The Funeral This is a stupid story I came up with while watching the election coverage on ABC. My friend and I were texting about how one reporter we enjoyed was absent. Jon Karl. Then my friend was like “Jon must be dead to everyone. He’s not on TV. He’s a political correspondent isn’t he?” Then this idea popped in my head. I do NOT under any circumstances wish harm on Jon Karl. I like him actually. So I just wrote up the epilogue part to get me started. Please don’t hate me --- It was the day of Jon’s funeral. Everyone who knew him well wEre in a church, talking about him. Except his best friend, David. David sat on a pew, alone. He didn’t want to be here. But he had to be. He was delivering the eulogy. And it was the polite thing to do. He soon stood up, walking to the group. Mary quickly noticed him, hugging him. “David, I know how hard this is for you. You and Jon were pretty close. He and I rarely worked together. But we became good friends during the debates. Sit with me and Ali?” she looked at her watch. The service should begin any minute now. He reluctantly sat down beside Mary, trying to keep his emotions in check. But he knew that not crying would make him look weak. He snapped out of his daze when one of their other coworkers, Mike, tapped him on the shoulder and said “You’re on deck David. You’ve got this” David glared at Mike, then got up. He walked up to the lectern, adjusting the microphone. He knew this was also being broadcast to homes around the nation, too. He blinked back tears before speaking. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m David Muir. We’re all here today to celebrate the like of Jon Karl. I was great friends with Jon for almost 15 years. I was extremely honored when his wife, Maria, asked me to deliver this speech. I’m nervous about finding the words to describe just how much Jon meant to me, his loved ones, and the public watching at home” He was extremely tense, but talking like he was reporting the news helped. “When I first met Jon 15 years ago, we didn’t quite hit it off. But he was my mentor, and I had to listen to him.” He laughed, remembering how rebellious and cocky he was. Jon was like a big brother to him. Suddenly, David dropped his pen. “Errr technical malfunctions.” He laughed, as he bent down to grab his pen and wipe his eyes. ‘Thanks, gravity’ he thought, before standing back up. Doodling helped him calm down. Since he was so tense and stressed, the doodle was pretty intricate. It was of him and Jon on one of their reports. “Jon was one of the bravest men I knew. One of our reports was in the midst of Hurricane Sandy in 2012. There had been a wave that almost killed me. The huge wave was carrying a lot of wood planks and nails. Jon had almost pulled me out of the way, but the wave nearly shattered my left leg, and part of my skull. I- I was unconscious for about a week. Jon saved my life...” Suddenly, he looked at everyone, weary. He was as pale as the sheet of paper he was reading off of. He wanted to run and scream. But he couldn’t, he wasn’t done yet. “I need a moment.” He sighed, sipping the water he had. Closing his eyes, he pictured Jon giving him the thumbs up. “Jon and I always goofed off while we weren’t working on anything. We used to sit and play video games on our laptops. I remember the last game we played. Among Us. You know, I still want a rematch.” He smirked as the crowd laughed. He was finally almost done with the speech. “As I mentioned earlier, Jon was an incredible man, mentor, friend, and my best friend. To his family, he was a son, a father, a husband, an uncle.” David finally finished, and decided to end the speech with his sign off. “This is David Muir for ABC News. We’ll see you right back here, tomorrow night” he winked, trying to keep the mood up.


It all happened on a Saturday night in July. The weather was nice, the country club beautifully decorated, but the conversation horrifying. "What do you mean you're not my boyfriend?" Jeanette asked me. She was backing away slowly, her lovely hazel eyes wide with fear. I hadn't meant for it to slip out. We were at our wedding party, drinking champagne, enjoiying ourselves. The beginning of the wedding had passed by in such a blur. Walking down the isle, saying our vows...It didn't feel real. I but then I again, I suppose, it wasn't. "I wish I remembered dating you." Jeanette had said, her face falling. "It feels like I just met you...thank you for being so forgiving. The accident took everything from me." I had nodded, trying to conjure up yet another lie. "No problem honey. Our dates were wonderful, but we can make more great memories together. We are going to have a blast on our honeymoon." I had assured her, face forcing a smile. "I downed my third glass of the fizzy drink. "Your the perfect man Brad." She had sighed, picking up one of the chocolate macaroons. I had felt beads of sweat starting to form at the nape of my neck, making my suit collar itch. I forced another smile. "Thanks honey, but you compliment me too much." I grimaced, reaching for another glass of champagne. Jeanette had reached out, putting her hand on my arm. "That's because you're my husband now." She smiled, stepping closer to me. My brain rang in alarm, my mind yelling liar liar. It was the alcohol that did it. I felt woozy with the beginning of a bad headache at the base of my skull. My temples were throbbing. And in that moment of weakness, I had let my guard down, and the truth had slipped out. "I'm not you're husband, and I..I wasn't your boyfriend.." And she was standing in front of me now looking confused, angry, and fearful. "Jeanette..." I swallowed, unsure what to say. "Brad?" She asked. "I...I'm so sorry." I say looking away. I know now I need to tell her the truth. I've loved her ever since I saw her a month ago at the gym. "Explain." She demands. "I"m sorry." I explain shakily. "I met you in the gym about a month ago. You were on the treadmill running, when you suddenly slipped off and banged your head hard on the floor." "I don't understand...." She gasped, taking another step back. "You said we met years ago." "You were rushed to the hospital. I followed you there, wanting to make sure you were okay. But they wouldn't let me see you." I took a deep breath. "So since they said only ffamily and friends were allowed in, I said I was your boyfriend." "Brad!" Jeanette shouts. "All of it was a lie? " "Jeanette please..." "You lied to me! I had no boyfriend!" She spits. By now, some of our wedding guests are giving us sideways glances. "You're right." I admit, hanging my head. "You just didn't remember because of the amnesia." My headache is worse than ever now. "I just needed to make sure you were okay! I felt responsible, I was talking to you while you were running and you got distracted by me! I made you slip!" "Brad." Jeanette sighs, trying to collect herself. "We are done here." "Jeanette..." "Please." She holds up a hand. "Just go." And even though telling the truth lifted a heavy weight from my chest, I had never felt so miserable. "But our wedding..." "Our wedding isn't real!" She cries out. "But Jeanette I love you! Even though we didn't really date once you became conscious and I got to know you I fell in love with you!" "Brad, I don't even know who you really are." She states, her voice ice cold. "What kind of pyscho would do something like this?" "But, don't you love me?" I ask, my voice quivering. "I, I thought I did." She stammers. "But I don't even know you! Our relationship is based on lies!" "We can fix this." I say, walking towards her. But she holds up a hand. "No Brad." Jeanette states. "Not for a long time." "I'm sorry!" I cry. "Please forgive me!" "Brad," Jeanette breathes, "I'm going to need some time to process this." "Jeanette, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness but please." I plead. "I forgive you." she stammers. "But, I need some time. You can't just expect me to jump back into a relationship with you after you pretended you were my boyfriend when I had amnesia!" "I know." I admit, my shoulders slumping. All of the wedding party by this time is gathering around us. Most of them are glaring daggers at me, others have their mouths hanging open from shock. "Go to court Jeanette!" "I"m calling the police this is insane." "Sue him!" The crowd all starts crying out. The police does arrive, and I tell the whole story again. Even the officers seem shocked. "Your going to jail." One of them states, setting his jaw firmly. But to my suprise, Jeanette interjects. "No, don't make him go to jail officer. I feel sorry for him." She says. Sorry for me? What? "He needs...help." She stammers, giving me a sideways glance. My chest fills with despair. Everyone thinks I'm insane. "Let me explain!" I plead, dropping to my knees. "You've explained plenty." The officer snaps. "You have the right to remain silent." "No!" I interject. "You don't understand!" Jeanette just shakes her head and walks away, her white wedding dress trailing along behind her. She hands her bouquet to a waiter and slips off her ring. What had just happened? How did it get to this? I try to go ater her but the officers stop me. "You're going to court." They say, shaking their heads. The wedding party disperses, all of them shaking their heads, and shocked. Who knew a wedding could go so wrong.


