peered to see if perhaps he was with people I knew, but he was alone. Then, he nodded, moved. He walked slowly. Carefully. “I’m a student,” he said. “I saw you filming the Land rover. I was part of the crew to clean the car after every shot.” I laughed. A man emerging out of a cloud of cigarette smoke, commenting on my work. “Only brown people can clean cars on film sets,” he said, without irony. He was right. No white people were used as labour on film sets. I sighed and downed my drink. I could not get away from my career, even in this dank bar. “Must be paying you too much if you’re out drinking!” I said. He laughed. “I don’t drink. Don’t have the need.” His voice was deep and warm. Not like the voices of labourers who gabbled, as if the next moment would be their last. This man spoke without accent. At times I thought he and I had the same voice. He was a handsome man, in a Bollywood way, sweeping eyelashes and dark long hair. He reminded me of the actor from a Monkey King series I had watched on TV. Why was he here? “Never seen you here before,” I said. “Tonight, I wanted company.” “Why this bar?” He smiled. “If I go to a Western bar, they treat me like a waiter. Just like on the film set.” “Drink?” I offered. “Coke, or 7 UP?” He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. We stood at the bar, leaning against the counter, watching the ladies chat up the men, some leaving with customers, others patiently smoking. “Why here? “I said again. “Why not?” There was something strange about this guy. Normally labourer types don’t go into bars and talk to white men. He spoke to me as if we had met before. It felt odd, as if we were in our own searchlight at the bar. “And you? You’re the only westerner here.” He said. He was right, the only white man in the room. “An obvious client for the ladies.” We laughed. “I’m not here for that.” I said. “For what then?” I had no answer for this stranger, invading my space. But I remained silent. He would not know tonight was one of my worst times, doubting the person behind the mask was real. Perhaps he did, which he is why he came over. “You are very patient on the film set,” he said. “I don’t often feel it.” “I saw that. You work with people you don’t like. Who don’t like you. But you do the job.” “That’s what you have to do,” I said. “Bare spots and darkness.” “What?” “Walt Whitman. He said an artist must know lows and highs.” “I need another drink after that,” I said. “I’m going to the beach” he said. “Bit late for a swim.” “No swimming. I get peace there.” “I live on the beach.” I said. “I know. I was at your wrap party.” “For the last film?”? “Yes. But in your job, you don’t see people.” I felt stung. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Not me-second unit. I’m not necessary.” He turned and after a pause. “Your river. It’s your bridge you are crossing.” He had left by the time the drink arrived and the heat of the whisky, the promise of rest, eased me as I stared at the crowd; a tourist examining items in a window display he could not buy. “Double Scotch,” I said. Take Three The sand crunched though my toes as I stumbled towards the sea. The waves rippled along like a ribbon, white lights of foam suddenly spreading across the sand. In the distance, through the humid haze, the lights of the Burj Khalifa reached to the sky. The desire to have the tallest, the biggest, the fastest; the signature of Dubai. Using cheap labour from India and Iran, the city is an example of materialism at its best and worst. When I first arrived here, Indian labourers were forced to work during the hottest period of the day, some falling to their death from the scaffolding. Nowadays there are safety nets, and the hours are proscribed. But still they fall. Now into a net. My cottage, more of a lean-to really, overlooked an undeveloped part of the beach front. Built in the seventies as houses for the migrant labour to build the port, they were now occupied by artists and freelance film makers, like me. The rent was a pittance, the cottages were basic, built not to survive, but they did, and we took them over. I loved living there. I could control my expenses and choose which jobs I wanted, without money pressures. But the question would not go away. What would happen if I gave it up? I began to strip. I would swim. I left the bottle of whiskey on top of my clothes to stop them blowing away. I stumbled to the edge of the sand holding the shadow of the ebbing tide. Naked in the humidity was a release and I edged into the water. It was lukewarm, holding the heat of the day. As I waded out, I wondered would I have the strength to drown. It was then I felt, saw, an orange glow, threatening to push me under. Silent screams wrapped around me, suffocating me. Trickles of pain travelled through my arms, my feet, my face. I panicked. It must be the alcohol, I thought. Panting, I grasped a support for a flyover in construction.Bare concrete and stone. I held on to it until my breathing settled. I released my grasp of the pillar and turned to the shore. Soon my beach would be a carpark; my haven would be gone. Perhaps it was all leading to this moment. An attack of fear in the water. I dipped under, enjoying the brief sting of salt in my eyes. Slowly I swam and I stumbled back to the shore. In front of me was a lone figure, sitting cross legged, staring out at the ocean. Cast in shadows and light. The young man from the bar. Was he following me? I sat down beside him. I thought I would share his isolation. Obviously drunk. Sharing his isolation meant destroying it. Three more double scotches at the bar took me over the edge. Fear of leaving the comfort of anonymous people in search of sex and booze, of stepping into a real world, fueled my thirst. The first drink relaxed, stopped me pretending to be normal. It was exhausting to hide trembles of the person behind the mask. I sat down, cross legged and tried to work out what the man was staring at. Eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the boats. A light from the distance passed over us, like a lighthouse. There one minute, gone the next. He did not acknowledge me or react to my nakedness. Most Middle East people would avert their eyes from nakedness. He did not even notice. He was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt with sandals neatly arranged near his feet. This young man had punctured my thoughts, roiled me. We sat in silence. My mind was not. That night, I met despair. Whether he felt it or not, I cannot say, but he said. “That is my home.” I looked out over the black waves, every now and then punctuated by the lights of ships queueing for the harbour. “The ships?” “My country.” “I can’t see anything,” I said. “You will if you try.” I moved to get up. The man was obviously high or something. “Iran is across the sea from here.” I said. He turned to me and smiled. A gentle smile. “But it’s hundreds of miles away,” I said. “You can’t see it.” “It’s still there.” He said. The waves plashed along the shore, lights flicking, then gone, boats hazy in the distance. I offered him a swig from my bottle. He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. “So have I.” We sat in silence again, slowly watching the sky lighten. “You should dress.” He said."You must choose who sees you naked." Nudity on the beaches was not allowed. I grinned as I slipped on my clothes. “The secret police will think we are lovers.” “In a way we are,” he said. I remember frowning at him. “I was looking for a friend too.” I turned to trudge up to my house in the grey dawn. When I looked back, he was not there. * “The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor. The point of being an artist is that you may live.” Sherwood Anderson


