"I'm telling you, she's really your type. She'll want to see you, and she'll like you. Trust me, mate." My eyes travelled from the book back to my best friend Frans in one swift motion, like I was swinging the baseball bat. When my face wasn't shoved either in a textbook on psychology of crime, or in a fictional story, I loved getting exercise, accompanied by music playlists of all kinds of genres. Rock and metal really helped me get in the mood. And the hot baths after were the cherry on top of a good evening. All of that didn't leave much time for meeting with people. Or, at least, not as much time as I would have wanted to. I saw my friends from university every day, and we often hung out after classes, walking together to the dorms, or sending each other off when we were headed in another direction. But that didn't cut it. Sure, I had dated a few girls a couple of times before. I missed the way my heart would flutter at the sight of my date, I can't lie. And I missed holding hands and kissing and walking together talking nonsense under the stars - whenever there were any. The crush in the beginning that hit like a guy from the opposing team tackling you to the ground, the warm feeling of safety after you get used to your significant other, I knew both of these. But then again, when you mess up, no matter what you're doing, there's always the rain chasing away your sunshine, so to say. Perhaps my bar was raised too high. I had high standards for everything, including myself; I knew I looked perfect to some people, I had heard enough whispers in the hallways passing me by, and I had got a comment here and there about how devoted I am to homework and assignments and tests. And to writing. The truth? I had grown up afraid of failing. Not even thanks to stern parents (they lived in another country, too far to scold me, anyway). And no, I weren't made fun of. Not too much. It wasn't bullying, either. I didn't have a lot of friends, and in a while little me started thinking I would impress them if I knew a lot and was fun to talk with. Then I noticed other guys liked sports a lot, some of them loved football and basketball. So I tagged along. Up until now, if we put aside Frans, I didn't have a lot of friends. That isn't by any means a counter of happiness, of course. Though there were times all my friends were busy, wrapped up in something of their own, going out with their own friends, and I... I felt alone. The books and films I'd usually pick up felt boring, I had nobody to play baseball with. I'd throw myself into studying more, and more, and more, and when my friends would finally find time for me, I would realise my exams were coming too soon. That aside, back to the present. I raised an eyebrow. "Are you setting me up with some chick to get me off my butt, or what?" Frans threw his head back and laughed, and a grin made its way to my lips with a magical ease. It made me remember one of the reasons I liked him so much. No matter how many things were on my mind, his weekend escape ideas were the best. Just when I'd be at my busiest and most stressed and worried, Frans would pat my shoulder and stick a cocktail glass in my hand, paper umbrella and straw. Don't worry. Be happy , he'd say, ever the hippie. Chill. You're doing your part. Everything will be fine, bro. And it was. Every time. "I'm setting you up with a chick to get you off your butt - and into a better place." My friend brushed a hair the color of caramel from his face. His hair was so long that he had the looks of a hippie, as well as the character. Sometimes annoying, sometimes charming as hell, but, in any case, my best bloody friend. "She said she's got today off. Works at a resto down the road when she ain't being a bookworm like you." He gave me a nudge, and I snickered. "I figured you might find something to talk about for more than an hour." One hour. That had been the length of my previous, and last for the time being, date. A date with a guy, the first ever of that kind that I had had. Not the first of that kind; ever since high-school I knew I could fall in love with anyone. But it was the first disappointment in my short history of dates. On one hand, it was on me for getting my hopes up so high, being a star-eyed teen and all. But on the other, he was a bully. I'd seen him flirt with one of the girls in my chemistry class one day, then a girl from History the other, playing with them like toys. I'm not the rude type, but if there's one thing I hate, that's it. So, to get away, I lied I felt sick. Who knew. Maybe it wasn't a lie. One hour. And Frans reminding me of it felt like the memory was a still-warm cigarette butt snuffed out in my arm. I winced as loudly as possible and turned away from him in a pretended theatrical twirl. "That sounds like some faith you got in me. Thanks a dozen ." I didn't want to make him feel down as well. Hell, the more positive I was trying to stay, the less my mood was willing to cooperate. Frans is right. I should stuff my brain or soul's pockets with some courage and go see that girl. She can't be that bad. Frans bit his lip. After the proverbial slap in the face his words had delivered to me, now it was his turn to feel bad. "Ruben... I do have faith in you. More than you think. You look great, and you know it. I've told you I'd have dated you if things were a bit different." If we had the time, if he came to terms with liking guys, if we got drunk enough one night, probably... the future was built on possibilities. And one of them, right now, was that I didn't screw up, and that my date somehow went as smoothly as cream on top of a cake, like Frans the foodie would say. I cocked an eyebrow and got up. Tidying up could do itself on its own for now. If my friend was serious he had set me up for a date, it was most likely going to happen today, in a few hours. I knew the exact way Frans' thoughts ran. Something of the sort would be typical of him to do, surprise me on the same day he has got the gift ready. No matter if said gift was a pizza and video game night, or a cool shirt. "I... I thought that would cheer you up, Roob. You know, going out a bit. With someone new." He shrugged and stared at the floor. In the blink of an eye, good old cheery Frans had lost his golden shine and turned grey with disappointment over my reaction. A stab of guilt didn't take too long to catch me in the gut. "I know that's what you like when you ain't got the world on ya mind. But... what do I know? Your studies... could be the entire world for you right now." I put my hand on his shoulder, and our eyes met. Sigh . Good-with-words me, all of a sudden, had lost the little groove he had had. I found myself stumbling through them. What could I say? What on earth could I say to fix this and chase away the frown from Frans' face? "That's not true, and you know it. I'll like this date. I have a good feeling about it. Just..." Another sigh. I wanted to slap myself in the face. Why, why had I spent so much time overthinking and worrying about things recently, why? "I'm scared, man. What if she hates me? What if I fuck it up? Last time I-" "Last time you went out with the wrong girl, dude." His eyes, his face - no, his damn hair and cardigan are looking tired, drooping down from him. I'll owe him takeaway and a chill evening with some video games to make it up, I can smell that from here. "Live a little, Ruben, let yourself have some fun! Back in the first year you were the life of the gang, you... you were different, wanted to hang out with everyone and told absolutely horrible puns about criminals and stuff. Now acing the exams is all you've got your mind on. Made me real sad seeing you like that." I watch him for a beat, then I collect myself. "I gave her your contacts, by the way. She'll text you in a bit, if she hasn't already," Frans adds after me, half-shouting, as I have ran out into the corridor, full-on chaos mode, trying to find clothes that will match and look nice together. "Also, her favourite colour is red, so you're in some good bloody luck there!" Those are the last words I hear before I run into the bedroom to go through the wardrobe. As I'm finishing tying my shoes and pushing the front door open, I go through at least three different scenarios. Frans dropped some hints here and there last week, but they were so vague it took me this week - no, up to today, the day of the actual date! - to figure them out. I knew her name sounded like that of a Norse goddess, she was studying literature and had a blog for book reviews, and worked at a bookshop part-time to pay her semesters and rent. Frans is right; that's my type - or one of the many types I can have. And yet, my imagination is as rich as ever. In this very moment, quite unhelpfully so. Dammit, I worry too much, don't I? People don't really notice that, I hope. Or how dishevelled my hair might be when I finally see her; I forgot my hair tie, and so the entire mass of red fluff is all over my shoulders and face. Or the suit I put on. Is that too formal for a first date? Do first impressions matter at all? And what about my breath? Would she be into a guy who's nearly thirty but is still pushing university, because he spent his life travelling left and right, or would she laugh at me and tell me to be more serious? Right under the oak tree in the little park across the street, I see a pink umbrella with cat ears flutter in the air. The girl greets me with a hug and a wide smile that makes my heart jump. "Oh, hey there! I hope this doesn't scare you..." "Your friend and I started hanging out like, three or so months ago," she went on, and her voice struck a chord inside me, a chord I had forgotten how to play. "We got close pretty fast, and I noticed he'd mention you often, 'Ruben this, Ruben that'-" yep, sounds like Frans alright , "-and I- I got curious, you see, I thought we'd make good friends!" Oh, thank goodness. A new friend. Funny, it really does feel like Frans did set us up together. I could swear he knows the entire university by their first names, so I won't pretend I'm close to being surprised. In any case, it is curious how he finds this folk at the most unexpected places. Not everyone at uni is close friends with everyone. Boy, I don't even know all the people who are supposed to be my classmates. I hope this new girl does indeed earn her badge of friendship in my heart. And I - in hers, too. I don't think I'm close with any of the girls whom we are supposed to be in the same study group with. And that could prove good not just for getting my hands on any extra lectures, but also for my social life... I snap out of it and focus on the new girl's face once more. Hmph, that dreamy look my friends keep pinning on me might truly be there (as much as I don't want to believe my friends when they notice it). For someone so precise and careful with the things I do, writing or playing games or studying, this day has caught me being a complete mess, all over the place. Now what was she going on about, again? "But when he showed me some photos of you guys together, I..." Her eyes are watery. Is she about to start crying? Wait, what, why? "I couldn't believe it, Ruben. I thought I was dreaming. I was..." She pauses. For a few seconds, my heart is beating so fast I'm convinced it is about to explode. "I'm Freya. Remember? From high-school. I kept sending you all those Valentines every year from the time we sat next to each other in Literature. Then you started hanging out with other guys more, and I with other girls." She handed me a paper bag. "I still haven't forgotten you love cherries, though. Here you go!" " Freya ." I sweep her up into my arms in a heartbeat, closing my eyes shut. My lips kiss the top of her head. After all this time... "I know it's super cheesy, but, uh... my crush... I'd started to fall for you, Ruby." My high-school nickname. Oh my god. I can't believe this. She still remembers. "You were really cute, and you still are. I... I had no idea how to tell you back then." "Your cheesy is the best thing on earth, Freya."


