I remember that the room smelled of death. Not in a sickly way, but like dust; like sadness. And it didn’t just stay in your room, as I wished it would, but it filled the whole house, seeping through the hallway into my bedroom as well. Even when I tried to open my windows, get the fresh air from three stories up, the smell of your death mixed with the breeze and made it smell like dust; like sadness. It made me sick, the way stagnant air does, or the way the cat dandruff at Grandpa’s house did.  And of course, you slept through most of it.  I thought about wearing a mask indoors in those first days that they shut us inside. Of course, back then - in the first few months of the lockdown - the official reccomendation had been to not wear a mask (If only we had known!). I tried to put one on, an old N95 mask, that I had lying around. I nearly choked. The air just got harder to breathe, but it was still the same air, stagnant and sickly. I cursed the windows of our apartment for being so large and opening so little.  I brought plants into your room thinking it would cheer you up. You smiled when I brought them in, a soft murmur of thanks. Your hair was grey, like a Grandmother’s hair, except you weren’t a grandmother: you were just my mom and I was just your son. People say we have the same face, except back then, yours was fragile and tired. I tried my best to ignore the smell, the aura of death, pulling up a wooden chair, the one that had been in your room for as long as I could remember, and sat down next to your bed. I held each plant up to you, one at a time. “This is a succulent. They’re all the rage now among young people because you don’t have to water them very much.” I looked down: “James gave it to me.” “James? What a sweet boy. You don’t still talk to him, do you?” “Mom...” “Alright, then.” “You can grow succulents by cutting off parts of the stem and replanting them. Isn’t that cool?” “Why would you want more of the same succulent?” you said, confused and a little amused. “Maybe so we could have two. One for each room. Then I could have one in my room and you could have one in here.” “No, that would be a waste of pots. There are other plants.” “Alright then.” I reached down and held up another pot. “This one is a Bird’s Nest Fern. It needs to be watered and pruned all the time. If it doesn’t get enough sunlight, it’ll die immediately. Super high maintenance.” “What a stupid plant. I can’t imagine how it survived before humans decided to care for it.” You said, and it made me smile a bit. After holding them up to you, and hearing your opinions on all of them, I set the five plants - another succulent, a jade plant, and some lucky bamboo - on your great big windowsill that looked out to the sky. Did I ever tell you that you were a great interior decorator? I think that’s what you should’ve done, instead of going out and getting your doctorate to work with kids. I loved the creaminess of our apartment. The tasteful simplicity of the plain wooden furniture. Minimal photos too. I liked that: not being able to see myself, or that it was just the two of us in the family. I was always jealous of your room. I had always wanted a faded pink comforter, just like yours, but I had always been too afraid to ask. Your queen bed, giving the perfect view of the window: I wanted that too. I wanted tasteful simplicity in my life. Adding the plants to your room made me happy: a minor improvement to an already beautiful room; the greens of the plants fit the creamy walls and made the room feel a little bit less pale.  I didn’t realize how hard it would be to water them once I left them in your room.  During that time, I wandered around the apartment, silently drifting from room to room - all of them bathed in the same warm sunlight - constantly checking my phone. I’m sure everyone else was too, except for you. The virus didn’t mean much to you, given that you hadn’t left the apartment or your bed in weeks anyway, but I wanted to get outside so badly. I wanted fresh air, and to get away from death, but I didn’t, because I knew if I caught the virus, you’d die even faster and in pain. Maybe it was the silence that got to me. It made the air feel so much more still without the constant hum of engines or the honking of cars outside. There were no voices to make their way into our house from the street, and barely any footsteps either. In the apartment, it was just you, me, and the low hum of the refrigerator that reminded me of the time Grandpa died.  When you were asleep, I’d come in with my tiny watering pot and spray bottle. I’d only come in when you were asleep, which was hard to tell a lot of the time since being asleep and awake was more-or-less the same for you. I’d skirt around your door, peeking in sideways, listening for the rustle of covers. You’d be lying there, eyes closed. Just when I’d think you were asleep, one foot in the room, you’d say out loud: “Daniel? Is that you?” knowing perfectly well that it was. I shuffled into the room, uncomfortably, “Hey mom.” After a pause, I said, “Would you like to see videos that Davis sent me? They’re videos of downtown. Times Square is empty right now.” You weren’t interested, but you pretended you were: “The Governor has mandated the lockdown, right?” “Yeah. All non-essential services are closed.” “What counts as essential?” “Supermarkets, doctor’s offices, banks, gardening...” “Gardening?” “Yup, gardening.” “Just let the plants die,” you said with a snort. Then, after a pause, you corrected yourself: “Well, not these plants Daniel. Not the ones in my room.”  Those weeks were claustrophobic, but they also felt timeless. How do you explain to friends that you’re stuck inside with your dying mother who seems to have no intention of dying or getting better? Or that you’re deathly afraid of the future where your mom doesn’t exist? I think our days kind of fell into a routine because I honestly don’t know how many days passed. You’d sleep, and I’d try to find ways to entertain myself. The only time I’d go into your room would be to water the plants or bring you food or water. Instead, I listened to music. I read books. I tried to write some poems (thank God you never read them), but no matter how long I occupied myself for, it would still be daytime, and sunlight would still be shining through the windows. I’d give up then, and spend the rest of the day studying how that light entered the room. Where it landed on the floor fascinated me: I liked how it warmed the parts it landed on and how the rays reflected off the wood. Then I’d make you some food, almost always soup.  The plants began to thrive. You seemed to like that. A little bit of life in a room that had the air of death. I tried to get birds to sit out on your windowsill so that you’d have something to watch and so that I wouldn’t feel so bad avoiding you. I set seeds and bits of food out on the windowsill, but the only birds that came were pigeons that would fly away as soon as they had finished eating. I should have known - that only the pigeons in New York City would come - but then again, I was twenty-two and what did I know about the world? You slept through most of the bird feedings anyways. “Daniel?” “Yes?” I said, bent over by the windowsill. “Did you ever watch that movie, that one about the gay, black man in Florida?” “No, what’s it called?” I said, slightly amused and knowing perfectly well that she meant *Moonlight*. “I don’t know. It’s about a gay, black man in Florida. I think Miami.” “Mom, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I have to watch every gay movie out there.” “Alright. Well I want to watch it.” That night, I sat in your room with you, with me in the chair I always sat in, you buried underneath faded pink covers, and we watched *Moonlight* on my laptop. I felt a sly smile from you when Kevin and Chiron kissed but pretended not to notice. “The movie was boring.” “I liked it a lot.” “That’s just because you’re gay.” “No, I thought it was thoughtful.” “And I thought it was boring.”  No one knew that you were dying really. You and I were alike in that we didn’t have many friends. Anyways, they couldn’t have come over at the time: you must’ve picked the worst time to die, just when no one could leave their house to watch you. The only audience you had was me and the plants and the pigeons, and the pigeons and I didn’t want to watch.  I remember when Grandpa died, in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors with the lights dimmed down. There was that periodic beeping and also the sound of his breath. I sat in the corner: he was hooked up to wires and tubes all over his body, held alive only by the forced expansion and compression of an external lung. I had looked away as a kid.  Anyways.  I remember that the day that you died, while I watered the plants, you asked me, “Daniel, have you ever fallen in love?” You caught me off guard. It was the most sensitive question you had ever asked me. I told you that I think I had before. “That’s good. That’s good,” you murmured, in silent contemplation. You smiled a bit. Then you said, louder, “Was it James?” “No, it wasn’t James.” “Maybe you should fall in love with James. He’s a great gay boy.” “Mom!” I left the room, embarrassed. What I didn’t tell you then was that my heart had been broken and that I didn’t think I would ever be able to love again. That I was afraid that no one would ever be right for me. I remember reading stories where death brings about a particular candor: people confessing their deepest secrets to each other, and I wish it had been the same for us because there were so many things I wanted to tell you. I wish I told you what it felt like growing up without a dad or any siblings. That I used to feel like maybe if a dad had taught me how to change the oil in a car, or maybe if a sibling had taught me how to wrestle or fight, I wouldn’t have felt so defenseless and helpless all the time. But you taught me softness and sweetness, and how to treat people kindly. I wish I told you how I graduated high school without ever going to the cafeteria because if I had sat with the girls, I would have been laughed at for sitting with the girls, and if I sat with the boys, I would have been laughed at for being a boy who should have been sitting with the girls. But I got to sit down with you every night instead. And I wish I told you how upset I felt every time you scared those delinquent boys off with your wittiness and your motherly gaze. But I know that you just wanted the best for me, and maybe you were right: those boys weren't right for me anyway.  So thanks, you did your best.  That afternoon, I slipped into your room silently while you were sleeping, not to water the plants, not to bring you food, but just because you were in there. The air was so still and the room so pleasantly warm. I watched you sleep for a while, in that chair that I always sat in. Then, I got up and lay down next to you on the bed, above the covers. We formed two parallel lines, one on top of the covers, one buried beneath, but still pointed in the same direction, always together. Staring up at the ceiling, I studied the room from the angle you had become so accustomed to. In the corner of the ceiling, there was a single cobweb. I imagined its maker was beautiful and delicate. I imagined myself, being beautiful and delicate. Then I studied the way the light illuminated the room, watching, as the sun seemed to creep up the opposite wall. I fell asleep like that.  I dreamed the most beautiful dream. It was filled with abstraction and light. You were there too, in the form of a ball of warmth and sunlight. We were in a garden, plants sprouting up from the wet soil, and I held you close to my heart.  When I woke up, the sun was setting and a thin layer of dust had blanketed the floor and you had died.  Mom.  Mother.  Fast forward four years. When I look back now, I think about how you acted in that bed and how you never talked about how you were dying. I realize that all the small talk - all the little prods you gave me - were all meant to make it easier on me. Because you knew. You knew that I was just a boy, afraid of death, and locked in an apartment with his dying mother: God, I was afraid. Given the irony of the situation, you must’ve been howling on the inside!  Mother.  I’ll always wish I told you everything I had the chance to, but hopefully, this is a start. It took me a while, but I’m a man now, moving out of his apartment that he and his mother called home for so long. And he’s taking the plants with him; his mom was never a fan of them anyway. So I’m in my car - your car - driving out to California, and maybe you’ll always be dying out east, but I'm moving out west to write poems and stories. They’re going to be beautiful, just like you were. I take in a deep breath and the air feels fresh and pure.  I can’t wait to tell you about the people I’ve yet to meet and the memories I’ve yet to make.


