They sat opposite each other at a table outside a Spanish bar. The man watched the girl watching the sun near the faraway hills. A clock ticked. The hills were long and gray. Trains passed nearby. Every once in a while the man took a drag of his cigarette. The girl did not smoke. "You sure you don't want to eat?" the man asked. "I'm sure." The man took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke the color of the hills. "They look like gray mastodons," the girl said, the setting sun reflected in her eyes. "I've never seen one." "No, you wouldn't have. You're too young." "I might have. I could be older than you think. Just because you say I'm too young doesn't prove anything." "Just wait," the girl said. "We've been waiting for millenia," the man said. "Be patient. I can start to taste the darkness and it tastes of licorice. That's how it tasted last time." "I don't taste anything." "You're too young," the girl said, and the man said nothing and took a drag of his cigarette. A train stopped. An older couple exited one of the cars and sat down at the table outside the bar on the same chairs in which the man and girl were sitting. They blended together. "Once more for old time's sake?" the man said. The girl said nothing. The man sighed. The couple ordered beers and talked about Madrid. The man lit another cigarette. "It doesn't have to happen. I can stop it," the girl said. The sun was almost touching the horizon. "I'm bored," the man said. "It's not so bad." "It's dull. I miss seeing new universes and trying new physics." The girl looked at the hills. "I just don't care for it anymore," the man said. "It's ours." "We'll make another." The sun touched the edge of the world, bathing it in pink light. The older couple went silent. "Anyway, it's too late now," the girl said. Somebody screamed. The sun had cracked, and its light poured out onto the landscape in globules like flesh colored mercury which seeped into the hills. The older couple stood up. The man took a drag of his cigarette. The girl watched as the gray hills infused with light rose from the landscape as luminous mastodons. "You know I'd do anything for you," the man said. "I know." The mastodons began feasting on the future. The present slowed. The older couple sat down and began talking about Madrid backwards. "It's really a simple annihilation," the girl said. Having consumed the future, the mastodons turned to the present. "It's for the best." The older couple got up and walked to the train in reverse. The train un-arrived, then trains hadn't been invented, Spain and civilization disappeared, and for a while brown mastodons walked among the gray ones. Then they were gone. Existence condensed to a single point. "We'll be happy," the man said. "Yes," the girl said. The point--.


Freya winced as she sat down. She set an overfilled glass of merlot onto her windowsill, and looked out at the moonlit courtyard of the Berkshire Apartments. Wine glasses clinked behind her. As they rang out, darkened light posts constellated throughout the courtyard flickered on then off in unison, revealing a glimpse of a well-manicured landscape covered in hundreds of monarch butterflies. Strange, she thought. Not about the butterflies, or even the lights; in fact, she hardly noticed them. She was transfixed on the motions of her boyfriend Maddox and their friendly neighbor Christine reflected in the window pane. That they were enjoying each other’s company was obvious -- but they all enjoyed each other’s company, and had since the first time they’d met at the Berkshire community pool a couple years back. It was Christine’s hand, resting near Maddox’s arm, that caught Freya’s attention. As they spoke, she placed it just close enough that she could lift her fingers and surreptitiously brush his arm with her fingertips. Freya watched as the pair undulated in and out of each other’s personal space, laughing at whatever inane story Maddox was telling, and every time Christine laughed she leaned in and her fingers lifted to brush his arm. Every time. After the third touch, Freya took an elongated sip of her wine. Then she quickly set down her drink (sending red liquid running down the edge of her wine glass), stood, and turned toward the pair. “I think I’m going to go get some fresh air,” she said. Maddox stood and walked toward Freya. For a moment, her heart warmed when she realized he was going to walk with her. Then, instead, he gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “Everything alright?” he asked. “Yep, just drank a little too much I think. I’m going to see if I can walk it off.” “Okay. Don’t stay gone too long,” he paused, then added meekly, “I’ll miss you.” Freya cracked a brittle smile and turned to leave the apartment. Behind her, she heard more wine warbling into a glass like drowned laughter. Freya walked out into a brisk autumn breeze. The door must’ve caught suction from it, because it slammed behind her harder than she intended to close it. As it rattled in the frame, a dense plume of monarchs scattered off of her entry lamp. Freya watched them jitter away like electricity into the courtyard. The butterflies are still here, huh? She staggered after them, her thoughts zig-zagging in kind. First, she reflected on the contradiction of her home. The Berkshire Apartments were known for two things: butterflies, and hauntings. That they came to be known for butterflies was a happy accident. The complex happened to be built along the path migrating monarchs took each year at the turn of autumn to escape the harsh cold of Vermont’s winter. Residents could count on awakening one day out of each autumn to an ethereal landscape of hundreds, if not thousands, of monarch butterflies taking refuge and gathering their strength for the next stage of their long flight. In violet dawnlight they could be seen flickering like orange sparks against dark flint, flowing like curtains through open balconies and courtyards, tottering across rails and tree bark, clambering over one another as blades of grass and long-stalked flowers drooped beneath their weight. The butterflies brought with them a fragrance that was earthen, yet sweet, almost like honeysuckle, but not quite. As Freya entered the courtyard, the lights flickered again, but this time they stayed on, blanketing the courtyard in gentle light. Weird , she thought, did they install motion sensors or something ? It was nearly 2am, but the courtyard scuttled and stirred. Butterflies linked like scales along the trunks of various oaks and pines, giving them the appearance of great cobras, poised, watching, waiting. The butterflies seem restless, Freya thought. Perhaps they would ascend soon, twisting through the air like shed skin, leaving the courtyard refreshed and thrumming with their memory while around it the apartments themselves collapsed into a rigid, inert husk of brick and shingle. Yet, something would remain in the husk. Residents joked that the hauntings were originally brought by the butterflies. That as they swelled down their migratory channel, ghosts were swept up like debris and deposited like sediment wherever they landed. Whether or not this was true, there was no denying that the monarchs’ departure always coincided with paranormal activity in the complex for a few weeks to a month afterward. Some residents reported instances of objects going missing, only to turn up in unexpected places; others heard strange noises or murmurs coming from inside walls and cabinets; but most consistently, someone would catch sight of a man. Freya’s reverie was interrupted; she had walked a full lap of the courtyard, and stood now outside her window. She could see that the scene inside was just as she left it: Christine and Maddox, laughing and talking. She turned her gaze to something, anything else. She took stock of the light posts pincushioned across the soft green courtyard. She thought they were ugly, out of place, off balance. She walked on past the window, committing her attention to figuring out just what it was about those light posts that troubled her. They were gaudy and pretentious; playing at beauty with overly-ornate bronze scrolling which curled above the fixtures, braiding into something resembling crossed fingers; champagne glass paneled each of their four sides and cast a duplicitous glow across the grass and shrubs below. The light was friendly and warm, as though these little faux-suns could cover up the fact that they were intruding on the landscape, feigning starlight with an empty sheen, standing tall and haughty as they bore down with mechanical conceit upon what was actually alive. Back in the apartment, Christine laughed, Maddox drank; and Freya hated the way the cold, black, corrugated aluminum poles stabbed mercilessly into the gentle, giving ground, again, and again, and again. She continued walking, and thinking. It was said the ghost of the man who appeared after the butterflies’ departure had been stabbed to death by his wife. Brutally, in fact -- she had done it with the claw of a hammer while he slept. Over the years, the description of that man remained constant: a tarnished blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with dark stains smudged across the torso, steel-toed boots nearly worn apart, and long, scraggly hair which framed and shadowed his face from view. Seeing him was considered an ill-omen. Supposedly, one resident’s dog was run over the following day. Another resident’s apartment caught fire. Another passed in her sleep. And so on, the stories accumulated over the years, and there were enough that not even the tenured office staff knew exactly which were true, hyperbole, or just plain fiction. One thing was agreed upon, however: the butterflies were a portent. Freya always found it frightening that something so beautiful and so tragic could exist in the same space -- wandering through the courtyard, listening to the rustle of wings, she wondered: was there any beauty that could be relied upon to maintain, and not eventually give way to ghosts? Her and Maddox’s relationship was beautiful. At least it had been; Freya wasn’t so sure anymore. What had she missed? Christine and Maddox, could they...no, there was no way. Maddox wouldn’t do that to her. Christine may, but Maddox wouldn’t. But Christine was beautiful. Classically beautiful, in fact, with an elegance that drew people to her without their realizing, and a lightness that kept them from feeling burdened by her beauty. Maybe that’s why Freya never felt threatened by her...she seemed so aloof, so disinterested, like a beauty in a renaissance painting. It was though if one were to rip her open expecting to find blood and bone, you’d simply find the dull thud of the wall upon which she was framed. Freya had dimensionality, complexity; she was full and alive, and she thought Maddox loved her for it. But tonight, there was the way Maddox looked at Christine...or was Freya just imagining it? Maybe she was. But the touches, the laughter, the wine -- maybe they were simply loose from the alcohol. That had to be it. Nothing fermenting under the surface, just a casual flirtation sprouted from the wine. Freya strode through the courtyard feeling secure after wrapping herself up in this conclusion; but after a few moments it felt precarious, trembling as though