###Attention: **The Nomination and Voting schedule has changed! The Nomination Phase has been extended until Monday, January 10th, at 11:59pm EST. See the Schedule section of this post for a link to the countdown and the dates for Voting. Be sure to get those nominations in by the new deadline!** #Hello r/ShortStories! : warm mugs of cocoa, holiday movies, and...Reddit’s Annual Best Of Awards! This year, we will also be participating in the lovely tradition. It’s been a long year, but we’ve had some amazing content to help us get through it. So let’s take some time to look back on some of the great stories that were posted to the subreddit. Winners will receive our new Community “Best Of” award, which will give the recipient **one month of Reddit Premium**! And of course, . *** #How Does This Work? There are several categories in which you can nominate your favorite stories from 2021, most of which will correspond with our subreddit tags. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, made by me. When you are ready to make nominations, reply to the corresponding comment with a link to your nomination. You can view on r/WritingPrompts, for an idea of what it should look like. Each user may nominate up to **three** stories for each category. When the nomination phase is finished, voting will begin on a separate thread, with all the nominations. **Note: This is not the voting thread!** Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #The Following Categories Are Up for Nomination ###Weekly Feature Categories: - **Serial Sunday Submission** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **Micro Monday Submission** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / ###Tagged Story Submission Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HR] Horror Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[RF] Realistic Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HM] Humour Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[RO] Romance Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[TH] Thriller Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[UR] Urban Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[MF] Misc Fiction Stories** - / *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 20th - **Nomination Phase:** December 20th - January 10th at - **Voting Phase:** January 17th until January 27th 11:59pm EST - After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Nomination & Voting Rules - Nominations must be made in the correct category, as a reply to that comment. Misplaced nominations will not be recorded. - No more than 3 nominations per user, per category. Users may not nominate themselves. - Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team. - Nominated stories cannot be posted by banned or deleted accounts. - Nominated stories must be posted originally after January 1st, 2021 at 12:00am EST - Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved. - No off-topic conversation in the nomination areas. Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments. Good luck, and have fun! If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Don’t forget to stop by and on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro fiction skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Billy’s dad, like most of us, is a creature of pattern. His mornings always run on one of 17 common sequences, with 24 exceptions to date, and most of these are a simple reordering of the same clusters of sub-sequences, anyway. For example, first order of business is always checking the time. Always. In his 13413 days of existence, there have only been 3 occasions that Billy’s dad didn’t check the time first, and one of those times resulted in the conception of Billy. Today, Billy’s dad runs on sequence 12. Check time, urinate, shower, brush teeth, dress (always pants first, never shirt first. Billy’s dad once tried dressing shirt first, but with a formal top half and naked bottom half his body was confused as to whether he was feeling vulnerable, or aroused. He spent the rest of the day battling jump scares and surprise erections), coffee, breakfast, shoes on, keys, and out the door. This isn’t to be confused with sequence 11, which is essentially the same, but Billy’s dad brushes his teeth after breakfast instead.   Billy knows his dad’s patterns. He studies them as part of his own daily routine. Billy’s sequence system has a considerably smaller sample size than his dad’s, and consequently a much smaller total amount of common combinations. Billy has 5 standard morning routine paths, and most of those are dictated by whichever sequence order his mother is on. Today, he’s on #5. Wake up, watch dad, mum brings him breakfast, mum tells him to get dressed, mum shouts at him for not being dressed yet, mum takes him to school.   Beyond these typical morning rituals, however, the rest of the day was going to be anything but typical for both Billy, and his dad.   Billy’s dad was a particle physicist, and today was the day that the POS Institute was going to run an experiment he’d devised - the piece de resistance of his life’s accomplishments. An experiment that, if all went accordingly, would allow his team to smash through the physical structure of the world and allow them to peer into the fabric of space, time and all other dimensional elements that combine to form the world we know today.   Billy, on the other hand, was going to be taking a livestream of this event in to his class, for all his classmates to witness history in the making. It would be like the moon landing, if Neil Armstrong was your dad.   In the lab, assistants ran their routine series of checks and balances in the lead up to the experiment. It’s the next phase of particle smashing - quark smashing. In 2015, the world smashed particles together to get a look at what was inside them. Today, we smash what’s inside them together, to see what’s inside the insides. It’s all very technical.   This is the preamble explanation Billy gives the class at the start of his show and tell. Billy always fancied himself a bit of a scientist. It’s the genetic throne he’s destined to one day sit upon, but in reality, he just loved smashing his toys together in the sandpit. Today, he brought in some Lego demonstrations for the dummies in class. Billy found Lego worked best, because kids could understand the mechanism of individual blocks sticking together to form a larger structure. He thinks the metaphor was lost on them, though, when he talked about seeing what’s inside the Lego blocks. Most of them thought he was talking about plastic, so they were confused when he brought up his iPad to show them a livestream of the experiment. Billy’s dad’s experiment. As the rest of the class begin to catch on, they squirm awkwardly in their seats. The teacher tries to politely interrupt, but Billy has already streamed his feed to the projector and the coverage blazes on the whiteboard for all to see. He doesn’t care if this kind of learning makes them feel uncomfortable, it’s time for the world to open their eyes.   Billy’s dad was thinking the same thing at that moment, as he stood in the control room buzzing with excited physicians, who watched read outs of a track firing excited protons around it. A green light flashes, indicating that the protons have reached optimum speed. Hand at the ready, Billy’s dad smashes a big green button with dramatic flair, which cues the magnetic track to align the protons for collision. When things are moving at the speed of light, everything happens pretty instantaneously. The protons collide! Not one set, but this time two sets, on opposite sides of the 24 kilometre long track. And this time, the experiment doesn’t stop to watch the newly born quarks bloom and die like fireworks. No, this time the magnetic charge that’s been helping move an align the original protons continues to run, sucking up the quarks and shooting them further down the track, smashing them into the other set of fresh quarks that were being fired the opposite direction.   By this point, Billy found himself sitting outside the principal’s office. His teacher hadn’t appreciated his show and tell, apparently. But he didn’t see why his mother needed to be called in. His confusion was on par with his dad’s.   Back in the lab, Billy’s dad studied the revelation of new data. The experiment had worked, they’d discovered what was inside the quarks. Like a packet of crisps exploding, streams of smaller elements erupted from inside. From what could be deciphered, the contents were made up of two shapes, a circle, and a line, always connected to each other in varying strings and arrangements. How they functioned would take the team a long time to figure out, but for now, they were happy to have glimpsed God’s building blocks.   Billy left school early that day. He and his mother shared the car ride in silence. Billy, excited that the experiment was a success. His mother, much less enthusiastic.   After a successful day at work, Billy’s dad was on his way home to share the news with his family. It was afternoon routine 14. Pull into the driveway, check the mailbox, open the front door, and...   That’s when Billy’s mother took the iPad off him. Billy knew it was time for ‘a talk’ again. Which was it going to be this time?   “I’m worried about you”. “I want you to see Dr Boyle again”. “That’s not your real father. It’s not healthy for you to fixate like this”.   Some arrangement of those, surely, would make up one of Talks 1 through 4.   Instead, Billy’s mother looked over the screen. “So, what did he get up to today?”.   This was something new.


