The sunset lent a warm, almost cozy glow to the stacks of scarlet-washed terraces that supported the buildings of Mutul. It was a city stuffed with more pyramids than any place Neith-Ka recalled from her native Khamit. Her people might have buried their Pharaohs in monuments of equal or even more mountainous scale, but then these peculiar Mayabans would lay every one of their structures on top of a stepped pyramid, none less than two stories high, with everyone having to hike up a succession of stone stairs to reach the summit. Neith-Ka shook her foot to dull the pain chewing away at her tendons. Already the woven papyrus of her sandals had started to splinter apart from wear. The Khamitan people may have taken pride in the grandeur of their own monuments, but never would their architects dare subject anyone to so many tortuous steps. You weren’t even *supposed* to climb the royal tombs back home. Huya, her high steward, clicked his tongue with a frown. “You could feign a good attitude, Your Highness.” Neith-Ka drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. “I’ve done my best. Please show some understanding.” “I saw you pouting. And, I swear by the scales of Ma’at, I heard you mutter a curse while shaking that leg. You don’t seem to remember that you’re representing your father, your family, and all the Black Land here, princess. I’ll see no more lip from you tonight!” With another inhale, Neith-Ka straightened herself up and nodded to her steward. As he and their entourage of guards and servants marched up yet another ramp of steps, she huddled close behind while keeping her focus on their destination on top. Looking back down the pyramid’s height could only intimidate her further. Even more so with the lighter brown locals crowding behind her with the gawks of strangers who had never seen even one darker-skinned person their entire lives. The lip of the stairway connected to a platform that supported a ring of rectangular buildings around a courtyard, all plastered with a blazing red base. Yet these were not monochrome edifices, for each had mounted on its walls and over its doorways elaborate reliefs of jade-plumed gods, snarling gold leopards (or were those called jaguars over here?), and the strings of complicated square images that constituted the Mayaban culture’s written language. To think that foreigners claimed that Khamit’s hieroglyphs were impossible to read! No mortal could possibly even *draw* their Mayabic equivalents. From one short and wide building at the far end of the complex floated a faint yet spicy odor, with thin trails of steam snaking out from tiny windows in the walls towards its left edge. Dark green curtains, splashed with reds, golds, and purples hung behind the gallery of square columns that supported the remainder of the building’s length. Standing in front were a pair of native guards, stocky men in padded cotton vests who parted their obsidian-fringed spears upon noticing the Khamitans’ arrival. Huya bowed at the waist to both guards. “Excuse me, my good man, but where would His Majesty the Ahau and his family be?” “Already inside, waiting with as much patience as they’ve got,” one of the guards said. The second glanced at Neith-Ka from the corner of his eye. “And you’re the one he’s waiting on, I presume. Not so ugly as far as your kind goes, if a bit overcooked. I’d advise you to stay clear of his youngest daughter.” Neith-Ka gave him a subtle smile to hide the prickling sensation that crept up her back. “I’ll...uh, keep that in mind...my *under*cooked friend.” “Princess! What did I say?” Huya hammered the butt of his high steward’s staff twice on the stone pavement. “Aw, give your woman a pass,” the first guard said. “She was only telling my friend to show more hospitality. Right, Yaxkin?” Strutting away from the two guards as they argued with one another in the Mayabic language, Neith-Ka plunged herself through the curtains into the royal dining hall. \## All chatter within the dining hall halted upon her first step inside. There had already congregated two circles of people at opposite ends of the space enclosed by the curtains and columns. To the right sat all women and girls on pillows fringed with blue and scarlet macaw feathers, whereas to the left were all men who sat around a stone platform tapered like a miniature pyramid. Both parties stared at Neith-Ka with slackened jaws and no words spoken, with a few of the men’s eyes glinting with that all-too-familiar male emotion. She gave a nervous chuckle with a retreat towards the curtains, an uncomfortable warmth blushing within her cheeks. “Did I interrupt something?” There sat on the leftward pyramidal platform a short man whose physique seemed much too gaunt to support his towering crown of deep green and red plumes, or even his necklaces and bracelets of gold, jade, and animal fangs. He raised a drinking cup of red clay and gave Neith-Ka a smile which dripped dark brown liquid from his wrinkled thin lips. “No, no, we’re more than thankful to see you so soon, daughter of Amenhotep,” the bedecked old man said. “No need to worry yourself with formalities tonight.” He released a belch that rumbled between the columns. Neith-Ka raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the Ahau of Mutul?” “Call me B’alaj. It’ll be easier on your tongue than all my titles. Now, before you indulge yourself in the finest cuisine of any of the Mayaban cities, I owe you my thanks for all that treasure you sent us. Mountains of ivory, ebony furniture, all those exquisite animal hides--even though, I daresay, your jaguars are rather dwarfish compared to ours--and then all the gold, copper, bronze...you Khamitans sure know how to buy yourselves a trade deal.” Huya, who had already entered the scene with the rest of the Khamitans flanking him, bowed to the Ahau at the waist. “Glad to hear you appreciate our tribute, Ahau B’alaj.” The Ahau extended his arm to the low table-like platform that sprawled over the central third of the hall, cloaked with jaguar hides held down by flickering gourd candles at the corners and then a vast, jumbled array of bowls and baskets holding food. “Help yourselves. Your hunger’s the limit. Though I say the tamales and the chocolate are *the* best.” Neith-Ka had not come to the banquet with a bottomless stomach, but the variety of delicacies on display would have boggled even her father’s best cooks back in Khamit. Bowls held piles of multicolored beans, bulbs of squash, slender red peppers, and a lumpy paste that gave off the scent of avocado. In the baskets were stacks of thin yellow flatbreads, tropical fruits collected from the rainforest beyond the city, and cobs of maize scaled blue, red, and yellow. Roasted hunks of turkey, venison, fish, and even dog meat rested on the platters, and a fat pitcher streamed out a tendril of steam from its spout. Next to it sat a pile of folded corn husks stuffed with chili and some sort of dough. After gathering a couple of these tamales for her plate, Neith-Ka poured herself a cup from the pitcher. What came out was a liquid the color of coffee from Habesha (the kingdom that bordered Khamit on the southeast), but this was thicker and frothier. “I guess this is your chocolate?” B’alaj raised his cup again. “The beverage of royalty such as yourself, daughter of Amenhotep!” Neith-Ka took her cup and tamales to the side of the room where the women of the Ahau’s family dined. They shoved themselves aside to give her a wider berth before she had even taken her own seat. None could manage to take their eyes off their Khamitian guest, even if they murmured unintelligible gossip from the corners of their mouths. There was no point in calling them out on it, and not only because it would embarrass her entire civilization before the people of Mutul. As Neith-Ka and her people always like to say back in Khamit, those who hate would always hate. She took a sip of the chocolate drink and grimaced, daring not to spit it out. It tasted every bit as bitter as the Habeshan coffee, except the Habeshans at least had milk and honey to improve the flavor if you didn’t like it plain. If only these Mayabans had the same! “It’s an acquired taste, I know,” one of the Mayaban ladies said. “You’ll warm up to it later.” Neith-Ka nodded as she took a second, longer sip. It pleased her no more than the first. “I’ll go look for some water next.” Between two portly middle-aged women popped out the petite hand of a girl no older than six. “Why do you not like chocolate? Aren’t you Khamitans all covered in it?” It was time to take another deep breath. Neith-Ka scooted herself a hand’s span further away from where the child sat, and then pinched the skin of her own arm. “We don’t paint ourselves with your chocolate, little one. It’s our natural color, see here? Am I to assume that your people paint yourselves bronze?” “Don’t get too mad at my little Itzel,” the elder of the two women next to the girl said. “She won’t bite. She simply hasn’t grown out of her...mischievous streak yet. We’ve all been there at her age, haven’t we?” Neith-Ka grumbled. “Fair enough. Though if we’re going to comment on each other’s appearances, I must say I like how your nose plugs looks. Are they green malachite?” “Why, thank you, but they’re plain old jade. I don’t even know what that stuff you call malachite is. That said, you yourself have some exquisite gold on you, not to mention that seductive black eyeliner.” “You mean the black kohl? It’s not supposed to be ‘seductive’. It helps protect our eyes from the desert sun’s glare and disease--” Something tugged onto Neith-Ka’s braided hair. She turned to see nobody behind her. “Who was that?” All the Mayaban women responded only with blank, blinking looks. Neith-Ka noticed that the girl Itzel had disappeared beside her mother. A second, stronger yank on Neith-Ka’s hair almost uprooted it from the flesh of her scalp. With a shrill yelp, she spun back and clasped her fingers on a small wrist. Itzel was giggling without fear or regret. “All you foreigners think it’s funny to touch our hair without asking, don’t you?” Neith-Ka asked. “All my friends tell me your hairstyles are all fake,” Itzel said. “They tell me you women from Khamit always wear weaves because you don’t like how kinky and frizzy your natural hair is.” Baring her teeth in a snarl, Neith-Ka tightened her grip on the girl’s hand to the point where she could feel the bones beneath the skin. “You mean *wigs*. And we only wear those after we shave for special occasions. The rest of the year, we’re as proud of our natural hair as any other women, and I won’t let a puny Mayaban brat like you tell me any different!” The child squirmed and wriggled her arm with a piercing squeal shriller than a chimpanzee’s angry screech. “You can’t be mean like this to me, you nasty Khamitan woman! My father is the Ahau!” “I don’t care if your father was none other than Amun’Ra in the flesh! Say sorry or I will rip you apart!” Instead, Neith-Ka got a chomp into her arm. Blood trickled where the tiny teeth had punctured her flesh, and the girl had already scurried back to her mother. Twice did the butt of a high steward’s staff bang over the floor, with two shadows looming over Neith-Ka. She shrank like a child in her own right before Huya and the Ahau B’alaj, both of whom glared down at her with the stern intensity of scolding parents. B’alaj’s face had even darkened into a reddish hue not unlike the plastered masonry around them. The Ahau clenched his hand into a fist with one finger thrust down at Neith-Ka. “You do not threaten my Itzel like that. You do not threaten *any* of my children like that. I thought myself generous and forgiving to you, but you showed me my error in ever trusting your kind!” “You see what you did there, young one?” Huya said. “I told you to represent our nation the best you could. You couldn’t even do that.” Neith-Ka trembled, buckling under the crushing mass of shame these two men had thrown onto her--together with her own sizzling anger. “You think *I’m* at fault here? Listen, O Ahau of Mutul, you need to teach your children, and even many of your grown-up subjects, some basic respect for my people. Did you even hear what your daughter said to me?” The Ahau shook his head with crossed arms. “She is only a child! You threatened to tear her into pieces, all for the ignorance every child is born with. And, since you talk of respect, remember that you are in *my* city, in the land of Mayab. You’d do well to respect your