hung on a single silken thread. The light posts flickered again, sending a flush of butterflies rippling out through the yard. Freya frowned; for a moment, she swore she saw a person standing next to one of the posts across the yard. A masculine silhouette. She blinked hard, and let her eyes refocus. Nothing was there. She turned to look behind her and saw dim light still shining through her first floor window from across the courtyard. She was at too much of an angle to see what was going on inside...no, she didn’t need to look. She trusted them, after all. Right? Then, the silk thread suspending Freya’s conclusion snapped, dropping down, down...she couldn’t help herself. She was going back to look in the window. Best case scenario, they’re just sitting there, drinking and laughing and talking like they were last time she passed. Worst case...worst case...Freya rounded a large oak covered in butterflies opening and closing their like eyelids shaking off sleep. Around the oak should’ve been a clear sightline into her window; but something blocked her view. No, not something, someone in the shadows. Freya felt her throat constrict. The lamp posts flickered, became dazzlingly bright for a moment, then shut off completely. In the light, Freya saw all she needed to affirm her dread: she was looking at the man in the blue jumpsuit. Freya froze. Cold moonlight illuminated the sidewalk between her and the man like a sheet of ice. He took a step toward her, then another. His boot breached the moonlit sidewalk, and Freya heard a crack -- was it really ice? No, those were her teeth grinding as he took another step closer, now fully visible in the light. He was translucent, but the edges of his body shimmered hazily, like they were made of static. His boots were frayed and mossed over with time. His jumpsuit covered his body, and Freya realized with horror that moonbeams were shining through the places where blood stained his suit. His hair was a matted mess which hung over his slumped shoulders, and his face was dark and featureless, like it was sculpted from shadow. Freya tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth she felt all of the air sucked out of her lungs, as though she were in a vacuum. She tried to look away from the apparition, but her eyes wouldn’t move. The world around her began to rattle and shift. She watched the lamp posts, the trees, the grass, the sky, everything melt away into darkness. The rattling grew into a roaring rasp, as though thousands of whispers surrounded her all at once. She couldn’t hear anything else. She couldn’t see anything else. All that existed now were her and the ghost, marooned upon a slab of concrete. Her eyes widened. Where were Maddox and Christine? Couldn’t they see what was happening? Couldn’t they help her? Why weren’t they watching? Freya’s tears ran thick and warm down her cheeks as a butterfly brushed past her ear, landing on the apparition’s chest. It flexed its wings languidly before spreading them to rest where the man’s heart would be, beautiful in repose. The whispers silenced themselves. Freya felt her breath return to her. She inhaled, then exhaled. As she did, another butterfly fluttered past her and attached itself to the ghost -- then another, and a few more, then suddenly the whispers returned, louder this time, and the light posts, the trees, the grass, all began shaping back into view. Freya realized she and the ghost had been cocooned by the monarchs, but now all of them were swarming toward a single point: the man in the blue jumpsuit. He was engulfed by myriad fluttering wings. He stood there like a shimmering flame, orange and black in the pale moonlight. Freya felt herself drawn like a moth toward him. Her legs moved without her control, stepping her closer and closer until she could smell the honeysuckle fragrance of the butterflies, and feel the soft gusts from their wings against her skin. Then, they parted like a robe, revealing emptiness. The apparition was gone; Freya stepped forward and was encased. She felt the tickle of the monarchs’ legs over every fiber of her being. She felt electric, she felt alive, she felt -- loved. She inhaled the honeysuckle fragrance and felt her lungs replete with the spirit of fall, laden with a sense of acceptance for the somber steadiness of change. Freya smiled, and as she did so, the butterflies began to ascend, spiraling up and out, and she followed their trail with her eyes as they disappeared over the charcoal line of her apartment rooftops. The lamp posts flickered back on. Freya drew her gaze from the sky, looking into her apartment window. Christine and Maddox both emerged from the hallway, and slunk quickly back into their seats. Maddox glanced out the window, and his eyes met Freya’s. Still smiling, she walked back toward the apartment. When she opened the door, both Christine and Maddox stiffened. “How was the walk?” Maddox asked, abashedly. “Was it cold out there?” Christine followed, stepping on the end of his words. Freya said nothing. She walked into the bedroom and tossed her purse and some clothes into a duffel bag. Maddox and Christine were whispering frantically in the other room. Freya chuckled; they sounded so much like butterfly wings. She reached up and grabbed a hammer from the toolbag her and Maddox kept in their closet. Then, she walked back into the living room, duffel bag over one shoulder, clutching the hammer at her side, but in reverse so that the claw faced outward. Maddox leapt to his feet and began crying, while Christine screamed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door. Freya wondered what their blood would smell like. Would it be like what she inhaled in the courtyard? Would it feel the same way her tears did as they ran down her face? She raised the hammer and moved toward Maddox, who had drunkenly stumbled onto the ground in front of the windowsill. Then, above him, Freya saw the light posts flicker once more. She looked up, and saw the man in the blue jumpsuit standing underneath one, watching her, urging her. Freya remembered the horror of the moonlight as it poured through his wounds. She remembered the pain of the courtyard, impaled by the light posts. She remembered the sharp wounds she suffered with every gentle touch between Christine and Maddox. Lastly, she remembered the beauty and freedom of the butterflies. And without saying a word, she lowered the hammer. Maddox whimpered on the floor as Freya grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door, and walked outside. She entered the courtyard, walked up to the closest lamp post she could find, and smashed its lantern apart with the hammer. Then, she dropped the hammer, letting it clatter amidst so many shards of broken glass. She turned and left the Berkshire Apartments for the last time, the lamp post sputtering and sparking behind her.


The starry bright night skies painted across the hillocks loomed forebodingly. A sudden shrill crowing pierced the silent atmosphere. Within seconds the dusty old grandfather clock decided to start working. Letting out a loud ominous strike at the stroke of midnight. A presage of all that was to come. The inhabitants of the house, a elderly farmer and his wife, began to stir. She put her hand gently upon his shoulder as a gesture to see what all the hubbub was about. He patted her reassuringly before dropping his feet down towards his night slippers. Still sleepy, he staggered down the narrow hallway and into the living room. The pendulum of the clock was still swaying. The kindly old man opened the glass door and began to examine the mechanics. Nothing seemed functional. Puzzled he scratched his head, searching desperately for a rational explanation. His answer, or what he had presumed as an explanation, came when a rumbling shook the house violently. With a sigh he turns back towards the hallway and makes his way into the master bedroom. She stared at him with peering eyes. He rubs her cheek gently before kissing it softly. Older Man/Farmer: Go back to sleep honey. There's a nasty storm coming. I'll stay awake and keep vigil of the news and wake you if something was to arise. Which I assure it won't. Either way, I got you. You are safe with me. She smiled softly and lay her head on the pillow. The man tucked her in and sat for awhile until she fell asleep. Then proceeded to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. Shakily he reached up into the cupboard to grab a cup for his instant coffee. The lightening flashed vividly. Followed by a huge grumble of thunder. This startled him greatly. He fumbled the cup in his hands trying his darndest to not drop it. Older Man/Farmer: For Pete sakes... With a huge sigh of relief he was able to recover the cup safely. He turns on the faucet. Distractedly, he began looking out the kitchen window towards the elder tree as his cup overflowed. Older Man/Farmer; Dagnabit! Come on, Walter, get it together! After emptying the excess water he placed the cup into microwave and pressed the start button. Still curious about the grandfather clock he moseyed on over into the living room and began to shake it. It clanked. Not at all like the sound that he had heard. This pendulum was dull. Too dull, in fact, to make that new symbol like sound. The microwave then began beeping. He grabbed an oven mitt and removed the cup of water. Slowly he added a few scoops of instant coffee before giving it a stir with his spoon. He rinsed the spoon off and placed it back into the dish drainer. His wife didn't have to know. For the longest moment he sipped his coffee staring out at that old tree as the lightening flashed in the background. The began to pick up tremendously. Yet, there weren't any severe storm warnings. The wind howled angrily. Then came the loud thumps of large hail. He tossed his coffee aside and rushed to his wife's side. He scooped her up from the bed side and began running for the shelter. The wife was completely unaware of what was happening as she was being woke from a deep slumber. Older Woman/Farmer's Wife: Walter! Walter! What on earth is going on? Older Man/Farmer: There's a tornado coming. She buried her head into his chest fearfully. Once outside the wind was so strong it was practically blowing them over. A loud, angry shrill of wind pierced the atmosphere. Looming off in the near distance was the tornado. He managed to rush to the cellar beneath the tree. He opened the doors and ushered his wife in then closed the door. You could hear her yelling his name. He hobbled over to the clothes line and ripped the tattered rope from the posts. Glancing over his shoulder he could catch a glimpse of the massive dark cloud barreling towards them. He knew there wasn't enough time for himself so he started wrapping the rope around the cellar knobs repeatedly with tears in his eyes. He could hear the desperation in his wife's voice as she pounded on the wooden doors and pleaded. Older Woman/Farmer's Wife: Walter! Walter! Please, don't do this! He held onto the doors as they shook uncontrollably. A limb then smacked him across his face. Grasping the branch with a elongated plume of red berries he place it to his chest and began to pray. Older Man/Farmer: To the elders of the Earth and Heavens, please, keep my wife safe. Watch over her. Please. Debris