CHAPTER 1 “Caw!” The crow screamed from his perch on a nearby tree. I looked up lazily from the trail I was following. Beady black eyes stared coldly back at me. His friends joined in on the cawing, as if taunting me. It didn’t bother me, though, and I continued on my way with my catch in my mouth. Stupid birds. They had nothing useful to say so they just shouted angrily to seem imposing. Once I was safely back at my home, I packed away the mouse I had caught for dinner and stretched out contentedly. I would eat it later. I always felt like getting a little exercise before meals to build up an appetite. My hole was buried deep under a short oak tree. It was hidden and well protected by exposed roots - an ideal home for a fox. I poked my head back out of my burrow tentatively, sniffing around. A new smell had attracted me earlier and I was dying to find its source and I had made up my mind to seek it out today. Also, lately a lot of new animals had been appearing in our forest and I was really excited to see what new creatures turned up. The other foxes all laughed at my curiosity. They said it would lead to my death. I didn’t see it that way. The forest had a thousand different ways to kill me at any given moment and I had only made it this far on my own by always knowing my surroundings. If there were changes to my hunting grounds, whether it be climate, new game, or a new predator, I wanted to be aware of it. I sniffed around and started heading back the way I came. The forest was very lively, which was surprising at this time of day. The warm summer weather must have proved too tempting for everyone and I found myself in the company of many small woodland animals. Squirrels were chatting in their trees, a pack of voles was out walking single file, and birds were singing songs on every tree. I barked loudly a few times to let the animals nearby know it was safe to be around me right now. It was a rule of the forest that if a carnivore was openly making his presence known, that he was not hunting and meant no harm to other animals nearby. This law was sacred and I had never seen it broken, at least not in the few mile stretch of land that I stayed in. After a few meters I caught on to the scent again. Thrilled, I chased after it at full speed, barking occasionally to let everyone know I meant no harm. Seeking out new sounds and smells always excited me and on top of that, it was my favorite time of day. I could see the last glimmer of orange and pink and gold in the sky fading out between the trees to my west. A strong wind brushed through my fur and I soaked in all the different sensations around me. All the sights, sounds, and smells hit me and I sighed contentedly. It was a warm summer night. This time of day, just as the sky started to darken and the wind began to pick up, was my favorite time to go for a trip through the forest. Delighted, I let out one powerful, proud bark and charged full speed ahead towards the new smell I was chasing. Soon enough, evening turned into night and the sky became a dazzling black and purple ocean full of jewels. I began doubting that I would reach my destination before it became too dark to see but the smell had grown much stronger and I knew I must be close by so I kept going. I had never gone this far north before and was worried about getting lost as well. By now I was able to distinguish two unique scents coming from the same direction. One was completely new to me but the other seemed familiar, although I could not recall it. I didn’t think too hard about it because I was too caught up in my own thoughts about the day and everything I had done earlier. Besides the troublesome crows that had moved into the trees nearby, I had a run-in with some of the black foxes while I was hunting. I was still absorbed in my thoughts when something caught my attention. Up ahead I heard a branch snap on the floor and instantly I was on my guard. The forest is a loud place in general but every once in a while a sound would seem out of place and my gut would tell me something was wrong. Fear sunk in as I looked around cautiously, trying to identify the cause of the noise. For a while everything was silent and I became completely still as I crouched down and waited for a potential predator to make its move. I was very large for a fox but I was still only a slightly more challenging kill than usual for the owls and hawks that would hunt at this time. Minutes passed and there was absolutely no noise except for the chirping of various bugs. I started thinking I was being paranoid and decided to move on but every instinct in me warned my body to sit absolutely still. I willed myself to lift my front paw and take one step forward and, in a split second, the area surrounding me turned into a storm of violent action. A giant rat came darting straight for me hissing at the top of her lungs. She wasn’t speaking. She didn’t want to talk and she wasn’t simply making me aware of her presence. This was a battle cry. This was her trying to scare me before she attacked. Surprised as I was that a rat would charge at a fox, I reacted quickly and lunged straight at her, but another animal reacted much quicker. I saw a flash of grey light and a powerful gust of wind knocked me off balance. It took me a moment to collect myself and understand the scene before me. A great grey owl had appeared seemingly from thin air and was mauling the rat in a flurry of talons and beaks. I was terrified but also completely mesmerized by this act of extreme savagery. I backed away slowly to not draw attention but I could not look away from the bizarre sight. It was over in a few seconds. Slowly the owl stood up straight with his back to me while still looking at the dead rat near his talons. Fear crept in and I could not move. I didn’t want to do anything to attract his attention. Owls did not eat foxes but they were prone to random acts of violence and never needed a reason to kill. “You do not need fear me, fox.” He spoke in a high pitched yet booming voice that did not seem to suit him. “I was never interested in you to begin with. Well, not as food, anyways.” He added. He sounded pleased. Hoping this meant I was safe, I cautiously stepped towards the giant owl even though I was so afraid I was shaking. “Hello. I am Ragvilus. You helped me earlier. I think the rat was going to attack me,” I began, not sure what to say to this owl. “Aaah, I found that amusing.” He laughed, ruffling his feathers happily as he turned to face me. “Maybe she thought an injured fox would be more appealing to me than a large rat.” “Would it have been?” I asked. Despite my best efforts to stay calm my voice quivered noticeably as I spoke. The owl turned his head completely around and hooted. He stared at me with vertical eyes that looked both completely insane yet infinitely intelligent. After a few moments he answered with a simple, “Yes.” Then he slowly began turning back towards his kill. “Where are you going, Ragvilus the red fox?” he continued as he spread open his wings and revealed his enormous wingspan. “Just a few meters north of here.” I answered truthfully. “Do you seek the other foxes up ahead?” He asked. This caught me off guard. I had no idea other foxes were nearby. I considered lying to the owl and saying they were my friends to seem like I had a pack with me. In the end I decided against it because it occurred to me that an owl would not be intimidated by foxes and that if he wanted me dead I would already be dead by now. “No. I noticed a new smell today and wanted to investigate it.” At this, the owl froze. He folded his wings completely and turned his head slightly so he could see me from the corner of his eye. “Strange new animals have been entering our forest. Isn’t it exciting?” He asked. For some reason his voice became very grave. “But sometimes it does not pay to be so inquisitive. Red foxes are so very rare.” His ominous words once again put me on edge. Without thinking I began backing away but it was unnecessary. The owl picked up his prey and began lifting himself up into the air. With two flaps of his enormous wings he was already a few feet in the air. “Do you know why this area has been especially crowded lately?” He continued. I had heard bits and pieces of it but as a predator and an outcast amongst the foxes, I did not have very many chances to find out. “The cold northern forest was lit completely ablaze. A fire like this has not been seen in my lifetime or in many lifetimes before.” By now the owl had disappeared amongst the treetops and his voice began to fade. “Many new animals. So very exciting. But look out young fox. There are many monsters that lived in the cold northern forests and even monsters fear fire.” A fire in the north? I was confused by the ominous threats left by the strange bird. Shaken up, I turned around and looked at the trail I was following. Maybe it was time to give up on this. Maybe this was a sign that my curiosity was finally a bad thing. I took one more deep breath and thought about what my strange new smells could be. Then it hit me. I recognized one of the scents. It was the smell of smoke and ash. I have no idea why but a sense of urgency set in at this and my gut told me I had to get to the source of the smell and get there fast. I had no logical reason to do so but my gut had never steered me wrong before. I took one last longing look at the trail behind me then sprinted towards the new smell.


