It stops here, today. Freya doesn't want to follow in her mother's footsteps. The only thing they'll share is those blue eyes and a name, because her mother was narcissistic enough to name her child after herself. She claims they're named after the goddess of love and fertility, who she prayed to when she struggled to get pregnant. Said that God wasn't taking her requests. Did she ever bother to consider him saying no was his way of responding? That maybe she wasn't cut out for parenting? She didn't want a child, she wanted a puppet. A clone. Freya, junior, fills the last box and tapes it shut. Her mother thinks she is packing her things to keep them safe as she repaints her room the same shade of white that it has been for eighteen years. She didn't even argue this time about wanting to paint it purple like when she was six, and twelve, because her mother insists it'll throw off the theme of the house (which evidentially is white and boring) and it's not like she's really going to paint anyway. The rain starts, just like the weatherman predicted. Which is great, because she had been banking on that, so that it'd be too wet to open the windows to let the paint fumes out. Looks like they'll have to wait until the sun comes out tomorrow. She'll be gone by sun up tomorrow. She sits through another dinner of overcooked porkchops. It's the last time, she promises herself, so tonight she clears her plate and excuses herself to go over her plan one final time. Her mother goes to bed at ten every night. By ten ten she is fast asleep, and by ten fifteen Freya will be packing up the back of her car until ten thirty, when the neighbor comes home from work. Then she'll pull away once the driveway is out of their line of sight, and drive until the sun comes up. Moving the boxes downstairs to the front hallway, she fibs saying that it'll give her more room to move around tomorrow. Her mother buys it. She even volunteers to help, and claps excitedly about how they'll get to bond all day tomorrow, putting her room back together. As if they don't spend every waking moment together. Having graduated last month, she hasn't had school to keep her occupied. She wanted to get a job, but her mother insisted that she stay home before starting community college in the fall. The college that she wasn't going to, because she was going to try working and writing at night. There were so many ideas, idling in her head, waiting for a moment to escape. Tonight is her moment. She drives, a thermos of coffee in her cupholder. She stops every hour to refill it, and relieve herself, but otherwise it's a straight shoot until sunrise when she arrives in town. Checking into the airbnb, she checks the time. Her mother will be waking up in twenty minutes, like clockwork. Then in twenty five minutes she will notice the missing boxes, and in twenty eight minutes, her phone will get tracked. It'll say she's in a trash can about twenty minutes from home, in a convenience store parking lot. It won't however, say that she's bought a flip phone and transferred her contacts. It won't say that she got a new number yesterday when she went to 'buy paint,' and it definitely won't say that she made the ringtone that song her mom hates, because it has that one word that she's not supposed to say in it. The phone rings, and she sings along to her tone, too giddy to pick up immediately. It goes to voicemail, and she scrambles to call back. "Elias, sorry, hi." Her heart beats faster that it's supposed to, and picks up speed when he responds. "It's funny, I always thought your voice would be higher." They've only ever emailed, in a secret account that she's kept hidden from her mother. His voice sounds identical to what she pictured, and she wonders what other assumptions she has made about him are true. She stifles a yawn. "I'm tired. This is my tired voice. I haven't slept since Tuesday." "Rest up, and then meet me at the diner at three when I get off. Do you still have the address?" He had sent it to her a few weeks back while laying out the plan for her move. Come to Erie, move in to his spare room, get a job at the diner (his boss had already said she could start once settled in) and avoid all things Indiana for the rest of forever. She could finally be Freya the free. None of this Freya Junior nonsense. She could make her own choices, do and be what she wanted instead of some idealized doll modeled after the shambles of an overcontrolling narcissist. They meet, and he's even cuter in person that the picture he sent. She checks for a pulse to make sure she is still alive, and that this isn't some sort of post mortem fantasy. Thump thump, heart's beating. He wraps her in a hug. This time she doesn't have to search for a pulse. It's blaringly obvious. That afternoon he helps her move in. She hardly has anything, he points out. Her whole life fits into a car. "I left behind some things. Boxes of decor my mother picked out, clothes she insisted I wear. Which reminds me. Is there a second hand store around here? I have enough clothes to last maybe two weeks, if I'm lucky." She's saved money for the past few years, and while she has a sum in her account, that she removed her mother from Monday when she went to her dentist appointment, she doesn't want to go broke. Elias pulls out his phone and dials instead of responding. He exchanges a few words with someone on the other end. "My sister Hayley is donating a bunch of old clothes that she outgrew. She says you can take what you want, and take the rest to the thrift store. Which I will happily take you to, tomorrow. They close in half an hour, and that is not enough time to fix all of this." He gestures to her outfit. She hasn't changed since yesterday. The outfit reeks of her mother's taste, and body odor. She spends the next morning learning the ropes at the diner. It's her first job, but she wants to come off as confident, and does so, until she trips over a child playing on the floor and a plate of sunny side up eggs land on a customer's lap. "I guess they're sunny side down eggs now, huh?" The customer