began flying all around. He crouched desperately into a fetal possesion. Clinging to both the door knobs and the elderberry branch. The winds whipped him around violently flinging him into the tree fracturing his spine. As his head thrashed back and forth rigorously against the tree trunk causing severe head trauma. Once the storm had come passed the woman shook the doors furiously trying to escape. Desperate to rush to her lover's side. She fiddled with an old coat hanger then began to tediously undo the matter knot. She burst free only to be met with a grimm scene. The house was demolished. All that left was a slab. The rare tree that Walter beloved was uprooted. Debris littered the yard and there underneath a sheet of tin was Walters body. He lay there almost perfectly. Still holding the elderberry branch across his chest. The newly widowed woman wept many tears as she lay her head upon his chest. A sudden burst of wind blew the branch catching her attention. She removed the berries from the branch he held and place it down into the hole where the tree once stood. Crawling on her knees she gathered up mounds of dirt to fill in the hole. Then watered it with her tears. Not just of sorrow, but of thankfulness....thankfulness to the forty-three years of amazing memories that they had shared together. As she lay on top of her deceased husband sobbing a neighbor was making his way across the field of debris. The look of complete and utter shock bestowed upon his face when he reached the widow. He pulled her from the body and tried to console her. He walked her passed the newly planted patch of land. Neighbor: I'm terribly sorry for your loss. That damned tree was cursed. I'm so glad to be rid of it. Stupid ecologist, or whatever they are tried to say I couldn't remove that tree because it was endangered and the authorities would be involved. So, I did the next best thing and moved way out yonder. It's such a tragedy. This was a wonderful community full of wonderful people. I swear to you, mam, it was that gosh darn tree! The forlorn woman sniffled and sobbed, but had a puzzled look upon her face. She paused a minute with great hesitation before responding to him. Elderly Farmer's Widow: My husband absolutely adored that old tree. I do not blame the tree for it was the tornado that had taken my husband. May I ask why it is that you are so taken aback by said tree? What harm has it done upon you personally? The man took off his cap and held it to his chest before waving it towards a nearby tombstone that stood in a once family owned cemetery. Neighbor: My daughter, Maggie, she killed herself. I found her face had cerise patches, and they were on her hands as well. She lay right there. Against that tree. She had consumed multiple handfuls of elderberry seeds. We were told they weren't poisonous. Them berries would just give you a major stomach ache if you ate too much during the morning hours. She died holding onto a branch from that very tree. The elderly woman stood putting her hand across her mouth and she began to tremble. The coincidence were unsettling, but she was trying her best to not let some superstitious curse take hold of her mind. A loud shrill echoed through the silence. The coroner arrived and began placing the farmer's body into a bag before whisking him away. There were multiple ambulances and EMTs attending to injured people. You could hear the chaos buzzing through the air, from the roaring of the sirens to the screams of children, and even those who were grieving. The elderly woman refused medical care. Her only concern was drudging through the rubble for her and her late husband's belongings. It was like something came over her. A wave of anger shrouded her as she shredded her hands ragged looking for their things. Bloody and bruised she screamed in emotional agony. She was becoming frantic, and people were taking notice. A kindly tree-trimmer stopped what he was doing, and put down his chainsaw. Tree-Trimmer: M'am, what is your name? Elderly Woman/Widow: Sue. My name is Sue. I can't find it. I need to find it! Tree-trimmer: Okay, Sue, my name is Tom. What exactly are you looking for? Maybe I can help you. Elderly Woman/Widow/Sue: My photo album. It's all I have left. It has to be here. I already lost my husband, my house, my car... I can't lose that! With a nod Tom, the tree-trimmer, began searching for her beloved album, but after tireless searching it was nowhere to be found. The woman was absolutely devastated. The man comforted her as best he could. He picked up his chainsaw and begin to resume cutting limbs. Then there was something that stopped him dead in his tracks. A picture of his late father. He burst into tears. Sobbing while holding the photograph in disbelief. Sue, whom was still franticly searching, when she heard a loud cry that caused her to stop, and see where the crying was coming from. She noticed that the young man, Tom the tree-trimmer, was sitting on a log that was cut from the elder tree crying. She walked over to have a seat next to him. Tom the tree-trimmer: My father loved this tree. I hadn't noticed that it was this very one. I was only twelve. My dad wanted to build me a tree house. There was an accident. He died still clinging onto a branch from this very tree. I never did find the photo he kept in his right front pocket. The tree-trimmer handed the woman a photo a young father holding his infant son. It was old, tattered, and slightly stained with tree sap. The woman gasped and briefly told the man of her story and that of her neighbors. Both of them were in sheer disbelief, but what happened next was astonishing. He began to fumble in a hollowed out hole in the tree. Tom the tree-trimmer: What other secrets are you hiding, Mr. Tree? He grabbed ahold of large object with smooth ridges. It was Sue's photo album, and stuck to the bottom was a ring. The ring belonged to her neighbor's late daughter. They both decided to take the ring back to the rightful owner. He broke down in tears, and decided to put the curse theory to rest. Together they carved, crafted, and painted an ornate bench. Then they had a metal plack with all three names attached in the benches center. It read: In loving memory of the three wisdoms of the tree. Leaf Wisdom/of change ever lasting: Laura Michele Birch. Branch Wisdom/of growth ever reaching: Walter Alan Conkrite. Root Wisdom/of endurance ever deepening: George Robert Stanton.


She was strong, she was independent; she was weak, she was dependent. On a brisk August morning the door of homely stature rises above. It's marked by the flesh wounds that the chipping white paint had left behind. A condensed commotion rips open the thin air streamed only by the dusk and timid sounds of nature. A burst into what seems an abyss. From behind the fog, the slow, red-orange mass creates her silhouette. A tall figure. Stomping one foot after the other, a rhythm sung by her boot and the stone echo out. She uses this cadence as a mark to her new beginning. She glides across the overgrown greens smattering the crevasses. Reaching for the old sedan. Four doors, yet rarely more than two inside. Rarely. She jerks her hand for the handle like she's done this over and over. It's the first. It’s most certainly the last. The door screams into the quiet dewy morning. Surely she awoke a neighbor or two, but mind not that. She felt a sickness to think they might have been aware. But alas what has been done, alas what is being done, and alas what will be done. It's all history, at some point or another. Her history with him was built on a rather contrast ideal to what was now present. This history of hers and his as well, a sort of beauty. A sort of calmness, collect, not at any time cataclysmic. Alas. They shared what they wanted, they shared what they had; a beauty seeming to never cease. The start, just as abrupt as its end. She hadn't expected to get involved in this. She hadn't expected to be so invested. Yet she had. She did. It became who she was. He was who she was. They were the same. Or at the very least, in her mind, she was he. And that gave comfort to her mind. That gave her the sense of being. On a trip outside her regular schedule she tripped into the face of love. The very thing she had been unaware of for so long. For all of what seemed forever. She wasn't ready, but ready at the same exact time. It was a first, it was a flower. It had to be cherished. She and he really connected in beautiful ways. They became entangled. From the moment they met to every waking, every sleeping moment. They had something together. It was innocent love. It was pure. It began as said, when she had strayed from what she knew. She found something unexpected. She had to go grocery shopping last minute. A picky aunt coming to eat had not given the full list of dietary restrictions. "Well that's tough shit," she thought... as she continued to gather her things up, readying to leave work 45 minutes early to make time for the extra shopping. She didn't want to have to. But had to. So she went. The store, dimly lit on the corner of O’Connell and Garrison had practically everything she needed. And more. Looking for a certain specific pain in the ass item, a vegan-free, nut allergic, gluten stuffed turkey leg for the aunt. "It's something I've honestly never heard of ma'am." The young man behind a stand of peas and corn said. As he turned to face his questioner, he gives out a glazing smile. A warmth, a hug in mid-air, a stranger's love. She flustered, she flirted, she, flabbergasted, left the store in such a hurry she never caught a name. Never caught him, quite. Three days pass and she finds herself wound back into this poorly stocked grocery searching for her own food. Searching for what she is usually looking for. He's there again. He's now having to make a quick run. They connect again however, time pressing fuck off, they make their own time right there in the middle of the white and smudged tile floor, the squares corralling the two together. It all takes off. Both their busy scheduled lives, make time. They continue to make their own time, like gods of space and the molecular, they infinitely explode with passion for the other. It led to one thing, it led to another. They developed as two people; they developed as one. Their lives led physically to a home, a car, a place together. Mentally melded. Of course, however, grass grows. Weeds prop up. Bugs crawl; leaves quiver. They found distance between. New to them, and worrisome. She fought that. She dug into him. Used her nails to latch on, but he was scared. He didn't know what to do. So it was said. They let the distance stay. It became their third. They continued; they laughed, cried, sighed. Their third however, had another effect on the two. He was peppier with it. She had grown to despise its presence. The third darkened. Deep darkness. Then as abrupt as the spark of love, that third deepened into a silhouette, against a bright, red anger. She understood it all and understood nothing at once. A tragic melt of being. Self-worth fuck all, he still meant the world to her. He was a worthless piece of shit to her. She was worth even less. She sat up. Red beaming into the dark of the room. 5:46. She stood up. Towering her body above his. A strut to the door. She's not hiding.