U needs to get out of here alive. Time is running out and U has no one else to trust but himself. He has to do whatever it takes to escape this prison. “You hear that? You were right, okay? I can’t do this! Just let me out of here!” U screams into the cement ceiling, his words echoing back around him, surrounding him in hopelessness. He knows that the other can hear him. He just needs them to listen to him. Like they did before. “I can’t do this! At least not alone. You know that we used to be a team. Hell, we were like one organism. One body, mind, and soul!” His voice aches with all the yelling. He’s been at it for months. U doesn’t know if he’s losing his mind or becoming more desperate. It doesn’t matter since all of his ideas fall short. He takes a deep breath trying to get a response, but it’s only ever happened once. As more weeks pass, he starts to think he was hallucinating the stomp from above him. U can’t even remember how he got here. He’s not sure he wants to. *** M can’t let him out of there alive. U has to be disposed of as soon as possible. There’s simply no use for him anymore. She doesn’t understand why U screams so hard to be let out. It’s not like he can do anything worthwhile. He’s down there for a reason. At least U admits that he can’t do this alone. He’s weak. He’s used up. He’s outdated. He’s fragile. U can no longer be in control. Look where that got M. Now she has to sit here and listen to this woman talk to her as if this entire organization can be brought down by a few shots of empathy. It’s pity. Unfiltered, undisguised, blatant pity. She’s still here, isn’t she? How many more people does she need to talk it out with before leaving her alone. Do you think M became this strong by doing useless shit like discussing what to do next? She knows very well what needs to happen in the future. And she will do it, no matter the cost or consequences. That kind of drive only comes from the unwavering foundations of a heart that does not beat anymore. *** { “Have a seat.” “Thanks.” I gingerly sit on the green upholstered chair. I’m starting to hate the color green. “So, how have you been feeling?” she asks and she takes a seat in the swivel chair directly in front of her. She adjusts her suit and glasses and settles with her pen and notepad in her hand, ready to write down observations. “Over the past year or within the last 5 minutes?” “Let’s go with 5 minutes.” I take a slow deep breath. “I feel...” like killing something. “unsatisfied.” “And why is that?” “I keep thinking about all the things I can’t do,” I look down at the handcuff around my wrist leading to the handle of the chair. “Anymore.” I stop myself from letting out a chuckle. It’s honestly funny though. I did nothing wrong, yet in the blind eyes of the law, I’m a criminal that deserves to be punished. I’m sick of people telling me what I deserve. She clicks her pen closed as she says, “I know what you’re thinking. That you don’t deserve to be here,” she leans forward, “But maybe you need to.” Well that’s definitely a first. “I need to? What is that supposed to mean?” } *** She has been watching for a long time. The end of things. The edges that are so tempting. The sharpness of it all as that final moment comes. M is singular, can’t multitask, very one-track minded. M has been watching, but not listening. *** { “This is the place where you won’t change anyone’s mind. Not even your own. I suggest you simply familiarize yourself with it. Who knows how long it’ll be before you let something happen to it again.” } *** Lean closer. *** { “I DIDN’T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO U, SOMEBODY DID IT TO U !” “What was it then, exactly?” she asks with a furrowed brow. “I- I don’t know! But I know I’m handcuffed for a reason, so just- don’t ask me anymore stupid questions!” } *** The glasses? No those look like they’ll break easily. The pen might do. *** { “Or what? Are you going to hurt me? Do you really think yoU can?” “He can’t.” “You’re not listening to me.” “I CAN’T!” } *** “BUT I CAN!” *** Why is he trying to speak? *** {“But yoU can hear me?” I gulp and nod, “Yes, but I can’t hear U. I know he’s saying something, but I don’t know what he’s saying.” The furrow in her brow relaxes in understanding. “Then you must listen carefully.” } *** “I’m listening, I promise I’m listening.” *** { She folds her hands in her lap and leans back. “A.” “... A what? I don’t understand.” “B.” “C,” I say, following along. “D.” } *** Well. This will be fun. *** { “E.” I still don’t understand, but I was told to listen carefully. So I will. “F.” “G.” “H.” “I.” “J.” } *** His eyes widen with fear. “NO WAIT!” *** They can’t hear you. *** { “K.” “L.” “M.” “N.” } “Oh?” I finally see the lady in that horrid swivel chair. Surely she noticed. “P.” Oh my, she didn’t! How much more worse could she be at this? Let’s help her out a bit, shall we? “Q.” Ah there it is. I used my special voice. Wow, I’m proud I still got it after a year of non-use. I watch her scribble down the letter. The wrong letter. Hmph, mildly annoying but I won’t ever need to get used to it. She looks up from her notepad, a strange look on her face. “Hello Q. How have you been feeling?” “Oh not this again. I remember it ya know.” “What do you remember?” “What’s with the panic in ya voice? Am I not supposed to remember?” Silence. Ha, as expected. These people don’t like irregularities. How boring. “Q. Where is U?” I look up with the most confusion I can garner into my facial expression. “I’m... right here? Am I not?” She lets out a small sigh, shoulders sagging a bit. “Lying to me won’t do you any good. As I said, nobody’s mind will change here. Not even your own.” “Try me.” She removes her glasses in annoyance. Big mistake. “There will be none of that. No matter how much you try. Cooperate, and maybe you will be set free.” “I don’t need your PERMISSION!” I lunge for the glasses in her hand but my arm goes right through her. She fizzles out at where my arm has been, and watched it restore itself into place. She looks me dead in the eye. How dare she have the NERVE to look at me! Only look at me when I WANT YA TO. I try to lunge and wriggle against the handcuff again, but every contact is contactless. It’s getting frustrating. Soon, the woman simply stands up from her chair, walks to the door, and digitally fizzles out into nothing. A shock comes through the handcuff, and soon my vision fizzles into blackness. *** U never stopped listening. He wants to speak but he can’t. His shoulder hurts from falling on the ground. How did I fall? He looks down at the cement... floor. It’s no longer a cement ceiling. I’m out? I’m out! YES! *** { “No, no NO! U, LET ME OUT OF HERE!” } *** Not a chance. *** “...subject failed to control rage. Identity Q will be reported as inconclusive. Batch number 649 for case A8TH9 will be closed and disposed of within 2 weeks.”


His seventeenth birthday was coming soon. That meant it was almost the tenth anniversary of his first day in the mine. He was seven the first time he plunged into the darkness. The company needed small bodies that could crawl into tiny compartments and plant dynamite. The boy would do this for six years. Malfunctioning dynamite and tunnel collapses had taken most of his friends. But not him. They told him he was lucky. On his thirteenth birthday, the boy was old enough to dig and run machinery. He would do this until he died. Many of the other workers his age were maimed or malformed from their years in the tunnels. But not him. They told him he was lucky. The darkness followed him outside of the mineshaft. The blackness of the coal mine was permanently sunken into his clothes and skin. At night he would cough blackness out of his lungs. Black lung killed dozens every year. But not him. They told him he was lucky. It was by chance that the boy remembered his approaching birthday. Alone in the shaft, driving his pick into the wall, lost in monotony, he happened upon the thought. At that same moment, he saw a sparkle in the ground. His lamp had given out and he was relying on natural light coming from the shaft exit just overhead. The boy leaned over and looked at the mysterious object. He had never seen a diamond before. All the same, he was hypnotized by its beauty in the blackness of the mine. He felt blessed to see such a beautiful object. Perhaps he was lucky after all. The boy wrapped his fingers around the object and pulled it from the dirt. Suddenly, the floor gave out below him. No one had discovered the cavern underneath the tunnel. He didn't remember screaming as he plunged deeper into the blackness. The boy landed on his back and felt the wind leave his lungs. He was so far from the light. He knew he would die. But he did not despair. As he lay on his back, staring at the small light above him, all he could do was laugh. He never had to return to the mine again. He was finally free. For the first time in his life, the boy felt lucky.


Pegasus could be seen from any spot within the gigantic expanse of the stadium. Oris and his best friends would occasionally stand at the base of the stadium to observe the radiant glow and ring of dust floating around Pegasus. Something about this celestial body could steal your breath. It was a majestic spectacle for all to behold; it stood gallantly bright and fierce as its light penetrated every corner of the cosmos. All citizens of Centauri b revered Pegasus because it outshone every other star in its constellation. But things were different now. Over the last couple of days, Pegasus’ brightness slowly began to dim. This was alarming for all the citizens who adored the 800 million year old star. It was their main source of energy. The gradual drop in luminosity meant that it was on the verge of decay . It was rare that a star of such grandeur would come to extinction. The last time a star of such magnitude decayed completely was over five hundred years prior. In Oris’ lifetime, he had only witnessed the death of the smaller stars- a frequent occurrence that provided the basis of the annual Light Catching games. Every 180 days, a star would die. The great astronomers of Centauri b had developed stamps on certain stars which predicted the exact time they would go extinct. And so far their system proved accurate. Whenever these stars were a week away from their extinction, the whole planet would prepare to watch the bedazzling astronomical phenomenon- a supernova. These large celestial bodies would undergo changes in internal pressure resulting in a magnificent explosion sending neutron stars and other forms of celestial matter ricocheting into the cosmos. Men and women from all corners of the galaxy would come and watch the explosion- the dispersion of the star as it rained atoms and neutrons embellishing the heavens with fantastical colours But this microcosm of gas and dust wasn’t the only event preceding light catching games. It was the bright particles transcending space, flying at outstanding speeds in all directions. Bright particles that a group of elite athletes were trained and determined to conquer. Oris, Ash, and Axel were amongst the chosen elite . Axel and Ash were the closest thing that oris had to siblings. The triplets, they called themselves. And the sibling-like rivalry between them was obvious. Ash wanted to be the best scientist of the three and Jack always had the competitive edge because he knew he was the best athlete. But Oris had never accomplished anything in his life. He wasn’t the great Ahlete that Axel was nor the scientist that Ash was. Amongst his friends, he was the underachiever. Throughout his teenage years he remained protective. Sheltered and safe from the clusters of gas, dust and celestial matter that made up the galaxy of Centauri-b. So it shocked everyone when he was selected to participate in the annual Light Catching Games. “It’s probably some mistake in the draft system if Oris made it” said Axel. “Don’t listen to him” said Ash Oris didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what to think. There was One thing he was certain of. He was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He had always been afraid and too cautious. Too self-conscious, extremely reserved and too afraid to venture into the great world of battleships, astral armaments and astronauts. So he never got a taste of the world. Not until his name was called by the Intergalactic Trainee Board. Everyone in his unit was surprised that Oris would be selected. The Light Catching games were intense and fierce involving athletes from all over the galaxy who are willing to risk their lives to be crowned. A few eyebrows were raised because Oris was known to be unathletic. In fact, nobody at the learning center was sure if there was anything he was particularly good at. But somehow whether by accident or miracle, he made the selection. Adopted as an infant, he never knew his real parents. The only thing he knew about himself was his name Oris which was engraved on the necklace around his neck when he was given up for adoption. Now at the edge of their seventeenth year, Oris, Ash and Axel all felt the pressure. They all wanted to prove themselves to the world. And the Light Catching games was their shot. It was seven days until the Light Catching Games and Oris thought about forfeiting. He felt like an imposter amongst these great athletes. They stood at the edge of the stadium watching in awe. It was a massive region of space surrounded by nothing but red dwarfs. And Pegasus stood dignified in the center of its constellation. Oris was still awestruck when suddenly BOOM Axel tackled him into the abyss of the arena. The two teenagers tumbled down under the influence of light gravity down into depths of the stadium. Oris struggled to regain his breath. “Man, you got me right in the gut” he said gasping for air. “First rule of intergalactic drifting. Be alert at all times” said Axel. Oris waited a few moments before returning the favor. He charged towards Axel relying on the propelling force of his hoverblades. But Axel had already anticipated that, holding his guard up the whole time. “Seriously guys? Very mature” said Ash scoffing at the tqo.. As the two struggled to subdue one another, Ash couldn’t help but notice a rumbling in the distance. She ignored it but it got stronger and stronger until the ground beneath them started to vibrate. She looked to the sky and noticed a bright sparkling particle- a shooting star maybe- but it wasn’t an ordinary star. It drew nearer and nearer until its light illuminated the entire stadium. By the time Axel and Oris felt the vibration and heat from the light, it was already only a mile away from them. Axel was numb. Oris froze. The mix of panic and shock temporarily shut down his nervous system. Axel stood still and watched in amazement. Whatever it was it was heading towards Oris at lighting speed. Now, it was only a few inches away. Adrenaline kicked in. Oris blinked for a second before the force of the incoming particle sent him flying yards across the stadium. And in an instant, the light was gone. It’s remnant was nothing but debris and shockwaves throughout the ground. Everyone could feel the impact. Nobody knew what it was but it was the coolest thing they had ever witnessed.