Once upon a time in a small town located in the deep forest of Salem, a little witch was eagerly awaiting her first Halloween. "Ding Ding Dong..." The little girl was racing to the door to greet her friend. "Hello Serene! Ready for our first Halloween? I'm very excited." said Wanda the little witch. The group gathered their cat-shaped candy bags and headed out the door. The first house was a beautifully decorated house with a spider painted doorbell. they ringed the bell and waited for the candy to appear. "trick or treat?" the girls smiled and looked at the old man with an eager look. "why such cuties! are you both witches?" "yes sir!" said Serene holding out the bag. the next house was an old house with a kind witch waiting for her grandchildren. "memaw! we got lots of candy!" said Wanda. the group unloaded their candy bags and as soon as their bags were empty, they teleported to a magic land of the witches. the group went into the huge house and ran to the bedrooms. "sleep little witches for tomorrow we dance on the fields, drink and eat like merry men." said memaw. the little girls dreamed of dancing in the fields, drinking, eating like merry men, and happy little ghosts spooking the bats. Squish them and squiggle them and make them disappear. That is the motto of all witches. Very carefully a victim is chosen. Then the witch stalks the wretched child like a hunter stalking a little bird in the forest. She treads softly. She moves quietly. She gets closer and closer. Then at last, when everything is ready...phwisst! ... and she swoops! Sparks fly. Flames leap. Oil boils. Rats howl. Skin shrivels. And the child dis-appears. A witch, you must understand, does not knock children on the head or stick knives into them or shoot at them with a pistol. People who do those things get caught by the police. A witch never gets caught. Don't forget that she has magic in her fingers and devilry dancing in her blood. She can make stones jump about like frogs and she can make tongues of flame go flickering across the surface of the water. These magic powers are very frightening. Luckily, there are not a great number of REAL WITCHES in the world today. But there are still quite enough to make you nervous. In England, there are probably about one hundred of them altogether. Some countries have more, others have not quite so many. No country in the world is completely free from WITCHES. A witch is always a woman. I do not wish to speak badly about women. Most women are lovely. But the fact remains that all witches are women. There is no such thing as a male witch. On the other hand, a ghoul is always a male. So indeed is a barghest. Both are dangerous. Bu neither of them is half as dangerous as a REAL WITCH. As far as children are concerned, a REAL WITCH is easily the most dangerous of all the living creatures on earth. What makes her doubly dangerous is the fact that she doesn'tlook dangerous. Even when you know all the secrets (you will hear about those in a minute), you can still never be quite sure whether it is a witch you are gazing at or just a kind lady. If a tiger were able to make himself look like a large dog with a waggy tail, you would probably go up and pat him on the head. And that would be the end of you. It is the same with witches. They all look like nice ladies. Kindly examine the picture opposite. Which lady is the witch? That is a difficult question, but it is one that every child must try to answer. For all you know, a witch might be living next door to you right now. Or she might be the woman with the bright eyes who sat opposite you on the bus this morning. She might be the lady with the dazzling smile who offered you a sweet from a white paper bag in the street before lunch. She might even--- and this will make you jump--- she might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment. Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a sugges-tion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of her cleverness. I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that shemight be one. It is most unlikely. But--- and here comes the big "but"---it is not impossible. Oh, if only there were a way of telling for sure whether a woman was a witch or not, then we could round them all up and put them in the meat--grinder. Unhappily, there is no such way. But thereare a number of little signals you can look out for, little quirky habits that all witches have in common, and if you know about these, if you remember them always, then you might just poss-ibly manage to escape from being squelched before you are very much older. My Grandmother I myself had two separate encounters with witches before I was eight years old. From the first I escaped unharmed, but on the second occasion I was not so lucky. Things happened to me that will probably make you scream when you read about them. That can't be helped. The truth must be told. The fact that I am still here and able to speak to you (however peculiar I may look) is due entirely to my wonderful grandmother. My grandmother was Norwegian. The Nor-wegians know all about witches, for Norway, with its black forests and icy mountains, is where the first witches came from. My father and my mother were also Norwegian, but because my father had a business in England, I had been born there and had lived there and had started going to an English school. Twice a year, at Christmas and in the sum-mer, we went back to Norway to visit my grand-mother. This old lady, as far as I could gather, was just about the only surviving relative we had on either side of our family. She was my mother's mother and I absolutely adored her. When she and I were together we spoke in either Norwegian or in English. It didn't matter which. We were equally fluent in both languages, and I have to admit that I felt closer to her than to my mother. Soon after my seventh birthday, my parents took me as usual to spend Christmas with my grandmother in Norway. And it was over there, while my father and mother and I were driving in icy weather just north of Oslo, that our car skidded off the road and went tumbling down into a rocky ravine. My parents were killed. I was firmly strap-ped into the back seat and received only a cut on the forehead. I won't go into the horrors of that terrible afternoon. I still get the shivers when I think about it. I finished up, of course, back in my grandmother's house with her arms around me tight and both of us crying the whole night long. "What are we going to do now?" I asked her through the tears. "You will stay here with me," she said, "and I will look after you." "Aren't I going back to England?" "No," she said. "I could never do that. Heaven shall take my soul, but Norway shall keep my bones." The very next day, in order that we might both try to forget our great sadness, my grandmother started telling me stories. She was a wonderful story-teller and I was enthralled by everything she told me. But I didn't become really excited until she got on to the subject of witches. She was apparently a great expert on these creatures and she made it very clear to me that her witch stories, unlike most of the others, were not imaginary tales. They were all true. They were thegospel truth. They were history. Everything she was tell-ing me about witches had actually happened and I had better believe it. What was worse, what was far, far worse, was that witches were still with us. They were all around us and I had better believe that, too. "Are youreally being truthful, Grandmamma?Really andtruly truthful?" "My darling," she said, "you won't last long in this world if you don't know how to spot a witch when you see one." "But you told me that witches look like ordin-ary women, Grandmamma. So how can I spot them?" "You must listen to me," my grandmother said. "You must remember everything I tell you. After that, all you can do is cross your heart and pray to heaven and hope for the best." We were in the big living-room of her house in Oslo and I was ready for bed. The curtains were never drawn in that house, and through the win-dows I could see huge snowflakes falling slowly on to an outside world that was as black as tar. My grandmother was tremendously old and wrinkled, with a massive wide body which was smothered in grey lace. She sat there majestic in her armchair, filling every inch of it. Not even a mouse could have squeezed in to sit beside her. I myself, just seven years old, was crouched on the floor at her feet, wearing pyjamas, dressing-gown and slippers. "You swear you aren't pulling my leg?" I kept saying to her. "You swear you aren't just pretending?" "Listen," she said, "I have known no less than five children who have simply vanished off the face of this earth, never to be seen again. The witches took them." "I still think you're just trying to frighten me," I said. "I am trying to make sure you don't go the same way," she said. "I love you and I want you to stay with me." "Tell me about the children who disappeared," I said. My grandmother was the only grandmother I ever met who smoked cigars. She lit one now, a long black cigar that smelt of burning rubber. "The first child I knew who disappeared", she said, "was called Ranghild Hansen. Ranghild was about eight at the time, and she was playing with her little sister on the lawn. Their mother, who was baking bread in the kitchen, came outside for a breath of air. 'Where's Ranghild?' she asked. " 'She went away with the tall lady,' the little sister said. " 'What tall lady?' the mother said. " 'The tall lady in white gloves,' the little sister said. 'She took Ranghild by the hand and led her away.' No one", my grandmother said, "ever saw Ranghild again." "Didn't they search for her?" I asked. "They searched for miles around. Everyone in the town helped, but they never found her." "What happened to the other four children?" I asked. "They vanished just as Ranghild did." "How, Grandmamma? How did they vanish?" "In every case a strange lady was seen outside the house, just before it happened." "But how did they vanish?" I asked. "The second one was very peculiar," my grand-mother said. "There was a family called Christian-sen. They lived up on Holmenkollen, and they had an old oil-painting in the living room which they were very proud of. The painting showed some ducks in the yard outside a farmhouse. There were no people in the painting, just a flock of ducks on a grassy farmyard and the farmhouse in the back-ground. It was a large painting and rather pretty. Well, one day their daughter Solveg came home from school eating an apple. She said a nice lady had given it to her on the street. The next morning little Solveg was not in her bed. The parents searched everywhere but they couldn't find her. Then all of a sudden her father shouted, 'There she is! That's Solveg feeding the ducks!' He was pointing at the oil-painting, and sure enough Solveg was in it. She was standing in the farmyard in the act of throwing bread to the ducks out of a basket. The father rushed up to the painting and touched her. But that didn't help. She was simply a part of the painting, just a picture painted on the canvas." "Didyou ever see that painting, Grandmamma, with the little girl in it?" "Many times," my grandmother said. "And the peculiar thing was that little Solveg kept changing her position in the picture. One day she would actually be inside the farmhouse and you could see her face looking out of the window. Another day she would be far over to the left with a duck in her arms." "Did you see her moving in the picture, Grand-mamma?" "Nobody did. Wherever she was, whether out-side feeding the ducks or inside looking out of the window, she was always motionless, just a figure painted in oils. It was all very odd," my grand-mother said. "Very odd indeed. And what was most odd of all was that as the years went by, she kept growing older in the picture. In ten years, the small girl had become a young woman. In thirty years, she was middle-aged. Then all at once, fifty-four years after it all happened, she disappeared from the picture altogether." "You mean she died?" I said. "Who knows?" my grandmother said. "Some very mysterious things go on in the world of witches." "That's two you've told me about," I said. "What happened to the third one?" "The third one was little Birgit Svenson," my grandmother said. "She lived just across the road from us. One day she started growing feathers all over her body. Within a month, she had turned into a large white chicken. Her parents kept her for years in a pen in the garden. She even laid eggs." "What colour eggs?" I said. "Brown ones," my grandmother said. "Biggest eggs I've ever seen in my life. Her mother made omelettes out of them. Delicious they were." I gazed up at my grandmother who sat there like some ancient queen on her throne. Her eyes were misty-grey and they seemed to be looking at something many miles away. The cigar was the only real thing about her at that moment, and the smoke it made billowed round her head in blue clouds. "But the little girl who became a chicken didn't disappear?" I said. "No, not Birgit. She lived on for many years laying her brown eggs." "You said all of them disappeared." "I made a mistake," my grandmother said. "I am getting old. I can't remember everything." "What happened to the fourth child?" I asked. "The fourth was a boy called Harald, " my grand-mother said. "One morning his skin went all greyish-yellow. Then it became hard and crackly, like the shell of a nut. By evening, the boy had turned to stone." "Stone?" I said. "You mean real stone?" "Granite," she said. "I'll take you to see him if you like. They still keep him in the house. He stands in the hall, a little stone statue. Visitors lean their umbrellas up against him." Although I was very young, I was not prepared to believe everything my grandmother told me. And yet she spoke with such conviction, with such utter seriousness, and with never a smile on her face or a twinkle in her eye, that I found myself beginning to wonder. "Go on, Grandmamma," I said. "You told me there were five altogether. What happened to the last one?" "Would you like a puff of my cigar?" she said. "I'm only seven, Grandmamma." "I don't care what age you are," she said. "You'll never catch a cold if you smoke cigars." "What about number five, Grandmamma?" "Number five", she said, chewing the end of her cigar as though it were a delicious asparagus, "was rather an interesting case. A nine-year-old boy called Leif was summer-holidaying with his family on the fjord, and the whole family was picnicking and swimming off some rocks on one of those little islands. Young Leif dived into the water and his father, who was watching him, noticed that he stayed under for an unusually long time. When he came to the surface at last, he wasn't Leif any more." "What was he, Grandmamma?" "He was a porpoise." "He wasn't! He couldn't have been!" "He was a lovely young porpoise," she said. "And as friendly as could be." "Grandmamma," I said. "Yes, my darling?" "Did he really and truly turn into a porpoise?" "Absolutely," she said. "I knew his mother well. She told me all about it. She told me how Leif the Porpoise stayed with them all that after-noon giving his brothers and sisters rides on his back. They had a wonderful time. Then he waved a flipper at them and swam away, never to be seen again." "But Grandmamma," I said, "how did they know that the porpoise was actually Leif?" "He talked to them," my grandmother said. "He laughed and joked with them all the time he was giving them rides." "But wasn't there a most tremendous fuss when this happened?" I asked. "Not much," my grandmother said. "You must remember that here in Norway we are used to that sort of thing. There are witches everywhere. There's probably one living in our street this very moment. It's time you went to bed." "A witch wouldn't come in through my window in the night, would she?" I asked, quaking a little. "No," my grandmother said. "A witch will never do silly things like climbing up drainpipes or breaking into people's houses. You'll be quite safe in your bed. Come along. I'll tuck you in."