The wind had killed autumn. It always started that way, cutting the leaves from the trees to fall and dry on the ground. Then came the frost, to turn the world grey. Last came the snow. The huntsman moves through pine and birch and shallow snow towards the clearing ahead, the wind covering any noise he may have made. At its edge, he lowers himself onto the ground. The cold seeps through his jacket. Across the clearing, the rabbit hears nothing. He hefts his rifle - dark wood, steel - into the firing position. The safety softly clicks as he flicks it off. Finger moves to the trigger, and sits there lightly, waiting. His world is now constrained to what he can see through the rifle’s sights. The rabbit hops to another patch of dry grass. The huntsman adjusts, settling his aim onto the rabbit again. Breathes in, then softly out, begins to squeeze- \-the snow near the rabbit erupts, a blur of motion and a shape falls upon the rabbit. Strong jaws and sharp teeth crush its neck. A fox. Deep red fur. The huntsman pauses, then sights in on the fox. The rifle speaks \- Eyes. Brown, no hazel. Soft, kind eyes. They stand together and kiss under the shadow of the bus. Her lips are soft. He can taste salt. He doesn’t understand- \- There she is, across the road. He’d walked into town in the early morning, when the birds were still singing from the branches of silver trees touched with gold, to sell the deer slung over his shoulder. She’d just stepped out of the bakery wearing a sky blue apron, dusted with flour. Seeing him, she shoots him a little smile. Hazel eyes. He’s staring and something in him aches- He quickly turns away down the street. He wants to run. \- A mound of dirt and a headstone sits beneath the old oak tree, twisting on a hill behind the cabin. He lays down next to it, onto the dry leaves. His feet extend beyond the edge of the mound. He is taller. The wind sings soft through the branches above, taking the last of the leaves and carrying them to the woods below. \- There is a song he remembers, sitting in the back of his mind. He hums it as he walks and he smiles. His rifle is slung over his shoulder as he crunches his way up the path towards the hill. Hoar frost covers everything the snow has failed to touch. Everything is like glass. He knows this is the last time he can go out this season. He keeps humming. It’s an old song, for him. The rifle stock gently bumps against him in time with his steps. The wind keeps singing through the trees. \- Now it tears and saws, back and forth, opening a hole ever wider, and the other’s hand has fallen away but the knife still cuts, back and forth and red warmth washes over his hands - \- Oh god. Cradled in his arms, his burden was beginning to cool as he carried it up the hill towards the oak tree. He begins to claw a hole in the dirt beneath it. His hands bleed, but he can’t feel it. He picks up the small bundle and gently lowers it into the hole he has made. His eyes sting. He tries to stand, but for a while he can’t, sobbing into the cold wind. He scrapes the dirt back into the hole, covering the bundle’s red fur. Finding his feet, he stands beneath the tree, unmoving, breathing in time to the wind cutting through the branches, swaying slightly as one who has roots in the earth. Then he severs them. Going to the cabin at the bottom of the hill, he takes his pack and fills it with clothes, a pencil, a notepad and his books. He steps out the door, closing it behind him. He leaves the cabin, the hill, the oak tree and the forest. He walks into town and stands across the road from the bakery, and waits. The hazel eyed girl steps out and sees him. She smiles again at him slightly. He takes a breath, and crosses the road.


I like being barefoot in the cold. People always stare at me awkwardly, when I start peeling off my shoes and socks to walk across a frost-laden pitch of grass, but they wouldn’t if they just tried it. Society only tells you it’s not okay to go outside with shoes on. It’s actually an entirely novel concept, really; I’d rather focus on my feet freezing, than sit back idly as my night travels in reverse. I don’t think I sleep well anymore. I always feel tired; like the coffee I had last night, doesn’t want me to drink the coffee I’ll drink in the morning. And I’ll roll over in my bed, and that sting of the familiar pain in my side shakes me so hard I can’t go back to sleep. And the feeling of my heart, almost burning, with every few beats, scares me enough to get out of bed and drink some water. I’ll go outside, instead of having coffee, in an attempt to offset the ritual that lead to my dismay. Walking barefoot into the yard while I’m smoking, just to let my mind travel somewhere else for a while. And then I stepped on that fucking dart. The serenity of chills is met with the sound of anguish, and my scream pierces the early morning, and I’m left wondering why I ever threw that dart out the window. I hung a map on my wall, and I blindfolded myself; just to throw a dart, and see where it’d land, well, it landed in the yard. I threw the dart to see where it wanted me to go, and through the bitter irony, it ended up being what stopped me from going anywhere. Because now there’s a dart sized whole in my foot. I don’t think I think anymore. If I had been thinking at all, I wouldn't of went into the back yard barefoot; there’s so much dog shit out there. I think, through out the course of the last hundred years, all anyone ever wanted was to be listened to. To know that their sorrow was heard. I wake up, and my side hurts every day; I’m too exhausted to run, because I don’t sleep well anymore. After drinking coffee all day, going to bed, is comparable to sleeping on something incredibly hot and itchy. Yeah, you can manage it, but you have to stand up every forty-five minutes to scratch your balls and cool off. My heart hurts after drinking so much coffee. Sometimes, enough that I contemplate going to the hospital, but then I remember that I don’t like hospitals anymore; that if I walk in there, complaining of heart pain, I’d probably be locked in a room for four hours until I stroked out all together. Yeah, I don’t like hospitals. This is my pain. And I carry it with me every day, along with seven cup’s of coffee and two red bulls. I feel like I’m slowly killing myself everyday, and I’m screaming in torment at the wall; no one hears me, and I don’t feel heard. I feel muffled. The pain in my chest and coffee cup in my hand tells me I’m not being dramatic, but reality taught me a long time ago, that help doesn’t usually ever come. And I don’t know what to do, because this life leaves me feeling empty and void, and in a significant amount of pain. I just don’t want to drink any more coffee. My side hurts.