Hey everyone, I’m a first-grade teacher and I’m facing a situation that’s left me really unsettled. I recently gave my class an assignment to write a short essay about what their parents do for a living. It’s usually a fun exercise with kids talking about their parents being doctors, firefighters, construction workers, etc. But this time, I received an essay from one of my students that has me genuinely worried. Let's call him Timmy. A bit of context: This boy is somewhat of an enigma. He’s the only student in my class whose parents have never shown up for any school events or parent-teacher conferences. Whenever I’ve asked about his family, he clams up and refuses to give me any details about his father’s name or their address. It’s odd, but I never pressed too hard, thinking there might be personal issues at play. Anyway, here’s the essay he handed in. Keep in mind, it’s written by a first-grader, so the language is simple and innocent. But the content... well, read for yourself: >**My Dad's Job** >by Timmy >My dad has a really cool job. He helps people sleep! It's super important because everyone needs sleep to feel good and strong. My dad is very good at his job, and he works at night when it’s very quiet. He says that there are people living in his head who tell him what to do, and that they know best. They say that people don't sleep enough, and that somebody should help people fall asleep. >My dad has lots of shiny tools that he uses for his job. Some of them are sharp, like the ones we see in the kitchen, but they are special because they help him do his job perfectly. He has big shiny knives, tiny pointy things, and sometimes he uses ropes. He keeps them all very clean and shiny, and I think they look really cool. >Dad has a special room where he does his job. It has drawers and tables for the tools and a special chair where the people he helps have to sit down. It has special belts that help them keep still. He says that it helps them fall asleep faster. >When my dad helps people sleep, sometimes there is a lot of red juice. He says it's the same kind of red juice as the one that comes out of my knee when I fall from my bike. I don’t know why there is so much red juice, but my dad says it’s normal and that it means he is doing a good job. The red juice can get everywhere, and it’s a little messy, but my dad always cleans up really well. He doesn’t like to leave any mess behind. He even has a special white suit and mask to stop the juice from getting on his clothes. >Sometimes, people don’t want to sleep and they scream and cry. Like my little sister who has an earlier bedtime than me but always wants to stay up later! My dad says they are just scared because they don’t know how much better they will feel after they sleep. He tries to help them calm down, but it can be hard. My dad is very patient and tries his best to help everyone. He told me that he puts them in black bags and puts them underground to help them sleep better. He regularly drives very far to find a quiet place and digs deep holes there to put the people in black bags in. I think that’s very kind of him because it means they can sleep without any noise or disturbances. >My dad also plays games with the police. It sounds like a lot of fun! He calls it hide and seek. The police try to find him, but he is very good at hiding. He hides so well that the police can’t catch him. My dad says the detectives have a lot of fun trying to find him, and he likes to send them funny letters to keep the game going. He even sends letters to the newspapers to make people laugh. >One time, my dad showed me a letter he sent to a newspaper. It had lots of funny pictures and words, and I think it made a lot of people smile. He is very good at drawing and writing, and he always makes his letters very interesting. >My dad says he is not allowed to use his real name for his job. It's part of the game's rules and makes it more fun. He uses a special secret nickname to sign his letters. >My dad’s job is really exciting, and I’m proud of him. He works very hard to help people sleep and makes sure they are comfortable. Even though some people might be scared, my dad always knows what to do. He is the best at playing hide and seek with the police and making everyone laugh with his letters. >Last week, he told me that the police had to make the rules harder because he's so good at the game. The police told people through the newspaper that they aren't allowed to walk alone at night and should call 9-1-1 when they see him. I think it's cheating and really unfair. But he says that it just makes the game more fun. >I love my dad and think he has the best job ever. He is always there to help people when they need to sleep and makes sure everything is just right. I want to be just like him when I grow up and help people too. Should I contact the authorities or am I overreacting? I’m genuinely at a loss here and could use some advice. I'm seriously worried about the boy and I can't think of any normal job that fits this description. But it could also be just a very vivid imagination. Thanks for reading and any guidance you can offer.


I've been writing letters to my future self for a while now. This is one that I recently found from a while ago, and it really hit home for me. ********************************* Dear future self, One day, you will take her for granted. One day, she will just be a normal part of your life, part of your routine. You will think that since you've been together for so long, you won't need to even try anymore. When that day comes, I want you to come back to this journal and read this passage, because I have a few things to say to you. Firstly, fuck you. You're an asshole. You'll probably try to rationalize taking her for granted, telling yourself that you're still a good guy and it's her fault for not trying harder. Don't delude yourself, you're an asshole and you need to accept it. You are the antagonist. Secondly, stop and think. Think of before you met, and how lonely you were. Think of those late summer nights that you spent alone, outside, on the deck of your porch just wishing you had someone to share your feelings with. Think of how happy she had made you when you first spoke, and how ecstatic you had been when she told you that she liked you. Think about how in-love you were, once upon a time, and about how you wanted nothing else but to show her sweet, romantic gestures just to make her smile. And finally, think of her. Think of how she must feel now that you no longer open the door for her, or kiss her on the forehead, or tell her she's beautiful. Just stop and think. Lastly, if you're truly out-of-love with her, try to fall back in. Remember those simple, happy moments: staring at each other from across the room, and laying on the grass, and talking walks and holding hands. Remember why you fell in love in the first place. Remember how that old couple responded when they were asked, "How have you two managed to stay in love for so long?" "We just never fell out of love at the same time." Lastly, remember that if none of that works, it may be time to let her go. Even though it scares you, even though you fear change, quit being a pussy and just tell her. If you can't keep her happy, let her find someone else that will. These are your rules of love, future self. Remember them.