gives a big belly laugh. Turns out he's a regular, and he takes her by the shoulders in for a hug. The egg falls to the floor, and yolk smears everywhere. She doesn't care. She needs this hug. Running away to start over is freaking terrifying, and she sniffles into his shirt. He squeezes her harder before letting go. The rest of her shift goes fine. Not great, and while she is still upright, she vetoes clothes shopping for another day so she can collapse into the couch. It takes a few days of work until things become second nature. She learns to balance the tray, like how she learned to balance on her toes in ballet class years ago. She stops looking over her shoulder, thinking her mother is going to show up. There had been a few close calls. A lot of women had that God awful haircut. She looks in the mirror. A haircut, of course. Her long locks had been a choice of her mother. "You have such gorgeous hair, Freya. It'd be a terrible shame to cut it." They'd trim off an inch, for dead ends sake. The weight pulled at her neck. "Elias, is there a beauty shop nearby?" The hairdresser pulls her hair into a ponytail. In four snips, it's over. Her head feels so light and free. He hands her the ponytail. "You're going to make some little princess very happy, darling." He shapes her bob up and demands that she closes her eyes before spinning her around to the mirror. When they open, she has to force them closed and open again to make sure she isn't dreaming. "You look beautiful, Freya." Well, if the blinking wasn't any indication, her pulse sure is. They take a photo, and she's beaming so wide that he doesn't even have to prompt her to say cheese. Elias asks for him to text him a copy, and suddenly it's his phone wallpaper, her holding onto one of the remnants of her past. She wants to cut more things. They return home, and she plops in front of the sacks of clothes, pawing through them with a sense of purpose. She digs out her sewing kit and makes a few adjustments. Her mother would say that hemline was a bit too short. Please, as if the male population won't know she has thighs if her dress hits her knees. She pulls the dress over her head, and Elias walks in to find her in just her underwear. He blushes beet red and hurries back out. From the doorway, he calls to her. "We have off tomorrow. Did you still want to go to the thrift store?" "Sure. If it's not too much trouble, could we stop by the nature preserve? Hiking has been on my to do list since before I got here." Her mother would never let her go, because she was afraid that bears would get her. Heck, she didn't even want her walking around the neighborhood when she was a teenager, because she could get lost, so it wasn't like she'd let her loose in the woods. They do both, and she's glad that she went shopping first, because she is pretty sure she can't feel her legs after five miles of trails. She's pretty sure she absolutely loves it. She goes back on her next day off to figure it out. She's alone this time, in a pair of leggings that she had picked up for a dollar. Her mother never let her wear skin tight clothes. A jogger passes, and she looks around to see if anyone is watching. They aren't, and she tries her hand at it. Her lungs hurt. She stops to walk, until the urge rises again, and she finds her stride quickening into something akin to a light jog. She loves it. Every morning after, she's waking up early to run to the diner. She's flying through her shifts, and nothing can take her down. It's been two and a half weeks of becoming who she wants to be. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she pulls up her mother's social media accounts. She's had her blocked, but her account is public, so she uses Elias' account to snoop. There's pictures of her, pleas for her safe return. She says she has no clue why Freya would leave. The pain hits her, hard. How can she not know how she has destroyed a life? How can she feel no guilt for making someone start over nearly two decades too late to make something of themselves? He spins her chair around and kisses the top of her head. "Don't waste more tears over her. It's her turn to cry." He dries her eyes with his thumb, kissing the lids. When he pulls back, he finds an expression on her face that he can't place. She leans forward and kisses him. It's a bold move. She's never kissed a boy before, and she's definitely never let one kiss her back, or slid her hands around a guy's neck, but it's her metamorphosis, and she wants the guy. Judging by the thing his teeth are doing, she thinks it is mutual. She buys her first bit of makeup that afternoon. Concealer, because her hair can't quite cover it. It's been twenty two days since she fled. She has so much that she thought she could never have, and it's a bit intoxicating. She's gone from no choice, to all of them, and sometimes she can't tell left from right. Hayley helps teach her what it's meant to be a woman. "Your mother never gave you the sex talk?" "We did. It went don't ever sleep with anyone until you're married, or you'll never make it into Heaven ." Freya's fingers trail over the ring on her lip. If her mother could see her, she'd tell her to take it out. She hated facial piercings, calling them tacky. Hayley pushes her hand away. "Don't fiddle with it. We don't need you snake bite getting infected. I don't think Elias would find that too attractive." "Should you really be giving me the sex talk about your brother?" "Would you rather find out what he likes from the girl that had to overhear it in her bedroom, or trust the internet to tell you what to do?" Five days later, she takes her advice. Girl knew what she was talking about. And yes, her other assumptions were correct, thank God. Three days pass. She's been free for a month, and she pulls out an old ragged checklist she had made the night before she left. I want to like the way I look. I want to feel loved. Both she could say were a raging success. She takes one last look at the last line, grinning like a fool as she shoves it away and laces up her running shoes. I want to be free.