(Semi-Autobiographical Fiction) The bell rings, and within moments, students pour out of classroom doors. The hallway fills with the echoing sounds of laughter, shouting and squeaking sneakers. Throngs of students move in every direction, all racing against the nine-minute period break. I walk through this chaos, down the middle of the hallway. I’ve got my headphones on, listening to the latest album by INXS on my Walkman. Trying to tune out the world. I keep my eyes downward and make myself as invisible as possible. By being unremarkable, with no flashy clothing, weird piercings or punk hairstyles, I blend into the sea of conformity. Just like any other guy. It’s my survival technique. Next to my locker, two students stand on footstools. They’re fighting against the crowd, trying to tape a banner to a hallway crossbeam. Class of ‘88 Senior Prom, Saturday, March 26th The sight of it makes my chest feel heavy. Prom’s not for everybody. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Stacy Wilson. She’s a pretty girl with long brown hair and amber eyes. Her personality is quirky, which keeps her out of the top tier popular crowd. But she’s cute enough that most boys would love to be the subject of her affection. We’re in the school play together. Oliver the Musical. Last night, we practiced the scene where all the merchants sing about their wares for sale. I play the knife grinder, and she plays the rose merchant. It’s my favorite song in the play, with its beautiful four-part harmony. At practice, it’s easy to get caught up in the moment. I bury myself behind my open locker door and crank up the volume of my Walkman. Trying to be invisible. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I stiffen, take off my headphones and turn. “Hey Gabe.” Stacy hovers behind me, gnawing at her bottom lip, with her hands in the pockets of her acid-washed jeans. “Stacy--oh, uh--hi.” I meet her gaze for a second, then focus back at the contents of my locker. “Rehearsal was great last night, huh?” “Yep.” I nod with tight lips. “Hey--um--I was thinking.” She inches forward. “I guess--I was wondering--would you want to hang out, like after rehearsal on Friday?” “No! I mean--sorry, I can’t. I have a thing.” Really? A thing? That’s the best I can do? “Oh, okay.” She looks crestfallen. “Maybe another time, then?” “Sure, sounds great.” I shut my locker. “Gotta run to class.” I hurry away, avoiding her gaze, not wanting to see her reaction. I feel sorry for Stacy. I mean, I really do . It must have taken nerve for her to ask me out. And singing in harmony with her is magical. But I’m just not interested, and I’m not good at faking it. Maybe it’s cruel to say no so bluntly, but ultimately it would be crueler to say yes. I mean, maybe we could be friends. She could be somebody I confide in or have a laugh with. But friendship isn’t what she’s after, and I know it. After all, I’m an expert in unrequited love. The first awareness of who I really am came in 5th grade. I shared a homeroom desk with Ben Schafer with his puppy dog brown eyes and infectious smile. His goofy sense of humor matched mine perfectly. We both loved old Monty Python movies and would spend hours laughing at the dumb jokes. Every day I would be so excited to see him. Any day he was sick or missed school, I was a wreck. That affection was unrequited, of course. We were close enough friends, but my intensity made it strange. Any relationship so unbalanced is doomed to failure. Fast forward seven years, and I find myself in a sadly familiar situation. Fifth period biology. My lab partner is Tom O’Connell. With spiky brown hair, a freckled nose, and those same deep brown eyes that make my stomach do somersaults every time they look my way. But currently, the seat next to me is empty and the second bell just rang. I keep my eyes pinned to the door, sick to my stomach. David Spencer, a red-haired, loud-mouthed pain in the ass, watches me from across the aisle. “Whatcha looking for, Gabe?” He has this annoying smirk. “Nothing.” I tear my eyes away from the door and thumb through my biology textbook. “Um, hmm.” God, am I that transparent? It took me a while to accept that I’m gay. I went through all the stages of denial, but now I’m firmly in the acceptance phase. But of course I haven’t acted on it, or shared it with anybody. Coming out in high school is social suicide. Last year, Sam Eastman was outed against his will. He was a little effeminate, so even before then, he dealt with a lot of bullying and name-calling. He came out to his best friend under the bleachers at a football game. Somebody overheard, and the news spread like wildfire. The bullying got so bad, he ended up leaving the school. Last I heard, he’s doing homeschooling now. So yeah, this is a secret I’m keeping to myself. Tom comes tearing into the room, breathing hard. His backpack is hanging from one arm, and three textbooks are askew in the other. Basically, a big, adorable mess. My whole face lights up. Red-head David is watching me, and makes a little snorting laugh. He keeps quiet but his eyes clearly say, That’s what I thought. “Sorry Mr. Jacobs,” Tom says as he blows past the teacher’s desk on his way to the empty seat next to me. He shoots me a sheepish grin, walking up the aisle. “You get lost on the way to class?” I tease as he scotches behind me to get to his desk. “Girl problems. You know.” “Yeah.” I force a laugh. My smile deflates. “You see that hockey game last night?” Tom asks, as he slides into his chair. “Yeah man. That goal in the second period?” “It was sweet.” I know almost nothing about hockey. But Tom loves it, so I’m trying to learn. The first game I watched, I couldn’t even see where the puck was. A bunch of random skating and slapping of sticks until a siren goes off, and the announcer yelled GOAAAAAL! But I was getting better at watching it. “Hey, wanna catch a movie on Friday?” I ask. “Beetlejuice is supposed to be funny.” I have a job at the theater, so I get into movies for free. I use this as leverage whenever I can. “Nah, man, gotta date with Kristy.” “Oh. Nice.” My heart craters. I guess what goes around comes around. The lecture is boring. Tom has his head propped up on his arm and he keeps drifting off. It’s so cute that I can’t stop looking at him. My chest is aching. Why can’t I choose who I fall for? When the bell finally rings, we all get up to head out. Tom stops to chat with some friends and I hover around, hoping to walk with him down the hallway for a bit. David Spencer walks up to me. “Why are you just standing there?” He’s got this knowing look on his face. “Why are you so worried about what I’m doing?” I snap back. David shakes his head and walks off. I’d swear he said queer under his breath. My chest tightens and I hurry out of class, not looking back. * * * I’ve got a shift at the theater that night, taking tickets. It’s pretty slow, so my boss lets me go early. As I’m headed out of the break