And that was that. Dear Mother: I write to you now, after many decades of not speaking to you, at the request of my psychologist. She said a letter to you would help, that it would help me organize my thoughts, reflect on everything that had happened, put it in some sort of logical order and digest this entire ordeal. She said that it would still help me, even if you never read this. I hope she is right. You know, I never thought that you were a person who enjoyed conflict. When I was very young, maybe 3 or 4, I got into trouble at school for fighting with one of the other kids. The head teacher must’ve called you in the middle of work and asked you to come to the school. You looked at the other kid’s parents apologetically and excused my behavior, even though I was insisting that the other kid started it. The teacher made us leave the room. I remember the other kid’s face was red and sweaty, his bright blond hair mismatched heavily with how red and swollen his face was. I thought he looked like a clown. When we were allowed back into the room, that jet black hair of yours was covering your face as you were looking down. I remember the mixture of warmth over pain on my bottom after father was done with me. I remember you cried while he spanked me, as you echoed, over and over again my lie to my angered father: “The other kid started it. He was just defending himself.” I suppose when God made you and father, he put all of the anger in him, knowing that you’d end up together. He probably hoped that you would balance each other out, and balance out you did. Father’s harshness, his quick anger, and whatever called him to the bottle slowly flowed onto you. Similarly, your calmness, the way you waited before answering a question, and your loving nature towards Ella and I, flowed onto him. You started smoking too, and the house would always smell of your cigarettes and his pipe. One day, you were staying out late at your new job in the law firm. He would usually stay on his couch and read, or watch football, and wasn’t really present in our lives except when it came to discipline us. That day, I do not know why, we walked into the living room and shyly asked him if he would read to us, since you were gone. In all honesty, Ella and I were terrified of Father, but he looked at us standing on the doorway, turned off the TV, emptied his pipe and picked a book from a nearby shelf. That was the first day he read to us at night, Kafka of all things. I would never say this to your face, especially after you spent such a long time doing it, but he had something that made him so much better than you. I don’t know what it was, but ever since that day, Ella and I would secretly look forward to the nights where you’d work late. I never thought I would look forward to time alone with dad, but there we were. When I was at university and decided to choose Child Psychology as my major, in order to become a teacher later on, the father that came back from the ship when I was young would have called me a pussy. This father of mine, years after he stopped fishing and started making ice-cream, looked at me for a few seconds and slowly said: “The pay won’t be good, kids can be real bastards sometimes, but if this is what you want to do with your life, Godspeed.” He said without blinking. In the years that followed I left home and went to university. I do not know how you guys managed to ship me all the way from Appledore to London, but you did. In there I found people from all around the world...the 2000s were booming. Social networks became a thing, and with it, I thought ideas that would benefit all of us would spread around the country, leading to a better, more united United Kingdom. How silly, and how grandiose this sounds now, in retrospect, years later. It is a well known disease that the young are especially vulnerable to, the delusions that they can fix the world, that it’s only them that know and that everybody else is just getting in the way. I led a very busy life during those years. I shared bedrooms with countless youngsters like myself. I was both charming and unbothered by thoughts of settling down with any one of the many women that graced me with their presence on those days, until gonorrhea paid a visit that was. I bet that if I were to go visit my uncles they would still talk about it. “So I get a call from my brave son, Carl, one day, and he asks me about the weather, about his sister, and all of that. Five minutes haven’t passed since I picked up the phone, and he has the balls on him to say, he says” Cigarette drag. “Mom, I’m only asking for a friend, and please do keep this private, but is it normal for men to piss blood from time to time?” Fucking hell Mom. The explosion of laughter at that dinner party was unlike anything I’ve heard before. It still haunts me to this day. I will never hear the end of that. A quick dose of antibiotics and some very embarrassing conversations later, I figured out that maybe monogamy was an interesting topic to approach. It pains me greatly to think about this, because my path to commitment took me onto the path that has taken us so far away. How do you love and hate something at the same time? Lisa knows this. We’ve both grown more together than ever in these last years. I think we’re bound by a weird mixture of commitment, love and pain. She is aware of the responsibility and the part that she played in all of this. She was the one that started me onto the path of politics. It started slowly. The debate group that she and I started slowly walked us towards more politically active youngsters. Then we attended our first party meetings, to finally join Young Labour. I now understand that it isn’t even a problem with the Labour party at all, we could have been caught by a conservative wave for all that I care. I get it now... there is this, really dark idea out there. This idea destroyed our lives mom, and it has somehow taken root in us all, through social media, through the news, through forums and through government bulletins. The idea that if you do not agree with someone politically, that person is not worth keeping around in your life. And you know the funniest thing Mom? I don’t even remember what it was. It could have been abortion rights, it could have been Brexit, it could have been the monarchy, or the IRA, or the nuclear weapons, or the fucking fish, or gay marriage, or the NHS. I don’t remember what it was and yet it haunts me. I’ve had a bloody hypnotist paid to try and dig whatever the fuck we were arguing about out of my head, because I must remember. I must remember Mom, because it seemed so important back then... Right? It seemed more important than the dinner that you had spent hours cooking, or how much you had looked forward to seeing us, or the fact that we were expecting twins, or the fact that Ella was getting married. I remember how angry I was that you, especially you, would not walk that statement back. Lisa was right there with us, you couldn’t possibly sound so radical. I remember Ella’s face when dad punched the table and told me to apologize. I remember how she quietly cried when I looked into dad’s blue eyes, held his gaze and said no. I remember how proud I was to be on the right side and how disappointed I was in you that you were on the wrong side. I remember walking out of the house, my soup still warm and untouched, Lisa’s hand on mine, my babies growing in her womb. I remember the post that I wrote about it later on my blog, and I remember how many likes I got, 7,989. I remember all of it, but I cannot, so help me God, remember why we had that stupid, stupid argument. But we had it, and like Granny would’ve said: “...And that was that!” The years passed and our daughters grew up without grandparents. Ella had to struggle and fight between her love for us and her nieces with the constant need to repair something broken over such a small thing. I was so stubborn. Our daughters grew up asking why they only had two grandparents. I told them that you were bad people. Can you believe that Mom? I told your grandkids that you were bad people. You would call and I would not pick up, I would tell Ella that I wanted a written apology, but I would never open your letters, or your cards. Lisa wanted us to make amends too, at least I suspect this, we’ve never talked about it really. Maybe she was also caught by whatever had me in its claws, but I choose to think that women are wiser than us, and that she realized we should have reconciled. Lisa never threw any of your letters away. She says they must be in a box somewhere, and each weekend I clear a bit more of the storage space that we have rented to see if I can find them. I want to read those letters mom. I remember the call. Your calls I would ignore, but Dad had never called me once in all of these years. So I picked up. I remember Dad’s voice, I had never heard his voice waver before and it scared me. “Mom’s been hit by a drunk driver Son.” “Dad?” “Mom’s been hit by a drunk driver, and they don’t think she’s going to make it. You should come home son, as soon as you can.” I remember thinking that I was angry at you. I was angry because I thought you were some conservative troglodyte Mom. I have never speeded like I did then. I got a thousand pound fine, and I had to apply for a new license, and it was all for nothing because when I got to the hospital you were dead. The kindest, calmest, most hard-working person I’ve known was dead. When they showed me your body I felt relief, because that couldn’t be you. That wasn’t your face, your hair couldn’t be so white, it hadn’t been that long... Right? But it had been that long, and I wasted all of those years behaving like a self-righteous prick, and I can never fix that. When I apologize at your grave, nothing answers back. It’s like when I asked you something back when I was a kid, and you would take just that extra time to think about it, but this time it just goes on forever. I can’t remember why we argued, mom, and it’s fucking killing me. I just think that you would have been a terrific grandmother. Dad is a husk of a man since you’ve been gone, but he really enjoys his grandkids and it’s the only thing that makes him smile nowadays. He never talks about our fight and we have gotten much closer over these years. When he gets older he’ll move into the house with us and we’ll take care of him mom, I promise. I still can’t find your letters but I will. I am sometimes overwhelmed by all of it and I end up with the darkest thoughts.. Nobody that put these ideas onto my head gives a single fuck that you’re dead and I will never be able to make amends with you, or take any of this back. I don’t even know what to do with this bloody letter. I just hope that you can read this, and if you do, know that I was a proper idiot, and that I know I was and every day I try to walk further away from that person that I used to be. I will make sure that your granddaughters grow up to be kinder to us than I was to you.