I grew up on the Nusa Tenggara islands in Indonesia, just east of Bali. The early part of my childhood was difficult, but this isn’t something you realise when you’re young. To me, growing up was full of fun and adventure on a tropical island. My young father wasn’t with us very often. He had enough smarts and luck to get into university in Jakarta. My mother would have to take care of me and my little brothers but when she had to go to work she would leave us with an old lady in the village. We called this old lady Odah, but she wasn’t really our grandmother. She would sell fruit from her little shack during the day while my brothers and I would cause trouble in her makeshift backyard. To keep us amused, and I’m sure to stop us from destroying her house, she would tell us old stories. I knew all of the old folk tales from the village, but her stories were different. Some of them, she admitted, she’d heard from the Dutch when she was a little girl. But most of them were from her own creation. She said she often just had stories in her head but because she couldn’t write them down she memorised all of them. As a child, I loved her stories. Sometimes I would even go back just to ask her to tell me a specific story and she was always more than happy to. Eventually my father came back and managed to get a job in Bali. After a few years he had made enough money and we all moved to Bali where our lives improved significantly. My brothers and I were all sent to a good school and we were all able to get a good education. During school breaks my mother would still take us back to the old village and I would always visit Odah. She was getting older and weaker but when I would ask to tell me a story her eyes would light up and we’d both be transported back to a time when I was a small child. After I finished high school I was accepted into the Universitas Indonesia in Jakarta. Odah’s stories had instilled in me a lifelong love of literature and so I studied arts at university. I decided to give something back to Odah. I had heard her stories for many years and had memorised all of them and so I wrote them down. With the little money I had, I had them professionally bound. Over the four years I was at university I gave Odah dozens of her stories which she kept all piled up in a special corner of her shack. She loved them so much and she even told me that she was learning how to read them. In 2013 a tropical cyclone hit the Nusa Tenggara islands. I was in Singapore at the time working as a journalist. There was no way I could get back right away but as soon as it was safe to do so I went back to the islands. I’ll never forget what I saw. The main street in the village was destroyed. Their wooden houses were knocked down and debris lay everywhere. It was difficult to recognise where Odah’s house was but as I got closer I could see it. The roof had caved in and fruit was floating on the flood waters. The water around her house was black and looked like a river of ink. Remnants of the books lay in pieces around the house. I asked around if anyone had seen Odah but everyone was worried about their own families. I tried looking for hours but I had no luck. Odah had no funeral. I don’t even know if anyone really missed her. But I did. I got back to Singapore and started rewriting her stories. I had written them down in the original Balinese but this time I translated them to Indonesian. After months of trying eventually some of my connections in the publishing world came through and I got her stories published. I used the pen name Odah Tengarra. After all, these were her stories, not mine. Shamelessly I wrote a story about Odah which my editor, probably due to my grief, agreed to publish in our magazine. It wasn’t a big piece but it did draw attention to her collection of short stories. The public were touched and soon the stories became widely read in Indonesia. Our readers in Singapore were curious about these stories and so they were also translated to Singaporean Mandarin, Malay and English. I had included some of the stories she had heard from the Dutch and so her stories were read in Europe as well. The collection of stories wasn’t exactly a bestseller but it was making money. I took the profits and donated it back to the old village. I had a library built in her honour and I could even employ some teachers to teach the local children how to read. In front of the library I commissioned a statue to be built of Odah reading to a young child. This was the least I could do for the greatest woman I had ever known.


I can’t sleep. The voices in my head. It hurts. Why am I like this? I try to act appropriately. I try to be good. But I can’t even finish my own god damn sentences. I’m so used to others cutting me off I started cutting myself off. I don’t deserve to finish my nonsense anyway. I can’t just speak my mind. I can’t explain my intentions because even I don't understand. My mouth dries up and my heart begins to race. I can hear it pounding so loud I forget what I am saying. Can’t they hear it too? I’ve made so many mistakes. And don’t deserve to be forgiven. I can’t even begin to count how many times I've said, “I’m sorry.” I try. I try to be clear. But my mind is so clouded. It’s a storm that never clears. The thunder drowns out any meaning. All these symbols. Can we all just stop giving things meanings like this? One object can have so many meanings to so many people. Even when there is one that has one direct meaning. A bad one. I can’t give my thoughts about it. What if this? What if that? There’s no excuse. That’s all this is, just an excuse. That’s all I am. A Disappointment A Psychopath. An Excuse. A sad excuse of human life. I can’t even hurt myself properly. I get scared, I'm so weak. I don’t want to express my hate. It’s too excessive. But, I can’t just say nothing. It gives the wrong opinion. But, I’ve spent time in the dark hiding this feeling. Hiding him. Why are the chains getting weaker? Was that all for nothing? Is this voice with me forever? Music used to help. It would drown out the voices. The beautiful stories each song on the radio hears. Ones that make you happy. Ones that make you cry. It would drown out the voices. But they have gotten louder. And I can still hear them. This is what I deserve. I usually don’t care. If I can go through life experiencing pain and misery. And others can live the perfect life. A life of peace. I would give anything for that. I don’t care about myself. Hardly anyone does. They don’t care. So why should I? I just want help, but I don’t know how to ask for it. I want to help others but how can I do that if I can’t even help myself? I don’t want to be a bother. Just like this story. It’s just nonsense. It’s just a bother. Sorry for wasting your time. Have a nice day. And just be a good person. You are loved by someone. You will be cared for. Don’t worry about me. I just want attention. I need to finish this before the voice comes back. Go on in life. And be safe. Give time to love yourself, before it’s too late. Talk to yourself every night. And say, “I love you.” Talk to others who can help. It’s ok to do that. It’s ok to ask for help. It’s ok It’s ok The clouds will go away someday.


“If you help me with Math, I’ll help you with life.” Mohan offered to Donte. Math and the Sciences had always come naturally to Donte. Some went on to call him gifted. As he sat on the porch reflecting on the choice he had to make, he didn’t think of it as a gift. It was more like an escape for him. An escape to a world that made sense, that was predictable and calculable. This gave him reassurance and comfort. That comfort motivated him to dig deeper, study harder. The hard work then made him better at it. And the grades and the scholarships and everything else just followed. All this helped him escape the music that constantly played in his house, and the struggles of being different. He was different from the other boys in his neighborhood and different from the kids at school. He even stood out from his whole family. It was a family of soldiers, strong men and loyal women with values. Donte did not resonate with the values of his family. He wanted nothing of war, let alone to join the army like his father before him. He was growing weary of the advice at his church too. Sure, he liked the Pastor. The strict rigor with which his family expected him to follow their own interpretation of every word that was said on Sunday was not for him. Nor was the idea to find a good woman to marry and father many babies. He just wanted to solve problems, and help people. And numbers helped him to that.The amount a single hedge fund manager made by investments that he considered rather noncomplex could help wipe out a small third world country's debt. He could figure out that part easily because of the math. That is what he wanted to do. “How will you help me with life, man?” Donte had replied to Mohan who had a funny smirk on his face. “Come on, I’ll show you.” They had walked out of the school during lunch break to a place, just around the corner. It was an old building, looked like a run down defunct warehouse or something. Donte would never even be tempted to go to a place like that. Mohan was a free spirit though. Perhaps too free spirited for his own good. He had been getting nervous as he had declared, “I’m not into drugs, man!” Mohan just laughed. They entered the building. There were a few other kids he recognized from school at the far end of the building. He heard some beats playing. The place was very strange. It was very attractive to him, though he couldn’t tell why. The walls were spray painted with graffiti. There were some old torn carpets spread across the floor, and some thick industrial looking cables that were connected to power strips. “Where the heck are we, Mohan?” A curious Donte had asked. “We call it The Escape!” Mohan declared. “It... meaning ummm, like this warehouse you broke into?” Donte asked. “Yes this warehouse. And our work, and us. We are The Escape.” Mohan replied to a puzzled Donte. “We are an arts collective. A family. All of us are passionate about something. Just like you. All of us need support to pursue that. All of us need help with something too. We’re not junkies, we are a family that helps each other. Myself, I play the guitar and record music.” Mohan pointed to a corner of the warehouse to a room that had probably been an office at some point. “That’s the studio. Gabriella here is a graffiti artist, Marcus likes to write stories and Lainey likes to write code. There are many more of us. You can hang with us too Donte, if you like. Escape with us. Help us escape math though!” All of them started to laugh. Donte had felt at home instantly. He had spent the next two years hanging out at and with The Escape every chance he got, after classes, during classes sometimes and on weekends and evenings. They were his “study group.” They helped him deal with thoughts about where he fit in, with troubles with his family, his needs for fun and even money sometimes and helped calm his anxiety. He helped them with math. Now the word help was a bit of an understatement of course. When the school had started to audit assignments and test papers and run them through stylography checks and advanced similarity testing, something was bound to give. As he stood in front of Mr Raj, stout and pouty faced principle with a big belly, thick set glasses and a suit that meant business, all the anxiety he had escaped from over the last two years came flooding back in. Mr Raj had always liked him, had always tried to push him to do better. Perhaps this is why he was trying to be lenient with Donte, as he put it anyway. He felt a familiar nausea take over his stomach, a pounding in his heart as he looked at an impatient Mr Raj pacing the carpet floor of his office, “I’ll give you one more chance Donte, I know all those assignments were yours. I know you want to look out for your friends. If you don’t tell me though, you will all suffer the same fate. And you can say goodbye to that scholarship to Stanford. Say goodbye to any semblance of the life of an academic. The choice is yours.” Donte thought of the prayers his family said every Sunday in church. He smiled slightly thinking how funny it was that people thought of God in times of need. He thought of the Pastor. He thought of his father instructing him to join the army when he found out what Donte had done. He thought of how his mother would weep. Donte weighed the variables carefully, and tried to calculate based on decision points. Yet, this problem was not binary. He was not able to rationalize the events that had happened and could not determine the optimal solution. He knew the clock was ticking. The Escape had meant everything to him, it was his lifeline. Yet, he could not escape the principal’s office this afternoon. He could not do it to Mohan or any of the members of the Escape. Yet he could not face Mr. Raj or the uncertainty of a future without academic prospects. It was a lose-lose situation. For the first time since he had entered that warehouse two years ago, he found himself wanting to act in a way that was unnatural for him. He sensed he was at a crossroads again. “So, what will it be, Donte? Your time is up.” Commanded an annoyed Mr Raj. Donte closed his eyes and smiled, then spoke calmly and softly, “Let’s chat about my options Mr Raj. I think you will be surprised by what you find.”