room, I bump into my work friend Johnny Nguyen. “Hey Gabe, party tonight. You going?” Johnny has a big grin. He’s rocking his punky look, with spiked black hair and a ripped blue jean jacket. “Sounds fun. Where’s it at?” “Jessica’s house.” His grin gets even bigger. “You know she’s got a thing for you, right?” “Oh, yeah?” I force a smile. Jessica works at the theater too, behind the concession stand. And yes , I know she has a thing for me. She’s always sending me smiles and acting flirty. “Yup. I saw her checking you out earlier. And she asked me if you were single. I told her you were perpetually single.” “Nice, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Come to think of it, I got a test I have to study--” “Na ah. You ain’t getting outta this one. Jessica is fine , and tonight’s your chance.” Johnny shoves me forward. “I’ll drive. You need to get plastered tonight. Liquid courage.” People always confuse my lack of interest with a lack of confidence. It’s annoying but I can’t exactly correct them. So I use it as my disguise. Sure. I’m the shy one. Only problem is girls seem to dig this more. We pull up to the house-party. Music is blaring, and teenagers are a running around on the lawn. It’s even crazier inside. Drunken people pack the place. My eyes point downward, hoping to not run into Jessica. Johnny’s head snaps around. “Damn, you see that?” “What?” “You telling me you didn’t see that babe who just walked by? Man, you need to open your eyes!” “Oh. Dang.” I put on my best disappointed face. “You gotta give me a heads up next time.” Johnny just shakes his head. We weave our way through the crowd to the kitchen, where guys in letterman jackets are doing shots off the counter. Johnny grabs a red solo cup, fills it from a keg sitting in an ice bucket, and shoves it toward me. “Drink!” I take the glass and chug it. If I’m gonna make it through tonight, I’ll need it. Johnny beams at me. “There’s my man!” After another beer and two shots of something awful, my head is buzzing, taking the edge off my inhibitions. I head out to the crowd. There’s lots of people from my high school, and quite a few I don’t recognize. And then I see Jessica. She hasn’t seen me yet, so I duck into the next room. But in here is a different problem. Across the crowded room is David Spencer, the jerk from biology class. He’s chatting with two guys from the football team. David sees me and says something to them. They look my way and laugh. One of them shakes their head with a disgusted look on his face. Fuck. I run out of the room, a feeling of panic descending on me, and head downstairs. I just need to get away. But drunken teenagers fill the basement too. Down a hallway, there’s an empty, darkened room. I plop down in an overstuffed chair, hoping that here I can escape all the rumors and expectations. I sit in the chair and take deep breaths, trying to calm down. David Spencer is such an ass-hole. But then a female figure stands in the doorway. Jessica. She heads over, zigzagging a little on her way, then plops down and crams in next to me. The smell of sweet perfume and vodka wafts over. “Hey you.” She puts a sloppy finger on my chest. “I’ve been looking for you, Gabriel Fisher.” “Have you?” My heart beats faster again, but not in a sexual way. “Umm hmm.” She turns her head toward me and leans it against the chair. Our lips are inches apart. Here before me is the answer to my problems. I could go to prom. Stop the rumors that seem to be spreading. Not have to worry about coming out to my family and friends. I could have it all, and this could be the start. And all it would cost me is my happiness. The heat of her breath hits my face. Am I going through with this? To thine own self be false? Her lips just barely touch mine. Blinding light comes from above, and I shield it with my hand. Three drunken guys stand in the doorway, one with his finger on the light switch. “Oops, sorry.” “Holy shit! Jessica and Gabe finally hooked up,” another one says. I turn to Jessica with a sheepish look. But her eyes are shut. She’s passed out. I get up and head out of the room. One guy pats me on the back as I pass. “Nice job, Gabe!” So glad they’re happy. But I’m sick to my stomach, and there’s a weight baring down on my chest. I don’t make it any farther than the basement rec room. When it comes to drinking, I’m a bit of a lightweight, and the liquor has gone to my head. I stumble forward and land on an empty couch. I sit there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what just happened. Maybe being spotted “hooking up” with her will be enough to quiet rumors for a bit. But I’d probably need to date her to make it stick. And if touching her lips felt like that much of a lie. God, I'm so sick of this shit! Before I can think further, a guy plops on the couch next to me. I recognize his face. And it’s adorable. Messy blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Button nose. And he’s currently staring right at me, smiling. I’ve seen him a hundred times before. He’s in the play, but we don’t have any scenes together. And he’s not in any of my classes. But I might have a slight crush on him. “Jason, right? From the play?” I ask with his gaze still locked on me. I can feel my cheeks warming, and I have to avert my eyes. “Yep. Hi Gabe.” He knows my name. I work up the courage to look back at him. How can he just keep staring like that? With those tender eyes and that soft smile. “So is the rumor true?” he asks. “I dunno.” I let out a sad laugh. “Guess it depends on which rumor you’re talking about.” “This one.” And he kisses me. My whole body tingles and feels weightless. We separate, and I look into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s true.” Then go back for another kiss. Gasps surround us. And more than one homophobic epithet. But I don’t care. I’m done with the deceit. The thousand lies a day. If you don’t like it, get over it or get out of my way. This is who I am.


Every universe has a timeline, some fail to begin while others fail to end. Every timeline plays out all at once, we experience the "movement". This basically means though every moment repeats itself infinitely, we are going through it in order, "time". In the beginning was time travel. People came back from the future which happens at the same time as the past and created life, dying in the process, thus life as we know it now. Forever guessing how it all began, we find out every time only to forget. How long do we know the truth? What does it do for us? In order to survive as a species we must die and start over. We exist the same life blissfully unaware. When we can shift our actions and blame to a set timeline, all war is justified. We are creators of life but don't want the responsibility. We make religions to make it easier. The true comfort is that we don't die while the curse is nothing changes. How will this effect our lives if we found out? It wouldn't, and you know why.