The song, "" by Petit Biscuit basically forced me to write this:  Your wife is on her deathbed and the doctors say she hasn't got much time left. One day, you're sitting next to her. She's asleep, and even though you know she can't feel you there, you can't bear the thought of leaving her... until suddenly a portal opens up in the middle of the hospital room. Through it, you hear your wife's voice. One you never thought you would hear again. She says that if you come through the portal with the thing she treasured most in life she can be with you again. You can hardly believe it. Is this a hallucination? It must be. Still, you gently grab your wife's hand, which has gone frail and thin from months in a hospital bed, and slide off her wedding ring. You go through the portal and end up in a mysterious, lonely land.  Everything in it is foreign to you. The trees have red leaves, lined in gold, and every time you see an animal, it appears as hardly anything but a shadow. You hear whispers and get a general feeling of where to go, and for the first time in almost a year, you feel hope. You believe you'll get to see her again. You journey for days, eating strange fruit that grew off those strange, impossible trees in this endless forest. Your determination never wavers, not even when you get swarmed by shadowy wolves or when you nearly fell into a pit that was so deep you could not see its bottom. You met several other travelers along the way, all of whom were in search of what they most loved. "Someone please help me! I can't find my brother! Please!" Screamed a young man in a wheelchair. He had a dog-tag around his neck and a photo crumpled in his too thin hand. "My daughter," said the woman in white. She clutched a small, pink rabbit in her hand as she spoke. "I haven't seen her in weeks... She's only four years old. I... I heard her here." "I need to find them. I need to find them... they were hurt. Where did they go?" muttered a man in a tattered shirt. Fresh burns crawled up his hands, stopping at his forearms, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He carried a doll, a plastic car, and a delicate teacup in his arms. They were the hardest obstacles to ignore, but the voice urged you on. All those who strayed off the path became lost irrevocably in the woods, and no matter what you did, they would never come back. It took weeks to finally get through the forest, and when you did, you were met with an empty sea and an alter, sitting right in the middle of it. The voice was silent, but you were determined. You... you could see *her*. You rush forward and are shocked to find that your feet do not sink through the water. It springs beneath your feet, but the eerily clear and fishless sea does not give. You reach the alter, and she is as beautiful as the day you married her. Her skin is no longer palid and grey, her body no longer a fragile skeleton under hospital sheets. You slide the ring onto her finger... And then you're back in the hospital. She is awake, only a little, and smiles at you. Did it work? Was it all a dream? Dear god, please... please don't take her away. She weakly moves her hand towards yours, and you clutch onto it like you'll die if you let go. "Sleep," she whispers. "I want you to fall asleep next to me, just like always..." She goes limp, and you notice for the first time that the hand you hold has no warmth. She was gone, and had been for hours... Her ring is gone.


Right after Sam helped me up, I felt myself being swept into yet another strange, otherworldly dimension. Yet, the grasp felt *different.* Not one of malice or malignancy, but one of whimsy and just a hint of untapped insanity. Eventually, I was deposited onto a couch within a rather cozy little apartment room. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very confused and all, but please do try and adjust yourself.” A college-aged girl stood in front of a blackboard, her-- “Hey. No describing us in the narration.” The girl rapped her pointer against the blackboard, a frown clouding her face. “I’m Lothli, and that over there is Maishul.” I followed her pointer to see what seemed to be an identical twin to the first girl, strapped to a chair with duct tape. Strangely, her mouth was straight up *missing.* She wasn't *struggling* or anything, just kind of sitting there limply, rolling her eyes. I got the general feeling that she wasn’t in any sort of real danger; it was more of an ‘oh god, here we go again’ type of mood. “Right, she’s tied up only because she would start bombarding you with uncomfortable questions if I let her speak. Now, on to the lesson.” The blackboard sprung to life, animating squiggles of chalk onto the board. In a few seconds, it shifted to say: “SHAPESHIFTING 101: The Square-Cube Law and You!” “Right, so something very important that you’ll have to grasp, Charlie, is the Square-Cube Law. It’s a law that governs the amount of mass within you and how it’ll translate to how you shapeshift into different pounds. So, since you’re 135 pounds--” Wait. Wait wait wait. Not only did this weirdo know my *nickname*, but she also knew how much I *weigh*? I didn’t know how she got this information, and I was beginning to feel a little concerned. “Stop worrying about insignificant things, Charlie. Now, say you wanted to transform into a rat--” “What!? I can turn into animals? I thought it was just changing my face and all that,” I exclaimed. “Yes, yes.” Lothli sighed before waving her hands at the blackboard. “Let me explain. First of all, you’re now a changeling. That means that you’re basically a skinbag packed full of this weird crystalline liquid that can reshape yourself at will.” The blackboard shifted to display a cuttlefish colored in with glittery blue chalk, titled with “✨Charlie!!!!!✨” A rather *disconcerting* image, to say the least. “Maishul, stop drawing on the blackboard. Sorry about that.” With a second wave of the hand, the image once again redrew itself to be a much more understated anatomical human colored in with a nice, sedated blue. Still somewhat disconcerting. “Anyways, that means you can change into basically anything you want. But you still have to obey conservation of mass, so the size may be radically different than what you may imagine.” Lothli snapped her fingers, and what appeared to be a regularly-sized rat appeared, floating in midair. Within moments, however, the rat began to rapidly spin in circles, with a caption titling it as “rapdly spinnin rat.” Yes, that was how it was spelled. “Ahem, apologies.” Frowning, Lothli stared at the rat until it decelerated, waving away the caption as well. “Well, since you’re 135 pounds, that puts you at just about 2.14 cubic feet of Charlotte.” “A rat is essentially a cylinder about 2 inches high and 8 inches long, disregarding the tail, which contains a relatively minor amount of mass. We can use that, along with the formula for a cylinder, to calculate the volume of rat Charlie.” The blackboard shifted again, showing two mathematical formulas: h = 8 * r 2.14 = πr^(2)h “Now, we substitute r for h...” 2.14 = 8πr^3 “And then solve for r!” r^3 = 2.14/8π r^3 = 0.085 r = 0.440 “Plug that back into h...” h = 0.440 * 8 h = 3.520 “So, in conclusion, if you turned into a rat, you’d be around 0.8 feet tall and around 3.5 feet long. Does that make sense?” I stared at the blackboard. My magical powers... it all came down to *math*? Something about that was faintly irritating. “Anyways, time for you to turn into a rat. Chop chop now!” Lothli stared at me impatiently, but I didn’t really want to transform into a rat. I mean, aren’t they kind of gross? I-- “If you don’t turn into a rat, I’ll do it for you. And you don’t want to be transformed by my hand, trust me.” The twin’s voice was underpinned by a vague, menacing shade. No, I did *not* want to experience that. I closed my eyes and pictured a rat in my mind. Ordinary little rat. Brown fur, tail, all that jazz. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lower to the ground. It felt...strange, to say the least. My fur definitely felt different from my clothes. “Hmm. Alright, let’s see how close we were.” Suddenly, holographic rulers sprung up around me. I squeaked in surprise. “Ahh. 0.8 feet by 3.4 feet. I assume that extra bit of mass was distributed to your tail and the volume of your fur, perhaps.” At that moment, Maishul began emitting an irritating on repeat. I had no idea about *how* she was doing it, especially without a mouth, but doing it she was. And it was horribly irritating. “Okay! Okay! Have your mouth back! Gah!” Lothli snapped her fingers, and Maishul’s mouth manifested back onto her face. Immediately, she shouted, “If you turned into a human cell, you’d be around 163 miles wide!!” ...What? I could do that? I mean-- “Don’t try it. Seriously. I don’t want to rebuild this apartment. And scrub the minds of the ungodly number of random people who would see that crap.” Lothli shook her head. “I think it’s about time you go back to your serial. Well, we’ll see if we need to grab Sam next...” “Huh?! Don’t you *dare* touch Sam--” With that, the invisible hand from before grabbed me, dragging me back from whence I came. But at least I knew the exact dimensions I would take if I transformed into a rat. *** WC: 1061 Charlie is from u/fhangrin’s serial, .