I was feeling pessimistic when I first met him. I was sat at the bar, submerged in my own self-pity as I stared into a welcoming glass of rum and coke. I knew ordering a rum and coke was a little unfledged. A glass of wine would have been more mature. Maybe a glass of whiskey to remind me when I lived in Scotland. But fuck it, I was in a bad mood and I needed a reminder of my adolescent years to lift my mood. It did not. It made me feel worse. I did not know at the time why I felt dispirited. Realization came a little while later. I sighed and looked up from my miserable drink and scanned the bar. I noticed a couple of lads laughing at something funny while one of them rubbed his face in embarrassment. I wondered what was so funny. Maybe the humiliated one told an embarrassing story and that was why he was red in the face? Or maybe the others were reliving something from another day that the guy did not want brought up again for the hundredth time? My attention then drifted to a young couple who were rarely looking at each other. Their faces were almost white from the glow of their phones that they were fixated to. I snorted as I imagined them either talking to each other via their phones instead of talking across the table, or maybe engaging in a miserable attempt at broadcasting their wonderful night out on social media. I sighed again. This time deeply as I brought my glass up to my lips to take another sip. As I did so, something alerted my attention. Well, more appropriately; someone. My smile fell from my face. The smile that I did not even recognize I was wearing until that moment. I realize now that that smile was not a happy smile; it was a bit of a cynical smile from imagining the previous couple having a fake good time on social media. I noticed I had faltered ever so slightly, the glass raised to my lips but not moving any closer. His eyes only briefly glanced at me, but it was enough to send a curious shock through my body and linger dangerously. I had not noticed him before now. I do not tend to notice people right away. My initial instinct when I am walking into a bar on my own is to find a table that is both free and far enough away from the crowd. Usually in a corner or by a wall so as to not draw too much attention to myself and so I can sit, and people watch. It is not until I have successfully got a drink and slinked my way onto the table quickly enough that I can let loose a little and look around myself. The group with the curious and allusive embarrassing tale were initially the first people I properly noticed. The couple were the second. And he was the third. As soon as I noticed him, however, my attention elsewhere was basically non-existent. He had a eerie air about himself that drew all attention to him the moment you noticed him. Everyone else was just background noise. Or extras in a film. There, but not important. The main characters were important. It was as if he was the main character in this film. He was ruggedly handsome. Short dark hair, either dark brown or black, I could not tell in the poor light of the bar. A strong jaw, cleanly shaven, with a suspicious scar on his thin upper lip. He wore a crisp suit, which was also dark, it could have been black, but I was not ruling out any other dark colours. He held himself tall while he took large gulps of a beer. He clearly did not seem bothered by the noise around him. Like he too thought it was unimportant background noise. I found myself staring. My glass now back on the table, that sip I had been planning to take was never taken. It had lost its appeal. It was as if the welcoming liquid in the glass held no more significance to me and might as well have been stale water. I gasped as his eyes flicked to me again. His deep endless green eyes seemingly staring straight into my soul and almost revealing my biggest weakness right before me. I was helpless. I even saw a faint flicker of a smile. Little did I know, that was just the beginning. I recalled reading somewhere once that most women - probably only the heterosexual women - usually go for the tall, muscular men who are confident and dominant because they want a partner who can protect them. I also remember thinking that every time I thought of my Mr. Right, he would be tall and muscular too. As well as confident enough to protect me and keep me safe. I knew no one was perfect of course, I was prepared for some flaws in my Mr. Right. But those were my main requirements. I am not insinuating that guy at the bar was my Mr. Right. In fact, I am certain he was not. Far from it. I pictured my Mr. Right as a loving guy, with a wacky sense of humour to make me feel better on my low days, who loved me unconditionally and even enjoyed cuddling - I know, cliché much! The guy at the bar did not even strike me as that sort of guy. Even then, on that first day I met him. I could not picture him wanting to cuddle or even having any form of sense of humour. But Mr. Right was suddenly forgotten about. Especially when the Mr. Most Probably Wrong stood up and walked right over to my table. “Have we met before?” he asked. His voice as deeply dominant as his features. The now familiar American accent I had gotten used to boomed in front of me. Even his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I should have realized then that I should not engross in any form of conversation with him. He was entrancing and it was dangerous. But of course, I could not resist; “No,” was the only thing I could say. Unable to string a few words together to complete a sentence. I was happy enough to know I spoke the right word; I did not know him. I was certain I would recall him if I had ever seen him before. He watched me for a few seconds. His gaze had some sort of superpower as I noticed the hairs on my arms start to raise. “Are you sure?” he was stern and commanding. “Yes,” I uttered another single syllable word. “What’s your name?” he practically ordered. It was not really a question; it was a demand. I remember thinking that I should not answer. I should not give him my name. I did not know this man. What if he was a serial killer scouting for his next prey? But of course, my lips seemed to move on their own accord; “Jo.” “Tell me, Jo,” he started. I was not able to read any emotion on his face or his voice. I was not sure if it was because I was currently incapable of reading people or if it was him. “Why do you look familiar to me?” “I... I don’t know,” I stuttered. Well, at least it was better than a single syllable word. He seemed to watch me again for a few painfully long seconds and I could feel my palms getting sweaty. He did not seem satisfied with my answer. As if it were my fault, he could not figure out why I looked familiar to him. “Sorry,” I uttered involuntary to break the uncomfortable silence between us. The background bar noise did not even register to me by this point. For the first time I saw his face move, other than his lips. His right eyebrow rose. “What are you sorry for?” “For...” I paused. What was I sorry for? “For not being much help.” “I don’t know...” Another movement, this time a microscopic smile. A smile that made you falsely believe you were in safe hands. “I still think you can.” He suddenly plopped himself down in the chair opposite me uninvited and took a swig of the beer he was holding. The beer I had only just noticed he even had.


Up until a few days ago I was steadily employed as a laboratory technician at one of the cancer hospitals in my city. Now, for those of you not in the know, lab techs get paid jack shit even after getting a science degree. If you ever spend any time on r/labrats then you’d know what I mean. Even worse, the pay scales in academia are a joke compared to industry. Luckily for me I somehow worked my way into a decent paying lab tech job in one of the research groups at the hospital. My boss (whose name I can’t say, I’ll explain later) was probably the most successful and well-funded researcher in the entire research division. Our group would crank out several publications in a single year in Nature, Cell, New England Journal of Medicine you name it. (Not bragging but I made co-author on one of the papers!). My job as a lab tech was actually pretty easy. A lot of it was the usual lab stuff that no one here would care about but where I really excelled was apparently my ability to grow tumours. I never understood how I did it but my boss and some of the other post docs would grow tumours on me and somehow I could grow them faster than the other techs. The solid tumours were the easiest like melanoma and lung cancer, even some of the rarer ones like bone cancers. I would consider those an easy project. For obvious reasons I absolutely drew the line at testicular cancer. My boss and I had a long discussion about it but even he knew I wasn’t budging on that one. The worst was leukaemia. I hated it and so did the other techs. If you’ve ever had a bone marrow biopsy you’d know what I was talking about. That hurt like a son of a bitch! So as a rule you’d only have to do a leukaemia project once a year. Anyway, after they, or I should say I, had grown the tumour my boss or some of the other post docs would then either excise the tumour or give me a drug to try and reduce it in size. From this we would get some of the most amazing and ground-breaking data in the field. My boss would give these talks at conferences and I’m not kidding, other prominent researchers would lose their shit! But here’s what happened and this is how I lost my job. Goddam OHS. Two weeks ago some OHS representatives came to give a talk to our lab. Turns out, my boss hadn’t been filling out the proper paperwork to be working on human subjects. The ethics committee were losing their minds and we had to stop research on humans immediately. They were however allowed to continue their research but only using mice. And that’s how I lost my job to goddam mouse! Me and the other lab techs were pretty much sent packing that day. We had to sign an NDA, which is why I can’t mention my boss’ name. I’ve tried contacting the other techs to see how they’re going but it seems like they’ve all ghosted me and I can’t get in touch with any of them. I’ve started looking for other work in the meantime. We got a decent payout which should keep me afloat while I look for another job. But I am *definitely* moving into industry.