Inside of a dark room, two figures sit on either side of a table. A man wearing a white lab coat holding a recording device and a camera behind him. On the other side was a humanoid, dark blue robot, standing 2.5 meters and weighting 300 kilograms. The robot's head was resembled that of a woman's face. A one way window lines one of the walls hiding the people watching. "This is an interviewer for Cerric Robotics," The man said. "interviewing Participate 2 of our Full-Body Cybernetic Surgery Program. Please state your name for the recording." "My name is Mara." "Thank you Mara. Now please explain why did you enter our program. If you don't mind of course." Mara sighed. "Well, uh, I was in the navy, and my ship was raided b-by, and there was a fire." The tone of her voice suggested she was upset and holding back tears, though she lacked the ability to cry. "That's enough for now Mara." The interviewer interrupted. "Now, please tell how were your first few days in this new body like." "It was... new. I had to relearn to walk, use my arms and hands, and speak. But I have to say the hardest part was breathing, or should I say learning that I don't need to breath." "I imagine that would be difficult." Mara's breathing started becoming heavier. "Is it stuffy in here? It feels stuffy." "Is there a problem Mara?" The interviewer asked, concerned. "Yeah, it's find. I'm just a little nervous. I can feel my heart beating fast." "Mara?" "I don't have a heart." Mara said in a panic. "I don't have a heart." The interviewer looked towards the observers. "Please calm her down." After a few seconds, Mara's breathing slowed down to a normal pace. "Are you ok Mara?" The interviewer asked. "I'm fine, just a little itchy." "Itchy?" The interviewer asked. "Never mind. How has your physical therapy been going so far?" "It's going." She said. "Nothing weird or anything like that happened. I'd say the best part is the one of the other patients I take classes with." "Please tell me more about this patient." Mara smiled. "She's apart of a different program, though I don't know what the program was about. She's very nice and funny, and we've became fast friends." "Mind telling me her name?" "She calls herself K." The interviewer was confused. "I'm not familiar with this K." He turned back to the observers on the other side of the glass. "Do we have any female participates with a 'K' name?" "She told me that she's the daughter of someone who works here." Mara said, hoping that would help. She was scratching her arm. The interviewer was confused. "We don't have any employee’s children in any of our programs." "Huh, weird." Mara wasn't paying attention. "Why does my skin feel weird?" "Should we stop the interview?" "Where's my skin?" "Someone please deactivate the subject." "I don't have skin. What did you do to my skin?" "What do you mean that something is interfering with the controller?" Mara stood up, the force of which flipped the table. "K told me you stole my skin. Give me my skin back!" The recording stopped. "What should we do about the subject Mr. Cerric?" Asked one of the scientist. The office of Cerric Robotic's CEO was surprisingly homely for a robotics company CEO, with book shelves lining the walls and a nice, soft couch better suited for a therapist office rather than a robot engineer. Behind his desk, an older man with a mechanical arm pondered the question. Finally, he answered. "This is obviously a case of outside interference. I suggest keeping Mara and the other participates in their quarters for the time being, and focus our efforts preventing something like this from happening again." "What about the-" Another employee asked before being cut off. "Create a statement explaining the situation. Don't lie about what happened, but you don't need to tell everything. If that's everything, please be on your way." Silently, the team of scientist and PR left the office. Cerric, finally alone, sighed. "Kaitlyn, what did you do?" A voice, resembling that of a text-to-speech device, replied to his question. "I am making friends." The CEO burst out of his chair and slide open a small latch in the wall behind him. "Your *friend* nearly killed someone because of you." A pair of bright, glowing, purple eyes appeared from the darkness on the other side of the wall.