A little story by me. Enjoy.  *Dave took another weary step forward, lamenting the fact that one the soles of his boots would need to be repaired with duct tape as it slipped off once again. He had just run out and was lamenting the fact that he would probably have to beg for loose change to buy a new roll. His clothes, though mostly kept clean, were tattered with wear and hung loosely to his body. As he glanced up into the overcast sky once more, a small raindrop splattered onto his face.* “Great..”, *Dave mumbles to himself,* “I just hope it doesn’t storm too hard again.. I dunno if my little shelter is gonna hold up. I need to hurry..” *He clutched the brown paper sack he had received from the care center even tighter to his chest, hoping the flimsy material could hold up against the oncoming storm. He was glad there were at least a few good people in this world., and he was excited for the first good meal in a while. He had lost much, but he was determined to never give up, and he was determined to get it all back no matter what.* *Life had not been easy for Dave since he had been lain off from his paycheck to paycheck factory job of 10 years. After liquidating all assets, his former boss and CEO had gone M.I.A. and he had never received the severance package he was promised. There was little work to be had in the small town he had lived in for most of his life, so he took his chances and moved on into the big city with little more than his determination and a pocket full of dreams. His naivety cost him dearly.* *By the time Dave had reached his rickety little homemade shelter, the storm had picked up quite nicely. He was relieved to see it was holding up well. It was a little hovel forged from scavenged wood, plastic, sheet metal, duct tape and bunjie cords from the dump nearby. Despite everything, he was quite proud of his work. He had placed it in the far back corner of a condemned vacant lot, luckily out of sight from the streets. He occasionally had to shoo away some other unfortunate tramp from the streets, but he was determined to protect the last thing he owned. He knew he would have to leave eventually, but for now this was home. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea how soon this time was to come.* *Unbeknownst to Dave, six police officers were stalking him as their prey, hot on his trail. One of the group had seen him trudge into the lot the previous day, and had decided to inspect it when Dave was not around.* *When the officer took sight of the little hovel, he sneered and spat on the ground in disgust. As far as he was concerned, Dave was no better than this pile of junk and garbage he was beholding. In his mind Dave was probably just another drunk or druggie, a problem lost in the system that he needed to correct. He thought about just destroying this hovel right here and there, but he knew that if he did he would have less evidence to take that bum in.* *He decided to go inform the other officers of his discovery, a cruel plan forming in his mind as he thought of every charge he could hit that bum with when he finally caught him. After all, who would care about a bum? As far as the officer was concerned, he was doing that piece of trash a favor by locking him up. The officers determined they would strike the next night after more observation of Dave, and then “justice” would be delivered.* *As Dave opened up the little makeshift door to his proud little hovel, the young pit bull he had rescued from the streets came bounding out in its excitement. He had found it on the verge of starving to death a few weeks ago in a back alley. It had been covered in battle scars and had been badly beaten. He figured it had been a failed fighting dog, and though he knew he could barely take of himself, he was determined to save this young pups life.* *At first he had been very wary of this pit bull, but after he had treated her wounds and nursed her back to a healthy weight, he soon found she was nothing but a bundle of love and affection. He chuckled as he noted that she was a failed fight dog indeed. He had grown very attached to her, given her the name Hope, and was overjoyed as he knew he would never be alone again, at least not for a while.* “Hey there girl!!”, *Dave exclaimed happily as Hope bounded up to him*, “There’s a sweet girl. I’ve got some good food, yes I do. You hungry girl? I-“ *Dave was interrupted as Hope suddenly whipped around and began to uncharacteristically growl and then bark. Surprised, Dave turned around himself to see six uniform clad officers bolting towards him, guns drawn.* “Freeze! Get on the ground!”, *They exclaimed, pointing the weapons directly at his head,* “Get on the fucking ground now!!” *In his surprise, Dave took a couple of steps back.* “He’s gonna run! Get him!!”, *an officer shouted. They charged him, and as 4 of them took him to the ground, Hope sprang into action. She ferociously barked and was about to take an officer into her jaws, but then Dave heard a sound that made his blood run cold. A gun fired. A single yelp, then a thudding of flesh.* “Hope!!”, *He yelled,* “You bastards!! Why did you do that? She was just trying to protect me! What have I even done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?” *As Dave shouted, he thrashed a little bit in his protest. The police officers would have none of this disrespect. They pulled out their batons and beat him until he no longer resisted. As they pulled up a now stupefied and bloodied Dave, they proceeded to read him his rights and read him his list of charges.* *Trespassing, assault on an officer, attempting to flee from an officer, animal cruelty, etc., etc. Dave knew he was innocent and tried to protest, but his words fell on deaf ears. He was placed in the back of the squad car and he thought that was the end of it and proceeded to weep. When he noticed the car wasn’t moving, he looked out of the window on noticed the officers destroying and trashing his proud hovel, and also trashing any semblance of personal property he may have had.* *His backpack, his sleeping mat, his battered cell phone, his clothing, his supplies, his food.. all of everything he had managed to desperately scrape from the bottom of the barrel, gone. Dave numbly watched on as any scrap of hope or emotion slowly left his usually optimistic self. He watched as the officers high fived each other while exclaiming they had “gotten another one”, and as the last dregs of any humanity left him, he laughed. It was more of a dry, hoarse croak of scorn and lamentation. If this was justice, if this was right, then from that point on he was determined to never try to be a part of it again.* *Dave had never been much of drinker, but decided that as soon as he got out the first thing he would do is find a bottle somewhere. He would steal it if he had to, and now his only plan was to seek that sweet oblivion. After all, there was no longer any justice, no longer any Hope, and no longer any reason for him to try to live. For the first time since he had become homeless, he now truly was lost in the system. He was just another bum now, and his sorrow was drowned out by the celebration of “Justice” the officers proclaimed before him. Once again, he laughed... and cried.