"I remember you." For a moment, it was as if time had stopped. *Had he really just said what I thought he did?* "That's.. You're lying." I stammered, taking a step back as my shoulder blades propped up against the wall behind me. "You're not allowed to remember me." I continued, painfully clearing my throat as I felt the lump begin to form again. Nevertheless, his eyes remained trained on me, those familiar, puppy-dog eyes that glistened hazel in the moonlight and lit up whenever I entered the room. *"I remember you."* Well, he wouldn't for much longer. "Please, I just-- I know I remember you, I know your face, I know.. I know you remember me, too." he pleaded, struggling against the chains that bound him to the opposite wall. It was almost too much for me to bear; I knew I couldn't keep up the act much longer if he kept trying to talk to me. With tears now streaming down my face, I turned my gaze away and began screaming for help, my voice cracking with each shaky breath I inhaled. "Help! Please! He says he remembers me! He shouldn't remember me!" I cried, my legs giving out as I slumped against the wall behind me, not wanting to watch them come in. Within moments, two large soldiers burst through the room and grabbed the male by his upper arms, wasting no time in dragging him away as he shouted and clawed and kicked. "No! No! I remember her! Please! June, don't let them do this!" And that's when I fainted. **november 12, 2384 . . . 8:32 a.m.** *I remember the day they came to our city.* *Mama was busy cooking lunch when they knocked on our door. All I could hear was a deep, husky voice asking Mama lots of questions, and I could tell she was getting annoyed. Before I could ask who he was, Mama walked back into the kitchen and resumed cooking.* *I kept asking who that man was, but Mama was acting like she had no idea what I was talking about. That's how it all started.* *At first, Mama just thought I was playing games and messing around, but once they came and took over our city, she realized what was happening.* *Then one day, Mama didn't recognize me.* *She kept saying that I had her mistaken with someone else, but when I started to cry, she just turned away and went back to reading her magazine. Mama didn't remember me.* *Some of the neighbors stopped remembering me, too. They didn't let me play with their kids, and then their kids stopped coming outside altogether. I was all alone.* *I had to start avoiding Mama because she would get scared when she saw me. She thought I was a ghost, or a burglar, and stopped letting me sneak food from the pantry. It got to the point where I had to stay up all night and wait for my chance to get food after she went to bed.* *Soon enough, I wasn't allowed in the house anymore. Mama thought I was a squatter pretending to be her daughter just to get free food and a free bed. I pleaded with Mama to reconsider, to believe that I was really her daughter, but she never did.* *Since Mama didn't want me to live with her anymore, I was taken to an orphanage where other little boys and girls were. I cried when Mama left, but she didn't look sad at all.* *I could tell other kids were sad, too; they had splotchy cheeks and tear stains on their shirts. Why were we being left behind like this?* *I don't know if I'll ever get an answer, but I do know one thing:* *I never saw Mama again.* **entry filed for incineration at 9:00 a.m.


“A Visit to Tatum” As many times as I’d driven the stretch of I-44 between St. Louis and Springfield you’d think I would have figured out all of the best places to stop for a bite and exactly how much gas I needed to have in my tank. Over almost three years and a dozen trips I’d never had any problems until that day last month. Ordinarily if I’d left my house without a full tank I knew a stop in Cuba or Rolla would take care of things, but there was so much going on at the office I hadn’t paid attention to details. Now, just past the Cuba exit my fuel warning light came on. It meant I’d be able to drive about twenty-five miles on what was left in the tank but it was thirty more miles to the Rolla exit. Should I risk the drive? It was farm country with no roads to turn off on to for a drive back to Cuba. It seemed like I’d be forced to do a white knuckle drive with one eye on the road and one on the gas gauge. Then up ahead I saw a highway sign that I’d never paid much attention to on my previous trips. It read “ Tatum Exit 27 ”. I’d probably seen the sign before but it just didn’t register in my memory. The warning light glowing on my dashboard told me not to take any chances. I hit my turn signal and eased my way on to the exit ramp. At the end of the ramp was a small paved road that appeared to connect the exit and entrance ramps but not much more. There was no sign of a building let alone a town and I felt more than a little nervous. I had two choices, get back on the highway and hope I could make it to Rolla or turn on to the small road and see where it would lead me. Neither option was a good one but I chose to find out what was in the town of Tatum. After about a hundred yards of driving through what felt like a tunnel of Pin Oak trees on both sides of the road I reached an opening. Off to my right was a faded, tattered sign that read “ Parker’s Garage ” and under that “ Gas - Oil - Minor Repairs ”. A smaller sign beside it that looked like an afterthought read “ Snack Bar ”. Up ahead on the left were three rows of identical mobile homes, all white and all in less than good condition. On the right past the sign was the entrance to a large parking area and a three-bay brick garage building. A small, white clapboard church sat at the far edge of the parking area. Beyond that, in every direction was a whole lot of nothing. To call Tatum a town was a real stretch but all I needed was a full tank of gas and then I’d be on my way. There were no signs of people or activity as I slowly drove past a long row of mailboxes at the entrance driveway to the trailers. Each box had the owner’s trailer address and name stenciled on it. There was a Parker, two Oldachs, three Larimores, two more Parkers, another Larimore another Parker and two more Oldachs. It was hard to miss the strangeness of all those trailers being home to just three extended families. The two fuel pumps were near the garage and I pulled up to the one marked “Regular”. There was no one in sight and after waiting for a few minutes I got out and grabbed hold of the nozzle. The readout showed I’d only pumped a quarter’s worth of gas when I heard a man calling to me. “Whoa, hold on there, mister. That’s my job!” I turned and saw a skinny, middle-aged man in blue coveralls walking toward me. The name patch sewn on to his uniform read “Leonard”. “Oh, sorry, Leonard,” I said, “I thought it was self-serve.” The man took the pump from my hand. “Well, it ain”t, we do the work around here.” His total lack of warmth and even a hint of a smile were surprising. “I guess a lot of people make that mistake, huh?” Trying to put a friendlier tone on the conversation didn’t seem to have any effect. “Nope, we don’t get a lot of people here. Don’t want to, cause we’ve got all them trucks to gas up and take care of.” He motioned toward the far end of the dirt and gravel parking area where three identical red vans were parked on a patch of asphalt. From the striping on the pavement it looked like the empty spaces were for other vans that were elsewhere at the moment. On the side of each of them was painted “ Parker Delivery ”. “That’s why we have these pumps. They’re for them trucks and the school van to Cuba, not for strangers.” “Then why the sign on the road over there? It makes it sound like you’re a regular business.” That sign’s nearly forty years old. Old Tatum Parker put it up back when he got his friends at the capital to put in the exit from the highway. He wanted the business and town to be somethin’ the rest of us folks didn’t.” The readout on the pump now showed that Leonard had already put enough into my tank to get me to Springfield so I wasn’t reluctant to challenge him a little. “So then why didn’t you just tell me that it’s your gas only and send me on my way?” “Wouldn’t be Christian.” He rubbed the cuff of his sleeve across his nose. As he finished filling my tank I looked back again to the row of mailboxes along the road. I thought again how odd it was that all those trailers housed the members of only three families. Maybe it was wrong to pry but it was too late, my curiosity had gotten the best of me. “So, Leonard, I saw the names on the mailboxes and I don’t see any other roads around here. Is that everyone in Tatum?” He pulled the nozzle from my filler and looked at me. It wasn’t a friendly look. “Yeah, that’s Tatum; them trailers, the church and this garage.” “And are you a Parker?” “Nope, an Oldach. Is that important to you?” His demeanor was starting to piss me off but it was also bringing out my snarky side. “No, I was just curious. I’ve driven by this exit dozens of times and never noticed the sign for Tatum.” “That’s the way we like it, nice and private.” he answered. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped his nose and said, “That’s thirty-one seventy and we prefer cash.” “No problem, but I’ll need a receipt from you.” Leonard let out a long, deep sigh and muttered, “There’s always something more.” I nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess there is.” As I followed him to the garage I looked at the red vans again. “So what does Parker Delivery deliver?” Leonard was not a patient man. He let out another deep sigh and answered, “You sure do ask a lot of questions. We deliver whatever the folks in Cuba and Rolla ask us to.” It was a vague answer and I knew it would be the only one I’d get. We went into the garage and I laid two twenty dollar bills on the counter in front of him and then looked around. The small area in front of the cash counter was barely big enough to stand in. The walls were covered with a large array of black and white photographs. They were portraits of what a banner sign said were three generations of the men and women who’d operated Parker’s Garage and Parker Delivery over the years. That was the moment that I understood the mailboxes. There was Jim Parker and his wife Mary Oldach Parker. Next to them were Peter Larimore and his wife Cheryl Parker Larimore. Finishing the top row were Thomas Oldach and Margie Larimore Oldach and finally Nathan Parker and his wife Sandra Oldach Parker. I scanned the entire wall and every single face was attached to one of those three names. That explained the mailboxes and I figured it also explained Leonard’s comment about wanting privacy. It looked like Leonard was having some difficulty making change in the register and writing out my receipt. I let him struggle and looked into what the sign called a snack bar. There was a short red laminate counter with four stools and holes in the floor where two other stools had been removed. In front of that was a larger, empty area that looked like it might have been a dining room at some time in the past. I could hear noise from the kitchen but saw no one. I turned back to Leonard and asked, “Is there someone in the snack bar that can get me a coffee to go?” He looked up from his mathematical struggles, appearing to be irritated by my interruption and said, “I suppose she can get you a coffee if you have your own cup.” “A paper cup would be just fine with me.” “Look, mister...what’s your name by the way? I need it for the receipt.” “It’s Wesley Ames.” “Okay, Mr. Ames, it’s like I said before, we don’t get a lot of strangers here. The men who drive them vans all live here and them boys like their coffee in a real cup.” He went back to working on the receipt. I shook my head, totally taken aback by his attitude. I walked out to my car and took out the insulated cup that I always kept filled with water. I poured it out on to the ground and walked back inside, right past Leonard and into the snack bar. A woman in the kitchen noticed me through the pass-through window behind the counter. She looked surprised to see a strange face. I held up my empty cup and called out “Coffee?” She hesitated so long that I thought she was deliberately avoiding me. Finally she made it around the corner to the kitchen door and stood behind the counter. She said nothing and just stared at me. “I was wondering if you could fill this with coffee for me. Leonard said you would.” “Leonard don’t run the snack bar but I guess I can do it.” She reached for my cup, looked at it a moment and said, “This is a pretty big cup, I’m gonna have to charge you extra.” “I sighed, not at all surprised that she was just as unfriendly as Leonard. “That’s fine.” I watched her fill my cup and wondered how long that coffee pot had been sitting on a burner in an empty snack bar. She put the lid back on the cup, handed it to me and said in a monotone voice, “Three bucks even.” “Okay, I’ll just give it to Leonard from my change.” “You weren’t listening to me. Leonard don’t run the snack bar. You gotta pay me.” I put the cup on the counter, pulled three singles from my wallet and handed it to her.” She took the bills from my hand and stood there looking at me. Finally, she said, “I accept tips.” I was really tempted to reach into my pocket and take out a dime but I just shook my head and handed her another buck. She took it without saying anything and walked back into the kitchen. Leonard had finally solved the riddle of making change and writing it down. He handed me my receipt and change and without saying “Thank you” or “Have a nice day” like every other service attendant in America would do, he turned and walked away, into a small storage room behind the counter and closed the door. The rest of my drive to Springfield would have been more pleasant if it weren’t for my cup of bitter, boiled coffee and the bad mood I was in from my contact with the strange town of Tatum. A town like none I’d ever seen with people I’d hoped I’d never run into again. And they’d shown me very clearly that they felt the same way. Before I’d left Springfield the next morning I‘d made sure to top off my gas tank. One of life’s lessons learned the hard way. My drive of two hundred and twenty one miles would be non-stop and, hopefully, uneventful. I wasn’t surprised that right about the time I saw the exit for Rolla I started thinking about my strange experience of the day before. A town that I’d never heard of before was now all I could think about. I kept an eye on my odometer so I’d be ready in time to see the northbound sign for Exit 27 to Tatum and give it the finger as I passed it. I slowed down a little when I got close to the area where I thought it would be. After a minute or so I spotted something ahead as odd as Tatum itself. A short remnant of the green metal post that had held the exit sign protruded above the grass along the shoulder. Someone, and I guessed it was Leonard, had cut down the sign. I looked across the median and saw that the sign along the southbound lanes was also gone. I pulled on to the shoulder and stopped. A picture started to form in my mind. A picture of a skinny man in blue coveralls, holding a flashlight and a hacksaw, was crouched in the darkness with the guardrails hiding most of him from view. Between passing cars he stood there and sawed away at the posts, first the northbound and then the south. I pictured his smile as each sign crashed to the ground and how he must have enjoyed dragging them into the weeds. And I pictured how his smile must have grown when he was sure that it would be hard for any strangers to find Tatum again. I smiled, lifted my coffee cup and tipped it in the direction of Tatum. “Here’s to you, Leonard Oldach, you strange man, and to your whole strange town.” I took a sip of bad coffee and added, “And on behalf of every single driver who passes this way, I swear if you hadn’t cut them down I would have.”