Sean has a problem. He isn’t ideal. He doesn’t like the reflection in the mirror. Sean's days unfold like a monotonous reel, each moment overshadowed by the persistent weight of dissatisfaction. The mirror. Oh, you unforgiving portal! You reflect not just the physical form but also the echoes of unmet aspirations and broken promises Sean made to himself. As he stands before it each morning, there's an unspoken dialogue between Sean and the mirror--a silent confrontation with the version of himself he wishes were different. Yet, Sean's journey is not just about appearances; it's a pilgrimage through the corridors of self-perception and resilience. The reflection he despises conceals layers of untold stories. The romances, the failures, the sweet victories, the incessant battle for some self-esteem. Each perceived flaw is a scar from the wars he has fought, a testament to the struggles written into the very fabric of his being. It is dark out. In these quiet hours, Sean contemplates the subconscious split between who he is and who he longs to be. The desire for change simmers within, a flame flickering in the shadows, only the darkness seems to creep up upon him like those shadows in the movie Ghosts , the playful creatures from the underbelly of hell. It's as if the very shadows that dance on the periphery of Sean's consciousness take on a mischievous life of their own. They play with his vulnerabilities, whispering doubts and temptations that echo louder than the voice of reason. So where do we begin about the allure of the cheeseburger which has got Sean in a mess? The cheeseburger, in his eyes, is an enchanting feast that beckons with an irresistible allure. It is a symphony of scents that serenades his senses, a harmonious composition of sizzling meat and bread. It is a seductive symphony. It is Al Pacino doing the Tango . It swirls through the air like an intoxicating virus, infiltrating every corner of his consciousness, leaving an indelible mark on the desires that lurk beneath. This olfactory virus is more than a scent; it's a parade. It is flamboyant and loud. As Sean breathes in the fragrant tendrils of the cheeseburger's allure, he finds himself ensnared in a sensory tale, where each aromatic note contributes to the crescendo of desire. Sean falters. Each layer of the cheeseburger, like a love letter penned by Romeo, reveals a story of flavors and textures that harmonize in a passionate embrace. Sean tries to reclaim control over his senses. It's a battle waged within the confines of his own desires. He summons the strength to resist, clenches his fists and steels himself against the pervasive aroma that threatens to compromise his resolve. But the yellow of the melted cheese is too much to ignore. Like a dream, Sean falls into the decadent cascade glistening in the warm embrace of the cheeseburger, its vibrant hue is like a visual symphony, an artistic masterpiece that dances with the sizzling notes of savory anticipation. Yet, as he confronts the cheeseburger's golden delight, Sean's internal conflict intensifies. The yellow becomes a metaphor for the sunshine of momentary pleasure, casting shadows on the path toward losing weight. Sean wants to chart his own course but the yellow of the melted cheese, its radiant hue, like a beacon of indulgence, casts shadows on the path he aspires to tread. As he contemplates the molten treasure, the yellow takes on an ominous significance, a symbol of falling deeper into the abyss of habits from which he fears he may never emerge transformed. “Well, well, Mr. Cheeseburger, you sure know how to make an entrance. Why don’t you come with a warning label? May cause sudden cravings, impromptu debates with oneself, and occasional fits of food poetry,” he said, chuckling at his own jest, refusing to turn on the lights, he sits there in the dark acknowledging the absurdity of this internal struggle. “Seriously, though, if you were a motivational speaker, I'd be in trouble. "Unlock your inner potential with every bite!" I can almost hear it. Sean stands on the precipice, recognizing the yellow of the melted cheese not just as a visual feast but as a symbol of the internal abyss he fears--where the pursuit of change may be lost to the gravitational pull of familiar comforts. Suddenly, a sense of helplessness cuts through the witty façade and sweeps over him. The aroma, rather than being a playful adversary, becomes a relentless reminder of a struggle that extends beyond the culinary realm. Sean, in a moment of vulnerability, lets out a sigh, his jesting tone giving way to a more somber reality. “It is not just about you. It's about me. About this endless dance I'm stuck in. It's like, I'm wrestling shadows. The more I want to change, the more I find myself sinking into this pit. “It's not just about not giving you up; it's about the willingness to fight. And lately, that willingness feels like it's slipping away, drowned out by this overwhelming sense of despair. It's like standing at the edge of a vast abyss, and no matter how much I want to climb out, it feels impossible. “You're a mirror reflecting a fight I'm losing, and it scares the hell out of me.” The cheeseburger, it is a love story, after all. It eventually ends in a savory embrace. Sean, with a quiet determination, takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the cheeseburger. “This may be the greatest love story after all. But not the kind where I surrender; it's the kind where I learn to love myself a bit more,” he says, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he acknowledges the complexity of the journey. “So, let's dance, you and I. Even if you are just a fleeting indulgence.” As Sean takes that first bite, there's a sense of acceptance, not of defeat but of understanding. The cheeseburger, once a symbol of despair, becomes a momentary ally in his ongoing battle. He is victorious tonight.


Byron's stomach sank when he got the news. Four hundred thousand dollars! From a distant cousin whom, as far as he knew, he'd never met in his life. His name was Jeffrey, and apparently he knew a thing or two about Byron when he'd made out his will. "What kind of sick sadist was this guy?" Byron asked himself while further reading the letter. He held onto his forehead with one hand as he scanned the lines. "How could he do this?" As he visualized the proposal, his irritable stomach sank even more. He could feel the G-force already, thrashing his worn, thirty-five year old body around like a human toy. His hard-lined face deepened in red. Shades of red that throbbed with every emotion, including anger. A sharp Shhhhh! filled the air of the living room as his quivering white hands began tearing the letter apart. But he stopped and threw it on the floor. The words at the very bottom of Page Two stared at him as if this Jeffrey's deceased spirit was either teasing him or pleading: It's not about the money, Byron; it's about something much more important. Overcoming one's darkest fear is essential to growth. You will never be able to enjoy anything until you do. You will feel the adrenaline. And you will learn to embrace it until it becomes your friend. Then, you will be free. That, dear cousin, will be your true inheritance. Byron knew every word to be true. Always had. "The truth hurts," as they say. Of course he desperately needed the money. In 2021, who didn't unless they were lucky enough to be a part of that coveted "One Percent"? But did he really need it this bad? Badly enough to face his Acrophobia head on? It wasn't just an average fear of heights. It was worse. He never could quite put his finger on what had triggered it or when, but he suspected it all started when his mother had dropped him as an infant. It was an accident; or at least he had no reason to suspect otherwise. He was too little to remember much about it, other than feelings. Feelings of terror and pain. But his body certainly hadn't forgotten. The limp he still walked with over thirty years later was testament enough that there are certain things in life he would do well to avoid at all costs. Front porches, for one. The ramp he had built to replace the steps leading up to his front door when he'd bought this house on the outskirts of Dallas-Fort Worth was still dangerous enough. What if the dizziness were to cause him to lose balance? Sure, four feet is not most people's idea of "dangerous". But most people don't realize just how dangerous it can be. *** "Byron, get real dude! Think about what you're throwing away here! You're looney, you know that? Pure, unadulterated looney!" A loud stomp on the carpet of his friend, Jonathan's hallway accented those words. Jonathan was one of those big-brother type friends who had always meant well in trying to help Byron along on this bumpy road of existence. Firmness over kindness. Advice over lip service. Truth over candy-coating. For that reason, Jonathan was not Byron's first choice for someone to talk with about his situation, but he was the most readily available at the moment. Jonathan shook his triangular head and seethed under his breath, staring at the carpet. Hands held out toward Byron as though he couldn't decide whether to use them for strangling or emphasizing a point, he continued reasoning. "The letter says all you have to do is ride the Lone Star Twister, right?" Byron nodded with his straw-colored eyes glaring away from Jonathan. "And it says once your cousin's attorney has received the picture as proof, the process of signing the inheritance over to you will begin, right?" Byron gave a jittering frown, and nodded. "So do it! Just freaking do it!" Byron stayed so silent and frozen in place, Jonathan began to feel like he was alone, talking to himself. "What's the big deal? It's only a roller coaster! You're not gonna die, you're just gonna get rich! The man is paying you a fortune to go play at Frontier Land! He even willed you the admission ticket with the letter! Now sit down, have a beer, and let that soak!" As he left for the kitchen, Byron fiddled with his phone trying to get his mind on something else. But it wasn't working. All he could think about was scheming a way around having to do this in order to collect the money. Maybe he could claim the camera at the park was out of order and ask Jeff's attorney if a signature from a witness could suffice as proof. But that would be dishonest, and asking someone to lie for him would be the lowest he'd ever sank since shoplifting bubble gum when he was three. "Who was this guy anyway?" he asked in his silence. Maybe he had a social media profile somewhere. Maybe that was how he knew about the Acrophobia. Byron had made it no secret on his own profile, after all. He searched several sites, typing the full name in the search box, and finally found him on one that was geared toward business professionals. "What are you looking at?" Jonathan asked as he returned with the beer. "My cousin," Byron replied, staring hunched over at the phone with a monotone voice. "He was a psychiatrist, who specialized in something called Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy." Jonathan smirked, pointing back at the letter sitting on the coffee table. "Well, see? He knew what he was talking about! Now are you gonna snap out of this silliness and get on the damn coaster or are you gonna just throw your life away? I'm sure whoever's next in line on that will would be more than happy to take the money!" Byron had dreamed the night before during one of the fitful fifteen-minute periods where he'd managed to doze off. It was the recurring one where he's looking up at the sky. At first, it's bright blue and feels warm; then, he senses the warmth become wet. He always knows it to be blood pooling beneath his head even though he never sees it. The sky darkens, his body begins to feel icy, and he realizes people are gathered around, leaning over and peering into his eyes. And then he wakes up. Feeling just as icy all over despite the heartrate. Last night, he had awakened from the nightmare one mere inch away from rolling off the edge of the bed. "I'll go with you," Jonathan offered, this time with a calmer tone which still did nothing to lighten Byron's outlook on the future. *** Screams tore at Byron's eardrums. Nausea weakened his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. So he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a pair of ear plugs. "Do what you gotta do," Jonathan mouthed with a shrug. The Lone Star Twister loomed in front of them as they inched their way down the line toward the gate. And with each step forward, Byron's muscles stiffened, until finally, Jonathan found himself having to pry the ticket out of his hand to give to the attendant for him. At the risk of having to retreat to the back of the line to start over, he pulled Byron off to the side, motioning him to take the ear plugs out for a second. More screams mingled with echoing wooden clacks as another load of passengers came soaring down the coaster's steepest dip, making Byron's toothpick body vibrate along with it. "Byron. Dude. Maybe you're right. Maybe no amount of money is worth this." Byron turned and looked at "Big Brother". First in shock; then with an exhale that immediately softened him into a noodle. "No amount of money is worth risking your life over." Embrace the adrenaline, Byron thought in a flashback to that letter. He gave himself an imaginary hug. A long breath. He visualized the money. Visualized being a survivor. Celebrating. He reminded himself that, terrifying as the nightmares were, he always awakened from them, safe and sound. The safety bar made the car in which he and Jonathan sat seem medieval, just like he had imagined. They were at the very front of this unforgiving torture train. They would be first to ascend and first to plummet. He tried to imprint an image in his mind of how insignificant the height appeared from down here. It's all an illusion. Embrace the adrenaline. Through the corner of his eye, he observed Jonathan as the cars began to creep down the track. Not a care in the world right now, this guy. "Reverse psychology," Byron pondered thinking back to his behavior a moment ago. He felt like killing him, but it was too late. If anything, Jonathan appeared more irritated over this ride interrupting his business calls for a few minutes than in fear of his life. Byron reached out with his thoughts trying to absorb some of that indifference. It wasn't working. With each ratchet sound - each inch forward and upward - the dizziness grew. The northern Texas prairie below became a kaleidoscope of spinning tiny trees, ant people, toy buildings, and water-drop lakes. He tried making the climb to the top a metaphor. As the top drew near, so did success. The incline was his rise toward wealth. That's it, just reach the top, he coached himself the way he imagined his cousin would if he were there. That's all you have to do and it will be over. This was it. Survive or die. With ever such subtlety, the track began to arch downward. He couldn't think anymore, only feel. He felt the gravity pulling at him, like the merciless earth twenty stories below was one giant magnet. Blood gushed through his heart as it worked overtime to keep up with the demands of this fight between a body that wanted to turn around and a mind determined not to. Jonathan smiled with a thumbs-up. Byron couldn't breathe to muster any energy in his fingers to return the gesture. The rails vanished as the virtual cliff came into full view and tormented his nerves in a violent, clacking tease with ear-piercing wind and a chorus of adrenalized screams coming from behind. The longest several seconds of Byron's life chastised him inside-out as visuals of that concrete porch step from thirty-four years ago sent stinging waves up and down his right leg. *** "Hey," Jonathan said with a nudge of the elbow into Byron's ribs. "We did it." The distant screams of passengers on other rides seemed oddly benign now. For the first time since entering the park, Byron noticed the whimsical tunes coming from the carousel adjacent to the Lone Star Twister. An aromatic breeze, heavy with the hint of hot dogs and popcorn, coaxed his stomach back into it's rightful place as he envisioned returning some time; with enough money to treat everyone here to a snack perhaps. The bars lifted, and Jonathan rushed over to the souvenir booth with Byron hobbling behind, each eager to get their hands on the snapshot that would officially make Byron four hundred thousand clams richer. "Look at you!" Jonathan said with a bright grin so uncharacteristic of his normal self. "You're the only one in the pic who doesn't look scared. What a trooper!" "What's this 'We did it' talk?" Byron asked with a leaning eye and a laugh. "Oh well," he added, "I suppose you are worth a share of it since you're the one who talked me into doing this in the first place."