(WP) An Angel, a Demon, and Gordon Ramsay “Darling, are you quite sure about this?” My mother asks, hovering outside of my bedroom, floating off of the ground, wings fully spread. “I know that this is your dream, but you have to admit that the man is a little...” “Rude? Terrifying? Ornery?” I supply, smirking. “Trust me, after you and Dad, I can handle a picky head chef.” “We’ve seen Hell’s Kitchen, you know!” My father adds, appearing next to my mother, both of them blocking the door. We’ve had this conversation a million times, and I won’t change my mind. I want to be one of the greatest chefs of all time, and Gordon Ramsay is a living legend. “Won’t it be better if I’m out of your way?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. It has been their dream to rule the universe, and though I know they love me, I’ve never been their first priority. My mother is the strongest angel to ever come from Heaven, and my father is one of the most feared demons to ever climb out of Hell. I don’t begrudge them their dreams; that’s why it’s so surprising that they’re trying to talk me out of this. Maybe it’s crazy, but I’ve already accepted the job. I’m scared, but excited, too. I’ve never been outside of our little town, and now I’m headed to London. I’ve only seen it in pictures. “I’m just worried,” My mother replies, brow wrinkling with concern. “Promise me if you have trouble, you’ll call us.” My father watches me, head tilted. “I do believe her mind’s made up, my love.” “It is, Dad.” They make such a strange pair; when I was young, they would often tell me the story of how they’d met, and against the odds, fell for each other. It had become something of a bedtime story for me. But I wasn’t scared of Gordon Ramsay; what was a mortal chef businessman combo in comparison to literally having an angel and demon for parents? “Your plane leaves tomorrow at four, and of course, we can drive you to the airport. Make sure you pack plenty of books to read, okay? A flight of 15 plus hours is bound to get tedious,” Mom says, and she crosses the room, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. “Make sure to check in whenever you land, please,” My father adds, and I nod. I wonder if I’ll even be able to sleep. This time tomorrow, I will leave this place, and wake up in a completely different part of the world. I look through the thick sheaf of papers that came with my acceptance letter. My plane ticket is within, as well as directions to the restaurant. Thankfully, Mom and Dad have friends and residences all over the globe, and one of them was kind enough to let me stay with her while I work for Ramsay. \*\* The next morning dawns bright and sunny, though we’re awake before it even rises. Mom and Dad insist on stopping for coffee and breakfast on the way, and I eat a few bites of my food. But I’m too excited to eat; my insides feel like they’re dancing within my body, a tango I have nothing to do with. I kiss my mother and father goodbye, hugging them tightly. I hang out in a gift shop for a little while, sipping my coffee and reading a novel. The time seems to fly; I board the plane, thinking about how I’ll meet my boss in several hours. Compared to my parents, what’s Gordon Ramsay? But I know this opportunity is golden, and I won’t waste it. This is just the first step on the path to success.


It began with concerns about contaminating the moon. As our species struggled to escape the gravity well of the Earth, precautions where taken to ensure that when moon rocks and moon dust where collected and returned at such expense, that they remained free of earthly microbes. A process had begun, that would be glimpsed at work in film and fiction, in science and culture, spreading throughout human conciousness. It was a process that lead to the Andromeda strain, to star wars, to Kubriks masterpieces. Bit by bit, the human race got used to certain ideas, certain concepts. A slow strangulation befell religion. Its shrill voice silenced and ridiculed by science and the stars. Ufo death cults appeared, conspiracies and Area 51, reptiles and alien governments. We proposed ever new variations to each other - allowed ourselves to consider the alien in so many new ways. Manga, Hentai, tentacle shit, of course, but also other, richer, higher imaginings - we could see the alien through any lense we choose - the big brother - the fatherly figure- the noble savage- or the semi-divine. And in so many of our versions, contact with the alien meant war. In time, serious thought was given to this issue, governments paid for reports, for contingency plans. Universities carried out studies, Authors and philosophers wieghed in. As our technological progress continued its relentless conversion of sci-fiction into fact, so did grow the economic and social value of such concerns. Soon we would be littering our solar system with brave and lonely robots, sending us pictures of some rock to which we exiled them. What if we did finally find the alien? the Question needed answers. Gentle Contact Theory was developed as part of a NASA study in August 2002, and was initially unremarkable. The usual tropes where trotted out - Sterilising all tech they sent into space was routine by now, by the concept of ideological sterilisation gaining ground. Minimising the information that humanity would reveal through contact with aliens. Framing our questions to avoid revealing information about ourselves. Creating false or sanitised descriptions of humanity. Deciding, in advance, how truthful we might be. As it turned out, the process was quite revealing. We all lie on CV's, but if you had to apply for a job on behalf of humanity, you might hesitate. But the report needed writing, and its authors felt it was .. "taking shape" ... a guide-book or manual format of sorts- strange flowcharts: "Is the alien ramen or varalese?" "Is it a memetic hazard?" are you human? (sorry). *PART TWO* On August 27th, the first of a long series of contact games was held. By mid october a number of strategies had emerged, and discussions about them led to the first draft of the GCT paper. Caution was a popular choice, and many teams exploited a concealment and study approach, which was effective against a number of the more hostile alien models, but contact itself remained problematic. NASA didn't want a plan that involved orbiting an alien world indefinitely. Assumptions were discovered in the game mechanics, artifacts of the technological costs of space travel. Our visiting starship would have to enter orbit, would have finite resources to sustain human crew or AI systems, it would require communication systems, a landing vehicle, and so on. Cautious strategies rapidly encountered limits on their success. In essence, they seemed to simply delay the inevitable failure of contact.