The birthday boy sat in a chair made of donuts and caramel apples. There was a squirrel head made from cake batter and frosting resting upon his left shoulder, because he hated those buggers and wanted to represent this dislike on his special day. He looked graciously out at his adoring friends. There were only around eight of them, but they were adoring nonetheless. Snow fell from the sky and landed on the edges of their noses. They lived in a place where the seasons whirled around like sirens. There was also a lot of crime in the area, so sirens were an appropriate analogy for the weather. It could be sunny one day and blustery winter the next. The weather was, to put it simply, more unpredictable than a Walmart bag filled with scorpions. The birthday boy’s heart swelled with pride to see that he had accomplished socializing. His face also swelled, but that was because there was a large amount of sardine in the casserole his mother had made for him, and it turned out he was exceedingly and perhaps fatally allergic to sardines. Not all seafood. Just sardines. Actually, it wasn’t even all sardines. It was all sardines that came in the blue can with the smiling fish (ironic considering...) on it that came from the seventh aisle at the neighborhood market on South Hunca Munca Street. Yeah. The sardines. Well, it turned out that the birthday boy was allergic to them, and so his face swelled up like a ripe papavocado (a papaya avocado hybrid first discovered by the Spanish in 1439 when the esteemed Franchini Poriverri and his crew came to the land on their thirteen boats, the main ones being Phineaskin, Ferbilicious, Isabellini, and Bjorka.) and he fell over onto the table. His adoring friends gasped. They howled. They sobbed. They threw themselves to the ground and rolled in agony. They... were not very helpful, come to think of it. The birthday boy’s fate hung in peril. His airway constricted. His eyes popped like popcorn in a really hot microwave. He opened his mouth and uttered, “I need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the end of the night. He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.” Instead of taking this opportunity to call the proper medical care, his adoring friends decided to join in on the chorus. It became a karaoke festival. “He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon and he has to be larger than life. LARGER THAN LIFE!” They continued for a solid eight and four halves of a minute before realizing that a hero couldn’t really be summoned by song, no matter how enticing the idea was. Lo and behold, as soon as Yancey Klum-Wilder (Adoring friend number five. She had met the birthday boy in fifth grade when) pulled out her cell phone to make the call of need appropriately, a hero emerged from the, well, behind the throne of donuts. No one noticed him at first, so he had to clear his throat a couple of times before someone said, “A star is born!” And the hero said, “I am no star.” And the birthday boy didn’t say anything because he was going into anaphylactic shock. So instead, Jimmy Durble (slightly adoring friend number three) yelled, “Then what are you?” And the hero said, “I am Sonny! Not of Cher's brother variety!” “Ahh, okay.” Sonny picked up the birthday boy and flew up towards the sky. His friends kept eating. Sonny threw the birthday boy into outer space, counted three seconds, went back to earth to get a latte macchiato from Starbucks, came back, caught the birthday boy, and said, “I am Sonny, the great wizard, and I will turn you healthy if you can tell me what my old nickname was when you knew me... long, long ago!” The birthday boy woke up and he thought and thought but he couldn’t remember the name. “Um, is it Squirrel Nutkin?” Sonny the Wizard said, “No!” “Is it Emma?” “What? No! Why would it be Emma?” The birthday boy shrugged. “What about Lombardi? Was your nickname Lombardi?” Sonny the Wizard shook his head. “It’s definitely not Lombardi. You have two more chances, and if you don’t guess it by then, I’ll have no choice but to send you to live on earth as a cat named Lloyd. Do you want that for your life, birthday boy?” “No, I’m allergic to cats.” “And sardines, apparently!” “I think... your nickname was...” The birthday boy thought and thought as much as he could. “Froot Loop Magee?” “NO.” “Huh, I kind of had you coined for a cereal type guy.” “You have one more chance.” Sonny the Wizard squinted his eyes. “Just the one.” “Was it Sonny the Wizard?” “YES, IT WAS!!!!” “OH, GOOD.” “YEAH.” “YEAH!” “Okay, well, I guess you can go back to your party and your adoring friends now.” “You should come too!” Sonny the Wizard looked off into (further) space. “No. Sonny the Wizard never rests. I must go, and save more children. Don’t eat sardines again. If you want to hang out or eat cereal, call me.” “How? I don’t have your number!” “Don’t be weird. Just ask Yancey. I gave it to her last time she choked on a pork chop.” “As in she’s done it more than once?” “Well, yes. It became a habit. Until I gave her my number. We should all have a club, don’t you think? I can apprentice you to be wizards. It’ll be pretty popular, eventually, and maybe you could even start a school one day and call it... Razorbackacne.” “As opposed to Hogwarts?” “Why, yes. Just make sure you invite me.” With that, the birthday boy was thrown back to his party, where he threw a pork chop at Yancey and so Sonny had to come back and save her and then they all ate squirrel head cake. THE END