No one knew where it had come from. It had stood at the edge of the city for ages, to the point some sources even believed it had existed before the city. Though, of course, there was no way to be certain. The library was as enigmatic as it was beautiful, holding such marvelous wonders and stories, the likes of which no one had ever before seen. Through some magic, it was able to enchant both children and adults alike. Yet, as time passed, the magic seemed to fade. Every day, there seemed to be one less person visiting its silent halls, one less person losing themselves within a world unlike theirs. For a human living day to day, the change was gradual enough to be unnoticeable. But for an entity which had existed for centuries, if not millennia, an entity which had watched countless souls enter with despairing thoughts and leave with joy and solace in their hearts, it was like its heart was breaking. And the library could do nothing of its own to prevent their departure. The only tools it had at its disposal were its books. It would rewrite them, reorganize them, create entirely new stories. The shelves would realign themselves, forming a simple maze to bring readers places they wouldn’t venture themselves. Nothing worked, and soon enough, the library stood empty. Its doors remained unlocked, its stories remained unread, and its hopes remained unheard. Time passed, as memory of the library faded into obscurity. Everyone in the city knew of it only in passing, it being the subject of tales handed down through generations. They all spoke of it so highly, regaled children with stories of the worlds they’d encountered as if borne their own ideas, yet never once suggested they would return to it. Without anyone to visit, without anyone to care for its stories, the library began losing the power to stop nature. It started as a single sprout in the center of the floor, growing between the cracks in the tiles until it stood proudly as a vibrant violet hyacinth. That flower remained in isolation for years, feeding on sunlight from high windows, nourished by the steady drip-drip-drip of water from a crack in the ceiling. It had no sense of self, no ability to know where it was, and as such, lacked the ability to visit another world. The library watched the flower, acting as its lone guardian even as its magic faded further. Perhaps it felt something akin to brotherhood in the tiny spot of beauty, or perhaps it treated the flower as it would a new reader. It would rearrange shelves to ensure no wild animals devoured the flower, or provide comfort from the harsh winter winds when they would billow in through unhinged doors. But no one came, and no one would come. Not ever again. That was the harsh reality the library faced, and with its magic slipping ever further away, it became further enveloped by the natural world. Grasses would creep in through the doorways, taking root wherever dirt had been dragged years prior; vines would climb ever upward, using the library’s as a handhold in their journey toward the sun; flowers would settle down, growing in patches of simple rue, cerulean irises, and goldenrod tulips. None of them, however, dared touch the books, as if knowing they were sacred to the building which provided them shelter from the environment. None of them knew the truth behind the shifting landscape which they called home, the walls which would suddenly not be walls, the storms which would suddenly become a simple drip-drip-drip that fed them conservatively, the harsh droughts which would be relieved only by a sudden shade looming over. War came to the city centuries later, death raking its bony fingers across the land as if preparing the soil beneath. No one was safe, all dragged into combat for the sake of keeping their own alive, and few returned to tell the tales of the brutal onslaught they had endured. This holdout was never meant to last. Perhaps the other side saw it only as a form of entertainment, watching how long the people would scramble in their desperation to survive. Whatever it was, when the enemy grew bored, they stopped holding back. When the bombs came, no one was spared, no buildings were free of being targeted. Young and old, male and female and all in between, were targets of an undiscerning threat. And in the span of just a few days, the city was no more than rubble. The only building which remained was the library, unable to act as the city it had once called a friend came to exist no longer. It was unable to shed a tear, unable to vocalize its pain and sorrow. It had no magic of its own, no way to reach out. All it could do was protect its little slice of the world and hope no danger came its way. \* \* \* \* \* It had been decades since anyone had explored this part of the country, too terrified of tales from the war to risk venturing so far out. Though he had heard the tales from his parents, and them from theirs, having been saved from the destruction by distance alone, they held no weight to him. Why should he be afraid of a war which he had no connection to, and which no other child his age had ever spoken of? His journey through the rubble was rough. Though the city had apparently been destroyed by objects called “bombs,” they hadn’t leveled the remains, leaving peaks and crags formed by debris alone. To anyone who knew, it would’ve looked wholly unnatural. Yet, to him, who was to say this wasn’t just another natural structure, the result of some as-of-yet undiscovered weathering method? He had no reference, his own city bearing no similarities to whatever this one may have once been. Occasionally, he would find bones, sorrowful reminders that there was no life within the city limits. The first time it had happened, he had only then realized that there truly was no life. Not once had he heard a bird call to its mate, or seen the smiling face of a flower as it greeted the sun. There was nothing but silence, which in a word normally filled with music and voices, was unsettling. He traveled without aim, choosing the path of least resistance as a river would through the land. He climbed up steep slopes, using shattered windows as handholds, only to slide down their opposite side, kicking up dust. He ventured in some buildings, marveling at what had once been a grand fountain or sculpture, only to have such a view vanish from his mind the moment he left the structure behind. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, simply something which would show the city was safe and ease his parents’ fears for his wellbeing. As such, it was quite the welcome surprise when he spotted a single building at the edge of the city, standing undamaged by anything but time. It was a large structure with an arching roof and an elaborate windowed façade. Draped over it, as if to provide warmth on a cold winter night, were all sorts of grasses and ivies. The windows were cracked, some missing entire panes, while the doors hung loosely from their hinges, creaking in the slightest of breezes. As he passed through the doorway, spying the rows upon rows of books beyond, the shelves burdened by stories of a city passed, he knew why the building had been spared. Despite the size of it, the library wasn’t grandiose, instead rather humble, offering a quite place of solitude for those few who had no doubt seen it as a rest stop on their grander journeys. He, however, wasn’t like that. To him, it felt as if fate had led him here, as if that tiny red thread upon his finger had been not a string to someone unknown, but the tassel which marked one’s place in a book. He ran his fingers gently over the shelves, feeling the wood remain solid despite what had to have been centuries of mistreatment. There was something else as well, just beneath the surface, something which brought a smile to his face, though he couldn’t determine what it was exactly. His journey brought him to rest in the heart of the library, where the highest windows provided a single spot of sunlight, and where there rested a single violet hyacinth. It stood proud, untouched by the occasional wrath of nature, but alone. As he watched, a single drop of water tumbled from a crack in the ceiling, before splashing against the flower’s petals. He knelt before it, gently bringing his nose closer so he could draw in its beautiful scent. His mother had taught him about flowers, and how each one held its own meaning, no matter where in the world one went. Some exuded happiness and joy, while others whimpered sorrow and despair. In the language of flowers, violet hyacinth said one thing, and one thing only. “Please forgive me.” As it was the largest flower within the library, and the one treated most prominently, he knew it was the oldest among them, and had been there for an indeterminate amount of time. It didn’t escape his notice that the others which grew showed despair, regret, but also hope. He smiled calmly and settled himself down beside the hyacinth, one hand running through the short grass which surrounded its base. He wished he could speak, not to himself, but to the library. He wished he could vocalize his thoughts, let it be known that the library would never be forgotten, that it hadn’t failed. Though it could not protect the people themselves, it had done the next best thing, and it had protected their stories for all future generations to experience. There was a shudder which he felt subtly, and he began to rise, fearing an earthquake. Yet, a moment later, the source was revealed. It was a lone shelf, dragging itself through the library’s interior, being careful to avoid the patches of flowers and grass as it approached him. By his side, a single book slid itself out further than its fellows. He took the book, wondered at its blank pages, until another book’s emergence rolled forward a pencil. That was enough of a message, and he once again sat beside the hyacinth, scribbling his message into the book. When finished, he returned it to its place in the shelf, only to grin in pleased shock as it popped out a few moments later, with new words written beneath his. He and the library went back and forth, exchanging words in a way no one had done with the building since before the city’s construction. They spoke of stories of humanity, they spoke of the library itself, and of him. They spoke of the past, and they spoke of the future. But most importantly, they spoke. As the sun began to set, he returned the book to its place upon the shelf one final time. His last scribble: “I’ll be back. You won’t ever be forgotten again, for as long as I live. I promise.