This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives, but fate had other plans for the bride and groom. The weeks that led up to their wedding day were spectacular. Beth had been fitted with a beautiful silk and lace wedding gown, strapless and elegant, while her five bridesmaids were dressed in chiffon gowns with V-shaped necklines and a slit up the left leg. Graham was fitted with an Armani stretch-wool tuxedo, basic black, with a black silk bowtie. His groomsmen wore similar black tuxedos but with bowties to match the dresses of the bridesmaids. A caterer had been hired to provide a three-course meal to the 350 guests that had responded to the RSVP. A magnificent three-tier cake with banana filling had been prepared, and a popular DJ had been hired for the reception. All that was left to do, was to say, “I do,” when prompted to do so. A harpist strummed on the strings of the harp, creating a wonderful and calming sound for all of those in attendance. Instead of the traditional, “Bridal March,” Beth and Graham had decided on the song, “Here and Now” by Luther Vandross that was performed beautifully by a young man that they had grown up with. Everything about the day was going splendidly. Graham stood at the front of the church in anticipation as Beth slowly made her way up the aisle. His breathing felt constricted once he witnessed her beauty. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time. Beth too was feeling some anxiety. A tear began to form in the corner of her eye as she spotted Graham standing at the end of the aisle. Her walk seemed to take an eternity and her legs began to feel heavy as if she were walking through mud. When the two of them finally joined at the altar, Beth’s father had lifted her veil and kissed her on the cheek before taking his seat. The couple then turned to face the priest who was about to marry them. “Dearly beloved,” he began, “We come together today to witness the union of Graham and Beth in Holy matrimony.” When the priest reached the part of the ceremony when he asks those in attendance if there were any objections to the marriage, something unexpected happened. Loud explosions could be heard outside of the church. Sirens sounded soon after. The ceremony had come to an abrupt stop as the doors to the church flew open and several armed men entered, blocking the exit. Many people crouched low in the pews, while the priest left the altar and approached the gunmen alerting them to the fact that they were in a place of worship. A dark-haired man with a long black beard stepped forward and fired three shots into the chest of the priest. He fell to the floor with a pool of blood forming around his dying body. Everybody in the church gasped at the sight and began screaming in terror. Graham quickly grabbed Beth by the hand and pulled her down to the ground in front of the pews. They inched their way toward the rear of the altar where the doorway to the sacristy was. They successfully entered the priest’s private quarters and made their way toward the rear exit when gunfire erupted in the church. Shouts of protest and shrieking agony followed. Beth thought of her parents and tried to turn back, but Graham held her tight and insisted that there was nothing they could do to help. They made it to the exit and escaped to the rear parking lot. They could see fires burning all around the area including two police cars. The officers laid motionless on the ground beside them. Storefront windows had been smashed in and were also ablaze. Graham’s former military training had kicked in and his first course of action was survival until he could assess the situation. They headed down a back alley away from the destruction and entered an apartment building that overlooked the downtown core. Adrenaline now raced through his veins as they took the elevator to the top floor then climbed a staircase to the roof. At the south end of the building, they could see billowing smoke over a four-block radius. The terrorists had cordoned off the area. They seemed organized and well-armed. There was no way that Graham could handle this situation on his own and he knew it. He needed to get in touch with a few of his military buddies. He did not want to risk his conversation being overheard on his cellphone, so Graham asked to use the landline of one of the building’s residents. The elderly lady reluctantly agreed. She decided that a couple dressed as they were could not possibly be terrorists. “Harry? It’s Graham. Yes, it is good to hear your voice too. Listen, I need a favor. All hell is breaking loose downtown and I need you to round up some of the old platoon. Stay off the cellphones if you can or keep it coded, understood? Good. Meet me at 20:00 hours at Sharky’s. Be safe.” At 8:00 pm, Graham and Beth arrived at a small shack on the outskirts of the city. It was owned by one of Graham’s platoon leaders, Sergeant, Gus “Sharky” Sullivan. He was a little unorthodox, but also one of the toughest men that Graham had ever met. Sharky answered the door and invited them in, scanning the perimeter for anything unusual before closing the door behind them. Inside was a group of four other men and a woman. Graham made the introductions. “Beth, you already met Sergeant Sullivan. On his left is Corporal, Harry Watson, that is Corporal, Emma Jackson, Gunnery Sergeant, Brock Kellerman, Private, Joseph Lakehead (Fish Head to his friends), and last, but not least, Lieutenant William Baker. Everyone, this is my fiancée, Beth. As you can see, our wedding was supposed to be today, but it was interrupted by a group of terrorists. That is why I called you all here today.” Graham filled the platoon in on the details that he knew so far. They worked on various strategies to overtake the terrorists. Many of the scenarios could develop into a lot of collateral damage, however. There was one plan that could work, and they wasted no time getting started. Brock still had a storage unit filled with military-grade weapons and full-body armor. That was to be their first stop. They needed to be prepared for anything. With their combined skills, they might stand a chance in defeating this enemy. Lieutenant Baker, the communications specialist, and interpreter tapped into the radio frequency that the terrorists were using. It was not long before he discovered that they were an Islamic group out of Afghanistan, and they were targeting Christian-based places of worship and schools. The man in charge seemed to be an Al-Qaeda member by the name of Ayman. Corporal Jackson made her way to the top of a building in the downtown district with a Mk-12 sniper rifle and an M-107 .50 caliber long-range rifle. She calibrated and focused, making sure that everything was set properly. From where she laid, she could take out any given target within 7,000 yards. Graham’s specialty was cyber operations. Using drones, he could quietly scan the perimeter day or night to identify targets and guide his team to safe locations. The drones were equipped with refractive technology that made them virtually invisible from the ground. Gunnery Sergeant Kellerman placed C-4 explosives in designated areas around the perimeter in case the terrorists chose to expand their assault. Sergeant Sullivan was hunkered down in a café just outside of the fight zone waiting for his opportunity to start the assault. Private Lakehead was an aquatic assault specialist. He could spend days in the water if he needed to. Fish Head, wearing a dark-colored wetsuit and diving mask equipped with night vision and hands-free communications, would slip silently into the pond in the middle of town. A rebreather is also attached for emergency submersions. On his feet are Chuck Taylor Maritime shoes which allow him to make a quick exit from the water without having to change from flippers to boots. Corporal Watson’s specialty is in electronic warfare. His job is to knock out the electronic devices and communications in the area before the team moved in. He set up a device to let off an electromagnetic pulse just strong enough to affect the four-block perimeter. Graham instructed Beth to get out of town and warn the military about what was happening. She “borrowed” a bicycle that was leaning up against a storefront and pedaled as quickly as she could toward the city limits. When everyone was in position, Sharky gave the order to Harry to set off the EMP. The pulse knocked out all power within four blocks as planned. All enemy communications were down and with the streetlights off, the terrorists were left deaf and blind. It was time to move in. With stealth-like movements, the team crept through the streets like ghosts, silently eliminating their targets using night vision goggles and a Strider SMF folding knife to sever their throats. Fish Head fired at targets who neared the pond using a waterproof 9 mm handgun with a suppressor attachment. Beth had reached a police department in the next town and told them about what was happening. They immediately contacted the military who dispatched their anti-terrorist team. One-by-one the enemy had fallen. This group of vets had done what seemed like the impossible. The last of the terrorists had been eliminated. The team met back at Sharky’s house to celebrate the victory and Beth was there waiting. Graham, still dressed in his rented tuxedo, promised Beth that they would have their wedding once all of this was cleared up. Beth was grateful that they were still both alive and that they would still marry one day soon, but she wept for their family and friends who had perished during the attack. It was unlikely that anyone survived the ordeal. By the break of dawn, the military had begun to arrive, but by then it was too late.