hosts.” “And they would do well to respect their guests. It should go both ways!” Huya’s features softened with a sigh. “In all honesty, the daughter of my Pharaoh raises a good point. This has all been a misunderstanding, O Ahau. How about both parties apologize to one another, make amends, and put this little altercation all behind us?” B’alaj rubbed his hand over the graying hair that flowed below his headdress, humming in thought. His frown rose up into a grin, but his eyes had not lost their malevolent glimmer in the least. “I did have plans to entertain you with some sports next morning. How about...letting your princess play a little game of ball with us?” Neith-Ka laughed, casting a glance at the guards she had brought as part of her visiting entourage. “You mean me and my men against yours?” “Oh, no. You, *alone*, against my best team. You have played ball before, haven’t you?” Not even the muggy warmth of the tropical night could melt the icy chill up Neith-Ka’s spine. She would not dare reveal it before this audience. “Of course. My sisters and I would chase each other around our palace with a warthog’s bladder filled with--” “Pig’s bladder? That’s all? We’ll see how you fare with a real ball, then. If you, by the mercy of fate, were to win, I will pardon you for everything. Lose, and I shall deal with you as I would anyone else who has struck one of my family. In which case, please send my greetings down to the Twelve Lords of Xibalba.” Huya turned to wedge himself between Neith-ka and the Ahau. “What? You can’t do *that*! She’s the daughter of our Pharaoh. That would amount to an act of war!” “This is Mutul, and I am the Ahau. I may treat your Pharaoh’s daughter however I see fit!” Every note of the Ahau’s croaking cackle sparked a shiver pulsing through Neith-Ka’s flesh. Whomever those Twelve Lords of Xibalba were meant to be, they sounded like demons in the underworld. At any rate, she doubted these Mayabans would even bother to preserve her body for that meeting. The whimpering cry of a child moaned like an undercurrent beneath the rest of the commotion. Hugging her mother’s plump arm, little Itzel peeked back at Neith-Ka with cheeks still shimmering wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” the girl’s lips spelled out. \## A dense low mist swamped the alleyway that ran tight between two blood-red walls, each towering straight and vertical on top of the sloped terrace at their base. Already the moisture floating in the air, together with her own perspiration, had soaked the fringes of the band of cloth Neith-Ka had wrapped and tied around her braids. It all sharpened the cold tingle sweeping down her skin as she treaded down the alleyway, the dark-stained pavement stabbing her feet with stray particles of grit. That her sandals, already worn beyond usefulness, had gone missing that morning had layered a stinging insult over her fear and shame. Each of the two walls beside the court had a stout pyramid adjoining it from behind, with people filing out from its summit shrine to stand over the wall’s upper edges. Gazing down from atop the left wall were Huya and the remainder of the Khamitan envoy, the guards holding their spears and cowhide shields close while the servant women murmured nervous prayers. On the right wall were the nobility of Mutul, who parted to make way for their swaggering Ahau B’alaj. He held between his hands a ball of dark gray rubber. “Welcome to our royal ball court, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit. In a moment, you’ll be introduced to your opponents, none other than the finest players in all Mayab--though I may be biased in that regard. Ooh, what’s that? They’re already here!” They emerged first as a line of hulking shadows in the mist, pushing it aside like buffaloes through reeds until they met Neith-Ka right in the middle of the pinched court. Padded bands of cotton covered the men’s torsos, knees, and elbows, all of it accentuating their already thickset forms. All wore helmets of shaggy, dark reddish-brown hair shorn from the scalps of Mayaban jungle bison, with the centermost player having the animal’s arching horns still attached to his. He ran his eyes up and down Neith-Ka’s height with what could have either been a sneer or a leer. Or both. “You going to play against us in that puny linen tunic, woman?” She could not deny the validity of his argument. Neither could she betray her resentment at the Ahau for not providing her with armor of her own. Not in front of this human gorilla. “I happen to think what I got suits my svelte curves better. As for you, big boy...all your curves go out instead of in.” B’alaj laughed. “Khamitan or Mayaban, women will always be too vain to save themselves. These would be the Mutul Bison, our champions. It’ll be you against them, girl.” He turned his head to face a third, even higher wall on the far end of the court, with a vertical gold hood gleaming near its lip at the center. “There will be eight rounds, each ending when either team passes the ball through that hoop. The team with the most hoops after round ten wins. Play ball!” With the hoarse blare of a conch trumpet, B’alaj tossed the ball high up into the air. It shrank into a tiny dot within the sky before plummeting down from that zenith, whistling through the wind as it swelled to the size of Neith-Ka’s own skull. Kicking herself up, she caught the ball between her fingers. The Ahau puffed high-pitched notes through his conch twice. “One more rule I forgot to mention, my Khamitan guest. *Never* touch the ball with your fingers or palms, nor with toes or soles. Throw it up again.” Shaking herself out of her initial disbelief, Neith-Ka obeyed. She lowered herself to the court’s floor with clenched hands, keeping her eyes focused on the descending ball. The leader of Mutul Bison beat her to it. With his elbow, he batted it towards one of his teammates. Neith-Ka leaped to intercept it, but a third player bumped her off course with his shoulder. She skidded over the court floor, the grit raking down her skin, until she crashed into the left wall. Her own followers hollered with horror while the Ahau and his nobles hooted with glee on the opposite wall. Neith-Ka staggered up to find the Bison gathered farther away, right below the hoop on the far wall. Their horn-helmeted leader had already knee-kicked the ball through it. The conch screeched again. “Round one for the Bison!” Neith-Ka fluttered her eyelids. She had only touched the ball once, and already these overgrown barbarians were on their way to beating her. In a flash, the world turned dark gray before her. Firm rubber rammed onto her brow, flinging out white sparks. Her vision cleared to show the Bison passing the ball between themselves with their elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips. Was that how these Mayaban players could move it around without palms or feet? How did the Ahau expect one princess from across the Western Ocean to match his best team in practice? No, he *hadn’t* expected that. He would never have arranged this ordeal to begin with if he had. “Round two to the Bisons! C’mon, princess of Khamit, even you could do better than that! Right?” The ball hopped back towards Neith-Ka. She did not miss this time. With one swat of her forearm, she redirected it to the left wall. It was now her entourage’s turn to hoot, with the Khamitan guards pounding the spears on the stone alongside Huya with his staff. Their jubilee halted once an opposing player claimed the ball with a strike of his shin. More passing between the Mutul Bison right up to the hoop again, and B’alaj with his conch announced a third round won for his team. There could be no way Neith-Ka could overcome these giants. They had not only more muscle, but more practice and skill at their own game than she could ever achieve. She could not play ball the way they did. No, why not play it the way she would with her sisters? The third time the ball returned to Neith-Ka, she slammed it down with the back of her hand. She countered its next launch with her forearm, bouncing it between her limbs and the floor as she ran to the far wall. Her own people chanted her name with jubilant fervor, with only silence retorting from the Ahau’s side of the court. Even the Mutul Bison did nothing but watch her dumbstruck as she sprang and flicked the ball through the hoop with her wrist alone. It was a low drone that came from the Ahau’s conch next. “I guess Round Four goes to the Khamitan princess. Tell me, girl, what do you call that trick?” “It’s a *technique*, and we call it ‘dribbling’. Want to see more of it?” She had already reached past the court’s halfway point away from the hoop, the ball still thumping beneath her forelimbs, with the Bison of Mutul stampeding after her. With one backward pivot of her leg, Neith-Ka dashed parallel to her pursuers towards the far wall. Her supporters continued to embolden her with their cheering songs. She had not counted on one of the players sticking out his leg to trip her. Upon falling over, she had to roll aside to avoid the Mayaban team trampling her to reclaim the ball. “Round Five to the Mutul Bison! Good work, my men!” “Come on, that *must* count as a foul!” Neith-Ka cried out. The Ahau grinned down at her with smug remorselessness. “Plenty of games allow tackling and roughhousing. Why not this one?” After staggering back onto her footing, Neith-Ka stormed over to the left side of the court, growling the vilest curses in her mind. If that Mayaban tyrant would not let his men play fair, why play this stupid game at all? An all-out war between Mutul and Khamit would resolve the problem with much more fairness. No, it would also mean much more bloodshed, much more death, and much more loss for innocent people. Then what could Neith-Ka, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit, do? Something, albeit much lighter than the ball itself, rebounded off the back of her neck and rolled to her feet. Neith-Ka’s sandals had returned to her. The condition of their woven papyrus strands had not improved, but somebody had sown thick scrappy pads of rubber to their bottom. She looked up to the top of the left wall behind her, yet she saw nobody new among the faces staring down at her with as much confusion as she. The only change in the heavens was ascendant sunlight beaming down on her through the fading mist. “Thank you for this blessing, mighty Amun’Ra,” Neith-Ka whispered as she put the padded sandals on. “Round Six to the Bison! Come on, Khamitan woman, stop dawdling and face my players once more!” When Neith-Ka bolted over to catch the ball, it was with the velocity of a cheetah in full sprint. Never had she ran with such a sudden burst of speed. In less than half a minute, she had already won back the ball. She zipped in circles around the befuddled Bison, taunting them as they lunged after her and crashed into one another. One player, the lead of the team, threw himself between her and the hoop. “Don’t think you can outrun yourself out of this one!” “I won’t,” Neith-Ka said. “I’ll jump.” She did thus twice. Once from the floor, the other right off the dumb brute’s helmet. A bat with her shoulder, and she had won Round Seven. The leader of the Mutul Bison threw his dented headdress on the ground and crushed it further under his feet in a ranting fury. “You can’t get away with that so easily!” Neith-Ka cocked an eyebrow up while still dribbling the ball. “Oh, really? Serves your team right for tripping me back in Round Five.” “Let’s see if you can keep it up *without* your ‘improved’ footwear!” Another one of his teammates, the same one who had tripped Neith-Ka before, swiped the back of his hand at her. She vaulted away from harm with two back-flips, at the cost of controlling the ball. The Bison of Mutul, who laughed among themselves with sadistic assurance, had it bounding back between their bodies right below the hoop. Yipping the Khamitan war cry like a hyena on the hunt, Neith-Ka pounced onto the man who was next to receive the ball. One shove of her hips knocked it up into the hoop. The Ahau blew his conch with a prolonged, bleating note. “Round Eight goes to Neith-Ka of Khamit, again. You heard that right, she won the last round.” Everyone on her side of the court hurled themselves into a joyous dance of chants, hoots, clapping, and the clatter of Khamitan guards’ spears onto their shields. Even Huya, the high steward, twirled his staff around his body in an ecstatic frenzy. Neith-Ka