Her eyes snapped open. She was staring at a concrete ceiling with a single, bare light-bulb hanging from the center. Her senses began creeping back to her and she realized how cold it was. *Where am I?* Her breath, visible in the light, mirrored the foggy feeling she felt in her head. “My head,” she groaned, little louder than a whisper as she attempted to rub the tiredness from her eyes. Her head ached and pulsed with each heartbeat. She had no memory of anything before this room. Her heart began to beat faster, and sweat beaded her forehead as anxiety rose within her like floodwater in an elevator. She jolted upright and attempted to stand up. Her legs were lagging behind her brain and didn’t feel as though they were entirely hers. Quickly, though not fast enough for her panicked mind, she regained control and was able to stand. She closed her eyes and drew deep, steadying breaths. “Relax,” she breathed to herself, “you can figure this out”. A few minutes passed and her pulse leveled out. She opened her eyes and assessed her surroundings. Though dimly lit, the room was small enough to reveal itself to her with just the light provided by the single bulb. No more than a concrete box, there were dark brown stains on the floor and walls that, she told herself, were from water damage. The floor was tiled in white, though due to the cleanliness--or lack thereof--it was more of a yellowish-brown now. On the wall directly in front of her stood a single metal door, cracked open ever so slightly so as to let some of the light from the room spill into what lay beyond. Next, she started to take stock of her physical self. She was cold, she knew that without doubt, and naked. At just over five feet tall, she was skinny but healthy, with well-toned legs that seemed to belong to an avid runner. She was also filthy, caked in mud and blood. Goosebumps pimpled her skin as anxiety once again seeped into her brain. On her left thigh, a slight bruise was visible just below her hip. She brushed her fingers against it and found no pain, much to her relief. Though she could not see her face, the left side felt slightly swollen and tight. When she touched it she discovered half-dried blood, spattered sporadically along her forehead. *What happened to me?* She had a feeling deep within her that something was very wrong, but she pushed it down deeper to allow herself to move forward; she needed to get out. With trembling breaths, fogging before her face like some ghostly apparition, she carefully crept towards the door, sure every footstep would alert some unknown force to her presence. As she placed her hands on the ice-cold metal, she braced herself for what she might find on the other side. Gingerly, she pushed the door open and let it swing into the void. The hinges, rusted and in disrepair, creaked in protest as the weight of the door carried it open, echoing out into forever. Her breath caught in her throat. Staring back at her through the doorway was...nothing. The faint light emanating from her room was no match for the impossibly dense darkness that greeted her; A war of dark and light was being fought just past the threshold, and the dark was winning. Just to her left, opposite the now open door, she could make out a wall. She stood, allowing her eyes to adjust, hoping against hope that what little light she had would allow her to see further into the abyss. Nothing changed. Small tears began to slide down her face, a product of both fear and solitude. She quickly gathered herself. Placing her hand on the wall, damp and sickly soft under her fingers, she felt her way forward and stepped into the emptiness. Each footstep squished what she prayed was ice water between her toes. The floor felt like moss on a fallen tree beneath her feet, wet and soft, yet hard under it all. The void smelled of mold, thick with must but thinned out by the cold, and she could hear nothing but her own shaky breathing, the light padding of her feet on the floor, and a very distant and muted *drip, drip, drip*. After what felt like an hour of slowly feeling her way forward, a faint sound was carried past her ears on the frigid air. She froze and held her breath, dead silent. She could make out what seemed like a muffled conversation, miles away. *I’m not alone*, she thought to herself. She stood, frozen in time. The presence of this disembodied conversation should have been unnerving to her. Instead, she found warmth and comfort in these voices. With no other options, she quickened her pace and moved forward. As she hurried through the darkness, the sound grew closer, louder. She could make out individual voices now. Excited and feeling that she was nearing the source, she began to run. Suddenly, there was silence. A deafening silence, blocking out even her own footsteps. She attempted to stop suddenly but, legs still weak, she stumbled and fell. Her body hit the soft ground soundlessly. Shocked by the extreme cold and wet, her heart skipped in her chest and she shuddered violently. In what seemed like slow-motion, she stood and found her balance. She grasped the darkness, searching for the wall which she had come to treat as a life-line. Her eyes, wide with terror and useless in the dark, began to water in fear. Finally, her fingers brushed something. Lunging in the direction of the sensation, she found the safety of the wall. Leaning against it, she sunk to the cold, wet floor and sobbed. No sound came from her mouth, even as she screamed against the darkness and cried. This made her weep harder, the silence reminding her how alone she truly was in this place. Gradually, she began to hear an echo. She thought it was her mind at first, in an attempt to fill her senses with *something*. But, as she collected herself and listened, she was sure it was there. The sound of a man, sobbing, and the familiar *drip, drip, drip*, that she had been hearing before, only now it was much louder, closer. She stood and took uneven breaths in the dark, attempting to settle herself once more. Moving forward, the sound quickly grew louder. Sobbing, quiet as if someone was trying to hide it, but there nonetheless. Then, directly in front of her, a ray of light, only a few inches wide, kissed the ground. As she came closer, she could make out a door, the light coming from behind it. With one hand steadying her on the wall, she reached out and pulled the door towards her, open, blinding herself with the bright light. Her senses were overloaded with information. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that she was in what must have been a hospital room. The room was painted yellow, and there was a window along a wall to her left. Warm, comforting sunlight shone through, and she closed her eyes and allowed it to wash over her. *Beep, beep, beep*. The harsh, electronic sound brought her back to the present, and she opened her eyes. A woman was lying in the hospital bed. Her face, though cut and bruised, was pretty. She looked young, perhaps in her late twenties. Around her were monitors and IV stands. Tubes and wires hung, disconnected, and the monitors were all off, except for the steady *beep, beep, beep* of the heart rate monitor. She then noticed a man sitting in a chair next to the woman. Head hung low, both hands clutching the woman’s, so hard his knuckles were white. She felt something for this man. Sadness, longingness perhaps. It hurt her to see him like this. The man stood, leaned over the woman, and kissed her on the lips. A long, gentle kiss. A goodbye. She began to feel in her chest that something was wrong. Panic once again consumed her and tears fell from her eyes. As she opened her mouth to scream, she was ripped backward out of the room. The door slammed in front of her as she flew backward through the darkness. Back...back...back *He’s not that bad*, she thought, as she ran along the familiar neighborhood roads. Her husband had come home a little drunk after a night out with some friends. It was Friday, after all, and he was a funny drunk anyway. She had a stressful day at work that day and was maybe a little hard on him. *I’ll apologize when I get back*, she said to herself. She loved that man too much to stay mad at him very long anyway. Running was her way of relaxing, and she’d been running on the treadmill in college after a particularly hard final exam when she ran into him at the gym. They had been in love ever since. She drifted off into her music and thoughts as she approached her street. As she came to the intersection, she looked right to ensure no cars were coming. She began to run again, telling herself that she’ll have a few drinks with him when she got back; she deserved it, after all. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of light. A car horn blared and she turned. Light, noise, pain. Then, nothing. Silence.


Warm, rough hands reached out to Freyja’s, slipping a brass candle holder into her palm. Atop it sat a cream colored candle adorned with etchings of suns, moons and stars on its fresh surface. “ Prove us wrong.” The voice mulled away into the depth of darkness before Freyja could find the words within herself to respond, or the courage in her limbs to reject the offering. She found her body frozen as still as the trees; the soft candle’s fire could not even thaw her. The dusk that had hugged her body moments before snapped into a deep, black darkness. The gods had willed the sudden-solstice. With a hard swallow Freyja dragged her gaze from the ground, her eyes as heavy as two anchors. She was without the privilege of sight beyond her hazy circle, yet the boring eyes of villagers stung into her back. All she had to do was remain still and maintain the candle’s luminate offspring until morning. Her legs steadied as she lowered to the Earth’s surface, her back against an elder pine. Freyja only wished for a simpler way for this night to pass. Sleep was too risky, consciousness was too nerve-wracking. All that was left was to pray. “I do not wish to return yet. I pray thee will encourage this flame. Nurse it to health. Hold this light for longer than its worth.” Freyja’s whispers were nothing short of fervent pleas. With each breath, the flame wavered and flung its heat higher. The night intertwined with rays of light, bending it around the hot drops of melted wax. A plump bead found its way to Freyja’s thumb, burning the soft of her skin. Her body shifted with a jolt of pain, though her hand held the candle upright. Freyja knew that her life depended on this miniature flame. Once a year, the gods above would toy with their so-called faithful in an attempt to weed out the insincere. The sudden-solstice deemed itself a pleasurable and entertaining means of both revenge and justice. Only those who had succumbed to overzealous desires were placed with the pot and candle. The gods were in agreement that human life is far too joyous without their intermeddling. No one could have everything , after all. Freyja held determination close to her heart, it nearly beating in one. She prayed nearly every day, gave the village children chunks of chocolate and even broke the bars into equal parts. She saw no reasoning in this decision, but there was no room to fight it. Freyja knew she could maintain the candlelight’s strength, and for it she would earn her keep in a simple life she craved to keep mundane. The snow beneath Freyja’s body had melted away, soaking her clothes into an uncomfortable mush of fabric sticking to her skin. She savored the chance