In a dimly lit room, a man sits with his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. His eyes dart around, tracing the cracks in the peeling paint as though they hold secret information he needs to know. He is convinced he is in a prison cell, a place of confinement. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent light feels like a spotlight, intensifying his paranoia. They leave no shadows in which to hide. He clutches the thin, scratchy blanket tightly around his shoulders, wrapping himself in an imaginary sanctuary of protection. Straining to hear voices in the hall, he hears only the humming of the air conditioner drowning everything out. Crawling out of the corner to the locked window, he looks outside and only sees another brick wall across the way--no glimpse of the outside world, no familiar faces passing by. Just another wall to reinforce his belief that he is being held as a prisoner. Thomas has been in this “cell” for what feels like an eternity. He can’t remember how he got here or the memories of his life before. Everything has blurred into a confusing jumble. His mind races, searching for answers that remain stubbornly out of his reach. If he does recall something, it jumps away like a fleeing grasshopper that can’t be recaptured. As the days melt together, Thomas’s paranoia deepens. Every creak of the floorboards, every cough from the room next door, sends shivers down his spine. He is sure they are watching him, studying his every move, waiting for him to slip up. Thomas paces the small room, sometimes tracing invisible patterns on the floor. He’ll talk to himself in whispers in case they have listening devices hidden in the walls. A man posing as a doctor talks with him three times a week. His name tag reads J B Comey. That name sounds familiar to Thomas, though he can’t say why. He always asks unintrusive questions like “How are you feeling today?” or “Do you know where you are?” But Thomas knows what he really wants, so he says nothing. Also, he calls Thomas “John” for some reason. Perhaps to make him tell him his name is Thomas, but he refuses to fall into this trap. There is another man dressed in green scrubs with the name tag Carlson RN. He’s big and muscular, but Thomas doesn’t believe he is a nurse for one minute. Carlson is pleasant, takes his blood pressure, and brings him food. Thomas doesn’t trust the food because they’ve put something in it to make him talk. He knows they have because he can smell it. Thomas only eats when he can’t stand being hungry anymore. Even then, he’ll eat just enough to quench his appetite. ... I’ve found what appears to be a bit of white chalk, and by moving my bed to one side, I’ve begun drawing an escape plan on the floor. When I hear the key unlocking the door, I quickly push my bed back into place and sit on it. I smile because they don’t know my secret. Doctor Comey enters the room, followed by Carlson. “Well, John, you look rather bright today. Can you tell me what it is you’re smiling about? No? Still keeping your secrets, hey?” With eyes wide and nostrils flaring, Thomas freezes in place. “No! They know about my plan, my escape route under the bed! They must have a camera hidden somewhere!” His eyes scan wildly about the room until they land on a painting of the ocean hanging on the wall. “That must be where it is! A pinhole camera hidden in the sea foam. Watching me, always watching me. But why? I can’t remember doing anything. What do they want with me?” The doctor’s name flashes in Thomas’s mind, and he now knows who the doctor truly is. Thomas raises a shaking hand to his forehead. “Comey! R B Comey, the head of the FBI!” His eyes search out Carlson’s name tag. RN stands for the Republican Nation! Good God, has the government collapsed? Is democracy dead? A calm and familiar voice speaks to him from the end of the bed. “That’s right, Thomas. Just like we talked about all those years ago in the frat house. Remember?” Tears threaten to spill from the corners of his eyes. Thomas turns, stricken with fear, for his old college roommate Earl Prentice sits, not looking one day older than he did then. All the while, Dr Comey has been speaking to Thomas. “What is it, John? Have I said something to upset you? Please won’t you tell me what’s happening? I’m only trying to help you! I want to help make you better, John. Don’t you want to be better?” Thomas has turned his face to the wall, quivering from head to toe, his hands balled up beneath his chin. Dr. Comey falls back into his chair and sighs. “I’d like to know what is going on in that head of his. From the dark circles under his eyes, I’d say he’s not sleeping. Please give him some Doxepin with his meal. A good rest may help him to relax.” Standing, Dr.Comey reaches out his hand and touches John on his shoulder. Thomas flinches and pulls away. “It’s all right, John. Please try to get some rest, and I’ll see you again on Thursday, okay?” Turning to Carlson, he instructs, “Make sure he eats. I don’t want him to lose any more weight. He’s already lost twenty pounds.” Carlson brings in Thomas’s food tray and places it on the side table. “John, it’s imperative that you eat your food. I have a pill that will help you rest, but it must be taken with food. Do you understand? If you don’t eat, I can’t give you the pill, and if I can’t give you the pill, I’ll be in big trouble. You don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?” Carlson cuts the sandwich in half with a plastic knife, places it on the tray, and then takes out the pill. “John, if you eat half of the sandwich, I’ll give you the pill, and you can have the two cookies. You wouldn’t have to eat any more than that, okay?” Thomas grabs the sandwich and takes two large bites. He then sticks out his hand for the pill. When Carlson gives it to him, Thomas stuffs it into his mouth with the rest of the sandwich. “Way to go, John! I’ll leave the tray for now and pick it up later. Have a good rest, my friend.” When Thomas hears the door click, he spits out the pill and hides it under his pillow. Hearing someone snickering, he slowly turns his head and peaks over his right shoulder. “Earl? H-How did you manage to get in here? They’re always watching me. How come they didn’t see you?” Earl sits crossed-legged on the end of the bed, leaning back against the wall. He smiles his famous roguish grin. “Because I’m too clever for those bastards, that’s how!” Clapping his hands, Thomas can hardly contain his excitement. Rocking back and forth, giggling, “That’s right! You are too clever for those bastards! Too, too clever. That’s you, Earl, too clever for those bastards.” Earl knits his eyebrows together. “Geez, Thomas, you look awful. What have they been doing to you?” “They haven’t done anything to me. They just watch, spy on me, and eavesdrop to try and hear if I say something they can use against me! They are probably listening to us right now!” As Thomas’s anxiety grows, his voice starts to crack, and sweat rolls down his face, mixing with his tears. “They insinuate that I’ve done something wrong, yet they won’t tell me! They want me to tell them , but I can’t because I don’t know what it is! I can’t remember anything. I don’t even know how I got here in this cell!” Thomas drops his head into his hands and weeps loudly. “Hey, hey, pull yourself together, old boy! You’re here because of that night at the frat house when we were all drinking and came up with the idea of overthrowing the government and making life better for the common man, remember? I think there must have been a spy among us.” Eyes darting left and right, Thomas whispers, “A spy? Who?” “I’m not certain, but I’d say it was John Webb.” Gasping, Thomas’s hands fly to his chest. “They keep calling me John! Do you think that they think I’m this John Web fellow? Thomas tries to figure this out while mopping the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. “I bet that’s it. They’re rounding up everyone from that night and are using me to tell the names of everyone there! But don’t worry, Earl, I still won’t talk, not a word, I promise.” Moving closer, Earl reassures Thomas that they don’t think he’s Web. “How do you know?” “I know because John’s dead.” Earl stares at his fingernail before returning his attention to Thomas. Panic grips Thomas. “How did he die? When did he die? Did they kill John? Did they think John was me? If they killed John thinking it was me, will they kill me next because they think I’m John?” Earl falls back onto the bed and rocks side to side, laughing hysterically. “Stop, Thomas, please stop! I think I’m going to wet myself! Look, all that doesn’t matter. It’s your food tray that matters. Look what the fat idiot of a guard did. See? Under your napkin.” With a sinister smile, Earl raises one eyebrow and leans closer, “It’s a real treasure.” Eyes wide with wonder, Thomas looks and sees the tip of the plastic knife sticking out from under the napkin. Grinning widely, Earl taunts Thomas. “ What do you say to that, Thomas? It’s a real game changer, uh? Crap, you’re almost home free! All you have to do is wait for the right moment!” Clutching the knife tightly in both hands for fear it might disappear, Thomas bites his bottom lip. With eyebrows raised high and eyes ablaze, Thomas looks at Earl and starts laughing maniacally. His laughter is cut short when he hears the door lock click. Thomas thrusts the knife under his pillow and faces the opening door. He couldn’t look more guilty if he tried. His eyes are dilated and strained, his complexion white and pasty, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, and he’s shaking from head to toe. Just by looking at him, Carlson is immediately alert as he enters the room. Carlson walks over to the tray. “Sorry to disturb you, John, but I may have forgotten something when I left. You haven’t seen a plastic knife by any chance, have you? Don’t worry, John, you won’t be in trouble if you have. I’m the one in trouble for forgetting it.” Looking at John’s hand under the pillow, Carlson points, “ Is that it there? May I have it, please?’ Suddenly, Thomas’s face contorts into a twisted fit of rage as he leaps forth, his hand held high to attack. Carlson easily overpowers Thomas and takes away the knife. Placing the knife safely in the pocket of his scrubs, he gently returns Thomas to his bed. He sees the pill under the pillow and gives it to Thomas with a glass of water. “Sorry to have been so rough with you, John. Now let’s take this pill so you can relax, okay?” Thomas falls back onto his pillow, whimpering the first words Carlson has ever heard him speak. “I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die.” Then, from sheer exhaustion, Thomas falls asleep. ... The next day, we find Mrs. Webb sitting in Dr. Comey’s office, wringing her handkerchief. “I’m sorry to call you in so early, Mrs.Webb, but your husband attacked his male nurse last night with a plastic knife.” Mrs.Webb’s hand flies to her mouth. “Not to worry, Mrs.Webb, Carlson is fine. The thing is that John wouldn’t talk to us, so we have no idea as to what he is thinking. His facial expressions and body language tell us he understands what we are saying but refuses to respond. From the tapes, we see him pacing his room and talking to an imaginary friend named Earl. He tells Earl that he is confused about why we call him John when his name is Thomas.” Raising her hand slightly, Mrs.Webb explains. “Thomas Paige was John’s friend since grade school. He was the one who died that night of the car accident.” Nodding his head and raising his eyebrows, Dr. Comey ponders the situation. “Ahh. So John was probably fearing for his friend’s life as well as his own just before they impacted the tree. By switching personalities, John can keep his friend alive. Mrs Webb, your husband is suffering from a blunt force impact to his right temple area, causing much damage to his brain. It has left him with delusions that are causing confusion and anxiety. I’m sorry I can’t give you a better prognosis; all we can do now is pray.” Daubbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that won’t absorb one more tear, she thanks the doctor and leaves. ... Wincing at the dull pain in his head, Thomas slowly opens his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s gotten here. As the neon light flickers overheard, he studies the peeling paint for a clue. He sits up and leans his back against the cold, damp wall. Pulling the scratchy blanket tighter around his shoulders, he feels that he might be in a cell, a prison cell.