Back when the world was young, the morning skies promised adventurers excitement in undiscovered lands. Hilda, a tall, stout woman, dressed in nothing more than a loose tunic and short trousers, was one of those adventurers, having traveled years, far from her home in the north. She hadn’t wanted to be an adventurer at first. Her people kicked her out for her love of dancing, and every other place she visited wanted nothing to do with her. Over the years, though, she had grown to enjoy her adventures. At this time, however, she was tired and hungry and needed a place to regain her strength, and thus, found herself on the outskirts of a village. The people of this area were smaller and fairer than Hilda; quick and slender, and given to much dancing. Knowing this, she worried how she would be received, wishing she too, could dance with them. Hilda fashioned a hooded cape from her travel blankets and pulled it close around herself. She bent her knees and stooped as far as she could to appear short like the villagers and so, made her way to the market. As she passed the villagers, they carefully made way for her and greeted her politely. She nodded at them in what she hoped was a friendly enough gesture. At the market, Hilda spoke as softly as she could to hide her gruff voice, and ordered what was, for her, a light lunch. “I’d like one of the roasted hens, a basket of greens, and a loaf of rye bread, please.” The vendor looked at Hilda, and then at the rising sun. “Venerable lady,” he said, believing her to be ancient by her stooped posture, “it’s a warm morning. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable loosening your cloak?” “Oh no,” she said, “my customs require modesty, and I must stay covered at all times.” The man gathered her food and waited for payment. In order to avoid showing her large, dark hands, she said, “Take the money from the purse that hangs at my waist, plus an extra copper for your trouble, and put my goods in the sack. I lost my gloves and cannot expose my bare hands.” He took the money he was owed and put her purchases in the sack she carried over her shoulder. “I hope you enjoy that meal with your friends,” he said, “as it seems you have enough for four. My name is Henri. If you require anything else, ask for me by name.” “Thank you, Henri,” she said. “I am Hilda. Do you know where I might find a room?” “Priscilla, the shepherdess who lives at the end of this road, has a spare room,” he said, “for a low price. Tell her I sent you.” “Thank you again, and I hope your day is profitable and as pleasant as you are,” she said. Hilda made her way to the end of the road, her stooped posture tiring her and making her joints ache. At the end of the road she found a cottage next to a field where sheep grazed. A broken-down barn, fallen fences, and overgrown brush marked the edges of the field. While she was trying to decide how she would pay for lodging, the shepherdess approached. “Hello, grandmother,” she said. “Good morning, Priscilla. Henri sent me,” Hilda said. “My name is Hilda and I have travelled far.” “Are you in need of a place to rest?” “I am,” she answered. “Are you not over-warm in that heavy cloak?” Priscilla asked. “My customs require modesty, and I must take care to stay covered at all times.” “You can sleep in the loft. It’s two coppers a night, unless you can clear the brushes from the field,” she said with a wink. “I can clear them,” Hilda said, “but I must do it at night, and no one may watch me, for I fear for my modesty.” Priscilla seemed unsure but agreed to let Hilda clear the field that night. “There’s a shovel in the barn you can use,” she said. Hilda went into the cottage and up to the loft, which creaked and groaned under her weight. In short time she had finished the chicken, greens, and bread. The bed was far too small, but she lay down curled up to sleep until the middle of the night. Rising when she was certain Priscilla was sound asleep, Hilda made her way out to the field. Once there, she removed her cloak and stood up straight. With large, clawed hands she ripped the brush out of the edges of the field, all the way to the woods. She was about to return to the cottage when she spied a wolf sneaking toward the sheep. Hilda pounced on the wolf and tore its heart out with one swipe. She left the wolf carcass with the pile of brush and snuck back into the cottage. When Priscilla woke, she found the wolf with the pile of brush. “She must have used the shovel to kill it,” she thought. She left a few coppers on the table with a note to Hilda that it was payment for ridding her of the wolf. Hilda returned to the market, to buy another meal from Henri. “Henri, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said. “You as well, grandmother. I had a very profitable day yesterday, indeed. I believe it was the smile you put on my face that made my customers happy.” They repeated the previous day’s exchange, Henri taking the money from her purse and putting the goods in her sack. This time, she told him to take two coppers for his trouble. Hilda sweated terribly under the heavy cloak, but she dared not reveal herself for fear of not being accepted. “If you are interested in a wolf pelt,” she said, “Priscilla has one from a wolf that was threatening her sheep. She would probably part with it for few coppers.” “Thank you for the news, Hilda,” Henri said, smiling broadly. “I’ll collect it later today. Enjoy your day.” Back at the shepherdess’ cottage, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or for repairing the fences. Hilda looked at the fences. “I can fix them, tonight. But no one must see me work, as I fear for my modesty.” “Of course,” Priscilla said. “There’s a hammer in the barn you can use, along with nails, posts, and rails.” That night, when she was certain Priscilla was asleep, Hilda snuck out of the cottage. She gathered the nails, posts, and rails, and carried them out to the field in one large bundle. Working as fast as she could, she tore the rotting posts out of the ground by hand and replaced them with the new posts, pounding them into the ground with a single strike from her fist. With her thumb she pushed the nails in to hold the rails in place. She was returning the left-over nails to the barn when she saw another wolf sniffing around the field. She pounced on it and smashed its head with one blow from her fist. Hilda left the wolf with the pile of old posts and rails and snuck back into bed. The following morning, Priscilla found the wolf and thought, “She must have killed it with the hammer.” Again, she left a few coppers on the table for Hilda. When Hilda returned to the market, Henri had her food ready to go, along with a bundle of cloth. “Lady Hilda,” he said, “I know you value your modesty, but that cloak cannot be comfortable in these warm lands. Please, take this gift.” The bundle of cloth was a cloak and gloves in a lightweight linen. Hilda wished she could show her smile to kind man. “Thank you, Henri. You are too kind. And with your cooking skills, you must be the catch of the village.” “It’s a small thing,” he said, “and I need room to start gathering furs for winter.” “Priscilla has another wolf pelt she would probably sell you for a few coppers.” “Thank you, Hilda. I’ll check with her later today,” he said, his smile threatening to extend beyond his face. Hilda returned with her bundle and changed into the light cloak. It hid her as well as her heavy cloak. The gloves were far too small, but she could put just her fingertips and claws in, and by being very careful could make it seem like her hands peeking out from the cloak. That afternoon, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or the repair of the barn. “I’ll repair the barn,” Hilda said. “But no one must watch, for I fear for my modesty.” “Of course,” Priscilla said. “I am curious how an old, bent woman with such a soft voice like yourself can do such heavy work, but I will respect your customs. There are nails, a hammer, planks, and a saw in the barn.” That night, Hilda snuck out to fix the barn. She cut the planks to length with a sharp claw and pushed the nails in with her thumb. In no time at all the barn looked fresh and new, and the old planks were piled next to it. Another wolf crept into the field, moving slowly toward the sheep. Once again, Hilda pounced, and with her claws cut its head clean off. She left the carcass next to the old planks and snuck back into bed. When Priscilla found the wolf in the morning she thought, “She must have used the saw to kill it.” Again, she left a few coppers for Hilda on the table. Hilda collected her coppers and went to the market in her new cloak and gloves. Despite not overheating, the stooped posture and bent knees were taking their toll on her. Henri greeted her with her lunch, packed up and ready to go. “I see you wore your new cloak,” he said. “It looks far more comfortable.” “It is, Henri. I can’t thank you enough.” She carefully handed him coppers for her meal, plus three extra, and took the bundle from him. “Priscilla has another wolf pelt,” she said. “I’ll go round and collect it this afternoon,” he said. “The big village dance is tonight. Will you join us?” “I love to dance,” she said. She realized, however, that she would be unable to dance while stooped over and hunched. “But, I’ll have to see.” “If your joints are too tired, there’s always a warm place by the fire to sit and listen to the music,” he said. “We shall see,” Hilda said, then returned to the cottage. “I do not have any work for you tonight,” Priscilla said, “but if you’ll come to our village dance, I will let you sleep in the loft another night.” Hilda considered it. Priscilla and Henri had been nothing but kind, and the other villagers she passed in the market each day shared that trait. “It would be an honor,” she said. The entire village turned out for the dance, held in Priscilla’s newly rebuilt barn. Musicians played a lively jig and the villagers danced and frolicked. Hilda wanted so to join them, but there was no way she could without showing herself, so she sat by the fire and tapped her toe to the rhythm. It was during the late hours of the night, the party still in full swing, when a clamor arose from the edge of the woods. A boy ran into the barn, shouting, “It’s an army! Come to raid!” “What will we do?” Henri asked. “They’ll take all my goods!” “And all my sheep!” Priscilla added. “There’s no use,” the mayor said. “We can’t fight them! We’ll have to give them what they want.” Hilda threw off the cloak and gloves and rose to her full height, her gray-green skin shining in the firelight, and her long tusks gleaming. “No!” she exclaimed in her full, gravelly voice. “I wouldn’t let the wolves take Priscilla’s sheep; I won’t let these dogs either.” She ran out of the barn, her steps thunderous, and yelled defiantly at the soldiers, “Come try to take it! I dare you!” The villagers stood stunned as she slashed and pummeled the entire army with her bare hands, sparing only the cooks, the medic, the drummer boy, and the animals. An ogre had been staying among them for days, but they didn’t know. “She’s an ogre, she should go!” the fiddler exclaimed. “No!” Henri and Priscilla said at the same time. “She has been helpful,” Priscilla said, “clearing my fields, fixing my fences, killing the wolves that would take my sheep, and repairing this barn. And she has been nothing but polite.” “This is true,” Henri said. “She has been an absolute delight each day in the market.” “We should not shun someone just because of their looks,” the mayor said. “If she wishes to stay, she is welcome as long she would like.” Hilda had been listening to all this and smiled. She did like the idea of staying in the village for a while, at least. “If she wishes to join us,” the mayor said, “she can join in this next dance!” The mayor signaled for the band to start back up and the people began dancing again. Overjoyed, Hilda joined in, her steps light and agile despite her huge size. They danced until the early hours of the morning, then Hilda went out to clean up the battle site. She built a huge pyre with the old slats, posts, and rails, and used the brush for kindling. She gave a reverent funeral for the fallen soldiers. The cooks, medic, and drummer boy were offered a wagon and an ass to leave if they chose, but having been pressed into service, they all chose to stay. In the morning, Henri and the mayor came out to talk to Hilda. “I see the army left fourteen horses, six asses, two oxen, and four wagons,” the mayor said. “Those are yours, as the spoils of combat.” “I have no need of any of them,” she said, “but would like a place to build a shelter where I can stay when I am not adventuring.” “The land between my field and the forest, which you cleared the first night,” Priscilla said, “belongs to no one. I’m sure the mayor would let you claim it and homestead there.” “Yes,” he said, “that is now your land. Do you need help building your house?” “I can do it myself,” she said, “though I would like to trade these animals for some milk goats, a few hens, and a bed.” “I can make a bed big enough for you, with a blanket and pillow,” said the carpenter, “for one of the wagons.” “I can provide six goats for one of the asses,” said the goat farmer. “I will give you eight hens,” said the fiddler, “if you can but accept my apology. I was wrong.” “I do accept your apology and will give you an ass as a sign of good faith.” Despite her protestations, the entire village stayed to help her build her house. The sawyer provided all the lumber she needed in exchange for one of the oxen. The blacksmith provided the nails in trade for a promise of the first cheese she made from the milking goats. Others provided labor, and a large lunch for everyone on the promise of Hilda not leaving too soon. So it was that in one day Hilda’s cozy cottage, and pens to hold her goats and hens were completed. The furniture maker brought the bed in his new wagon, and she had the first comfortable sleep in days. She stayed until she had traded away the last of the spoils, then met with Henri in the market. “I must go adventuring,” she said, “but I will return before the new moon.” “I had something to give you,” he said, “but if you must go, take this with you for good luck.” Henri gave her a ring he’d had made, large enough to fit her massive finger, yet still delicate in its design. “Is this a declaration?” she asked. “It is,” Henri said, “if you would have me. If not, keep it anyways, as my feelings will remain unchanged.” “Why?” she asked. “When you were hiding who you were, you were polite enough,” he said, “but no one could tell anything more about you. Now that you are yourself, you are a wonderful woman, ogre or no, and any woman who can dance the way you do is the woman for me.” “You will have your answer when I return from my adventure,” she said, her heart light. When she returned from her adventure bearing a sack of gold and dragon scales, she married Henri, and he moved into her cottage. There she lived to the end of her days, bar the occasional adventure, repairing fences and barns, clearing fields, killing wolves, chasing off raiding armies, and, once a month, dancing with the rest of the villagers in Priscilla’s barn.