to feel it. Her hands had found their way into her lap, the metal of the pot warming her legs with drips of fresh wax coating its sides. The sting of heat was welcoming. It was nearing dawn- animals had begun to stir and the pine above her began to shake with a blow of wind. “Curse you gods.” With her own grumble the wind ceased, the flame diminished, and the scurrying of animals came to a halt all in one breath. “No! Nourish the flame, gods! I’ve done nothing but good. I am the best citizen of my town! The best daughter and the best wife if you so choose me to live. I have friends who will bear children in the coming months! Allow me the same!” Freyja cursed herself under her breath. Her voice had grown weak with despair. “I only wish to feel the sun’s warm kiss a day longer. I want to feel the joy of conversation and the aggravation of argument! You mustn’t even grant me a day longer than that. Please, gods, let me feel.” Nothing but silence and stillness followed. Not even the gods could care enough to snuff her ego out themselves. Pit. Freyja recoiled her legs to her chest, the candle resting close to her body. Pat. The noise was annoyingly close. Pit. A drop of warm water landed on top of Freyja’s head, soaking into her skin. It felt like defeat. She tilted her head to investigate, though the gods had retained the darkness surrounding her. She had only felt the privilege of this life for just a morning bird’s song past a year. Pat. The depth of black swallowed Freyja whole. The candlelight drew its last breath with a drop of water holding its hand in harmony, both elements swirling to their end. Freyja’s breath hitched for a beat, realizing her fate had been sealed by fire and water itself. “ Freyja, Freyja. Tch. You have yet to wane from the immortal sense of greed. And we thought humanity could change you.” Freyja’s hand fell into the soft cradle of her own hands as the goddess’ words dripped down her neck. Tendrils of thick, dark hair wrapped themselves around Freyja’s shoulders as the presence leaned over her. “It’s time to be a goddess again, my dear. A year of light cannot last forever.” Immortal hands wrapped their slender digits around Freyja’s human body, grasping her chest and her head the tightest. Her soul began to flee as embers of a once-roaring fire, settling themselves amongst clouds of dust and smoke. An agony of emotion rolled through Freyja’s core. She saw the malnourished children grin with joy, chocolate smeared across their cheeks. She saw the judgment of older villagers, their gazes cutting through her. She felt the love, joy, and hatred all at once and then none at all. The elder pine stood then, accompanied by an eighth of a candlestick, a rumble of ash, and disturbed dirt impressed with a handprint. The sun had breached over the icy horizon, sparkling the beauty of snow for miles to see. Village people broke from their cottages and began their days. Their days of farming, parenting, and arguing; their days of living.


The summer’s sun disappeared and the world turned a dark shade of blue until it eventually settled into a profound black. It was night. The stars lit up the sky and gave the moon a pleasant company. They twinkled, and it almost seemed as if they were telling each other stories across the cosmos. The air smelled of fresh pine trees and the hair on Marla’s arms stood up as the wind brought the smell into her nostrils. On a hill not too far away from her shone a golden light: the Starlight Carousel. Its light shone brightly and confidently into the night, illuminating the dark sky for those lucky enough to see the carousel. The carousels light was not for everyone to be seen. You had to believe in it; have hope. But Marla’s days had long been deserted by hope. Her heart was a massive stone that she carried around with her every day. Shadows accompanied her daily, watching her every move until she felt like one herself. Only at night, when it was dark, did the gentle light of the Starlight Carousel seem to take some of the weight off her shoulders. Marla often wondered how she was able to see the bright lights of the carousel. It was said to be a celestial portal to one’s destiny that unveiled snippets of what lay ahead of each rider. A small glimpse of the future. The ride was exactly three minutes long. A short, yet profound journey through the veiled corridors of the future. The carousel appeared on cloudless nights only. It absorbed its energy from starlight, directly from the universe. The carousels appearance was a breathtaking one; a true feast for the eyes. The horses, sculpted from shimmering silver and adorned with jewels that sparkled like captured stardust, seemed to come alive under the moonlit night. Each horse bore a unique expression, as if mirroring the varied facets of the human soul. Marla took a step towards it and could hear a soft melody start to come through. She couldn’t even decipher the instruments that played in this symphony. It was as if it was crafted from God himself. She hesitated for a moment, slowing down her steps towards the carousel and shifting her gaze between the carousel and the sky above them. She was not sure if she could take the step. Can I take the step? The legends might be nothing more than tales spun from the threads of fantasy, but the inexplicable pull of hope tugged at the edges of her heart. So she decided to take a look into her future. Just a small peak... As she approached the carousel even more its melody became clearer and louder. Marla mounted on one of the horses and held onto one of the golden poles to her right. The carousel began moving instantly, rotating gently as if it acknowledged