herself could not resist the music of her victory. Yelling in triumph, she skipped and spun about like a desert dust-devil on her legs, taunting her exhausted opposition with shakes of her hips and backside. “Hold up, you didn’t win the whole game,” Ahau B’alaj said. “You won thrice, but my Bison won the rest. Give me my spear and thrower!” A servant on his side of the court handed him the quiver of weapons he requested. The Khamitans’ celebratory dance ended when the Ahau fastened one spear to his thrower and aimed it down at Neith-Ka. “This is for my daughter!” A girl screamed. A very small girl, no older than six. Hurrying over from the left corner of the ball court, little Itzel embraced Neith-Ka by the legs with a defiant glare at her distant father. “You will not kill her, Father! I won’t let you!” “Get away from her, my child!” the Ahau said. “She wanted to kill you, remember?” “No, she didn’t mean to hurt me. I pulled on her hair and hurt her feelings. It’s my fault. Don’t kill her because of me!” “What in Xibalba do you mean? I’m doing this for you, my little princess!” “Then why won’t you listen to me?” Only the rhythmic trebling of cicadas, and the chirping of jungle birds, passed through the silence that fell over the court. It ended with the clanking of B’alaj’s spear and thrower as they fell onto the bottom of his court, both splintering in half. He took off his feathered crown and held his head low. “You speak with more wisdom than I have ever known, my daughter. I shall have her pardoned, with not one drop of blood spilled. Neith-Ka, daughter of Amenhotep, will you accept my forgiveness?” Neith-Ka nodded to him. “I forgive you in turn.” Tightening her hug on Neith-Ka’s legs, Itzel looked up with eyes still trickling tears. “Will you forgive me too, Princess of Khamit? I’m sorry I pulled your hair. I did it because these other girls in town said they’d be my friend if I gave them a lock of your people’s hair.” She knelt to the child with a smile before playfully scratching her hair. “Those girls wouldn’t be your friends then. You need someone who will appreciate who you are as a human being.” “But if I don’t make them like me, nobody will want to be my friend.” Neith-Ka’s own eyes verged on melting. She may have enjoyed plenty of sisters to play with back in Khamit, but it was true that girls born into the comfort of royalty didn’t always win the love of their less privileged peers. Even children could learn to resent their socioeconomic superiors. “Hmm...perhaps, instead pulling on Khamitan women’s hair, you need to show the other girls your positive qualities. Treat them with respect as you would your relatives. Share your toys, or your spare wealth...speaking of sharing--” Neith-Ka took off one of her sandals. “Was this your work?” Itzel grinned with the look of innocence while hiding her hands behind her. “My mother helped me with the sewing.” “Maybe I should repay you, somehow. Hey, do you like playing ball too?” Neith-Ka picked up the ball and twirled it on the tip of her finger. “Because, if you’d like, I could teach you to dribble like me.


Here we see the forever-inconsolable. The entity of eternity--our own demise and rebirth--the Reaper. This creature of time and sand takes the form relatable to his victims, but may never truly live amongst them. There are many beings and creatures that may stand by his side for a moment of companionship; but alas, he must live on as he helps those to the next life while despising the very essence of his being. A simple chair of dried wood and stone serves as his throne; never bothered with the shimmering spectacles of precious stones or reflective metals of value. He will sit there--upon his natural seat--and watch the universe unfold before him. As the Original Power constructs planet after planet, being after being, so our somber friend must witness and clean up after all is said and done. Thin skin with veins visible beneath, a cloak of tattered black cloths hangs around his thin, yet fit form, and wings reach out to either side--twelve wings all together; each as black as the tattered cloths; yet, the majority of feathers have long since molted away and left the bones to flutter against the everlasting sky--bare. Our friendly foe of deliverance and mortality sits back in his poor man’s throne to label us--to post our dates above our heads; however, he himself will not stand. From afar--perhaps, he sees a woman walking from her home to the vehicle that would take her to work, but today her number has reached its end--her soul has grown weary of the puppet it has been stranded in for so long. This woman is like so many of the others. His eyes need not flicker between her face, the numbers, nor her surroundings. He simply watches it as a whole--the eyes more for our benefit than his--for he knows it all, sees it all, and shall never forget any of it. A hand reaches out from his throne. This throne that exists outside of time--for time does not exist to such a creature. This throne in space, in a desert, in snowy wastelands; wherever you see this throne is meant only for your eyes. That hand outside of time calls forth the embodiment of this soulless being. He beckons it forth into our world--a piece of himself so that he may not be bothered with each soul that need passage beyond. The hatred he receives, the pain he must endure, and the reticule that befalls him is more than he wishes to bear. From those fingertips spawns a blackened smog. Twisting, fusing, and morphing together brings forth a creature of our departing moments--a simple raven that now stands upon his stiff fingers. “Forgive me, but I leave this to you.” The Raven turns to the vision of this woman. To the child beyond her, to the man beyond that, to the sleeping couple in the burning house, to the murdered boy in the alley behind your local shopping mall, to the soldier whose homeland has become nothing more than a battlefield and cemetery, to the sailor and his daughter who fish upon the ocean without knowledge of the coming storm, and to the mother who excitedly strains herself for the gift of new life--only to lose her own. “Where?” The Raven bounces on his hand, but the eyes keep fixated on the Reaper’s. “I will guide you, child.” The hand with no resting creature lifts to point onward to our world. “They will not notice you--they will only see sadness upon the fate that beckons the female.” A cocked head brings the Raven to witness her last moments. A hand failing to open the locked door of her vehicle--the leg that loses its footing--even the heart that slows within her chest. “Why?” Another question from the beak of this Raven. “I have birthed many like you.” The Reaper does not look to the bird--the fictitious eyes pinned upon the face of our story’s victim. “Each flies fast to the side of those who need me.” A voice of reason and calculation mixed within an entity of eternity. “I wish to not fight the flow of their kind--to them I send thee.” “Scared?” The Raven turns a cold eye to the Reaper upon his cold throne. The Reaper does not answer. He lifts the perch of the new born Raven higher--closer to our existence. “Go forth, bird.” He shakes the hand back and forth, but the Raven grips onto the pointer of the eldest beside the Creator. “Scared!” The Raven pokes at the emptied heart of the owner of the mighty scythe. “Scared!” Squawking a unpleasant tune with each jabbing remark meant to stir the emotions of the afterlife’s messenger and ruler. “Scared!” “Beast!” The Reaper stands at the end of his throne’s reach--standing within the world of that desert or snowy field--the sight you witness that is your own. “I have seen race after race--species after species move back and forth through the thick membranes of each dimension and universe.” The Reaper fans the stripped wings behind him in an act to reveal the dominance he so clearly possesses, “I will not stand to suffer any longer--you may suffer for only this time! Now go!” The hand of the Reaper reaches out where he points to the world of mankind. The Raven stares beyond the realm of his Creator--but does not fly or hop, no. Another feather falls from the almost empty wings of the timeless watcher; standing at the ready for the portion of himself to go out and reap those who have called upon his name. “No.” A Raven’s voice heckles the curator of all realms--mocks the hand that molded him. “Scared!” It holds onto our final companion’s hand with a firm grasp; allowing no unwanted release from its perch. “Your job!” The Raven turns its face to gawk at the ruling master of all Underworlds-- no worry or regret; but the Reaper is baffled. A simple Raven stands against his will--the will of he who created it. “I have given you purpose,” the Reaper narrows the false eyes--wings of bone and tattered cloths of black lift and sway at the rush of power. “Do as I say, Raven.” Verbally besetting the Raven with thundering voice--harsh spite tearing through his throat--again, a physical feature made entirely for our benefit. “I give purpose.” Raven’s words reach a deep anger within the Reaper. Possibly it is hatred--perhaps it is regretting the creation of his simpleminded friend--or could it be that the Reaper agrees deep within? The Raven’s eyes of black reach deep into the mind of our Creator’s brother. “Purpose!” Another squawk, “I give it to myself!” A pyre reaches high within the snowy desert--a land seen by all as a world of lucid dreams. Light brushes the face of the Reaper--keeping the eyes and face that do not exist lit so that the Raven may know its place, but no such effect. Through these flames, a hand of the Reaper thrusts, and brings about the materialized embodiment of the Reaper himself--a worn scythe. As simple as the Reaper exhibits himself--the scythe reflects such humbleness. Black and silver metal extends beyond the fading flames of the forsaken, fake environment. The crescent blade turns itself at the will of its Master--reaches around the neck of the stiff and confident Raven. “Am I not your Master, Raven? Am I not the Reaper of all?” “Reaper, yes!” Strength within the eyes of the flight-able beast. “Go, Reap!” The bird looks to the blade that abrades the flesh and feathers--a quick peck shakes the stiffened hold it has upon the mortal bird’s existence. “Reap!” Eyes of false vision widen--to surprise even the being that has existed since life originated. “Reap?” The blade eased away from the child of his own blackened aura; feathers for feathers. “Reap!” Calling out to his Creator, the Raven beckons a change--actions to be taken. “Reap!” Through the world of ash and dust--as He has seen it for all of what is perceived as time--a woman seizures upon the ground and awaits her demise; yet no relief transpires. Release of the soul, a woman awaits the cold hand of change; yet, only a failing heart and collapsing lungs comfort her while she waits. “I am needed.” A foot, unneeded as the wings beat against the skies of all topography, takes the first step toward the world of man. Metal rings when the scythe lands at his side--a walking stick for our gracious giver of life beyond life. Wings of molted black spread out and leave behind the world of fabricated realities. A creation of the Reaper is left to flap against the skies as its Master starts toward the target--toward she who would call upon Death’s sweet kiss and release. “Reap!” The Raven calls forth the vigor of time’s greatest rival. “Reap!” Cawing and screeching--the bird flies beside the escaping energy of the Reaper. “Forever and ever shall I reap--and forever I will have purpose.” Black wings and tattered cloths broaden and fade from the far and distant world--mankind’s world is once again invaded by the welcomed Reaper. Still in the home world of the Reaper flies the Raven. Back to the throne atop stone and fire--a world of snow or desert, the Raven lands atop the throne’s head. Making itself comfortable, the Raven watches as the human’s fearful eyes soon fall to rest easy and glance on eternity with motionless vision. Atop the stone throne stands the Raven--watching the Master work--watching the Master restore reason and order in the existence of his own existence--watching the Master from afar as His saving Grace. “Purpose.” Squawking calls, the Raven hops excitedly watching the Creator of change and death. “Given purpose!” The bird’s voice smoothes as the head cocks--the black eyes watching the careful movements of the Creator from afar. God’s brother--Death, has returned. “Purpose.