Vera didn't think it was real at first. She almost expected someone to come out with a camera and yell, “Surprise!” But no one did; they never would. It was something she had to remind herself of regularly. No one would care enough to help her if she couldn't help herself first. Not that she met many people in this hellscape. Not any that were alive, at least. But that seemed to be the luck for those that actually followed the guidelines. Vera had backed out of class when she started coughing. Of course, she wasn’t actually sick, she just wanted to avoid being around potential harbingers of this new mysterious disease. And while her grades slipped a bit, she was accommodated for the lack of face-to-face accessibility. She became very thankful for all those persistent enough to not be put off by her shitty personality--those who she called her best friends. Those that were probably dead or hunting around in the street right now. Those who had no regard for their safety, who didn’t follow the rules, choosing to instead pass it off. They weren’t the only ones, though. Everyone kept passing it off as a temporary disease. They just said it was another version of anemia that was uncommon enough as it was. Masks and gloves were discarded in the first two weeks of the quarantine that their government had established. But they hadn’t even started wearing those crucial little things--something to overlook in a drug store--when it mattered. At the very beginning, several countries had already taken notice, establishing their own quarantines, and new rules and regulations. People living in other countries who weren’t quite so aware of this development were the first to close themselves off from the public. Those were the ones that stayed up to date with world news. America took a bit longer. Vera had just returned to her dorm when the official release came out--the mystery disease with no name and no known origin had reached a deadly level, spreading rapidly across the world. Some people joked that this was Mother Nature’s way of eradicating the true disease of Earth--human beings. If that were true, though, this disease wouldn’t have begun as it did. People would have died immediately, for one. Maybe if people actually listened for once instead of arguing, then this whole pandemic wouldn’t have reached the proportion that it did. Maybe Vera wouldn’t have to fight for her life just to get some damn pads. She had to shake herself out of her thoughts. It wasn’t helping to worry about the things that could have been, and she had to move. Peeking around the corner of the magazine rack confirmed the worst of Vera’s suspicions. She was surrounded and would probably be forced to fight her way out if she couldn’t wait for them to just walk away. Those things always seemed to know when someone was near, though, because every time she tried to wait them out, they just stood there and waited for her instead. There had to be some amount of intelligence in that dead brain of theirs. Of course, Vera could just have horrible luck, but she didn’t like to consider that as an option so she dismissed it just as soon as it popped up. However, unlike those last occasions, Vera came prepared for this one. She had slathered sewage and mud all over her arms and clothes. While it wasn’t the best smelling, it seemed to distract from her original scent, and that would make all the difference. It wasn’t an original idea, though. She had seen someone else do it to get through a particularly nasty crowd the other day. They seemed to move through like it was nothing, though they also weren’t in the heart of it. God, what if they saw her and realized she wasn’t infected? Did she have enough time to shoot herself before she got eaten alive? Save the last one for yourself; wait, no. That was pirates. Pirates had a pretty good blueprint for the end of the world, though, didn’t they? Saving the last bullet was a pretty good idea, though the situation was in a different context. Save it for yourself when you get marooned on some island in the middle of nowhere. What happens when you’re the captain AND crew? Could you maroon yourself? The shuffling behind her told her that she couldn’t afford that train of thought. She had to move now. There was one biter ahead of her near the door, but it didn't seem to notice her just yet--she would know it did when it started sniffing the air. She couldn’t let it catch wind of her. If it didn’t move, though, she would have to do what she really wanted to avoid. Killing them wasn’t an issue. Vera was mainly worried about how close she would have to get in order to do it. If any fluids got in the tiniest of cuts, she’d risk a chance of infection. It wouldn’t be easy, but her knowledge of anatomy would finally come in handy--past Vera would be on the floor cackling at that. There were a few weak spots in the adult skull, spots that she could use to kill them before they even noticed her coming. If it stayed facing away from her, she might be able to get that lucky spot in the back of its head. She prayed to whatever god that was listening as she stalked forward, looking more like a hunchback than any kind of stealthy. It wasn’t the easiest position to walk in, especially when you had to carry forty pounds directly on your back, but it did eliminate a lot more sound. Sound that she couldn’t afford to let out. One shelf after another, achingly slow moments of quick glancing around corners, before, eventually, Vera found herself huddled against a cash register. God. When did her heart start beating so fast? Her feet were numb. The biter was still facing the door--her only way out. After stealing a look around the rest of the front end of the store, she could come to the safe conclusion that, after she got this one down, she could safely sprint back to her camp without anything following her. If they did, they would have to eat her dust instead. A low shuddering breath snapped Vera out of her daydream, and at first, she thought the biter at the front had noticed her, but it was the one from earlier. It was rounding the corner where she sat just moments before. Damn. Vera had to assume that when she heard the shuffling from behind her, it had already caught her scent. There was no time to think, she had to get out of there. Bracing her unprotected side with her bag, Vera readied her little knife, sucked in a breath, and drove it into the back of its neck. It went down easily enough, gurgling a bit but eventually going limp. Careful to hold up the new deadweight, Vera laid it down as quickly as she possibly could without drawing more attention to herself. Now the path was clear. Except the hand gripping her arm told her otherwise. Vera whipped her head around, swinging the knife in a wide arc around her. But instead of a biter--it was a kid. He leaned back just in time to only get clipped on the shoulder by the blade. The biter from before was laying just behind him, dead, she assumed. He raised a hand to his lips to keep her from speaking, not that she planned to. She almost felt insulted that he thought she would, but they didn't have time to mess around. He helped her, now she owed him. Not the best situation to be in, especially now. He was probably going to demand some of the stuff she scavenged from this place. The stuff she really couldn't afford to lose. If she wanted to stay alive, though, she’d have to. Maybe she could get the jump on him first? No, that’d be stupid . They didn't have a lot of time to do anything though. It wasn’t smart to stick around the dead ones. Vera noticed that when one went down, others came to snack on it. It’s like they were vultures, taking what they could get from other predators’ kills. Not that Vera, or anyone for that matter, wanted to eat those things. More power to them, at least when this was all fixed, the cleanup would be easy. The body nodded toward the door and reached out to grab her, flinching back when Vera jerked the knife away. She still had her hatchet secured in her bag but if she couldn’t keep her knife out, he might get the upper hand. Vera pointed at him, making a quick walking figure with her index and middle finger, and motioned to the door. He seemed to understand well enough, though he hesitated, feet glued to the floor. She couldn’t chance them getting caught, though, and finally said screw it, grabbed his jacket sleeve, and tugged him up with her. Looks were definitely deceiving, though, because this kid could move fast . Despite moving over broken glass, no sound came from beneath those chunky shoes. Vera had stumbled a bit to keep from accidentally stepping on it, but she kept her knife aimed his way as the two snuck out of the parking lot. He could slip away from her as soon as she blinked, and she didn't want to risk that. She needed to keep the high ground in this. “You got a place?” His voice was weird, kind of nasally, and high pitched. “You should keep your voice down,” Vera’s own was hoarse with disuse, but she couldn't find it in herself to feel ashamed. The most talking she did was to herself in her sleep. “We’re on the roof, we’ll be fine.” “You don’t know that for sure.” “I haven’t seen them learn to climb yet.” “ Yet ,” Vera spit. “Yet, indeed,” the boy grinned back at her, not even fazed at the knife aimed his way. “But I think we can assume safety up here for now.” He stopped and held out his hand for her to shake. Vera didn't move to accept it so he dropped it by his side. “I’m Adam, I go to the vocational college for funeral service near the airport, you?” “Er,” she paused, knife wavering a bit in her grasp. What was she supposed to say? Also, he apparently was much older than he looked, Vera almost felt bad for calling him a boy. “The main campus in Houston?” “Oh yeah?” that grin of his never seemed to falter. “What for?” “Arts,” she shoved the knife back in her bag. “Look what’s your goal here?” “To get to know you!” “Why?” “It’s kind of lonely out here, ya know,” he glanced around them, waving his hands at their surroundings as he turned. “There’s no one friendly out here for miles and you’re the first person I meant willing to talk to me for this long.” “That’s because no one trusts one another,” Vera said. “You can’t just assume everyone wants to be with someone.” “Well, I want to be with someone, ever consider that?” Vera swallowed thickly, letting out a dry cough when she realized out parched she actually was. She needed to get something to drink soon. “We’re complete strangers, but you killed the biter back there behind me, so I have to repay you. It’s common courtesy. What do you want?” “Your name, and your company if you’ll have me.” The response was instant and it drove Vera for a loop. What was the guy's goal? She scowled and heaved a sigh from her nose. It was nice to have someone to watch her back, and it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra pair of hands. Especially capable hands, if the silent kill back in the store was any indicator. Vera shook her head, “Fine, it’s Vera, but get in my way and I drop you.” “That’s fine by me,” he hopped to attention when she continued toward the next building, rolling back on her heels to get ready to jump. “So, where are we headed?”