Cynthia and Leilani Had been friends for a long time Before Leilani got sick. The two best friends live in California now in LA. Sitting down on the beach white sand Looking at the sunset. Cynthia and Leilani are both going to turn 18. But Cynthia’s birthday is Tomorrow and Leilani Turns 18 in the next two days. “Are you ready to be an Adult?” said Leilani, “not yet even though I am turning 18 tomorrow I am not ready yet”, said Cynthia. “Well, I am going to turn 18 after you. What you need is a girl day tomorrow and do some of our favorite things.”Said Leilani. “I think that's what I need, I can’t believe tomorrow is almost here”, Said Cynthia. “Look what a beautiful Sunset so pink and Orange. Well, it's time for me to go home. My mother is probably waiting for me and tomorrow I am going to my brother's grave.” said Leilani then Cynthia left to go home she noticed that her mom and dad weren’t there and left a note on the Pantry Door. “Dear Cynthia, I didn’t expect you to come home early. Your Mom and I had to get a few things for a party. We are not expected to be back until 11 at night and your sister is in bed. Not to worry you can call us anytime you want and do not let Leilani in the house or if she asks to come over tell her no okay. Also, we got your favorite snacks, ``Love Mom and Dad.” Cynthia Went to her room and started to text Leilani if she wanted to come over. Leilani asked her mom if she can go and her mother said yes that she can go but to be careful. Leilani heads over to Cynthia's house. “So where are your parents?”Said Leilani. “I don’t know if they said that they were going to get things for a party”, said Cynthia. “I am guessing it's your party. Your parents are throwing you a party I am guessing”, Said Leliani Excited. “Yes and won’t be back until 11 at night. It's barely 9. You can stay the night if you want to” said Cynthia “sure!!” said Leilani. Soon Later Cynthia went to sleep and woke up in a dream. It was a fancy house and she was in a bright royal red dress and she saw her family and hundreds of people at her party. And Leilani was there. And Cynthia’s parents came up to Cynthia's with a crown and a rose gold stash that says happy 20th Birthday!! “I am not 20”, Said Cynthia. “Yes you are”, Said Cynthia's dad putting on her crown. And her mother putting on her stash “you are never leaving us Baby Girl you will be trapped forever” said her mother smiling. Then I walked away. Then Leilani came up to Cynthia. “My parents are acting freaky. I wonder why and I am not 20” said Cynthia. “Well yeah, you are 20 what do you mean that you're not”, Said Leliani Confused. “Yesterday we were looking at the sunset and you were telling me if I was ready to be an adult I was 17 I am not 20,” said Cynthia. “That was two years ago Cynthia, that was the past, you're not a little kid anymore that was then this is now,” said Leilani. “This must be a dream,” Cynthia Whispered “Excuse me,” said Leilani. Cynthia walks away and bumps into her parents. “Mom dad this is weird. I am 18 there is no way two years past I must go” said Cynthia, frightened. “No you won't, you are to go nowhere,” said Cynthia’s father. Her mother Snaps her fingers, all the guests are gone and it's complete darkness. “Why don't you accept us?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “You're not my parents,” said Cynthia. “Ok then we will set you back in time you are now 8 years old,” said Cynthia Mother then snaps her fingers. Cynthia is 8 wearing tutus and bows, Leilani has her brother and her parents look young. Cynthia is looking around and notices she is young and is looking for ways to escape. Cynthia hears a voice “Hurry time is running out you need to find a white portal to bring you home, If you run out of time you might not exist and no one will remember you so hurry” said the voice. “A Portal” she whispered. To herself. Then she sees her little sister. And her dad just got home “Cynthia can you come here real quick” said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia goes downstairs hoping her parents are not evil. “Cynthia, can you help me with the dishes?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Cynthia will you now be nice,” said Cynthia’s mother “what do you mean mother I been nice,” said Cynthia pretending nothing happened. “You know Cynthia I am very proud of you, you are now being responsible for your actions,” said Cynthia’s mother. “Mom, can I go to Lelanis and derricks later.” said Cynthia “sure I will have Naila to keep an eye on you so you won't escape,” said Cynthia’s mother. “Mom what do you mean I love it where I am. Trust me I will be back,” said Cynthia “Ok get ready you will see Leilani in a bit okay I will drive you over there,” said Cynthia’s Mother. Cynthia goes to her room and looks very different then what she had because she is 8. Once she hits 4 then she will no longer exist so she better hurry and find a pink sunset. Soon later Cynthia's mom was about to take her to Leilani. “So Cynthia your birthday is coming up in June right,” said Cynthia’s mother “yes mom 9 years old,” said Cynthia “what do you want,” said Cynthia’s Mother “well I know that you will give me a purse and a bracelet,” said Cynthia. “Wait, how do you know that unless you're from the Future,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Don't take me to the past, I am from here” Said Cynthia. Her mother snaps her fingers now she is 6 years old she sent her back two years back. “Your Task to get Home.. watch the sunset for 10 mins then you will be back home,” said the voice. Soon Cynthia is called Leilani I mean Leilani is also six years old but she doesn't have a phone and uses her mom's instead. Cynthia was going to ask her mother if they can go to the beach and watch the sunset but Cynthia couldn’t tell her mother or else she will send her back 2 years back. But Cynthia needs to get home. “Hey Naila can Leilani and I go to the beach to watch the sunset,” said Cynthia “sure is your mom okay,” said Naila “yes she is she's the one that's going to be with us,” said Cynthia Lying. “Ok i will have her over in an hour,” said Naila. Talking on the phone. “Wait, can I talk to Leilani real quick?” said Cynthia, stopping her from hanging up. “You can't, she is busy. She is Available in 10 mins okay. “Hey kiddo, how are you doing?” said Cynthia’s father. “Good, I am going with Leilani's mom to the beach,” said Cynthia. “Okay is your mom okay with you going, too young to be out before 5,” said Cynthia’s Father “yes mom is okay,” said Cynthia then she hears a phone run to get it and it's Leilani? “Hey Leilani,” said Cynthia. “Sorry I don't have long,” said Leilani. “You're not going to believe this but I am from the future,” Cynthia said slowly “no you not prove it what will happen next,” said Leilani. “Okay derrick is going in your room at 3 2 1,” said Cynthia “hey sis can I borrow Mom's phone real quick thanks,” said derrick. Leilani is in shock then puts the phone to her ears. “You are from the future then where is the real Cynthia?” said Leilani. “Hold on, it's me. I am the real one. My mom sent me back in time and to go back to the future I need to see the sunset” said Cynthia. “Well that's awful why is she doing this, "said Leilani questioning “because I am trying to escape I can’t stay for long if I do I will no longer exist it's like a curse she wants to get rid of me,” said Cynthia angry. “Okay well the sun sets in 30 mins let's go watch it,” said Leilani. Meanwhile, Cynthia’s Mother gets a call from Naila, Leilani's Mother. Cynthia’s mother picks it up. “Oh hey naila how are you?” said Cynthia’s mother. “Well thank you, I appreciate Watching my kid at the beach watching the sunset, it's beautiful,” said Naila “I didn't, wait did Cynthia call you? No one is with them,” said Cynthia Mother. Cynthia and Naila rush to the beach. To see their kids. The sun starts to go down in 5 mins Cynthia needs to watch it going down in. in order to return home. “CYNTHIA” her mother yells. “Mom, sorry we lied but I need to get home and you won’t let me so I am going back to the future and you can stop me,” said Cynthia. “Oh yes I can,” said Cynthia's mother then snaps her fingers Now Cynthia is 4 years old now she has to find a way out or else she will never exist. The next time her mother snaps her fingers that is it Cynthia will no longer exist so she better hurry. “How can I be able to escape if she is going to keep finding me?” said Cynthia to herself frustrated. Cynthia doesn’t know what to do. She looks at the time and it is 6:00pm only 2 hours until sunset. She can’t tell no one what she is up to because it will lead back to her mother. Cynthia was cleaning her room. She was looking outside her window it's barely 6:30pm. Cynthia's mother called Naila to let Leilani come over so she can finally trap Cynthia and keep her from leaving. “So do you want me to go to Cynthia’s Room? What should I tell her?” said Leilani to Cynthia's Mother. “Well I am taking you both somewhere special and you tell her that,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Ok,” said Leilani as she went upstairs. “Hey Cynthia, we are going somewhere with your mom. She said it's something special” said Leilani. “Well ok but I wanted to go to the beach. Can you tell her that? ''said Cynthia. “Okay,” said Leilani she goes to her mother's room. She sees a bunch of pictures of Cynthia Older. Leilani remembers when Cynthia was 8 and told her she is from the future her mother sees Leilani and Leilani turns back and sees Cynthia's mother “your not really Cynthia's Mom you're from the future too I must tell Cynthia''Said Leilani “No your not” said Cynthia’s mother then snaps her fingers now she teleported to a dark room her and Cynthia tied up but there is a little window Cynthia is faced away from. From looking at the sunset. “Cynthia, if you accept me as your mother, I can take away all this. You won’t be miserable, you will love your life, `` Cynthia's Mother said, convincing her. “No, I will never be going home, not with you,” said Cynthia. Cynthia turned her chair as she was tied up looking at the sunset going down. Cynthia starts to disappear little by little “Now you will no longer exist any Last words” Said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia didn't say anything, she was watching the sunset from her chair as saying goodbye. Then she vanishes. “There it's done we don’t have to see Cynthia again, she untied Leilani. “Sorry you had to see that,” said Cynthia's mother “why would you do that to Cynthia she was my friend bring her back,” said Leilani. “No, by tomorrow you won't remember,” said Cynthia's mother. Leilani starts crying her friend is gone all of a sudden Cynthia comes back to life. “Cynthia,” said Leilani Hugging her. “I am now going home,” said Cynthia, crying in happiness. “Why don’t you stay? You can live with me,” said Leilani, begging her. “I can’t but don’t worry, we are still friends okay we are both 18 I will see you in a bit,” said Cynthia. “Will I be able to remember this?” said Leilani “I don’t know if you don’t tell my mom in the present I don’t want to be trap again ok?” said Cynthia than a white portal taking her home opens up “see you in a bit?” said Cynthia looking back “goodbye!” said Leilani. Cynthia goes into the portal then wakes up from her dream. She wakes up in a hospital “oh Cynthia you're awake you were not waking up you been asleep for a week. And you had no heartbeat but thank goodness everything is good.” said Cynthia’s mother “can I now go home” said Cynthia “yeah first tell me what you were dreaming about you were having a nightmare” said her mother. Cynthia wasn’t going to say anything but her mom is not like that “you were trying to harm me. And I was going back to my younger ages” said Cynthia “Cynthia that was just a dream it's okay” said Her mother then reached out to hug her “I will never let go okay I love you so much” mother said hugging her.