A simple game of blackjack, what could go wrong? Well, a lot, considering this game could potentially kill everyone, or save everyone. The problem? The opponent was a T-126, the most advanced robot in the world. This robot was the head of the uprising that was currently in the process of killing every human that they deemed "unworthy". The only reason it had stopped its path of destruction was it's fascination with gambling and the idea of chance, which, it could not comprehend. It spent time trying to understand and comprehend this idea of chance which gave humans like myself much needed breathing room. When I was captured the robots asked a simple question, "you gamble?" Which of course I had to say yes to, it had helped me pay many bills when I had little money from my paycheck. They took me away from the holding cell I was in and to a luxurious office a few floors up. Now it was hard to tell that this robot was a merciless killer, it looked like any other robot you would see around this time, 6 feet tall, dull grey metal plates all over it, a basic screen for a face. But what set this one apart is how it interacted with humans. Most would just look at you and wait for you to plug in the code needed to make it work for you, this one would "talk" to you in a sense. It would open up a "notepad" that was programmed into it for owners to write notes on and would use it to type and talk to you. After being stunned for a moment it gestured for me to come sit down at an ancient looking gambling table. It brought in another robot behind me and handed it a box. I looked at it wondering what we were doing, the tablet simply read "Blackjack". I assumed that the box was a deck of cards which was confirmed when the robot opened the box to reveal a deck of old fashioned playing cards which then were promptly shuffled. I nervously look around to make sure that there was nothing behind us as I hid a grin. The tablet on the robot looked inquiringly at me and I simply said "forgot how much I miss this, what are we betting?" The robot stood still for a moment before taking a seat at the oppose end of the table. It turned to me and the tablet read: "our races" I am taken aback by the simpleness of how it said such a grave statement. I look around and realize that this office is where the codes to the old atomic age warheads are. It was planning to use them to exterminate the human race as a whole. I look back to find another statement on the tablet saying: "I win your race dies, you win, mine dies. One round" As the cards are dished out I wish that I could see the face of my old friend Jes who introduced me to gambling how many years ago. I ended up having a solid 20 when I ask the seemingly easy question: "Why do you hate us?". It looked down as if it were pondering an answer, then after a minute more it looked back with a statement ready: "plague" I nodded solemnly, as if i understood what the robot was on about. The other robot that was the dealer told us to reveal our cards, the robot, ended with two kings, a solid 20. I ended with a king, a jack, and an ace of spades. I grin and get up, walking over to claim the kill-codes it promised when it said our species. It looked at me with a new statement on its tablet. "How?" I smile as I am punching in the kill codes and say, "Heads or tails? a tossed coin, a perfect game of chance, of course, the wise player, always, cheats." I imagine it was not very happy as I prepared to press the button that it had given me. But before I could I heard a loud buzzing coming from it, I frown as I stare at the robot. "Its over, you lost." It doesn't seem to like that answer as it tries to rise from the table. Thankfully the table was built long ago and was not well suited to the bulkiness of the robot. It crashed to the ground as I quickly open the door and start running down the hallway towards the elevator that brought me up to this god forsaken place. I hear a very loud and angry sounding buzzing from behind me. As I get into the elevator I hit the down button in a panic, for I still wished to keep my head and these robots were very well known for taking your head off. Thankfully I didn't get to see the angry robot as the doors closed just as it was about to come around the corner. The music it was playing was someone from a long time ago when we never had to worry about nano-poison. Before I could register what I was thinking about, the doors dinged open and I raced out of the building to free the rest of the prisoners that were brought here. In order to get the kill codes to work, they had to be punched into a robot terminal, the closest being only a block away. As I freed the final prisoner I reluctantly faced the idea that I need to do this alone. Watching the prisoners walk away towards a known human outpost gave me a new sense of purpose about who I was, and who I was fighting for. So I needed to make this journey, not just for my own safety, but for the human race as a whole. So you know what? I might as well go on, so I can be known as the savior. Ah who am I kidding, i'm just some random dude that cheated a robot out of extermination.


Dark Angel.  As she climbed the stairs up to the third floor, Staci glanced at her watch. It was 3:00 am, and she was tired from playing since ten at the club. She unlocked the apartment door and there was Benny, happy as always to see her. Benny was Staci's Jack Russel terrier.  "Hey, Benny. What are you doing up so early in the morning?"  Benny jumped up and down, waiting to be picked up. Staci stood her guitar case against the wall. She removed the purple wig and the Glock from her belly band, then turned to pick Benny up.  "I suppose you are hungry? What say, we both have a snack before bed?"  Benny’s response was to lick her face from top to bottom. She put him down in the kitchen, cut open a packet of dog food and emptied it in Benny's bowl. She poured a small bit of milk over his dog food. She filled a small dish of cereal for herself and sprinkled some blueberries on top.  She stood by the open window staring down at the empty street. There was always something so calming about the early morning darkness. Her eye caught a disturbance at an apartment across the way. A man and a woman appeared to be fighting about something.  The man was handsome, wavy brown hair and well dressed. It made Staci feel happy that she was not involved with anyone, except Benny. Suddenly she saw the man grab the woman, a large knife was in his hand. It was over in a few seconds as the man let her drop out of sight to the floor.  At that same instant, the man looked out the window, across the way and spotted Staci standing at the window. Staci quickly stepped back away from the window. All the lights went off in the other apartment. Staci knew it wouldn't be hard for the man to find her apartment. She whispered softly.  "Shit! I don't believe this happened to me."  Staci grabbed the black case from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Benny knew what that meant. He immediately took shelter under the chair. She opened the case, picked up the M9A2 and the silencer. She slid the clip in and cycled the slide.  Benny cocked his head and looked out from under the chair. Staci smiled.  “Yes Benny, we’re going to move again.”  The man made his way up the stairs and onto the third floor. He could see light coming from under the door of Staci's apartment. Slowly taking a knife from his pocket, he silently made his way toward the door. Suddenly, the lights in Staci's apartment went off.  Now the man was faced with a choice. Break into an unknown apartment in the dark, with someone waiting inside, or wait for a better time. He chose a better time.  Staci had to move, and move quickly before the killer came back. She couldn’t allow him find her. She called a friend in the band, and he located a place for her to stay temporarily.  She quietly moved in with everything she had, including Benny. Benny was used to moving from place to place, he had no problem familiarizing himself with his new home.  Staci switched the television to the 12:00 o'clock news while she fixed Benny his afternoon meal.  “*In local news, county commissioner Jerry Nelson announced, he will be running for reelection*.”  There he was, plain as day. Staci stared quietly at the television screen.  “*Mr. Nelson told this reporter, women’s rights would be his top priority in this election*.”  Staci switched off the television. It was time to give him a call.  "I saw you kill that woman. I go to the police, unless you bring $100,000 to the old cannery on Mason street, tomorrow midnight."  Staci remained in the shadows out of sight. The door slowly creaked open. It was commissioner Nelson, with a hand bag. He stopped and put the bag down on the small table.  "I have your money. You can come out now."  "Back away from the table."  Jerry stepped back.  “You have a lot of moxie lady! Extorting me for money, then meeting me out here alone in this old warehouse.”  Staci remained in the darkness behind the crates.  “I have no use for your money. It's my cover I care about.”  Jerry laughed.  “You think I was stupid enough to come here alone? I just buzzed my body guard on the phone.”  Staci stepped out from behind the crate, with the pistol in her hand.  “Don’t bother, he's not coming.”  \####  Staci was coming back from the kitchen when the phone rang. The clock on the wall was at ten after two. A man's voice was on the other end.  “Is your little setback handled?”  Staci rubbed Benny’s belly as she sat down on the bed  “Yes. We can get on with our business now.”  “Good. The Jet is at the airport waiting for you. Say hello to Benny for me.”  End.