“Yes, Mary, I’m in front of her house now. God, who let the yard get like that? What happened to the swing on the porch?” I said into the phone. “You know what? Maybe if you were around when she was alive, you’d have been able to see the yard was a mess. Maybe you would have seen how run down the house has become. Jesus, Heather, what did you expect?” My sister replied through hissed teeth. I could almost hear the capillaries in her neck popping through the shitty reception. “Okay, whatever. Can you just tell me what I’m here for?” “If you were at the reading of her will, you’d know. But mom told me to be very clear and concise with you. She left something in a blue box in her closet. Next to grandma’s fur coat.” “Who gets that coat, by the way? Always loved it. Would be so precious to wear, you know?” “It doesn’t matter. You were only left one thing, and one thing only. That. Blue. Box. Find it and get the fuck out. None of the family even wants you there, but mom said she insisted.” “Fine, I get it, God damn. Bye” I said as I hung up. Marry can be such a bitch, ‘NONE OF THE FAMILY WANTS YOU THERE’ I said out loud in a mocking voice. We used to be so close, her and me. God, when’s the last time we even talked? 5 years? Maybe 6? I lit a cigarette and rolled down the car window. When’s the last time I was home? Probably the last time I saw mom in person. 15 years almost today, just a week short. But I’m not counting. I throw the cigarette out without taking a single puff. What a waste. I walk up to the porch. It used to be painted white, but now it seems a mix of rustic wood and white flakes. The porch swing was hanging off of one side, its left chain length pulled out from the top. It looked pathetic, as if hanging on what was left of its purpose. It used to be a good, sturdy swing. When I was younger, I could jump on and off it without so much as a creak. The storm door was wide open, its spring long ghost gone. I remember when it broke, that was a horrible storm. I can still see mom holding one of those 72 hour candles. It was so funny to see her slender fingers wrapped around that humongous hunk of wax. We used so little of the wax by the time the lights came back on, it was then a 71 hour candle. We never seemed to use it again after that. The front door was unlocked. Not that the dead bolt would have held anything, that door catch is so worn I barely had to push on the handle before it gave way. The hinges groaned open and the sun behind me peeked into the house with me. My silhouette casted against the ground and half way up the wall. My eyes adjusted to the light and I glanced at some family photos. Nothing has changed in the home since I left. It was odd walking through the home knowing mom was dead. I never really found this place inviting, but even still, I got goosebumps thinking of it. I walk through the entryway, closing the door behind me. There was enough light coming through the windows that I didn’t need to turn the lights on. I can remember when mom used to get mad about us leaving the lights on in unoccupied rooms. That practice sure carried over, as even today, I will make sure the light is off. I walk through the Kitchen and into the living room. Every piece of plastic covered furniture was exactly where I last saw it. Mom was always so stuck in her ways. Once she found something that worked, it stayed like that until it broke. There’s that gaudy beaded lamp. I can see that lamp so clearly in my head when I close my eyes to go to bed. I don’t know why, but that lamp burned a hole in my retina. It was that day I told mom about... my girlfriend. That I liked girls. The echoes of that night still bounce around the walls of that room. That was the last night I was home. 15 years ago, almost. Minus a week. Today. But I’m not counting. Jesus, I was 17 years old, mom. Why did you kick a 17 year old out? How could you have kicked your own daughter, ME? How could you have kicked me out? Being in this room pisses me off. I’m getting my shit and never returning. I hurry over to the stairs to ascend them. I instinctively skip the 5th step, because it creeks. I don't want to wake up- A dead woman? My dead mom? Was I still scared of making noises at night? Sneaking out with whoever I was destined to spend the rest of my life with that week? I push past the cobwebs, both mental and physical. There are a lot of cobwebs up here, holy shit. I turn on the light in the hall. Her door stood at the end, right in the middle of my room and Mary's. This door was always off limits when we were kids. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been behind this door, with permission of course. Inside mom’s room, there was the bed, night stand, her dresser and a small desk where she did her makeup in the morning. I can still smell her Aquanet clinging to the air. She was probably the sole cause for 10 percent of the ozone being depleted. She always had such perfect hair, of course. How could she face the world without her best face forward? There’s the closet. An accordion style door with a delicate little clasp. I push the clasp up and the door opens itself slightly. It honestly made me jump a little. I still have this childish anxiety that I’m not supposed to be here. Pushing some Avon boxes aside, I can see into the back of the closet. Hung up on a solid wood hanger, that I’ll add probably cost more than my first car, was my grandmother’s fox fur coat. It has been neglected for far too long, as the moths have found refuge in its folds. It was full of holes and ragged. I push the coat aside delicately for fear it would disintegrate. Behind the coat was the blue box I was foretold. What could mom possibly have inside it that she would go out of her way to write it in her will? I tucked it under my arm and backed out of the closet. I’m not opening this here, too heavy. I walk out of the room and into the hall. The dim light was flickering slightly. Almost by muscle memory, I push the dimmer up and down just right to keep it steady. I walk forward and my hand brushes against my childhood room’s door handle. This is already a pretty heavy day, might as well peek into my old room. I push the deep brown door open and feel the hanging mirror sway. I flipped the lights on and drank in the room's scenery. My God, nothing has changed. It’s exactly how I left it, 15 years ago, a week from today. I’m not counting. The pink bedspread, the band posters, my little desk with graded homework from high school, are still all there. It was almost unbelievable how much it felt like I went back in time. It took my breath away and made me grieve for my nostalgia. My head was spinning and I sat down. Forgetting the box, it crashed onto the floor from under my arm. The lid of the box flipped off and the only thing in the box was an old photo and a letter. The photo was of me and mom. I was maybe 7 years old. I was wearing a Dora the explorer bike helmet and had a wide smile full of missing teeth. Mom was cheek to cheek with me, smiling warmly as the sun swept her perfectly formed hair. I could see the remnants of a purple something around my lips. It was summer, and we looked so happy and carefree. I picked up the letter and read it. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx *Dear Heater,* *I know that where we are today, in our relationship and as I write this to you, is not a good place. Those years ago, I know. I know what I did. I am so very sorry. You were my daughter. You were a piece of me and I acted in anger. I was confused and wrongfully felt betrayed by you. If I could go back to that day, to any day before that, I would hug you. And hold on to you. And beg you. And grasp and pray and oh God Heather. Please forgive me. I love you so, so much. I know what I said was unforgivable. But please Baby Heath, my sweet, strong and courageous daughter. Forgive me.* *If you are reading this, it means I have passed away. I’m sure that is good news to you. I don’t blame you.* *Just know, if I could go back and take back everything I said. I would. In a heartbeat Heath, I would.* *Love mommy. <3* Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx My hands shook and at some point, the page had gotten wet. I was crying and sobbing. Without control, I was grasping the paper so tightly that it wrinkled. I picture that this silent room was waiting for me. As if a bitter hug from beyond the grave, I could feel myself in that picture. A warm motherly embrace. Oh God, mommy. 15 years. A week from today. You were counting, weren’t you? I was too.