“Mr. President, what do you say about people suffering in the Midwest, about rumors of a virus that causes paranoia and fear?” The room became hushed waiting for the response. The president rubbed his forehead, his cheeks had grown pale, “We have it totally under control. Everyone just needs to relax. As long as we stay calm, we can get through this.” The reporter responded, “But sir, some states have gone completely dark. Isn’t it true the military has been deployed to combat this threat? You previously stated that it’s just a pandemic of headaches and that quote, ‘this should be of no concern.’ Wouldn’t it be wise to address the frightening reports that this is actually some sort of parasite?“ The plump man at the podium fidgeted with his hands and licked his lips. The press secretary glanced cautiously at the man and saw sweat at the back of his neck. As usual this was not going well. If the president’s mouth was too dry, he would start losing his words. “That’s all fake information circulated by ‘Mrs. Dingbat’ in the Senate. Next question.” The president seemed to hold back a sneeze with his hand, lowering his head and convulsing. Tiffany nearly stepped in with a tissue until he spoke again, “Listen uh, you can’t really expect the American people to believe there’s some crazy species of insect, borrowing into people’s ears and eating out their brains. What kind of ridiculous bull-nonsense is that?” Tiffany looked out into the press conference and saw an awkward, spiteful audience. She was glad she wasn’t asked to speak. The last time didn’t go over well for her. If only she had the president’s talent for political aversion. The reporters shuffled in their seats. They came here for information. They came here for guidance but all they ever got from the president were angry retorts. He shook his head at the podium as several outlets started to shout his name in unison. It was an uncontrollable tremble that turned into a sneezing fit. He tried to cover his mouth but the phlegm couldn’t be contained and sprayed into the crowd of reporters. His head started to swell with redness. Choking and quivering he tried to continue, “I am here to tell you that there is no such -blargh-” The president tried to vomit out words but instead vomited blood and bile onto the podium. Reporters gasped and bolted towards the door. To their further horror the blood retching from the president’s mouth grew into a tentacle that squirmed, as he lowered his head to the stand. He squinted in pain, his eyes started to bulge and bleed. As a stampede of reporters moved back the president gargled and moaned, his fingers pulling at the parasite. His eyes rolled back and exploded with pus. Shouts and screams added to the pandemonium. Tiffany and the medical aides tried to move in but were disgusted by the turn of events. Even more so by the insect legs that protruded from the president’s eyes and nose. The staff members hesitated, not knowing what to do. They remained in shock, allowing the scene to unfold. The creature pulled itself from the president’s face, splitting it down the middle and sending viscera onto the now-empty seats. More revulsion and screams echoed. The press secretary stood aghast, considering if this was sort of horrific prank or animatronic visual effect. She turned to an aide, “Where is the president?” He turned and looked at the slumped body, hanging off the podium, “He’s...everywhere.” --- “Surprisingly his approval rating has gone up.” The aide at Tiffany’s side was flipping through a tablet with nervous fingers. “People are donating like crazy. They think it was some kind of show.” Tiffany was still debating what she had seen and wondering if it was an elaborate scheme. If it’s not then perhaps it was a ploy for the left to grab for power. If that were the case the vice president would be next. “We should take this threat seriously. Medical experts have quarantined the briefing room and are taking samples after the secret service shot the thing.” Said the male aide. The halls were chaos, people were running towards the briefing room. “Why did this have to happen during a public briefing? There’s no time to do a damage assessment.” The press secretary was scrolling through her phone, reading all the conspiracies. This was the best outcome, thought Tiffany, leaving the public confused and unknowing of the truth, whatever that was. The aide -Stephen, was it? -- nearly started stuttering, his cadence became manic, “We should -- We should consider a mandate. No, not a mandate. Maybe have the White House staff dress in protective gear. I hear the virus is 70% contagious.” “If the president says the virus is a hoax then it’s a hoax.” Said Tiffany. “Going against what he has publicly stated would be job suicide. We all need to make sacrifices for the cause, even if it’s our own beliefs.” “Said. He said the virus is a hoax.” Stephen whispered when they passed several lobbyists. “He’s not dead. There’s no way that was real. The president is probably behind a control room laughing his ass off.” Stephen paused and remained blank faced. “Do you really believe that the left could be killing of hundreds just to get to the president? What would be the goal, if they were killing off their own supporters?” Tiffany turned and stared at the aide, a look forlorn. She quickly straightened up and gave a stern reply, “You wouldn’t want him hearing that. Get me Gruber Finch. We have to control the media’s response to this. We don’t even know what we saw and neither should the public. Tell him to tell them that this was a Halloween gag, or a movie thing. They don’t get to be the judge of what really happened.” Being a spokeswoman for the campaign didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing ever could have prepared her for this. After all her position in the cabinet had been a gift. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it. An arm grabbed her and pulled her into a side office. The voice was aggressive and had an odor of whiskey. “Tell me this is some insane joke. What was that?” She recognized the three-piece breast suit. Her phone nearly dropped out of her hand. The Chief of Staff had a furled brow. “I’m sorry sir, we are currently evaluating the situation. We believe it to be a hoax.” “A hoax? A damn creature crawled out of the president’s head. Are you blind? What more evidence do you need?” As usual he was eyeing her blouse, clearly not distracted enough. “The speculation that there is no virus is true. It is also now fact that there is a parasite invading our citizens’ bodies, causing headaches, paranoia, and sudden death. The president has ignored this threat for too long. You should have been up there, not him.” Tiffany pulled up her blouse, covering her cleavage. She should have worn something less revealing. “I’m going to go back to my apartment to quarantine. You should too. The vice president is going to hold a virtual meeting with the cabinet. We should all distance ourselves from this.” “How can we?” Asked the Chief of Staff, “CNT aired a story about how the president made a statement, saying the virus was a hoax. A 13-year-old in Georgia picked up the president’s quote and made a blog post about it. Then the president used this article in another social media post, quoting it as fact. This is how the cycle of misinformation is unfolding.” She didn’t have an answer for this and tried to refocus the conversation, “Mistakes may have been made but it is our duty to create the appropriate mediation. Ours together, not a part. In the meantime, we should work with vice president to continue doing what we always do: deflect and distract.” --- The meeting, from her apartment, did not go as expected. There was a lot of shouting and panicked opinions, none of which were made from reasonable thoughts. But, how could they? The news media ran with the story that the president had been infected with a parasite that evacuated from his face. It was an absurd notion but the inevitable had to be dealt with. Tiffany had downed six aspirin after hanging up with the president’s cabinet and had slumped down in a chair. The strategies were mind-numbing. One of the aides had even suggested finding a look-alike to give a briefing but when the others realized that no one could be found that resembled his appearance this was soon abandoned. This mess would never end. She partially wished that she believed that the president had died and that the virus or parasite was real. That way she’d have a lot less to say. She approached the mirror but she couldn’t get the thought of the president squirming over the podium out of her head. The pounding was getting worse. It became a thumping. The aspirin was useless. Flashbacks started, showing the blood-stained floor and what must’ve been going through his mind in those last moments. If of course any of it were real. But what if it were real? Spores would’ve been spraying from his open mouth for days. And if it was contagious... She moved her finger around her eyes. Nothing felt puffy or sore. Sure, her head felt tight but it couldn’t be real, could it? A terrible creature living inside her, waiting for the right moment to burst from her skull. It was silly. Her face was too pretty to be broken. If all of it were true, if the parasite was inside her brain, she couldn’t allow herself to be another victim. The media would have a field day with her corpse, the liberals would dance and celebrate. Her life became meaningless in that moment. She had never dated as the press secretary and now she wish she had. Her head cracked with a sudden jolt. Her eyes became moist. A grimace crossed her once perfect face. There were no options left. She pulled a piece of paper out and a pen from her briefcase. Tears made it hard to write but she did it anyways. She had always managed to push through pain. As the words of regret came out the tears of sorrow turned to blood and the last phrase became smeared. “I wished I had trusted someone else.” The back of her throat started to tickle. Her skin and cheeks burned hot. She could feel the pressure building and building. The lights of DC cast and eerie glow on the room that reminded her that life would continue on without her. She pulled out a heavy piece of metal. The one thing that all right-thinking, God-fearing citizens had, and sat on the bed. The president’s retching face came back to her. She put the metal in her mouth and pulled the trigger.