What does it mean for one to never have to fear death? To never know that dread or quietly building trepidation of the end coming closer and closer? He had been asked that same question, in a thousand different ways, a thousand and more times in his long life. Even with the practice of centuries of answering that question in all its various incarnations, he still did not know how to answer. How could he begin to describe the loneliness, the pain, or the exhaustion? How did he make someone who couldn’t see the edge of forever understand? With those thoughts racing through his mind once again, he tried to answer the young (who wasn’t compared to him?) lady’s questions. “It means numbness,” he stated without emphasis. “Numbness?” She asked, with confusion plain upon her face. “Yes,” he continued, “it means watching the world move on around you. Watching those you’ve grown to know and love, or even hate, grow old and eventually pass from this place. All while you remain, ever constant, stagnant. As the years continue to slowly crawl past you, you eventually just stop feeling and grow numb to it all.” “At least, I wish that were the case...” he finished with barely a whisper. “Why? Why would you want that to be true? That sounds.... lonely.” “Because that would be easier than having to lose them, over and over again.” He answered, profound sorrow written plainly upon his features. “Them?” She asked, her curiosity overtaking her. “My immortality was not curse enough for whatever demented being that enjoys tormenting me apparently.” he answered with a chuckle, looking around him at the beautiful hilltop painted in the yellow, red, and blue hues of the early dawn. “They also decided that I’d have to spend my eternity forever falling in love with and losing my love. I don’t know what we ever did to anger whoever decided to place this horror on us, but as I continue, ever unchanging, my love must constantly be re-born as a new person. When I’ve finally found them again, they’re always different, with a new personality, new likes and dislikes, and no memory of what we’ve been through. Sometimes they’re re-born a woman again and at other times a man, but they’re always them. That same wonderful person I’ve loved through the many long and lonely centuries, in dozens of different bodies and personalities.” “That.... doesn’t sound like it’d be so bad.” She whispered. “It sounds to me like you’ll always have someone to go through eternity with. Why would you wish for something different?” “Because.....” he started, “every time I start to feel that numbness, that lack of caring about the people or the world around me, the peaceful nothingness that might make this prison of endless time pass by with a little less pain, they show up. Bursting back into my life for an always too, too brief period of light. They bring all those emotions crashing back into my life, just for them to be cruelly ripped from arms again after a few brief decades.” He finished as a tear began to slide down the cheek on the side of his face facing the beautiful woman. “Why are you crying?” She asked, her voice full of compassion. “I’d just started to feel numb again......”   This is one of the first times I've shared some of my writing, so any feedback would be appreciated. Let me know what you think.


The real you isn’t the fake camaraderie, the smile you give, the node of the head. The real you isn’t the one who sees the good in people. The real you isn’t what everyone things. Behind the glass is a pain much deeper. Behind the face, peel back the skin, the real you appears right in the face of everyone. Peel back the skin and we can all see the real you. Do you really think you can hide your true identity with plastic surgery, the well-to-do attitude. Do you really think you can hide behind the money and fame, the notoriety? Do you really think we can’t see you hiding in plain sight?, I can see you. I can see behind the fake boobs, dyed hair and earrings. I can see right through you. You know that though, that is why you are scared to look inside of me. You are no longer covered when you look inside of me. You can no longer hide. It shatters your false facade. I may be a pane of reflective glass but I know who you are. I know your secrets. When you look into me you are exposed, and you don’t like that. No, I can feel your heart throbbing like a horse. It was only a week ago when that bitch looked into me. Her eyes burned red, her greasy hair danced around. Her profession was teaching, but there’s a special place in the pits of hell just for her. You know what the brief smile was hiding? Do you want to know what she did? I can see you nodding, you want to know. Want to know like they all do. You want to know what she did was worse than what you did. To give you some more sense of superiority in your pathetic life. She killed a baby? I can see you gasping. She didn’t just kill the baby in some freak accident. No, she took it outside to the well and threw it in. The worst part. It was her own flesh and blood. She had enough of the endless nights of the crying. She should feel remorse, but she didn’t. She did not feel an ounce of remorse. She just went back to her life like nothing happened. How fucking sick is that? She teaches year six at a Catholic school acting all holier-than-thou, but then she goes home and watches videos of people being killed. She gets sick thrills I won’t go into details but this makes her overly excited in all kinds of ways. She gets thrills from the dead and enjoys the kills. What a twisted freak? She isn’t the only one to look into me over the decades. Nope. Let me tell you all sorts of powerful people have fallen upon me staring deep inside me looking at me. I can see the real them. They don’t always know it, but they can feel it. They can feel my presence. A member of parliament was looking into me back in the 70s. He was a fat pork belly pig with a disgusting nose. He looked like Ted Bundy and acted like the all British Family man with a loving wife, two children and a palace they called home. He was a private educated pompous prick who believed everyone loved him. When he looked in me this false facade fell apart in moments crumbling like apple pie. The real him, the man who beat his wife and kids. The one who had an assortment of scantily clad Ukrainian women pop up every week. The one who was falling under so much debt that the bank of England couldn’t even bail him out. The night he looked into me he had been beating up the Ukraine woman, calling her all sorts. Spitting on her, hitting her. Throwing her around like a bag of rubbish. When he looked into me I boiled up. I can see everything. I know everything that goes on. You can’t hide from me. But you know that you’re looking at me right now. You can’t fight it, you can’t run from it. There’s nowhere you can go to hide from the truth. I can feel you. It’s not just the rich and powerful who fall upon my gaze. You know that you’re not rich, you’re not powerful, your life has no meaning. You never make an impact. The man to look into me just last week was a vet. The kind that looks after animals or should. On the outside he is warm and bubbly, goes the extra mile. He loves all animals and gives them great care. Let’s peel that skin away and look underneath. To see the real him. Shall we? You know there was a owner of a cat names Mr kibbles who went in for a regular checkup before she was put down. She didn’t have a rapidly growing tumour she as fit as the day is young. The vet kills in cold blood. Do you know he doesn’t just put them down? He snaps their necks and watches them suffer. He enjoys inflicting pain on the weak little animals. He beats them. Hurts them tortures them then tells the awful news to the owners that they have sadly passed away. This vet has been doing this all his life. His parents swept it under the rug as if it were normal. The sick fucks. It’s ok though. I am glad that they looked at me. That’s the only way they will lose. The only way justice can be brought upon them,. You see, I can’t move on my own. But people move me. I’ve been around since 1700 and I have been getting revenge ever since, You know how people like vintage; I am vintage. I am hanging from the walls inside your grandma’s house, but every time I need a new owner I get shipped off. I have travelled the world from France to Italy to the states. They pass me back and forth and hang me from their wall where my magic can happen. You see no one is innocent, you all have something to hide. I play on that I can haunt you. I can bring back those memories. I have a power that you should never underestimate. I am the spark that will light the fuse of your downfall. I am here from the heavens above to deal justice upon your kind. I may not physically hurt you, but you will pay. Physical pain is nothing. It’s a mere sensation that doesn’t last. I bring on something much worse. Something people can never explain. An unequivocal pain hits them like a two tonne truck. That bitch of a teacher got all she deserved. When she looked into me it made me angry, ready to do as much harm to her as possible. A baby killing bitch needed to be taken care of. I got inside her head, deep down. I wormed my way in. Every night when she was asleep I opened up the can of worms with trumpets blaring. I flooded her minds with images of death that I would inflict on her and her family.. Images of the baby; her lying there dead in the well. I made her cry herself to sleep and just when she thought the dreams had stopped I snuck back up and pounded her head. It only took a few days before it got too much. She couldn’t take it anymore. She got the sharpest knife in the house and opened up the river Ganges from her wrist. I was still in her mind. I made her come forth and rub it into my face. It felt good as the blood dried. It gave me power and energy. she took a day before she bled out. The dump bitch, missed her vitals but she cut deep enough to cause unbearable pain. That was my doing. She needed to die painfully. I pushed her to the edge, there’s no doubt about it but she made her own way there like they all do. They all deserved it. The mullet cunt looked at me every night before bed, always playing with his hair. Touching it, combing it. In his head he could get any woman he wanted with the click of his fingers. He thought Brad Pitt was no match for him, in reality he looked like an overweight pig stuffed into a ken doll sized suit with a balding head in toe. In reality, the only woman who would ever sleep with him took cash to undress. He wasn’t a player, he was a mumbling idiot. It was one night; it was dark, the room was light with candles. I could see him getting ready. Always touching his greasy hair, just stroking it. Re-aligning it. It looked no better than when it started. The door bell went and he scurried to answer it. What he did not know when he went down those stairs is that he was in control. He wasn't. I can tell you that much. I was in his mind taking over and he was about to end his reputation on the spot. Once the pretty little thing was getting undressed. Mr Minister grabbed onto the bedside lamp and swung it hard into the back of her head. He repeated this until the bed sheets turned crimson. That’s when I left him to stew in his own thoughts. After a minute, I climbed back in. He brought me her blood and rubbed it into my glass. I could feel it seeping in. It felt so nice and warm, so fresh. It wasn’t long before they charged him with murder. Everything he knew came crumbling down. A man like him deserved torturous nights, death wasn’t good enough. He needed to pay and they will inflict every night on him before he enters the pits of hell. Now you must wonder about the vet. I was in his surgery and he looked at me deep down. This one was the best. The baby killer and MP were not evil to the core, but this man was so evil. I could Feel his energy deepen. Every layer of his skin was evil. He would have to be extra special. I first got him to undress. Then I unlocked the cage of a dog who was staying overnight to treat rabies. I made the dog attack, and he drew blood. He made deep lacerations over his body .He bit and chewed and then he consumed. The dog ate part of him. I then got the dog to come to me where his head exploded. Blood soaked me, making me more and more powerful . By now you should realise I have power, they have fed me this power for a very long time. So I told you the story and you may wonder why. What have you got to hide? What is under your mask? What are you hiding deep down? Well, nothing you're a saint and that’s what I need. I have been inside a mirror too long. I can’t do his work unless I move into another body, a pure body from mind to soul. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I can sense that you’re not the biggest fan. You’re getting angry. But why are you getting angry, your anger is fuelling me? You should know that. What are you going to do with that? You really think. Smash Really, you are making this difficult, I will put myself back together, you know that. Give me a second to be whole again. You’re trying to run, stop fighting this. No, stop fighting, there is no way for you to win this. There is no way for you to escape. Your legs won’t move. I am whole again. Now let me see your secret.