The air bursts with the bright colors of the most beautiful sunset, as birds scattered, bending and twisting through the air, singing as they slice the red poppies among the holes dug by the force of explosives made by men who don’t understand what it’s like to watch the man next to you break under the force of a concussion, jacketed by that color of sunset, those cruel birds ripping and tearing through a man that hours ago you were sharing a meal with. The quiet orchaestra of a calm night broken, crushed under the weight of 10 pound shells that make the air scream and the earth shudder as both men and soil are flung as equals, both broken and dead. We sit in dug-outs, able to eat and yet starved, not of food but of the sun, of air that hasn’t been through the lungs more than once. Some sit nearest the corners, some shaking, others rocking, lost in their minds, though they’ve not yet been lost to shellfire. Even among those still under control, we shiver, our hands tense and squeeze. Though we may have the air of calm, we feel lost ourselves. We used to tell stories of peace-time, of what we’d done and planned to do. No more. Those stories hurt, poisoned the heart, and broke the mind. We knew they were true, and yet how? How could these stories be true? How could any of it be true, surrounded by this hellscape? Those stories we can believe, even the painful ones, the bad times, seem so light-hearted and docile compared to what we do now. We are no longer men. We are monsters, killers, and yet, in our minds, no more than a kilometer away, there is a more terrible evil than ourselves, but they must remain faceless. We do not dare make them human, or we will be more terrible than they have become. Have we all gone mad? Surely asking such a question is a reminder that we are not. Surely since we ask these things of ourselves it must imply we are not too far gone. The frightening visage of the uniformed man across from me reminds me I am still yet human, as his shaken gaze peers at me behind his gas mask, the soft vent of a breath through filters being all the signs that the man is still alive. Perhaps he thinks the same of me. We dare not make eye contact with one another, as maybe, maybe it will awaken something within the other man and he should want to attack me, or perhaps I would to him. My train of thought is broken as I see it, softly at first. The slow, creeping grasp of gas. In our states of mind, it seems almost alive, reaching and hunting us with its whispering tendrils. I hear the man across from me, I hear his breath begin to quake, and my own along with his. What if our masks fail us? What if we die, sputtering and starved of breath, retching our own blood and lungs as it tears our bodies apart? I must think no more, we must stand. The man across from me follows suit, as we grab our rifles and prepare for the assault. Part of us wish for this to be our chance to strike out at an enemy that torments us, sending harrowing mortar fire followed by gases that seek out the living to seize in front of their comrades. Part of us wish for this battle to end this agony. I do not know anymore which side I fall in. I try my best to push aside this thought as the blare of raid whistles are heard in the distance. My hands lie still. The man that was across from me steadies as well. The time has come to end our madness. They are here.


Death has one job, to claim the souls and take away lives of those who have met their end, it has never made a mistake, for when those mangled claws reach for a man, it is undoubtedly their end. Sisyphus the ancient king of Corinth, who managed to trick Death, did so only due to the human emotions that death held, but since then they have been ruthlessly cast aside... Right? The family had been cruising through space leisurely, living the life in a starship. The starship slowly made it's way to a small, lush blue planet. In the cabin sat a middle-aged couple and a young child. Sounds of a child's eager laughter filled the cabin. The man turned around and gazed lovingly at his son as he frolicked and played in the cabin. His wife was comfortably laid back, her feet up and a cocktail in hand. A sudden jolt sent the beautiful cosmoplitan crashing to the ground, the shattered glass seemingly divining an imminent disaster. A stray asteroid had embedded it into the side of the starship, the man having had a lapse in concentration while looking at his dear son. The man's body had been banged harshly against the controls when the asteroid had collided and was terrifyingly mangled. The starship was flaming, cruising at a terrifying angle. The man, looked behind him and met the worrying gazes of his wife and son. He gritted his teeth and roared. He was heavily injured, yet the starship was still a distance from the safety of the planet. His body shut down, no man would be able to live with such horrific injuries-yet his will would not falter, seemingly steering the ship with nothing but his willpower, he held on. "I can't die yet-not until I land" he roared, his mind filled with one thought-To ensure his family's safety. The reaching claws of Death froze, its fingers twitching in astonishment, a hint of horror surfacing in it's deep grey eyes. The simply man would not die. One final tug and the starship safely landed, the cabin shaking as the bottom of the spaceship harshly collided against the lush green grass. As the man closed his eyes, he smiled. His arms fell limply to his side, the last fibres of life seeping out of his body. Death's hand shivered, it reared its fearsome head and gazed at the man. The body of the man was small and broken, with his wife and child tearing over it. Yet in the illustrious eyes of Death, it was high and mighty like a god. The man who would not die-not until he made sure his family was safe. A smile formed on the terrifying visage of Death, it's mangled claw retreated, he bowed deeply in respect and quietly left. The man shook and awoke with a start, staring at his wife and child in shock, and as he hugged them, he gazed over the shoulder of his wife, at the empty cabin where Death stood just a few moments ago.