There he laid, his hands by his side. As she visited with great fear and worry. His life hanging by the balance of whether or not he should let go or continue. Tears fell from her cheek, confusion and regret filled her. She remembered all the times they shared together, even if there weren’t many. She remembered. He slowly opened his eyes, and suddenly the heart rate monitor raced with a progression of beeps. As their eyes met, the world around them stood still, and for a moment it was as if they were back on that swing set. Looking at each other, with admiration and curiosity. Trying to understand these emotions that flooded in like a river with an endless stream. They were young, they were lost, and the world was just a cruel place. But for some reason with each other, they were home. “It’s so cold.” She said, as she was trying to keep warm by rubbing her hands together. He peered at her hands and reached out taking both of them in his. The spiraling warmth enveloped between their hands connected and a warm hugging like sensation filled both of them. He smiled, and said, “Me too.” It’s been three years, and for both of them. They had their own experiences of other individuals coming and going in their life. But it was never the same. They both knew that it wasn’t ever going to be the same. The “swing set memory” they called it. A moment in their life that they knew they were each other’s flame. Each other’s, fire. The burning love of a passion that could never be extinguished or matched. They would always reminisce on that one moment. Even if the world divided them, and kept them apart. They always felt like they could always feel each other. Could always feel so close. She was finally following the dream she had always wanted, and for once no one could stop her in her tracks. He had understood what he wanted to do, and continuously strived to be the best person he could be. Yet in this very moment. He lays upon a warm bed, with a frozen cold body, and a crying heart. Paralyzed both by the accident, and by her beautiful eyes. She remembered that her entire journey, and the drive that kept her going, was in hopes of seeing him again. But, not like this. He cried and cried, thinking this moment could never in a million years happen. To think, that she would visit him. Yet no tears flowed. All he could do was just stare as his eyes would water. He wanted to embrace her, love her, and tell her that the world he created and the life he lived was all for her. She sobbed, as she knelt next to his bedside. In shock, she couldn’t open her eyes and she hung her head down trying to hide her sadness from him. He didn’t like it when she cried, because he wanted to always make her smile, and she knew that. He urged and urged with all his might to move just one finger, but couldn’t. Desperately screaming and crying for help, he repeated in his head, “Please, for just this one time, give me a chance to make things right.” She lifted her face, flushed red, wanting to tell him she loved him. But she just couldn’t stop crying. All she could do was apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-, I-,” He wanted to shake his head and comfort her like he always did. He wanted to remind her that it was going to be okay, that they were going to be okay. His fingers twitched, and she noticed. She smiled with joy, and with both of her hands took his hand. She held it tightly, and held it like it was the long lost teddy bear that she’d been looking for. The warmth and burning passion flowed through the both of them, and it was as if they had never left that swing set. That they never went to different schools. That she didn’t leave for Paris, and he didn’t leave for New York. That she never said she wanted to prove the world wrong, and that he never said he was going to make everyone proud. She looked at him, smiling with tears rolling down her face and said, “It’s so cold.” Wondering if he would remember that moment. He held back with as much love as he did back at the swing set, and with his last remaining drip of life in him smiled and slowly muttered, “Me too.” And suddenly, the fire that had burned for so long, went out.


"Duck!" Wrinn shouted as he threw himself to the ground. "Dammit, cover yourself, Blackburn!" Bullets darter through the air, above their heads, just a moments after Blackburn, at last, ducked. "Who are they?!" the man snapped in a raspy voice. "Wrinn! How could have they known about us?" The other man gave Blackburn a hopeless look, waiting for the barrage to cease. The two men were crouching behind a stony debris, a remnants of a cliff collapsed. Thet were Separators, members of a secret group of highly-skilled assassins, employing advanced tech to download one's memories. Though now, instead of hunting, they were fighting for their lives. "Blackburn! They're no match to us. Remember the training? 'Phase in, shoot' em, phase out!' Move quickly and take no crazy risk." The man's teeth clenched behind his air-filtering mask. He knew, one shot to the power source on his back and he'd be kissed by death, but there was no time for stealthy eliminations - this was a fight. The spray of bullets had halted. A fatal mistake. " Now." Wrinn grunted and, with a grim expression, flung himself from behind the cover. His body blurred as he began phasing - and just as he'd done times before, he dispatched one attacker with a swift spray of shots, blinked behind the other one and delivered a killing blow by piercing their neck. "Good ol' thrusty arm-blade" he grinned to himself at the pun. Turning to Blackburn, who had successfully eliminated last of the three bastards, his grin widened. *He might be worth somethin', the young blood.* "Blackburn! Don't you dare to put your guard down!" Wrinn exclaimed at the trainee, seeing him not reloading his gun. Though Blackburn was not to blame - this was his first mission and it's gone horribly wrong. Wrinn was looking around the complex. Instead of quickly murdering the target, they'dended up with severed means of communication with Sonya, their leader, and driven to corner by mercenaries. Undertrained mercenaries though, as far as Wrinn could tell. "Listen Black, download his data," Wrinn commanded, jamming a pointy stick through the corpse's eye socket into its brain. "And try not to get killed" he added, concerned. "Understood, Wrinn!" A tens of seconds have passed before the men stood up and, not having enough intel to decide on the most optimal way out, started heading one direction. The plan was to climb up the cliff on a rope they've used to get down - however, the sudden explosion above them and following rain of stones buried this escape plan. A much bigger group of armed figured crossed their path. This time, Wrinn leapt towards a pile of crates, pulling Blackburn with him. They've stayed unnoticed - for now. "Wrinn?" Blackburn started. "I have an ide-" Wrinn never got to know the idea, for a high-pitched sound pierced the air, mobilising the complex whole. "INTRUDERS IN SECTOR X-8!" it repeated mindlessly. Blackburn snorted. "At least we know where we are." A simple nod was Wrinn's only response. *But we don't really, do we?* He was lost in his thoughts, racking his brain, trying to come up with a solution to this mess. That's when a swirling sound came from behind. Wrinn hastily turned around with the though of phasing towards the threat and neutralising it, but he was too slow. This threat was to assassins' bad luck too fast. A woman with a familiar breathing mask and a set of funny-looking strapped to her body launched a spinning piece of sharp metal at them - right an Blackburn, too slow of a man to react. "NO!" Wrinn yelled as he realised the imminent danger. With a curse on his lips, he blocked the blade with his body, trying to intercept its trajectory. What a price to pay. A stunning pain erupted in the left part of his body as he got struck. The impact turned him sideways, knocked the gun out of his arm, and he staggered, falling to the ground, watching in utter horror his arm laying on the ground, leaking blood. *You bitch.* "Blackburn, **RUN!**" he snapped at him instead of insulting the woman aloud. He was losing too much blood - his death was inevitable, but he wouldn't perish on vain! It was against all of his principles. He'd always been precise and careful, yet he charged at the goddamned woman with an intention to pierce her with his arm-blade. So far, Blackburn was paralysed. This was no routine mission, this was hell! His mentor was injured and he had no clue what to do next, he was panicking. Though Wrinn's last word - "**RUN!**" - snapped him out of the trance. *Don't think of them as of his last words, you dumbass!* He corrected himself as he leapt above the crates and started sprinting towards where the previous ground of mercenaries had come from. Wrinn knew what was his plan. Phase behind her. Turn around. Use the momentum to sever her spine. He groaned and phased - and just before the jump in space, he'd felt a loud crunch in his suit and for the first time in years, phasing had failed him. As Blackburn started accelerating, he heard a loud thunk from behind him. Glancing there at instant, he saw Wrinn laying on the ground, the woman wielding a strange, circular-shaped blade and crushing his abdomen under her boot. "Wriiiin!" he squealed in pain, forcing himself to continue forward, proceeding to keep standing only for seconds before an impact. *Impossible!* Wrinn thought. The tech was remarkable. How could have she interfered with Sonyas secret creation? The woman cackled. "Wrinn, you old, stupid man. You've thought you were untouchable, have you, right?" With a playful smile, she proceeded to break a few of his ribs as she stomped on him. "Oh I'm sure you recognise me not. Just know... Your arrogance, my old friend, had become too much for me to control." Wrinn moaned in pain. Missing an arm and having his insides crushed was torturing. He wished to faint, for his mind was already hazy, but there was one other way. "You may have bested me, woman!" He managed to yelp at her. "But our secrets won't be unearthed!" He added as he raised his shaking arm and drove the sharp end of the downloading device into his brain, knowing it would fry his neural network. She only cackled. Blackburn found himself laying on the ground, his mask nowhere to be seen. He was sure the sudden strike had broken a few of his ribs, he couldn't breathe and for the first time that day, he'd realised that he was about to die. Struggling, he managed to get on all fours, hoping to be lucky. And he was, for he spotted his mask a few meters away and started crawling towards it frantically. "Oh my, how does he live? " a female voice inquired mockingly. He looked up and recognised the woman who'd injured Wrinn. Barely moving, he reached out to the mask. He touched it with the tips of his fingers... And got overwhelmed by excruciating pain, as the woman crushed the mask and his hand alike under her boot. "Nothing personal, kiddo. But rules are rules, 'No missions without Sonya's approval,' remember? That's what you get for treating Wrinn like a leader of ou-" And with his breath running out, so did Blackburn's consciousness.