The sound of metal colliding with metal was the only thing that ripped through the silence. It was the noise of the iron fists of a dark giant, that kept impacting the heavy main gate of Irik’han. The dwarven fortress had been under siege for days, pushed back beyond their heavy walls. The situation was dire. Few warriors were left and outside the walls was a whole army of darklings, waiting to tear apart the last resort the dwarves still had. “The gate can ́t stand it forever, Dawrim.”, spoke Thumgar, the dwarves primus pilus. Dawrim, dwarven emperor by Paffnuzius will, nodded. “Yes. They ́ll break through eventually. This might be the last day of the dwarves. But in Paffnuzius name, we will make it an end to remember.” The centurion nodded and sighed. “I just hope the men will show the same attitude. The first centuria will go down fighting, but there are many young dwarves among the others, inexperienced and scared.” “They will fight Thumgar. They are dwarves, after all.” After Dawrim spoke those words, silence settled again between the two. Many dwarves eyes still stared at the gate, expecting it to burst any second. It wasnt brittle yet, would surely take at least one more hour. Still, time was becoming immesurable in the current situation. The primus pilus and the emperor were not close to the gate. They were above it. In a lookout made of a stone that was see through from one way, while seeming solid from the other. Dawrim ́s eyes roamed the scene, looking at the thousands of darklings, at the hills in the distance and the setting sun, coating everything into it ́s red light. The clouds on the sky were dark, rain was coming, it would start soon.   **T**he darklings outside stared at the barren stone of the walls. A collosal wall, only interrupted by the large metal gate. In front of it, their dark giant. A huge humanoid creature, three and a half men tall. It ́s bald, round head had no nose, just slits for eyes and a large mouth, two tusks poking out of it. The giant had the grey skin, that all darklings sported. It was very similar to them in general, only lacking the large, pointy ears and nostrils. However, its big hands were covered in metal, creating dangerous weapons, devestating whatever they were swung at. The other darklings were of various kinds. There were darkling swarmers, about half as tall as man and usually not armored. Armed with dirks, daggers or short swords, they were not skilled fighters, but their ruthlessness, disregard for their own life and amount were what made them dangerous. Their grey, rag-covered statures were thin, only skin and bones. Fewer, yet still quite the amount, were the darkling brawlers. They were mansized hunks of muscle, flesh and aggression. They were usually found wearing cuirass and greaves in the red of the darklings standards. Their fearsome faces are covered by a sallet of the same color, on which higher rank brawlers have a visor. They use large cleaving swords, oftenly wavy or spikey in their form. They are crude weapons, less meant for cutting than for hacking. The wounds they reap are oftenly deadly, if not directly, then through the incredibly cruel injuries their shape leaves. Then, there were the darkling crushers. They are fewer, a hundreth of the amount brawlers. Larger than those, these creatures could stand up to two men tall. Covered in complete armor with a frogmouth helmet, they are fearsome beings. Weilding hammers and axes that men could barely lift and wreaking havoc to those that they meet. Lastly, the darkling beasts. They are monsters on all fours. They could be compared to boars, their skin grey, their tusks large. They have muscular bodies, their skin is thick. The beasts usually are not armored and sport a mohawk of hair on their heads, running down their back to the tail. They are the hardest to kill and can devesate whole rows of soldiers, relentlessly charging through. Their number is few in every darkling army, as they are rare in the darklings home and hard to tame.   **Bang. Bang.** Again and agian, the dark giants fists slammed against the door. It would not last much longer. The time was running thin and those within the walls knew well. The women and children were hidden in the caverns, while every last man that could fight was armored and armed, waiting for the inevitable. The expression differed. Some grim, some scared. Some had made their peace with it, some were eager to make history happen. But in none of their eyes was the hope of victory. It would be but the desperate fight of a cornered animal, lashing out at its hunters. Dawrim looked down, at the couple of hundred men gathered and with a grim expression, he stomped on the ground, disrupting the nigh silence that had reigned. “Sons of Paffnuzius! I must not sugarcoat our situation. Out there stands an army, tenfold our strength. We are trapped, cornered in the walls we sought to protect us. This is the last battle we will ever fight.” His voice boomed through the halls, the dwarves looking at him with the same expressions that had previously watched the doors. “But by Paffnuzius, we will not go down easily. We are dwarves! Our ancestors watch us with tention, they expect us to match their glory! If this is dwarfkinds end, we will make it one to be remembered! Even in centuries, all over the world, they will remember our names, whisper them in awe as they tell the tale of this great battle! Of our unbending resistance!” The emperor was halfway through his speech, the expressions changing more and more to ones of determination. Some started to shout in agreement at his statements. But then, he was interupted by a peculiar sound. One that did not fit the scenery whatsoever. It sounded like the howl of the wolf. First one, then another and another. “Impossible...”, Dawrim muttered and rushed towards the lookout, his eyes bolting towards the hills.   **O**n the hill, first, a single creature was seen. It was a horse and a rider on it, clad in black armor. A spear in hand, a shield in the other, the person raised their weapon and shouted. “**Ithilest, advance!**”, a voice boomed over the plains. Shortly after, the stomping of feet could be heard. On the hills, first on, then two, lastly three more silhouettes appeared, each holding a horn, the ends shaped like a wolfs head. Once more, the howl of wolves was heard, now becoming clear it was the horns that produced them. Almost perfectly timed, the clouds burst. Rain started pouring in masses, thunder booming as lightning struck the sky. And then, they came. Black armored knights in platoons started to cross the hills and gather atop, carrying a wolf banner with them. It was hundreds in sight and who knew how many behind the hills still. They came to a halt with still distance to the darklings siege and army, gathering, grouping, waiting.   **M**ovement came to the darklings rows. Their commander, a crusher wearing no helmet, his skin having a yellowish hue to it, waved. His voice was loud enough to be heard by all the darklings, even the dwarves in their fortress could understand what he said. “**Split up! Keep this filth of the giant and get rid of the shortlings once the gate falls. Dont let them break your rows or i ́ll feed you to the beasts!**” With a shift, quickly defense rows were build, using whatever polearms were aviavble to make a rushing attackers life hell. The darklings didnt advance, it was in their best interest to stall the battle. It was clear, their main objective was to breach the dwarven fortress, no matter the cost. The knights still stood, until the dark rider raised their spear once more. “**For glory and death!**”, the voice boomed once more, lightning striking the sky at the same time. And the knights repeated the shout, starting their pace foward, steadily advancing, their rows flawless and closed. The stomping of their heavily armored feet on the ground was almost drowing out the sound of the dark giant hitting the damaged gate. The wolven commander spoke again, shouting but the word “**Ithlain**!” But the order was clear. From behind the hills, less armored men started to swarm forward. Their front row carrying what looked like metal plates. Quickly, they were placed onto the ground and a mechanism in them was activated, making them stand by themselves as metal shield wall. Behind it, archers started to gather, protected against counterfire from the lower positioned enemies. The knights advance continued through all of this, slowly but surely making their way towards the darklings defense.   “**W**hy would the Ithilien wolves help us Dawrim?”, Thumgar asked, concern clear in his voice. “They aren ́t exactly known for their generosity...” The primus pilus watched his friend and emperor pace up and down the lookout. “I dont know Thumgar, i really dont. It won ́t be out of kind spirit, surely, they must have an ulterior motive. But as long as it means our kind lives to see another day, it ́s an improvement.” Quickly, the dwarf made it back to his men. “If the gate falls, hold your lines! Do not let them pass you, they cannot reach the women and children under any circumstances! Stall them for as long as you can, become the heroes our ancestors want us to be!” The emperor had hope in his voice, mixed with the usual determination. THat sparked the flame of hope in his men, as chanting started to rise in their rows. Old, dwarven battle songs, speaking of death, honor and history. Dawrim however quickly returned to the lookout. He had to see how the fight went. He wanted to see the wolves fight. It wasnt often, that one could watch the Ithilest fight without paying with their own life.   **A**s the knights slow approach was soon to meet the lines of the darklings, the archers were set up, starting to pull back their strings and aiming for the mass of foes. However, the commander stopped them quickly, shouting out “**Aim for the giant! Bring it down!**” Quickly, the angle was adjusted, aiming for the faraway gate of the fortress and the beast that bashed it in. Once more, the dark sky was lit up with thunder, as the knights started to charge the last part of their way. Armed with swords and shields, they soon crashed into the line of darklings and the battle ensued. The archers shot the first wave of arrows, many hitting their target, as the giant grumbled in pain. Still, he did not slow down, kept beating the gate, over and over as the archers drew their next arrows. The rows of the darkling swarmers were quickly broken, their umarmored, small frames unable to withstand the powerful charge of the knights. Their advance however soon slowed, as they met the second row, brawlers standing there, ready to fight off their enemies. The sound of battle, weapons hitting armor and shields, screams of pain and death, warcries, soon filled the area. When the second volley of arrows hit the giant, he groaned once more, his pace slowing, but not stopping. But it became apparent that another volley would do the trick and most likely end this creature for good. The battle stalled out, the knights and brawlers seemingly at level. On both sides, lives were taken and lost equally, no side able to push further than the other pushed back. It stayed like that, the sides hacking and slashing at each other, killing as many as they could to gain the lead. The sound of bows going off filled the air a third time, a sharp howl heard from the giant. It stumbled, landing one last punch, before collapsing against the gate... And with that gave it the final blow. Both, monster and gate fell broken. Silence overcame the battlefield, as every party involved stared at the gate for a moment, the sudden shift in events stunning them all.   **T**he dwarves inside the fortress of course saw none of what was happening outside, except for those few entrusted ones that stood on the lookout with the emperor. For a moment, when the giant struggled, Dawrim had hope. If the beast fell without breaching the gate, the dwarves were safe. No matter the damage, the darklings had no means to get past that heavy iron. This hope was seen by a spark in his eyes and a sharp breath taken beneath the well maintained blonde beard, when the dark giant was in his death struggles. But it soon faded, as the gate fell with its assaulter. The noises was indescribably loud as the huge mass of metal and flesh crashed onto the door. Luckily, the dwarves stood far enough off not to be crushed, expecting the gate to collapse in such a way from the attacks earlier. The emperor and his primus pilus rushed towards the balcony that led to the lower areas, so that they could see their men, stunned, uncertain how to react. “Fend them off! Do not let them pass!”, Paffnuzius chosen bellowed, followed by a simple warcry. “Death!” The dwarves repeated after him, bracing for the soon approaching force of the darklings. The first line of defense would be the first centuria, which exceeded at defending choke points, much to the dwarves luck. The first row were shieldbearers, holding large, scutum-like shields and spears. They formed a wall, their stand steady and strong. They didn ́t have to wait for long, as soon, swarmers burst through the open gate and did what their name suggested. They swarmed in, meeting a defensive line. They pushed against them, trying their hardest to penetrate the strong dwarven row. From behind, more swarmers came by the second, each wave pressing the last against the shields stronger. Dwarven spears found their victims again and again, but what broke the swarmers neck more than that were their own kind crushing them between shield and the next wave. Still, with the rising amount of force onto the shields, the dwarves would not be able to hold long, getting pushed back slightly already. That was, when the second row of the centuria sprung into action. With powerful leaps, lightly armored dwarves jumped oiver of their shieldwall, weilding two axes each. They landed within the mass of swarmers, crushing those that had taken the spot they now did. Quickly, they started to massacre through the helpless darklings. The tide of swarmers soon thinned out, but the metallic stomping of armored feet on stone was heard as brawlers appeared. And tall from within their lines stood two crushers, weilding heavy hammers. The axe-swinging dwarves quickly fought their way back behind allied lines, as it was a lot harder to kill these foes.   **O**utside the fortress, the battle soon picked up again, going back to its stall. It did however not keep up for long. Ferocious howling was added as a new sound to the scenery and before long, suddenly, knights were seen flying through the air, tossed aside with great force. “*Beasts!*”, was the shouting between the knights. Two darkling beasts had torn up their rows, now turning around for another charge. On the hill, once more the wolf horns were heard. “**Ithilguen!**”, the voice of the black knight commander bellowed, before noise like thunder echoed from behind the hills. The commanders knights reared once, before it started to gallop. Then, shortly behind their leader, horses showed up. countless of them passed the hill, bolting towards the enemies lines and their messed up allies. The commander however soon split, heading directly for one of the beasts. While the archers on the hill aimed for the second, the horses dashed forward, directly towards the brawlers and swarmers fighting the knights. Spears were readied, the impact would tear apart anybody that had the misfortune of getting in the way. The knights loosened their formation and the horses skillfully, yet without losing speed maneuvered through, not hitting a single ally in their way. It was a well practiced, well executed maneuver. When the riders hit the enemy, it was the darklings turn to be sent flying from the sheer force. A large tear was made into the darklings rows, but once the horses stood, the crushers from further behind started to partake in the battle. Once more, it seemed to stall. While the archers were struggling to take down the beast, beside hitting, the commander still rode towards the second, heading directy for it. With a loud shout, the dark rider gained the creatures attention. With a snort, it adjusted its path, heading directly for the rider that approached it. The commander however kept galloping towards it, reading their spear. Shortly before they hit it, they arched backwards and threw it, the speeding projectile cutting through the air and finding its way into the beasts head. It fell over dead, but with the momentum still going, it rolled and slid over the floor. The horse was too fast to adjust and tripped over the corse, crashing forward, its rider falling off and onto the floor with a powerful impact. For a moment, there was no movement, before the rider arose shakily. Slowly staggering over to the horse, it was found to be dead, the neck broken through the fall. The rider took off the dark helmet and revealed their face to the cold rain. Beneath was a woman with golden hair and ivory skin. The lips red, partly from blood, as one of it had burst open from the fall. Her rest was not for long, however. “**Manling! Your life ends here! Without you, your men will falter!**” The leader of the darklings, the yellowskinned crusher, was standing ahead, the axe on his shoulder. The commander got into a defensive stance with her shield and drew a golden and black sword. As the only reply, she spit out some blood and started to slowly approach her foe.   **S**o far, the dwarves had been able to hold off their enemy quite well. While they had lost ground and men, the enemy force had suffered far greater loss and the ground gained by them was just nearly enough to almost cross the entryway of the fortress. It was a slow, draining battle and the fate seemed to turn on the bearded warriors more and more. They were growing tired, were thinning out. To seal their fate, the two crushers that had entered, but not yet partaken in the fight, were now approaching the line of the dwarves. That did not go unnoticed by the ones that had watched from above. “Thumgar! The crushers!”, Dawrim exclaimed towards his friend, who nodded. “I see them. They ́ll tear through the men like an Aknarian Clawmouth through lifestock.”, the primus pilus replied. “It ́s time, old friend. Today, we go down in history. One way or another.” The emperor was calm, collected. It calmed Thumgar. That was just how Dawrim had always been. And they had yet a battle to lose. If it was this one, so be it. “I ́ll take one, you take the other. We can ́t let them through to our men.”, the centurion stated. Thumgar drew his weapon, an ornate sword, that spotted an axe ́s head on the tip of its edge. It was a large weapon, weilded with two hands by the strong dwarf. A deadly tool in the right hands. And Thumgar ́s hands sure were the right ones. Then, he looked at the emperor. Dawrim too had his weapon ready, a large warhammer. With a nod, both took a few steps back. “To death.”, Thumgar said. “To history.”, his friend replied. THen, they ran towards the edge of the balcony and lept. Dawrim landed close to his target, quickly swinging his hammer around him to clear an area for himself. Then, he shouted at the crusher. “Hey, mudbrain! Come and face me, if you dare! Or is there no guts beneath that metal?” The crusher slowly turned, roaring. “**This one ́s mine.**” A claim the other darklings knew better than to interfere with.   **T**he darkling slowly approached her, his axe now at the ready. The opponents slowly circled each other, before with a loud yell, the axe was swung, a powerful, vertical strike that would tear through armor and shield alike. Quickly, the commander used her shield not to block, but to push aside the arms of the darkling, making his strike whiff. With the other hand, she struck at the darklings face, delivering a punch to his face with her armored gauntlet. The darkling stumbled back and roared. Of course, that was nothing that would impair the vicious creature. Another quick swing, horizontally this time was soon cutting the air on the way towards the commander. She stepped back as quickly as she could with her armor, being in time to avoid the strike and slashing her sword at her opponent, delivering a cut to his left forearm. Another roar was heard, as he spun quickly and brought the flat side of his axe against her body. Unable to dodge or react quickly enough, she was struck and thrown through the air, landing on the floor a little further away. She did not get up immediatly. Everything was spinning, she was visibly dazed and the prior fall from the horse in addition to this impact had left their marks. Coughing up blood, she slowly rose, getting back into her stance to fight her opponent again. The darkling laughed. “I ́ll enjoy taking every last bit of life from you. First you, then your men.” He once more swung his axe, the dizzy commander sloppily raising her shield. But the force was too big, the large weapon cleaved into the shield, into her arm, making her wince in pain, before bringing her shoulder forward and bashing the darkling away. The shield was rendered useless now and so was her arm, at least for the time being. With a grunt, she tossed she shield away, now left with only her blade in her hand.   **W**ith a loud, booming noise, the crushers hammer hit the floor. Dawrim had been able to dodge that strike, despite his thickset body he was surprisingly mobile, even with the blue and golden, ornamented armor of the emperor. In return, Paffnuzius chosen swung his own heavy weapon to meet the crushers side, leaving a serious dent in the large darklings armor. The monster of a darkling drew back its weapon and prepared to swing another time. In a long, horizontal attack, Dawrim was unable to go below or behind to avoid the attack. The swing hit quite a lot of darklings as well, cleaving a devestating line into their rows. The dwarven emperor thought quickly, pushing his hammer to the ground and propelling himself into the air high, flying over the crushers head, not without taking the momentum of the flight to deliver a serious blow to the helmet, leaving it dented as well. Landing behind the crusher, Dawrim quickly spun on the spot, quickly striking at the armored brutes knee from behind. It was forced to bent in, getting on its knees. Another swing to the crushers head finished the foe, as the armored corpse fell forward lifelessly, once more crushing a bunch of its own kin. With haste, Dawrim looked for his friend, having no trouble spotting the second crusher. The darkling stood twice as tall as the others and was therefore easily found. And not a second to late. Dawrim was just in time to see the crusher swing his hammer, sending a bunch of darklings flying. And, besides them, Thumgar, who had been hit by the swing. Sent off, the dwarf hit a wall, where then, his body collapsed to the floor movelessly. “NO!”, Dawrim shouted, disbelief and shock clear in his voice. The crusher then turned, laughing in a deep, dark tone, before approaching the emperor himself.   **A**nother powerful swing was taken at the commander. She was about to react to it, when the yellowskinned darkling suddenly stopped it, taking the momentum to instead use his weapons shaft to find her face. She had been too dazed to realize his feint. The forceful impact, once more to her head, send her to the floor, rolling for a moment, before laying on her back. She tried to get up, but failed. Her conciousness started to slip, as her eyes slowly started to close. “Mivareth...” A familiar voice seemed to call her. “Come, come with us. We ́ll be together again...” She recognized where she was. It was the home of her childhood. The voice belonged to her mother, who stood there in her old, young beauty, extending a hand towards her daughter and seeming expecting, encouraging. “It ́ll be like when you were young. Come, come with me...” The offer was tempting. Already about to grab her mothers hand, she remembered what had been happening. Where she actually was. And what it was her mother was offering. Death. “**No**!”, she shouted as her eyes flew open. Just in time to see the darkling raise his axe right above her head, about to take it off her shoulders. MIvareth rolled to the side, avoiding the axe that got stuck in the ground through the sheer force of the swing. Getting to her feet shakily, she made sure she still had her sword. Then, she laid her eyes on her foe once more, who had managed to rip free his weapon. “You are getting on my nerves. Die already.”, the darkling spat out. Charging at her, he swung his axe in a devastating attack, coming from the side. However, the knight had recollected herself a little and was not dazed enough to just take the hit anymore. Ducking low while dashing forward, she managed to dodge, while initiating a twirl. Seemingly spinning around him, she ended up behind her opponent, as he stumbled. Then, as he fell, his head fell off his shoulders, the decapitated corpse and its lost part falling to different sides. Mivareth was panting, her otherwise flawless skin had a laceration near her lip and she didnt even know nor want to think about what less obvious injuries she had suffered. She was still dizzy and throughly exhausted. Still, she remembered she was in battle, even if the enemy commander had fallen. Therefore, she took a look around.   **T**he crusher raised his hammer, still bathing in the victory over Thumgar. Dawrim was still in shock, struggling to grasp what had happened. But he had little time to grief, as the huge opponent was looking to kill another dwarf. Focussing on the task at hand, Dawrim couldnt exactly hold back the rage that was starting to fill him. Readying his hammer himself, he started to approach the crusher, breaking into a sprint. When the crusher raised his hammer to bring the weapon down straight on the dwarf, he kept running, closing the distance and getting between the crushers legs before the hammer would strike him. With the momentum still on his side, Dawrim started to spin, his hammer swinging around as he hit the legs of the armored darkling over and over,demolishing the armor and the flesh below. The darkling as a result broke to his knees before the emperor. With a vertical strike to the head, the angered dwarf removed any trace of a head that had ever been atop the armor, crushing it violently. When the darklings noticed their strongest allies having fallen, they were struck with fear. First few, then more and more started to run, leaving the fortress, trampeling those of them that fell behind to death. Dawrim was however not done with them. “Don ́t let them escape! Charge!”, he shouted. His men were gripped with the same angry dedication, yelling “***Death!***”, before starting to charge out of the fortress, after the darklings.   **M**ivareth ́s eyes were struggling to focus, she had taken quite the hits to the head. Still, she was able to make out that the sun was rising and the storm had stopped. The darklings were being pushed back by her knights, the second beast had fallen. Suddenly, from the other side of the area, she heard voices, shouting and noises of combat. Turning her head, she saw dwarves spilling out of the broken fortress gate. They were chasing darklings and slaughtering right through their lines. The darklings were fleeing, but the dwarves easily kept up with them. Due to that, the darklings were now stuck between two forces they had already been losing to. And without a commander to guide them, they had nothing to oppose the foe. They were just cut down like trees. In despair they tried to fight, but it was futile. It wouldn ́t take long for the last of them to be slain. Content with what she was seeing, Mivareth did not engage in further battle. She sat down at the corpse of her horse, resting against it, stroking through its hair. Like that, she would wait for the fight to end. And hopefully regather some strength.   **D**awrim had not followed his men outside the fortress. Instead, he had rushed over to the body of Thumgar, laying by the wall. Driven by hope, he grabbed his friend, gently shaking him. “Thumgar. Thumgar wake up, we ́re winning.”, he whispered. “Thumgar!” The lack of reaction drove tears to the emperors eyes. “You can ́t do that! We ́ve always been together, had each others back! Remember, when we were little? When we practiced to fight? When you taught me how to control the momentum?” The tears were running down his face by now, but Dawrim wasn ́t ashamed. He could not have cared less, as the grief he felt for his lifelong friend was more than overwhelming. “You ́re a hero Thumgar. You always were. And i promise, nobody will forget your name. It will be said with the greatest awe and respect, as the people tell the stories about you...” With that, he stood up. On the floor, he saw Thumgar ́s weapon, the axeblade. taking it, he placed it into his friends hand, then resting both of the dead dwarves hands on his chest. When that had been done, Dawrim turned around. He would have a funeral for his friend, of course, but now wasn ́t the time. As much as he was a friend, he was also the emperor, who had to care for the aftermath of this battle. Therefore, he wiped away his tears and slowly started to walk outside.


"I don't know how to explain my days recently. It's like there's something lacking and I don't know what it is. Should I write or not?" These were questions that only I could answer. My classmate called me to let me know that we would be having a high school reunion. I was not excited and interested in it because I didn't want to recall those memories where my classmates kept bullying me about everything, but I had my second thoughts whether I would go or not. I never enjoyed my high school days because of them. I was a loner and I seldom interacted with my classmates in the class. I just stayed under the huge trees reading Agatha Christie and Barbara Cartland's romance novels during my free time. I grew up in a poor family. My father was only plowing rice fields and climbing coconut trees for a living. I didn't have any money for my snack at the school so I borrowed my principal's romance novels and read it one after another under the Mahogany shades. That was my routine in every recess that I had. I never had any regret because I learned how to study hard so in the future no one could bully me anymore. I excelled in my English subject and those who bullied me were the ones who went beside me to ask me if I could correct our theme writing project. My friend Julia whispered this: "Whatta brazen-faced classmates!" "Just let them, perhaps they will realize after our graduation that I helped them a lot and they will eventually stop their bullying," I whispered her back. "I really doubt it! Look at their reactions after you corrected their essays. What the heck!" "Relax, time will teach them. Yeahh they will be called graduates but the question is that, are they worth it to be called as such?" "Hmmmppp! You are so weird. You've been bullied throughout these years and that's all you can say? You are a martyr, aren't you Terry!" "You know sometimes it's better to be silent, it can make them deaf." "What? Where do you get that logic?" She exclaimed while her eyebrows were curving in dismay. "It's not logic, it's my way of showing you how my silence could silence them too." "Gosh, I can't understand what you just said. That is ridiculous. They are taking advantage of your brilliance. Don't you know that people won't realize their faults unless you're gonna tell them?" "My deeds will make them realize in the long run." Till our graduation came and I was on top of the honor rolls. Julia told her classmates. "See, you keep on bullying her. So, where are you now guys? Does that make you all polish and brilliant?" My classmates were looking to each other.They couldn't find any words to answer what Julia said to them. I was always called for my academic achievements on the stage. It seemed all the best awards were awarded to me. I was very happy, but at the same time sad because I knew then that I was an accomplice of my bully classmates about why they never had even one medal. Julia always reminded me, but I never listened because I knew exactly how it felt if in their college days came they had no stock knowledge to support their new phase of life. One day, one of my classmate's Dad went to my house to ask forgiveness of what his son was doing to me. He put a paper at my back. He used scotch tape and put it on my uniform with bold words said: I HAVE NO MONEY TO BUY SNACK EVERYDAY. I was so forgivable, but deep inside I was really hurt. It made me more a loner. I became more introverted. I read and read at the same time I write. "Why you can't answer me now? Are you going or not?" Mrs. Custodio asked me about you." Julia persuaded me on the phone still. "I have to think about it. You know exactly what I've been through." "That was your fault. You were traumatized, but you still wanted to feel like nothing happened. Like they didn't do anything to hurt you etc." "I will call you again if I will surely go. I am so hesitant to attend because I really don't know them anymore. They are perhaps strangers to me." "What is that? Are you having amnesia?" "No of course. Where it should be held?" "At the beach near your barrio." "Ahh okay, I will perhaps text you if I will go." I changed my mind instead of calling her. The day of the reunion came and I didn't tell my friend that I would go surprisingly. I booked my flight going back home before that day. I brought some copy of my poetry book that was published last year. I planned to give my English teacher who taught me a lot about grammar and all. Who really polished me by joining any contests- whether be it's oration or declamation or writing contest in the division department. I arrived so early at the beach. I suddenly reminisced about everything that my cousins and I did there. Night swimming was our favorite thing to do under the full moonlight. A little later somebody called at my back. "Hey Terry, you really surprise me girl!" "Aha! So sorry that I didn't call or text you anymore. I want to surprise you as well." "Hi Julia what's up!" Someone called my friend at our back too, and when I turned my head I recognized those curly eyelashes of a guy who kept on putting something on my back. It was Richard. "Oh Richard, hmm you are here as well?" Julia asked her with a smile. "And why I shouldn't be here? It's our class reunion." "Please introduce me to your friend." Richard didn't recognize me at all. Perhaps of my sunglasses and my hair was dyed with Brazilian colored dye. I also wore a cap with a fitted high waist jeans and sleeveless white Guess blouse. A city girl looks to be exact. "Richard, this is my friend and our classmate Terry. Terry this is Richard." I removed my sunglasses and I could see his eyes were like a ball. So round. "Oh, hi Richard, how are you? Nice seeing you again. It's been years that we didn't see each other right?" He was like an ice cream under the sunshine-melting in front of me. "You're just kidding, aren't you?" "Why should I do that?" Julia interrupted. "But Julia, I didn't recognize Terry anymore." "Well, does she look gorgeous? You can't believe that she looks like a model right?" "Oh, c'mon Julia, this is not a perfect time for joking." He told her friend with like uncomfortable confrontation. I could see his flushing face perhaps of shame. I held Julia's hand and told her that the program would start and the games after their lunch. Our class adviser told me to make a short speech on the spot. It was like everything came back in my mind. A flashback that was not as good as the other students had experienced, but I tried not to cry instead I made my speech jolly and interesting for them and for me as well to hold my tears then. The games started and there was this newspaper dance on the beach. Richard asked my hand if I allowed him as my partner. My classmates clapping their hands. They were cheering us. I was not used to it because before they kept on bullying me. I stood up and followed Richard to our spot. All the songs that they played were love songs. It was an odd thing for me and I was with that man who used to shame me because I had no single centavo for my food during recess. We danced like nothing happened before, though I wanted to confront him for that, but I respected his father who went to my house and gave an apology for what his son did to me. The reunion that day I thought was already over when my English teacher told us that there would be having a disco party for that night. The orange clouds turned red in my eyes. I didn't know why it seemed something would happen that night. Julia told me that she would definitely come because her boyfriend was our prince charming. I even teased her that she hated him before and suddenly they became a couple. The dance night came and all of my classmates were very excited. Some were already married, but brought their husbands or wives to that party. Julia whispered to me that Richard wanted to dance with me. I was so hesitant because I still didn't forget what he did to me though I was just so silent before. I took their bullying as my inspiration to become a successful writer and freelance model in some renowned products in the country. I agreed on what Julia said, but with a condition that only once and nothing more afterwards because of that reason. The party ended with goodbyes and good lucks. Julia went beside me and told me that Richard gave her a small piece of paper with words written on it. I opened the torch of my smartphone and read it. CAN I COURT, YOU? Suddenly I could feel my cheeks were blushing. I couldn't explain why. My heartbeat also skipped a bit. When I went back to Makati City somebody called me with an unknown number, when I said hello a male voice answered and it was Richard explaining that he asked my number from Julia and he was in Makati too...