Blood was everywhere. The sea of red was flowing to every corner of the room. Her body was lying there in a pool of itself, the knife standing in her chest, each moment, losing more blood, fighting the pain to breath. The anticipation of death grew and grew. Life was done, over, completed to say the least. I looked directly in her eyes as each breath got slower and weaker. Then suddenly the deep wheezing stopped. At that moment, the urge subsided, the uncertain arose, the ringing stopped, and the silence grew. As I proceeded to the kitchen, I realized, I didn’t even bother to learn “Her” name. Actually, I don’t remember anything up to the point of being in her house. The last thought I could recollect was seeing her at the bar. I don’t know if it was the brown eyes, her straight brown hair, her long legs, or the friendly smile, but I was attracted. That’s all it took, that brief moment of enticement. The pressure began to build, the ringing became loud, my heart beat rose, and the room went black. The next thing I knew, I was straddling her, telling her if she moved, I would make it slow and painful, telling her, there is no hope. She then asked the typical, quite frankly stupid question of, “Why, are you doing this?” and telling me the typical victim lines, “I have a family that loves me, I promise I wont go to the Police.” As if she was magically going to change my mind, she didn’t understand that anything she said or did wasn’t going to help her, I had to kill her, I needed the feel of control, I needed the peace. That feeling of the knife going through the sternum and puncturing the heart, that feeling of life drifting from the veins, it’s indescribable. I pulled out my hanker chief, and proceeded to wipe the room clean of my prints. I put on my hat, gloves, and coat and left. I went back to my normal life, my dead end job, my friends. Both things I hate, My job is tedious and has no meaning, My friends are demanding and intrusive. To be honest, I prefer to be alone, the solitude suppresses my urges. When I have nothing to entice me, I don’t kill. The fact that I don’t need to kill makes me feel almost normal. I wonder if one day, I wont have to kill anymore, when the ringing permanently stops, and the pressure is released from my head. No one knows what I’m doing or who I am, to them I was a normal part of society, and quite frankly I was, I tried to convince myself that I was happy, but I knew the God’s honest truth, that no one is ever happy. The only thing we feel is power, anger, lust, and, revenge. I have one thing that keeps me under control, more like friend who, is there through the thick and thin. I will have this burden for the rest of my life, every day the clock spines and spines until the day it stops. I will always be looking, watching you from a distance, you never know if I’ll hear the ringing, maybe my heart beat will rise, and the pressure will come back. Tick tock, tick tock, I wouldn’t watch the clock, cause all I see is black.


My mother had a valid point that I wasn’t doing anything else, but that still didn’t mean I wanted to start packing or preparing my room to be turned over to one of my younger twin sisters the moment I left for the train station. After working day shifts at a summer camp in a nearby town (residency in the upscale suburb was required for attendance but apparently not cheap teenage labor) and night shifts at a steakhouse, and the usual unpaid labor at my father’s store, I had given myself two weeks off before leaving for college and was looking forward to doing as much nothing as possible. There was no arguing with my mother though, she would nag me until I got something done, so the sooner I started the sooner I would have some peace. With a sigh and an exaggerated cat-like stretch, I closed my magazine and climbed off my bed to start sorting through the t-shirts in my dresser. Ten minutes later, with a large pile and a small save pile of my favorite sports shirts, I found a small, stained white t-shirt with an image of a regal calico cat with frost on her whiskers. “Inga: One of the Mount Washington Observatory’s Year-Round Personnel” it said. I smiled, remembering when I got it. It was the summer between kindergarten and first grade, the year before my sisters were born. My father’s convenience store had turned a consistent profit for the preceding few years, and then he lucked into a windfall of free publicity and a moderate bonus for selling a winning lottery ticket. To my mother’s astonishment, he announced that he was closing the store for a long weekend and we were going on a vacation. Until that point, “vacation” had meant a trip into the city with my mother to see my cousins, which was still a treat for me at that age. This time though my father was missing the mountains of his home country and because paying for a flight was still out of the realm of possibility, he decided to drive directly to the tallest mountain he could find. In retrospect, I don’t even know how he learned about Mount Washington before the internet, but there we found ourselves on a hot, cloudless day puttering up the winding road to the summit in our Ford Escort that smelled of mildew. My father shared facts about the mountain and comparisons with the mountains of his childhood in between admonishments to “look at that view! No people!”. Apparently, the line of cars in front of and behind us didn’t count. When we parked at the summit parking lot, my mother opened the passenger door and it was almost ripped free of the car frame by a gust of wind. She braced herself, telling my father to leave his hat (a faded New York Mets hat, not because he liked baseball but because he thought the font of the NY was elegant) in the car. I unbuckled myself and slid across the backseat to my mother’s outstretched hand, terrified and in awe of the otherworldly landscape. We walked around the summit area, my father pointing out the nearby peaks, and had a stranger take a photo of us with our carefully rationed disposable camera at the high point sign. (When we got it developed my father was thrilled that the photo accurately depicted the wind with the hair on all three of our heads blowing to the left at a ninety-degree angle.) Before heading down, we wandered into the small observatory gift shop so my mother could use the bathroom. While my father browsed meteorology books, I fixated on a t-shirt with a cat on it, begging my father to buy it for me and ignoring his insistence that we couldn’t afford souvenirs and could barely afford this trip. At that age I already loved animals, and almost all of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my older male cousins. The older woman behind the counter heard me and bent down to a hidden corner, popping back up a minute later with the live version of the cat on the t-shirt. Six-year-old me was ecstatic! “Her name is Inga,” the kind, frizzy-haired woman said. “She’s very friendly. You can pet her, just don’t touch her belly.” My father lifted me up so that I could gently stroke her head and back. Her fur was incredibly silky and she purred contentedly, rubbing her head on my hand. “She doesn’t mind the cold, but she doesn’t like cars much, so she usually stays in here during the busy times,” she continued. I nodded sagely. If I was a calico cat who lived on a mountaintop, I wouldn’t like the cars either. My mother came out of the bathroom as I was telling the lady behind the counter about my plans to be a “dog and cat doctor”, and my father put me down, murmuring that we needed to get back on the road before the weather got worse. “I just realized,” the woman behind the counter said to him thoughtfully, “I have an Inga shirt back here that was sized wrong. Why don’t you take it for your little girl? It’s going to be big on her now but it can be a dress, and then a shirt when she grows up to be a cat doctor.” My father, never one to trust a gift, opened his mouth to refuse buy my mother silenced him with a single look, icier than the howling wind, and reached across the counter to take the shirt. “Thank you so much ma’am, that is so kind of you,” she said, having learned most of her English from watching Gone with the Wind on repeat. “What do you say,” she asked me. “Thank you very much ma’am. Thank you,” I said, grinning widely at the lady, and the shirt, and the real live cat on the counter. Looking at the shirt again in my bedroom, I knew I should just get rid of it - even if it still fit, I was already going to be the scholarship kid, I couldn’t be the stained-clothes kid too - but I couldn’t. As I re-folded it to add to the “save” pile, an idea flashed across my brain. I had spent the last six years doing every extracurricular activity and after school job I could cram into my schedule, knowing that my only chance of going to college and becoming a veterinarian was to get a scholarship. I had convincingly debated issues I didn’t fully understand, won varsity letters in soccer, winter track, and softball, won two essay contests, tutored for the SATs within months of acing the SATs, and unloaded innumerable cartons of assorted preserved foods onto the shelves of the family store at the beginning and end of the days. My parents encouraged all of it, living their American dream through the goals they set for me. Despite getting into Dartmouth, I couldn’t go to the Ivy League school in the mountains because Boston College, the only urban campus I had applied to, had given me nearly a full academic scholarship but that was fine, I was just happy to be getting out of suburban New Jersey. I sat cross-legged on the faded rug next to my bed and started checking car rental prices and trail maps, solidifying a plan to steal a little bit of freedom and adventure, and pay homage to my six-year-old self before truly becoming an adult. Seven days later, I woke up in the backseat of my rental car in the Pinkham Notch visitors center parking lot, the start of the hike up Mount Washington. Telling my parents I had to be on campus early for “scholarship orientation” I had taken the train from Penn Station to Boston, dropped my suitcases and had a restless night of sleep on my cousin’s friend’s couch, and then leisurely driven the four hours up from Boston. The sun was just clearing the surrounding mountains and there was not a cloud in the sky. I double-checked my pack, double-checked that the car key was not in the trunk and the car was locked, and trudged over to the trailhead. Humble to a fault, within an hour in I realized I had been arrogant to assume that running around with elementary school kids all summer had been adequate training for a hike like this. The trail was comprised entirely rocks of irregular shapes and variable sizes, and the closer I got to the summit, the steeper it got. I had plenty of food and water and the sky remained clear and blue which could never be taken for granted on this mountain, but damn was I tired. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the small observatory at the summit, which gave me a burst of strength for the last push up steep boulders. After catching my breath, I found a place to sit down and scarfed down a peanut butter sandwich, then took a few photos before heading into the gift shop. There was no trace of Inga but there were t-shirts with the picture of a very handsome cat apparently named Nin. I smiled, happy that the Mount Washington weather observatory continued to be governed by a feline. As I walked behind the observatory to see the view from the other side, I was stopped in my tracks when I caught sight of a girl who could have been me or one of my sisters from behind. She had the same dirty sneakers and clothes that didn’t fit quite right, and the same messy braid. Shaking off the odd sensation, I noticed she was petting a white cat with a black spot on his back. Just as I noticed the cat, she noticed me. “This is Nin!” she told me excitedly. “He helps keep mice away. I like mice, but I like cats more,” she continued, “when I grow up I’m going to be a big cat scientist, to help keep them from being extinct.” Her mother took in the dried sweat on my shirt and my oversized pack. “Let’s let this woman get back to her hike, honey,” she said, smiling at me apologetically. Turning from them, I dashed back into the gift shop, not wanting to give them time to leave, and purchased a Nin shirt on the credit card my father had helped me open the week before for emergency use only. Speed walking back to where I had seen them, I thrust the small brown shopping bag at the girl’s mother, realizing I didn’t know what to say. “I bought this for your little girl, I hope that’s ok,” I said, fumbling for a better explanation. “It’s uh, it’s kind of a long story, but I just wanted her to have it.” Confused for a moment, the mother looked into the bag. “Look Priya, it’s a kitty shirt! What do you say to the nice lady?” “Thank you lady!” the little girl trilled obediently, beaming at the shirt, then me, then Nin who was slinking away behind a rock.