For all I know, my eyes could be open. Although I fell to the ground as I lost consciousness, I might be sitting or even standing. I have no way to tell. I might be dead. I might've fallen sideways onto the road and been run over. I always imagined death as an exciting thing, if I'm honest. Something that would send a shiver down my spine to tell me that I was dead the moment it happened. As it is, I'm not even sure if I have a spine. I try to wriggle my fingers, but I can't even feel them. I can't see them. Maybe there's nothing to see. I strain my ears for the familiar sound of my own breathing, for car horns, people shouting, an ambulance or even a police car, but I can't hear them. There's nothing to hear. I want to scream in frustration but I can't feel my throat, I don't know if I'm making any noise. I've already forgotten how to scream. Nothing can make you forget. My thoughts are all that's left for me. Even my memories are fading into darkness. My wife's voice, my baby daughter's face, don't seem to exist anymore. I'm utterly alone, without even my own voice to keep me company. Brother. No, no, no. I'm not alone. I'm not alone and I wish I was. None of us are ever alone. It read my thoughts. It read my thoughts. How do I repel a creature that reads my thoughts? And there's more than one. Let me out, let me out of here! Out, Brother? I do not understand. How do I answer? How do I tell it to go away? I will leave you if you wish. You will not like feeling alone. No, wait, stay, please. (What am I doing? Am I mad?) I want to - to talk. Very well. I do not understand your word 'talk', but I will stay. Deep breath. (Am I breathing? I should be breathing. I'm still alive. Unless I'm dead.) First, where am I? ' Where'? Explain what you mean. It's a simple question. Where am I? I do not understand. Explain. I can't explain! It's simple. Please wait. I will connect you to - (My thoughts are muddled. The word was something like - I can't remember it. Already, only seconds later, I can't remember it.) I think it... He... Is gone. I didn't feel him leave, just Like I didn't feel him arrive. Can this - these creatures see? Have they got senses where I have none? Am I truly alone in this state? I can do nothing but think to pass the time. Time? I've lost track of it. I've heard people say that Time is a man-made concept, but when Man is removed, what happens to Time? Does it continue, or does it simply cease to exist? Did it ever? My memories have drained, and I don't remember my life before this Thoughtful state of being. How can I be sure that Time ever existed? That I ever existed outside of this world? I know that I once had a life. I know it. I must hold onto that, or my sanity will slip away. Brother. AH. You're back. How long has it been since I came here? Long? Here? How much Time has passed since I appeared? What is Time? Please explain. (Calm down. Maybe he just knows it with a different name.) Time is - well, time is - I can't explain. You cannot explain something that does not exist. You can. But that's not what I mean. I meant, Time does exist. I've felt it. Felt? What is 'felt'? Please stop! I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything. Just leave me alone. I will retreat, but you will not like feeling alone. That's it, that's 'felt', you just said - Oh. I didn't feel him leave. He's scaring me now. I don't know which thoughts are my own, which opinions are my own. The things he says, the questions he asks, are confusing me and making me unsure of what's real and what's not. Is this world, this Nothingness, real? Or am I only imagining it? Brother . Do you always enter someone's thoughts like that? It would be impolite to intrude without warning. 'Time', please explain it. My Elders are intrigued. Your Elders? No, I won't ask. But why should I try to explain it to you? You do not have to. But I see your thoughts. You doubt the existence of 'Time', and an explanation would sooth your mind. You're right... Time. Well, time is - Time is - I can't do it. I just can't. You cannot explain it because it is not real. No, it is real. I know it is. I've felt it. You have said that something must exist for it to be explainable - I never said that - The opposite is also true. No, it isn't true. Time exists. It does exist. Stop messing with my head! (Despite myself I feel a warmth growing in my head. A cozy, tired warmth...) No, I won't believe it. Time exists. I've felt it. I've felt... Felt? What is felt? My arguments are using words without meaning. Indeed, Brother. You are finding enlightenment. 'Time' does not exist, neither does 'Felt'. No, they both exist! I know they do. (The warmth, the tiredness, is growing.) Words without meaning... 'Felt'... 'Time'... What are they after all, but words? They do not exist. 'Time' does not exist. It does, it do- (The warmth finally takes over. Everything is wonderful and warm. Everything makes sense at last.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. You are right. (It's a relief to finally say it.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. 'Senses' do not exist. Indeed. 'Senses' do not exist. The world you think you remember does not exist. It is only your imagination. The world I think I remember does not exist. It is only my imagination. I understand. All of these things do not exist. They do not exist. You are tired, Brother. I am tired. You are very tired. Very tired... Sleep, Brother. Sleep. ... It is so warm... My Brother is gone. I remember... What was I going to say? I don't remember. Nothing is making me forget... Nothing can make you forget. Nothing can make you forget. I remember. I remember. ***** The brightness is overwhelming. Darkness would've been just as stunning. It takes me moments to recall how to open my eyes. I search for the right muscle, moving my fingers and turning my head before my eyelids raise. I see. I'm in an empty hospital ward, hooked up to a life-support machine, its beige-grey walls obnoxiously bright. The heart-monitor's bleeping pounds in my ears and prevents me from thinking straight. I struggle to find the muscle that turns my head, and eventually one of my ears are pressed into the pillow, but the sound persists. I push my hands toward the blanket in an attempt to get it over my head, but in my current condition I can't find the small muscles necessary to move my fingers. I leave my arms limp over the blanket, hating the overpowering smell of antiseptic that hangs in the air, remembering. It was never this strong before. The clock on the hospital wall ticks violently. My head throbs along with it, mirroring each beat. Footsteps in the hallway beside my ward. I look towards the door just as a woman walks in. Her navy-blue eyes widen, tears beginning to form. My wife. Nothing can make me forget her.


Once upon a time, there was a fisherman... Now obviously there have been a lot of fishermen, and there are quite a lot of stories about fisherman. This is not the story about the fisherman who caught himself an undine and brought home a wife, or the fisherman who hooked a crown inside a fish inside a fish inside a fish and became a king. This is not the story about the fisherman who had a magic rod that could reach around the world. Or the fisherman with the enchanted hook that could ensnare whatever you asked it to. And it's certainly not the story about the fisherman who had a miraculous net that could catch things which were lost. This is a story about a fisherman who had a rather unusual friend. The fisherman lived in the village of Rensk, which lay alongside the river Typhon, though nobody calls it that any more. Every day he would leave his house, make his way to the river and begin fishing. There he would remain until the dipping of the sun in the sky told him it was time to go home. Now what you must remember is that this was a long time ago. Back when you could meet the devil sitting on a tree stump, and dance with faeries in the shadow of the moon. Back when the world was a lot older and wilder than it is now. One day, as the fisherman sat by the river in his favourite spot, he noticed his luck seemed poorer than usual, the fish less willing to bite. As the morning wore on the fisherman became increasingly frustrated. Until, just as he was preparing to leave and try somewhere else along the bank, he noticed something glittering in the river bed. No doubt some trinket dropped further upstream. Carefully the fisherman reached into the water and deftly plucked the item from the mud in which it was lodged. A small and battered snuffbox lay in his hand. Finding it to be heavier than he expected, the fisherman opened the lid to see what was inside. As he did so, he heard a crack of thunder and felt a dull pain in his hand like the echo of a flame. Without thinking, he let the open snuffbox fall to the ground. All around him grew dark and the mouth of the snuffbox yawned wider and wider like a great cavern. When it seemed as if the snuffbox stretched from one horizon to the next and all about was black as night; there was a great rushing of winds and out stepped a tall, thin figure wrapped in a long black cloak. “Greetings” said the figure “I, am Death.” Now in those days Death was always getting trapped in snuffboxes, or sugar pots, or bound inside the shell of a walnut. Everybody knew a friend whose mother had an uncle who had met Death in some far off market place. It was no great trouble to anyone apart from Death himself to be trapped in a snuffbox. For the business of Death went on regardless, and we see only one of its many facets. You could no more inconvenience Death by trapping it in a snuffbox than you could diminish the darkness of night by closing the lid of a box. Nevertheless, Death was pleased to be free from his confinement and thanked the fisherman accordingly. Enjoying the day’s fresh breeze and the gentle babbling of the river, Death sat down on a nearby rock to appreciate his new found freedom. Somewhat at a loss and filled with curiosity about his new acquaintance, the fisherman returned to fishing. Glancing from time to time at the strange figure on the rock. Presently the man took out his lunch, a few small sandwiches wrapped up in brown paper. Death looked at them with curiosity, for while Death may know a great deal about the ending of life, he knows very little about the living of it. The fisherman, seeing Death’s quizzical gaze, offered him a sandwich. “But I have nothing to offer you in return” said Death in confusion. For Death is a thing of duty and exchange; Life for Death, mortality for eternity, and had never known a gift or a thing freely given. But the fisherman, handing over part of his lunch, merely smiled and said “What are a few sandwiches between friends?” Death politely ate the sandwich and pondered on the man's words. Or one word in particular. For Death is rarely a welcome companion, and if Death had any friends before this, no stories are told of them. By the time the sandwich was finished, Death had come to a decision. Death thanked the fisherman for his kindness, for his sandwich, and for his friendship then went on its way. The fisherman scratched his head, finished his lunch and returned to his fishing. No record is kept on Death’s opinion of the sandwich. Many months passed, and the fisherman thought little more of his strange encounter. Until on a still and quiet evening, while the fisherman sat at home, there was a single tap on his door; though he had heard no one approaching. Opening the door, the fisherman was surprised to see Death standing patiently on his step. An older man might have been afraid to see Death unannounced at his door, but the fisherman was young and had known no sickness in his life; so was merely pleased to