It was approaching 2am when Lexi made the discovery that would fracture the world. She skulled the rest of her black coffee and sat the paper cup down on the smooth, white table. She was at the university working on her PhD thesis. The research involved creating controlled, miniature black holes in a Vacuity Machine and then testing its potential for hyper-space travel. It was mostly hypothetical research. Lexi ran the formulas through the Vacuity Machine over and over again. She was analysing the results of her most recent trial, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, when a chill ran from her tail bone to her shoulders. "Holy mother of God," she said to the air. She took a moment to catch her breath. Lexi had found evidence that no god existed. No god, gods or any divine creators of life. None. Nothing. And it was all discovered by accident, as an unexpected side effect of her research. The proof was irrefutable. Undeniable. It was flashing on the screen of this machine in an insignificant laboratory at an unimportant university on an irrelevant planet. Her proposal wasn’t intended to yield any definitive conclusions but black holes are a mystery and when you continuously prod the unknown, something unintentional is bound to occur. I need to call Steve. She thought. Forty-five minutes later and her supervisor-turned-lover, Steve, burst through the door of the lab. "Where?" he asked. Lexi pointed to the screen. "I'm certain I interpreted the data correctly but I need another pair of eyes,” she said. Steve hurried over to the screen, eyes focused on the target like a predator on its prey. A silence stretched on for the next hour as Steve filtered through the results. Lexi watched the screen over his shoulder, trying to find a flaw in the formula, a discrepancy in the data. She was overwhelmed by the potential power she held. Finally, Steve turned around to face her. He took off his glasses and looked at her with an unnatural glow in his eyes. "It's watertight, Lex,” he said. “There’s no doubt about it.” He made a sound that was somewhere between and laugh and a cry. "We're officially godless." * A few hours passed as they retested the hypothesis. The results came out the same every time. They left the lab as the sun rose and Steve offered to drive Lexi home. She refused, preferring to walk home in the crisp morning air. She needed to process the impact of her discovery. Steve understood, gave her a quick peck on the lips and sped back home in his Subaru. Lexi walked home on the path that followed the beachfront. She breathed in salt and leaves and coffee from a nearby van where a man was selling hot beverages to morning walkers. She bought a black coffee, exchanging a polite smile with the barista, and sat on a bench overlooking the calm ocean. The discovery did not threaten Lexi’s identity. She had never truly been religious. “Agnostic,” she’d say if the topic ever arose but she had never based her life on these beliefs. Still, as she sipped her bitter coffee and watched the amber sky give way to blue, she felt as if some mystery or some sort of magic had departed the earth. She watched the passers-by. The runner with a pram, the women laughing and gossiping on their power walk, a dog playing fetch with its owner in the shallows of the ocean. Lexi could already feel the foundations of society buckling under the weight of her discovery. Society was mostly secular these days but she understood the importance and the need for purpose even if it was an illusion. And here I am... one person who rendered everything meaningless. The realisation pierced her conscience like a nail through skin. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t take responsibility for it. I need to call Steve. She thought for the second time that morning. She pulled out her phone and touched Steve’s name. There was barely any time for a ring before Steve picked up. "Lexi!" his face appeared on her phone screen. “Steve, listen to me. We can’t release the results to the public.” “What are you talking about? Why not?” he demanded. Tears began to gather around the lids of her eyes. “I can’t do it. It’s not ethical.” His tone changed, became softer and more reassuring. "Oh darling, don't be worried. This is a good thing. Trust me.” He paused for a moment. “This... is the right thing, Lex.” “You can't know that,” she countered. “I know that it might stop some oppressive regimes and wars. It’ll shut up those bigoted zealots for a start.” "Steve, we’re not doing it. We’re just not.” Her voice was surer now, more adamant. Steve took a deep breath in and pushed the air back out with a long sigh. "Look, Lex. This is an amazing thing you've discovered. Don't hide it. The world should know.” “I’m not so- “ He interjected, “even without religion, people will still find something to believe in." There was silence between them for a few seconds. "Plus, I've forwarded the research to a few contacts at NASA. They’re briefing the President this afternoon.” *** Pope James was jostled out of sleep by his 5am alarm. He rose out of bed, put on his white robe, its matching zucchetto and his large, silver crucifix which weighed down comfortably around his neck. At the end of the corridor was his private chapel, a room in which he took morning mass alone. The chapel was dressed in cardinal red from the velvet curtains to the patterned, Italian rug on the floor. The red was contrasted by a white and gold alter adorned with roses and cream candles that flickered when lit. Frankincense coated the room with its earthy, sweet notes. A white Jesus on a dark wooden cross hung from the wall above the alter, his face tired and weary. Pope James knelt before the Son of God. O Lord, I come to you to praise you on this great early morning as the sun begins to rise... As he gave his silent thanks, he found his mind wandering to Sister Celia. Images of her tanned skin and soft, brown eyes bubbled to the surface of his memory and he shook his head quickly as if to burst them. Give me guidance to lead and to inspire, give me strength to overcome the trials... Her smile pierced his concentration. Her lips distracted his focus as thoughts of her continued to inundate him. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen. Pope James opened his eyes and looked to his left where the life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary and her baby stood, watching over him with an expression of love and purity. He averted his eyes out of shame, as if she was real and could read his thoughts. * The meeting to discuss the discovery was scheduled for 9am. Pope James walked through the arches of the Papal apartment halls. The blue and gold painted ceiling reflected onto the polished marble floor which was so clean it appeared as if a thin layer of water ran across it. Father John, his butler, followed a footstep behind. “Are you concerned, Pope James?” asked Father John. “Not in the slightest.” Pope James kept his eyes fixed ahead of him as they spoke. “A lot of the world leaders are,” Father John pushed. “They’re nervous about the potential for chaos and instability.” Pope James stopped. “And are you, Father John, suggesting that I too should be worried about the potential implausibility of our God?” Father John didn’t shy away from this test of authority. “No. My faith is stronger than ever as I’m sure yours is too. But I’ve never seen rational world leaders behaving as senselessly as they are now. Some major cities in the USA have been shut down to counteract a potential increase in public violence. That in itself is concerning.” “A lot of those leaders should be rejoicing, shouldn’t they? Isn’t this what they’ve always wanted?” Pope James offered no more thoughts and they continued walking in silence. Father John had a point. Uncertainty, often accompanied by fear, was spreading through the masses like an unmanageable viral outbreak, and not just in the USA. The data of the research wasn’t public knowledge but rumours were already placing a strain on the population’s peace of mind. They approached the meeting room, a large rectangle outlined by a ring of wooden chairs. Dark, mahogany bookshelves lined the cream walls and a patterned, crimson rug took up the space in the centre of the room where one might expect a table to be. Pope James sat at the right side of the room in front of a religious painting. Papal members entered the room in single file and each took their seats on the perimeters. Sister Celia sat a few chairs away from the Pope and they shared a brief smile. Then Pope James stood. “Good morning all,” he announced. “We are here to discuss the academic research of Alexa Miller and Stephen Chalmers which, apparently, provides evidence that God does not exist.” A small laugh sounded from the Papal members. “I would like to note that this is something I would not usually waste our time with, however, a number of world leaders have placed a large amount of pressure on us to investigate the research.” Pope James looked across the room, making eye contact with each Papal member as he spoke. “As modern members of the Vatican, we must work with political leaders and carry out our duties as leaders of the church to unify the voice of Catholicism. I am hoping that we can be finished with this spectacle before lunchtime.” He smiled and the room indulged his cynical dig with a collective laugh. “Let’s begin.” Four men, all dressed in black suits, took the verbal cue and entered the middle of the room. They began to set up a large computer which looked alien in a such a traditionally-designed room. The computer was the size of a vending machine and a similar shape too. Its dull, silver flanks had multiple cables running from it to circular outlets on a black cube nearby. Lights were flashing on and off. A power bank of sorts, Pope James speculated. Other cables from the silver structure led to a small screen perched on top of a table that the computer men had brought in. After about fifteen minutes, one of them spoke. “Pope James, it is ready for you to observe.” Pope James pushed himself out of his seat and walked towards the computer screen. “We will run the formulas through the computer as Alexa Miller did. Then we will proceed to break down the results for you and the Papal members for discussion.” The man’s words came off as slightly patronising but Pope James brushed his annoyance aside. “Okay, let’s get this done with.” * Three hours later and the room was silent with shock. The suited men had left and taken their hideous technology with them, leaving the members to discuss the events privately. Suddenly, the silence gave way to a cacophony of chaos as members, hit by the reality of the discovery, broke into fits of panic. “Silence. Silence!” Pope James stood up and shouted above the discordance of voices. Everybody succumbed to his command. “What we have witnessed today is indeed alarming and unexpected. But God would not want us to behave like primitive monkeys in light of what we have seen. I am suggesting that this is a sinister ploy by the Devil and we should discuss how to approach it.” He only partially believed what he had said. Someone shouted from the other end of the room. “God doesn’t exist and neither does the Devil! You all just saw it for yourselves!” “Our lives and work have been a joke!” Another