I have always been fascinated by flowers but that doesn't mean I have ever actively worked towards growing them. I'm pretty sure my mother would give a solid testimony on that. She would always ask, "If you do love flowers, aren't you supposed to love growing them and nurturing them as well? What kind of a person are you?" and to be completely honest, I don't know either. It's not just garden flowers though, I love plants and flowers that are just wild and all over the place. It's like, they are not structured, there is no order to them, but still, they are extremely beautiful and wonderful. Reminds me of people who may not be the smartest or the richest or the most outgoing or stuff like that but still seems to have their life figured out. Guess it's not too bad to be among the wild flowers. Its interesting how much effort actually does go into growing an immaculate garden. We see somebody's garden and go, "Well, that seems like a lot of time and effort and a huge amount of money all put together" and it's true. Just to give an idea - You have to decide on the perfect spot that will always be relevant and by that I mean that it should be useful to you as long as you stay in the game. Then you need to decide on the beautiful plants you want to nurture and most importantly, you have to identify the weed from the plants. That part is very tough because if not done carefully, might choke your entire garden. Now, if you are an idiot like me and somehow managed to destroy your entire garden - Hello to you. I always wanted my garden to be filled with the most exotic, aromatic and beautiful flowers in the whole world but failed to consider their needs. That's right, plants have needs too. Shocking, I know. The seeds I planted never took to flowering. They died. All of them. Then for a brief period of time I thought, maybe some wild flowers would grow there, you know, like what happens in nature. But, I have realized now that no matter what you do, sometimes it just doesn't work. Like the seeds I planted. No matter how much I wished they would grow and thrive and flower, my wish alone just wasn't enough. Sometimes what you do is just not enough and that's the hard truth. So what now? Stop gardening all together? To be fair, I thought about it. Long and hard. Didn't come to any solid conclusion. I mean, as long as I don’t analyze the soil type, the weather, the type of plants that could grow in this soil, the peculiarities of plants that I would like to grow(despite the geographical barriers), I don’t think there is going to be any progress. As of now, I have decided to give it time. Time to heal itself. Time to grow any wild flowers if it wants to. Time to undo the damages inflicted upon it. I will try to grow my garden again, make it flower all over again be filled with beauty. My mother is right - if you love it, then why not work for it? Till then, I will cherish what once was.


The dribblets of rain raced down the glass. I shifted to look at the ceiling. The ridges flowed into different shapes contorting into faces and images. I watched it turn and contort, going into a peaceful gaze, where it was just me and no one else. Then the back door slammed. Parker came to the couch, propping herself up into the corner, her glasses falling halfway down her nose, blue eyes lacing her vacant expression as she typed into her phone. I love to watch her like this, her hair messy around her face, no wedged shoes, so she barely comes to my chest, and a tablet or a phone in her hands. She's perfect. Always knowing what she wants to be done, knowing how to get it, she enchants me with her mere presence. Everything about her is different and foreign, but after just a few days became familiar and warm. People call her challenged, I think they just don't understand what she's about. "Starr, stop staring, if you want cuddles you gotta come here." her voice rang out into the empty room. Her voice fills your heart, making you feel safe and surrounded, I put my head in her lap, just to get her hand on my forehead. She is nowhere near average, from her height, and personality, to her voice and the feelings she brings you. Me on the other hand, I'm more average than anyone you've ever seen, from the color of my eyes to my height and voice, even my clothing options are average. The only thing that makes me different, it's something I do, I bend things to my will, I make air, and water move, along with the trees and flames, it's a curse. it's hard to control and it will just get me locked away. I hate it. I hate the way my voice tries to stay flat, I hate the way I blank out every other minute, I hate the way my eyes look placated, I hate the way I can't tell anyone anything without guilt. She's beautifully perfect, and I refuse to see a change. I don't understand how someone so extraordinary, can love someone like me. So boring it's threatening. ****** The rain is pouring out here. My yellow rainboots caked with mud, I kick them against the garage, my jacket wasn't keeping me dry. I should have asked for help, Starr would have helped, I need to stop being so proud. Pride has gotten me nowhere, yet I refuse to let it go. The sky doesn't let me see an ounce of sun, I let out a roar of frustration, I wanted to get the dog pen up for when Penn has her puppies. I wasn't getting it done today. I marched up the low stairs, I let out a breath before opening the back door. I slipped my rain boot's onto the mat, my height diminishing, I grumbled as I pulled off my jacket. I snatched my phone from the kitchen counter, almost sliding on the hardwood floors. Starr was lying stretched across the couch. I piled myself up in the corner and began writing into my journal. Starr's eyes diverted themselves to me, I glanced away, her serene eyes always get the best of me, they're always calm. She is almost always quiet at home, my glasses slipped down the crooked path of my nose. I took the time to examine her sundress, it was a light blue with petals falling around her. Her cheery, positive demeanor, was a play up. If you take more than fifteen minutes to talk to her, you see her sarcastic, dark, and sometimes sad manor. She doesn't like to communicate. If her eyes could, they'd hold the stars. She's been staring at me too long now, so I break the silence. "Starr, stop staring, if you want cuddles you gotta come here." She puts her head into my lap, I place my hand on her head in acknowledgment. She sighs. I continue typing with my left hand. I try to pull my sleeves down as little as possible, my arms are fine. I am not going to be a prideless bother to those around me just because I feel sad sometimes. My hair falls into my eyes, I should cut it off, it's a bother, and I refuse to let my hair get beyond my shoulders. My stupid blue eyes, too weak to do anything without help. I need a pair of glasses. Starr sighs again. I look at her, her eyes are closed, her pretty blonde hair falls into her face. I leave it. Her face is so, so, ugh, I cannot describe it, the peacefulness she constantly puts up makes me feel as if nothing bad could happen in our little lives like the worst has already come. I saw her use her powers once, it was such a deafening noise, to hear the pulsing of the earth, to feel the mist before you felt the rain, to watch the trees dance in unison, to see the waves battle their mighty battle. To see the flames build themselves up and up until they are a roar. It was beautiful. I don't understand how someone so extraordinary, can love someone like me. So average it's threatening. ********** I hate how my people treat themselves, I love all of you, you're my people, from the little ones who run and push and shove, to the big ones who pet, and yell and play, I love you all yet, you treat yourselves like a squirrel, nasty and terrible, don't be like a squirrel, I love you and always will, even after I'm long gone. You will dance on in my memories until there are no others. Until I don't remember what a good girl and a bad girl is, or until I have no bladder control and I stop eating. I will love you both no reason to worry, you are my people, and since I tore up the couch this is my apology too. I am very very sorry I was a bad girl and ate a pillow, I should not have done that, the couch is nasty, and I will not do that again.


“The green in the trees blend with the blue of the sky, creating a graceful picture, as the chirping birds create a symphony of harmonious song.” Sunday: Entry 907 Hey journal, I re-read my favorite book today, thus the poem above. It’s been awhile since my last update, I’d say a couple months, but there’s really no way to tell. I did my sunday routine, wake up, pray, exercise, read scripture, then I went to the kitchen. The room smelled foul, with moldy fruit and stale bread filling the cabinets. I filled a teacup with wine and picked off a piece of bread. “Body of Christ” I thought before eating the bread, “Blood of Christ” I thought before drinking the wine. Jesus’ blood tastes horrible. No, you know what? I hate my life. I hate everything about it, I hate the food, I hate my books, I hate the dark and I HATE THIS RUN DOWN, GOD FORSAKEN CABIN! No, this cabin isn’t run down. In fact, it’s my pride and joy. Two bathrooms, three kitchens, two living rooms, a master bedroom and a huge study, that puts all others to shame. Made by my own two hands and about 400 blocks of concrete. But I hate living here, it’s dark and cold. The candels only light the place dimly, and don’t provide heat, I need to get out of here. Last night I had a dream, first time in months. I was reading all five hundred and sixty two books again in my study. When the tree form the poem crashed into the concrete wall, outside, I saw a paradise. It was a warm summer day, the grass was green and families were having a picnic. The adults were talking and socializing, as the kids were playing. The boys were chasing the girls with worms, on sticks. I wanted to join them, so I turned around to place my book on the chair, fully prepared to rejoin society, but when I turned around, The paradise was gone. Replaced by the same concrete wall, the word, “sorry” carved into it. Oh lord! Why have you forsaken me?! I cannot stand my life, maybe I was wrong? Maybe the world didn’t end? Maybe I can go back, but as I write this, I realize, that I am what I never wanted to be. It is the darkest entity in the universe, and feared by all. I just don’t want to be, alone.