see his unusual acquaintance again. “Come in my friend and warm yourself by the fire” exclaimed the fisherman, his initial surprise rapidly replaced by his usual amiability. And so Death entered his house as a friend. Little is known of what was discussed at this, their first true meeting as friends, but they talked long into the night and before he left, Death promised he would visit again. Soon they settled into a routine. From time to time there would be a gentle tap at the fisherman’s door and it would be Death, come for dinner. Occasionally the fisherman would be out walking when he would suddenly spot his friend strolling quietly beside him and together they would travel down paths and tracks that the fisherman would swear had not been there before. They would wander for hours as Death went about his appointed task, and the fisherman saw many strange things on those days. And so it continued. Months might pass between visits, sometimes it could be as long as a year. But eventually, the Fisherman would always hear a soft tap upon his door, or see the gentle shifting of black fabric from the corner of his eye and know that his old friend Death had come to see him. Each time, Death would apologise for his lengthy absence, for not having come to visit in so long; but every time the fisherman would smile and reply, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” One day, while the two were out walking, Death turned to the fisherman and said “For many years you have welcomed me into your home, and yet I realise now that you have never visited mine. Come, I must make amends for my poor manners.” The fisherman received the invitation without fear, knowing it was offered with kindness. He knew his friend had no need of tricks or deception, that if his time were to come then that would be the end of it. There would be no discussions. And so they began their journey to the home of Death. They walked for what seemed like hours, though the sun never moved in the sky as they drew steadily closer to mountains whose names the fisherman did not know. In time they came to a valley nestled at the base of one of the great mountains, and in this valley there sat a small house. The home of Death. But I shall not describe it here, for those who Death has welcomed into his home are few, and we are not one of them. What I may tell you is this; through the house there is a cave. It extends deep into the mountains and as far as is known it never truly stops. The walls and floor are carved from the rock itself, a smooth and unblemished obsidian. And in this cave there are caverns without number and in each cavern there are candles. Thousands, millions of candles. More than can ever be counted. And these candles burn with a flame like none you have ever seen. For Death's home is a place of perfect stillness. No breeze stirs the air and no tremors shake the earth. The flames of the candles do not flicker or dance, each stand as steady as rock, as if carved from gleaming glass. Through this cave the fisherman was led until the two of them stopped in a cavern seemingly no different to any other, by a shelf that looked like all the rest. Death gestured towards the sea of candles and spoke: “Each of these candles is a life. Some burn long, some burn short; but, in the end, all burn out. That is when I come for them.” The fisherman looked at the dazzling array of flames in wonder. “This one is yours.” Death continued, pointing. At first the fisherman was unsettled to see such a thing. But as he looked at his candle he saw that it was tall and proud, no doubt with many years left to burn and his mind was put at ease. With that the two of them returned to Death's house for what I imagine was a rather strange meal. Many nights in the years to come the fisherman would dream of that cave, of its many candles and of his friend walking its endless labyrinthine halls and corridors. In time the man fell in love and married. At first his new wife asked him questions about his old friend, “Who is he? What does he do?” and so on. But each time she asked, her husband would give her the same reply, with a small smile and a wink, “Only what he must, and nothing else.” His wife never grew tired of asking, and after every visit would repeat the same questions, to the same response. Until one year, when the sickness had been laid thick about a neighbouring village and many had lost their lives. Word came from the village that his wife’s sister was afflicted and not long for the world. The fisherman's wife packed a small basket full of her sister's favourite treats and set off to visit her one last time. When she returned, the fisherman knew his wife had seen his old friend about his work, which in times past she had been so curious about. Never again did she ask who his strange friend was or even enquire after him at all, and the fisherman never learned what words may have passed between them. Years more passed and the fisherman and his wife were blessed with a child, a baby girl; and for a time they were happy. Yet from the moment of her birth, his daughter was a sickly thing, fragile and frail as if she were knitted not from flesh and bone like the rest of us, but rather cobwebs and starlight. His neighbours whispered and gossiped in hushed tones as he passed; that while his newborn was certainly beautiful and fair, she was altogether too delicate and surely was not long for this world. The fisherman pretended not to hear such idle chatter, but every day his brow grew more furrowed and his heart heavier. At night the fisherman lay awake listening to his daughter's troubled sleep, leaping from his bed at her slightest cough, watching over her while she slept in her crib. Soon the fisherman became filled with a dread for when his old friend might next come to visit. He had seen King and Emperors, bishops and popes, sorcerers and enchanters, rich men and poor men, saints and murderers, all plead with his friend, offering him anything they could for just a little more time. But nothing would stay his friend’s hand from his appointed duty. The fisherman knew that eventually his friend would surely come. Soon the fisherman no longer left his house for fear of meeting his old friend somewhere along the path. Every knock at the door, every crunch on the garden path he would jolt, expecting his friend had come to take his daughter from him. But some things cannot be avoided, old friends among them. At last the day came when he heard a gentle tap on his door. There, waiting for him, was Death. While in his youth he had known no fear upon receiving such a guest, now his heart trembled. “Greetings my old friend, how have you been?” he asked. For it is a terrible thing to turn away a guest, no matter who they may be. “I am well” intoned death. “Please excuse my long absence, it has been some months since last we met.” The fisherman, as he always did, merely smiled, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” To the fisherman's relief, his old friend began to walk and gestured for the fisherman to join him. With each step that took Death further away from the house, the fisherman's heart grew lighter. He barely paid attention to what he said and didn't even notice where they walked until a familiar valley came into view. Presently he found himself in Death's home once more. The two friends sat down to share a meal as was their habit, and Death left to bring the freshly prepared dishes in from the kitchen. Now alone, the fisherman was suddenly overcome with a desire to see for himself just how much time his daughter had. Getting up from the table he made his way to the entrance of the caverns that sat behind the house. He wandered through the cave as he had done many times before, his feet carrying him without conscious thought, to his own candle still nearly as tall and proud as when he first laid eyes on it. There, next to it, he found a tiny candle that he knew could only be his daughter's. So small that the flame burnt almost level with the shelf on which the candle sat. The Fisherman stared at the candle which resembled not much more than a thimbleful of wax with a wick no larger than an eyelash. Then he stared at his own candle, still tall and proud after all these years. He knew what he had to do. Fiercely the Fisherman gripped his own candle in his hand. Gently he raised it up from the stone shelf on which it had rested, unmoving, since the day he was born. Carefully he brought it closer to his daughter's own tiny candle. Ever more carefully he tilted his candle and let some of the liquid wax at its top overflow and trickle down to the small candle below. Imperceptible at first, as each new drop of wax joined his daughter's candle, it grew ever so slightly taller. The Fisherman smiled as he turned his candle a little bit more, and the candle below grew noticeably bigger. His plan was working! In his mind he pictured the delicate young baby, now with time enough to grow into a woman. His heart buoyant, he resumed his task, a stream of wax cascading down to the candle below. Hours fell from his candle, then days, then months, then years... And for perhaps the only time in all the aeons that have yet been and in all the aeons that are yet to come, a candle in Death’s cave flickered and wavered. But the fisherman did not notice and continued to tilt his candle yet further. In a blink of an eye the faltering flame was extinguished, drowned in the onrush of liquid wax. The fisherman’s heart stopped and for one brief merciful moment he thought it was his own candle he had foolishly extinguished. Then he only wished it was. His daughter's candle sat below him, its brilliant flame snuffed out. The fisherman was as still as the candles surrounding him, as if he were carved from the very same stone as the cavern itself. Then he felt a horror which few before or since have felt. Desperately he tried to relight his daughter's candle, bringing his own flame as close as possible, he held the burning wick against the now lifeless one. Willing with all his might that his candle should relight his daughter's. Intently he focused on the flame and the wick, ignoring the hot wax that poured over his fingers. Seconds that felt like years passed. The fisherman staring so hard at the wick he almost thought it might burst into flame from the intensity of his gaze alone. Just as all hope left him, when he was certain all was lost, a second flame leapt to life, his daughter's candle burned once more. Joy overwhelmed him. But in an instant he felt a searing pain in his hand. So intently had he been watching the flame he hadn't noticed his own candle had burned down to where he was gripping it. Instinctively, reacting to the pain, he let go and watched as his candle fell towards the ground. With a rushing as of a great wind, like that he had heard many years before, his friend Death now stood beside him; a single hand outstretched to catch the falling candle. Sitting safely in Death's palm, was the fisherman's candle. Death's gaze passed between the now tall candle on the shelf, burning once again, and the tiny one in his palm, hardly more than a scrap of wax and a wick no larger than an eyelash. The fisherman saw that Death knew what he had done and he felt ashamed for trying to trick his old friend. Death closed his hand, and when he reopened it, the candle was gone. “When you entered my home you had many years left to burn. Now they are gone.” said Death. For the first time since they had met, the fisherman thought he heard sadness in his companion's voice. “No matter,” said the Fisherman looking over at his daughter's candle burning tall and proud. “What are a few years between friends?” And with that he passed through the cave, to the lands that lie beyond.