Clarity, my dearest, I felt I should be clear, as now you have passed and there is nothing for me to hide from. You kept me sane, sociable, and suited in my days of sorrow and solemn sedation. I have come to understand the nature of things. (Kind of.) Poetically, this could not be more appropriate, as I am on my way out as well. After your wake, I was walking through our old neighborhood, near the corner of Carnahan and Stout, to be precise. That single streetlight still stands there; you know the one that I’m talking about. I jumped ahead. Apologies. (I don't mean that.) You see, as I walked among the thousand flickering bulbs that line the grid of this massive city, I began to think of *those* days. You know precisely what I am talking about when I say that. "Back in *those* days," you would say before delving into some old (and likely skewed) memory of something that we had once done. In *those* days, it was a joy to share your soul with another, to mix them, entwine them, and allow them to interact. You would do so without any regard for the soul itself, and exactly who it was mingling with. However, as any great story goes, there comes a time when that innocence must be lost. Whether it is at the hands of a lover, a family-member, or a random passerby whose presence pulls from within you an overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and regret, the world will break you. After the healing is finished, (as finished as it can ever be) you are expected to pick right back up, as you were, and push forward into the great unknown. (Though, really, we've seen those films and read those books; we know that it is far less “great” than certain philosophers may imply.) You are essentially expected to take the remnants of a shattered glass and piece them back together. But you don’t have glue; you have only your blood. Also, the room is on fire. But you can't do this. (Don’t you dare point out the physical impossibility of my metaphor. I know you want to and I resent you for it.) These glass-shattering experiences shape us, mold us into the person that we will become. The concept is romantic, I suppose, but the impact is a rather depressing reality. The “strongest” people are simply those hardened enough, indifferent enough, disconnected enough to labor on. (“Fuck all” is the mantra; I need a drink.) I apologize for getting so dark with this; it wasn’t my initial intention, but what can I say? I’m grieving. Here’s some light for you. (Literally.) The streetlight that sits on the sidewalk near my home was a source of solidity for me in my darkest days (*those* days); we’ve discussed this before, I’m sure. That streetlight, in my mind, protected me from the realm of uncertainty. I had, in the moments that I spent under it, light, and therefore the darkness was unable to claim me. But as I stood on that corner, confident in my continued existence, the bulb dimmed, and died. You see, we place so much confidence in these early interactions, entering into them with bold enthusiasm; but, as the streetlight showed, we ultimately end up questioning that initial trust, regretting it. There comes a point in life where you stop looking at your connections with unhindered positivity. There comes a point when the question turns from "how greatly can this person enrich my life?" to "how easily could this person break me?" I know you would never intentionally do so, but I can’t help but hate you for it. (But, I miss you.) How dare you leave me with this broken glass? (And I love you.) Still, I am/was always, entirely yours, even though I regret it now. (I do/don’t mean that.) Look at that, my glass is empty; I polished off the bottle right as I finished this letter. (How disgustingly, poetically, *perfect*.) Now what? A trigger, a loud noise, and emptiness (or the infinite; what do I know?). Either way, clarity. (And my thoughts will finally calm.


Fibromyalgia. That’s what the doctor had said years ago. Ever since I was young, I struggled with pain. I was called a wimp in school and even my parents were a little disappointed by me. “Man up,” my dad would say, noting how I would seemingly always complain about pain. When I was a kid, I would just have odd pains. They would come out of seemingly nowhere. I would look at a kid that was bullying me and a few moments later, I’d be in pain without him even touching him. When I thought about jumping off the swing set like the other kids, I would end up feeling pain in my legs. I did not really understand it when I was younger, and I would not until I was much older. As the years went on, I would still feel, what I thought, was random pain. I had gone to the doctor and he said that I was dealing with fibromyalgia, which is a bit embarrassing. It basically reinforces everything I’d been told throughout my life - except now I felt like there was nothing I could do about it. I always thought I could grow out of “being a wimp” or grow into “being a man.” But apparently, if I wanted to do that, I would have to be on one of those TV medications. You know the ones; the medications with the commercials where mellow music plays, accompanied by a soft, feminine voice talking about pain and then the myriad of side-effects. Yet, I went ahead with it. I figured that if anything could help, I would try it. But it did not help in the slightest. To the untrained observer, it would appear to help because I was not always in pain. However, I still felt pain. A lot of it. For example, one of the jobs I had required me to cross about four lanes of traffic on a busy street. There was no stoplight or stop sign for the other drivers, so I was forced to cut across. However, every time I did, I felt an immense pain crash through my body. It was intense and shook me to the core. I recall having to sit in my car for a few minutes before work every day while I waited for the pain to subside. This happened every single day I took that commute. It was the fastest way there, and any other route would take me an extra five minutes to get there. I guess, at the time, I weighed my options and decided to deal with the pain if it meant shaving off a minute or two. I guess I should have known something was off when the pains started becoming less and less frequent. There was nothing that triggered the slowing down, but I was grateful for it at the time. Put yourself in my shoes: if your entire life was pain, then when that pain started to subside, you would be grateful, no matter the cause nor who it hurt in the process. Still, people noticed my enhanced demeanor. I was no longer sulking around, waiting for the next pain to strike. Instead, I was cheerful and ready to tackle each day. Sure, I still felt the pains every now and then, but they had become few and far between. That’s not to say they did not hurt like hell, though. I would feel like someone gored me with a sharp object on some days, and other days, I would feel a sharp pain across my throat, among other such pains. Still, I managed to get through it. Then they stopped entirely. I can recall the very day they stopped, too. I was walking to the mailbox when I felt a sharp pain strike through my chest, as if I had just been shot. I clutched my chest and groaned as I fell to my knees, but as soon as it started, it stopped. I shrugged it off and went to get the mail. After that day, the pain stopped. Sure, I still felt normal pain from cuts and bruises that I would get, but not those intense, random pains. I should have been elated; I should have felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but it was the opposite. I felt a dark sense of foreboding. With each passing day, I felt myself longing for the pain again. But each day, it did not return. Instead, I felt dread and paranoia, as if something bad was going to happen, but I was not sure what it would be. I wanted to chalk it up to anxiety - something I dealt with every so often (hey, who hasn’t?), but this was different. I could tell when I was worrying about something unrealistic. I could usually talk myself down from an anxiety attack. This was something else. I did not even know what I was fearing or where it came from. When the paranoia would set in, I did not know what I was supposed to be on the lookout for, if anything at all. That brings me to a few nights ago. I had this vivid dream where I was in my house, but it wasn’t me in there. I suppose it’s hard to explain. Have you ever had a dream where you were looking through your own eyes, but it was almost like it wasn’t you in your body? That’s what I felt like. I was merely an observer as this dream version of myself wrote something down. As I looked through those familiar, yet foreign, eyes, I could make out the writing clearly. It was indeed my handwriting, but I did not know what the message was supposed to mean. It read out: “There are three of us left. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how to stop it. This is the only way I can think of communicating. Be safe.” I didn’t wake up immediately after that as most people seem to when they’ve had weird dreams or nightmares. I slept throughout the night, but when I woke up, the message had imprinted itself in my mind. I could see it clearly no matter what I was doing or thinking about. But still, I’m not sure what it means. All I know is that it did nothing to calm my paranoia.