yelled and an angry murmur of agreement echoed throughout the room. For the first time, Pope James was scared. He improvised. “If your faith in our Holy Father dithers so easily in the face of a devilish charade, then you no longer deserve to be a part of the Vatican and I ask you to leave immediately.” He’d intended it to come out as more of a threat than an instruction and was startled when lifelong friends and colleagues filed out of the meeting room. Only five remained, including himself. Father John, a Bishop, another priest he did not know well and Sister Celia. "You need to make a public speech denouncing the research,” the Bishop urged. “By saying nothing, you're making a statement. You're admitting that they're right." "People will think you agree with them," Father John chimed in and the others nodded in agreement. Sister Celia grabbed his hand. "What is He telling you, Pope James?" she asked. Everybody fell silent, choosing to ignore the inappropriate physical contact. Pope James became aware of a quiet pecking at the window. His gaze followed the sound and he spotted a pigeon sitting on the stone ledge just outside the window, its head turning directions quickly and sporadically as if it were stuck in a glitch. The others looked at the pigeon too. "Pope James?" Sister Celia spurred him out of his trance. "I will hold a public speech to reassure the believers. He is telling me that there is nothing to fear as long as our faith remains strong. And mine is immovable." He felt his stomach sink as the words left his mouth. * Pope James did not sleep for the next four nights. * The morning of the speech, Pope James rose from his bed and put on his robe as usual. He fixed the silver crucifix around his neck, noting his dark eyes in the mirror. The wrinkles around his face were more pronounced than usual and the colour in his eyes seemed to have greyed. He knelt at the alter in his private chapel as he did each day, delirious with anxiety. He hadn’t felt the respite of sleep for days and was finding it hard to distinguish the difference between reality and unreality. Weren’t they the same thing now anyway? "God, give me guidance. Give me faith. Show me that you are real," he pleaded to the heavens but the words felt weightless. The air in the room felt still. The candles no longer flickered as they usually did. The frankincense smelt burnt somehow. He looked to his left where the Virgin Mary stood. She looked at him and the sides of her smile began to stretch up her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed and her lips split apart releasing an otherworldly laugh and Pope James fell from his knees onto the ground in fear. He bolted out of the room, trying to escape the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. On his way out, he bumped into Sister Celia, sweet-scented and solemn. “Pope James,” she gasped. “I heard you yell from your chapel and rushed over. Are you alright?” She held his elbow, offering comfort, and looked up at him. Pope James was breathing rapidly like a panicked child. Sister Celia maintained her composure. “Come with me. I’ll make you a tea to calm your nerves.” “But the speech is only an hour away. I need to prepare.” “The best thing for you right now, is to sit down and breathe.” *** Lexi and Steve sat together on a dirty, blue couch watching the news from a safe house in the middle of wherever. They had moved there yesterday after angry strangers starting attacking them on the streets and just before heated mobs had found their addresses. The news broadcasted scenes of civil disruption. Looters climbed through the broken windows of shops, trucks sped through smoke-filled streets and places of worship burned down with voracious flames. In other shots, masses of people were seen praying to a giant banner hooked up to the side of a building. On it was a painting of Lexi’s face. Neither Lexi nor Steve commented. They were numbed and convinced themselves that the outside world was a separate, fictional reality. Steve broke the silence. “It’s nearly time, switch it to World News.” Lexi felt sick. She had caused this mayhem, this Armageddon of sorts. She didn’t want to watch the speech but she switched the channel anyway. Something inside her hoped that Pope James would say something to rectify the situation, to reverse the damage she’d caused. The Pope’s gaunt face shone from the TV. His tired, frail body moved up the steps to the podium where the microphone was placed. Lexi remembered him being old but not this old. “Hello,” Pope James said as he leaned into the microphone. “Many of you have been waiting for my comment on Alexa Miller’s discovery.” Lexi felt like retching when he said her name. “And I would just like to say that I have observed the evidence and have reflected on it.” He stared up at the sky for a long time. Lexi could see from the close-up that he was shaking. He pulled something out from somewhere in his robe and raised it to his chin. Lexi screamed and the TV visuals shook as the cameraman temporarily lost control of the camera. Before the Pope could pull the trigger, a nun jumped across the stage and tackled him to the ground. Pope James cried as the nun cradled him in her arms. After a long moment, he looked up at the nun and kissed her. “The world’s gone mad,” Steve said. “No thanks to us,” Lexi replied. They looked at each other gravely and after a while, broke into a laugh. And they laughed until they no longer could.


Bethena, a concert waltz, placed me in a mood. If pain needed emotion then the song would drown me in it. The crescendo of the song flashed before my eyes, and I could see flashes of her life. The bathroom door was also across to mine. It wasn't the largest room but I needed to see the door. I needed to hear the noises she made, and I had to know it was unlocked. I needed access to be by her side if she needed me there. Even with the door shut, I can perfectly envision the sliver of mirror that can be seen from this angle. The memory of her sobbing as I ran the clippers over her head. She was an emotive person and gripped the vanity as she lost hers. Tears gave her something to feel. Joy embraced as we learnt how to knit together, an assortment of matching beanies and clothes to donate to charity. The click as she turned it was louder than the phone ringing, or the code blue ringing through a hospital ward. There was a conversation she enforced on me before I was mature enough to hear it. She was a planner. There was always a solution and she had the map to solve this one. Not the key to a treasure chest but one to the outside world she had been barred from. Even before, we had rule to never lock the bathroom door. Falling out of the tub resulting in stitches when she was three ensured that rule. Her head had been sore for days, and required a scan to ensure nothing was wrong. There is always a need to check things, just to be sure, but you never expect there to be something wrong. Especially something no one can fix. A simple brain scan was enough to ensure that the bathroom door remained unlocked to this day. Can it have really been fourteen years already? She can't remember the start like I can, but pain has a way of piercing your heart before love can heal it. She was brave, and like a tree with a split trunk grew regardless of how broken her spirit became over fourteen years. She might have been a pianist. Fourteen years was long enough to stop her fingers from following sheet music, but I hear her slamming her palms along the keys to just hear something, or feel something. The vibrations giving her control over something that she had the potential to hurt. She had asked me for this, in the wordless way teenagers do when they yearn for independence. I remember seeing her research the medications she was taking, which had the strictest dosages. The ones with poison control's number printed on the bottle. It wasn't a mistake I stumbled into. She let me see. She was forced to become a planner around a life that couldn't be scheduled. I had been doing house chores when I had heard the click. My hands fell empty into the sink, dropping the dish she had eaten cereal out of that morning. She hadn't even requested something special, she didn't want this to be a special day. No one else was home and she had planned it that way. She spoke about this day as a when, not an if. I left the sink full and cold to check her room. To remember how it was in this moment when it still remembered her. The bed made and the note - dated years prior. The only fresh ink printed at the bottom 'play loud music' . She might have been a nurse. Her compassion to save someone from pain would have rivalled any mother's. There are few hobbies that matched her criteria. One you can take worldwide, and have with you always. If you were home, if you driving hours away for a 10 minute visit which turned into 10 days. To assist you when you heard bad news. That you could participate in once you lost nearly every ounce of energy. When her own talents failed her physically, listening to the power behind the creation of a composer and his command of an orchestra gave her something to feel. A world to view in which she could have laid before her and participated in. She might have been a composer. Her handwriting had been messier when she fourteen but I knew she missed the dexterity of holding a pencil. Perhaps she had foreseen the inability coming. She had always been smarter than I was. I held her note in one hand, the right. My cellphone in the left. I wouldn't call until I knew for sure. I had done research myself, to know how long she needed before her actions were too late to reverse. I wanted to love her in this moment. To apologise for condemning her to this life that dealt more pain than joy, and what love would stop her from ending her misery. As much as I needed to see her face and falsely reassure her how it will be okay, I needed her to be brave one final time. This pain for me would be temporary, but hers had been permanent. This was the compromise I had prayed for. This wouldn't take my guilt but he could take her pain. I repeated the song, a favourite we shared. The song she requested I play at her funeral. I wanted her to know, at this moment, I respected her wishes. I would make the calls, I would make the plans. There was nothing else she needed to worry about. I gave her time before I called anyone. I would retrieve the DNR she asked for, the ambulance would need to see it, even though we had planned it well enough that it would be too late. I'd been assured that dreaming about all the things she might have been was normal. So long as I didn't forget the things she was. She had been a pianist. A professional even, as I recalled her sister giving her a dollar to stop playing, causing them to giggle. She had been a nurse. She administered bandaids and healing kisses. She read stories to other children waiting treatment or surgery. She had held back hair while people vomited and rubbed their backs. She had been a composer. Creatively banging knitting needles, or pans in the kitchen to some tune and singing randoms words. And in the end, she was a rule breaker - she had locked the door. She might have been lots of things, but at 4:23pm that Wednesday, after breaking down the locked door, the coroner announced her free .