her presence. It acknowledges my presence? The air crackled with a subtle energy and she could feel the crackles in her soul, as if she had become a part of the cosmos itself. With every rotation, the carousel turned faster, carrying her in to the heart of the universe. The world around her blurred, all that could be seen around her were the strings of lights drawn by the stars due to the speed of the carousel. Marla felt as if time and space got swapped. The melody intensified even more with the speed of the carousel and the only thing Marla could think about was to lift her head and look at the sky; just look at the sky, Marla. The stars formed constellations that pulsed in the rhythm of her heartbeat. Marla recognized the true colors of the dark sky. It enlightened her that darkness was also made of components and that it could not exist in isolation; instead, her shadows were made of the same fabric as this darkness. Suddenly the carousel slowed down and came to a halt under a particularly bright constellation above her. Marla felt as if she could look at every decision in her life from every possible perspective there was. As the celestial melodies curled around her, a vision unfolded--a vision of a life not dominated by shadows but painted with hues of hope and renewal. The cement in Marla’s veins dissolved, turning a deep red colour. The burden that weighed heavily on her heart began to lift, the stone within her shattering under the gentle stroke of starlight. The individual pieces of the shattered stone of her heart floated and formed shining stars in the sky. They joined the constellation, completing it into a single true cosmic panorama that took the air from her to breathe. Just breathe, Marla. The stars formed a word. Clear and bright, it shone down on Marla so that she could not help but feel it deep in her soul, in every pore and every cell, as if it were engraved in her DNA; hope. What does hope feel like, Universe? Hope is the melody you can hear humming in your ears, the orchestra inside of you that never falls silent, even if you can’t hear it at that moment. Hope is an emotion that forms in your body as if it was a gentle wave; Hope is love that blossoms from the depths of your heart, just like flowers do every spring. Hope is sadness, a thunderstorm that passes over a city and submerges everything, because the only logical thing to do when you are sad is to just let it wash over, allowing grief to drown everything, right? Am I right, Marla? Hope is anger, like a fire that impulsively burns everything down and leaves nothing but steaming ashes. It’s not even the anger that will hurt but the raw reality afterwards.. Hope is the beat of your heart that keeps beating rhythmically, pumping life into you every day ensuring that you’re here; present able to feel Can you feel it, Marla? And Marla could feel it. She heard the orchestra inside her and realized that the carousel was quietly spinning on its own axis. She felt the waves inside of her chest. They watered the flowers, made them bloom and the world shine the brightest colors Marla has ever seen. Only to drown them after a thunderstorm; because that is the only thing that seemed logical to her at that moment. And then she felt everything burn inside her. She felt hot and wanted to tear off her clothes. Fire. There was fire everywhere. The carousel was burning, and Marla was burning with it; she was the ignition Ashes; ashes everywhere. What have you done, Marla? I am living, universe.


“Hey Phil. Running a bit late are we?”, said the newest guard to join the watch and also Phil's successor. “Just wanted to take one last stroll around the block Frank.”, he replied as all 8 of his legs struggled to pull his old body to the top of the headboard. Once up, he closed his many eyes and took a deep breathe. The cool nights air filling his lungs like it had countless times before. “Any web breaches tonight?”, he asked. His eyes still closed as he recalled the first time he stood here. He was now old, almost 2 years of age, and was ready to step aside and let a younger and quicker spider take his post. “Nope.”, Frank replied. “I suspect that your webs will out last us all.”. He turned his gaze to his friend and smiled, only getting a slight smirk in return. Frank was unsure how to approach tonight. This was the last night that Phil would be on watch with him. The older and more experienced arachnid had been his mentor and friend for an entire month, saying goodbye would be difficult. Phil must have been feeling some sadness about this all as well. But this was to be a night of celebration. A night the all spiders wait their entire lives for. “Are you excited for the jump?”, he asked. “Excited?” asked Phil. “I don't think excited is the right word.” “What? Why? I've been dreaming about my jump since I was young and hate that I have to wait a whole year before I get to meet Anansi.” “Yes, well I guess feelings change the closer one gets to the end of their life.”, he said. He opened his eyes and submerged them in his surroundings. He was going to miss this view. Deep down Phil didn't want to jump. The ancient tradition that once seemed so honourable and poetic was now a cruel reminder of a life wasted. “I can't believe what I'm hearing.”, snapped Frank. “This is borderline blasphemy Phil. The book is very clear as to what happens when we reach the age of..”, he started but was interrupted by Phil. “I know, I know. I'm not saying that I won't jump, what would i do with my life now anyway. All I'm saying is that maybe there is nothing waiting for me on the other side. Have you ever wondered why it is that we even protect the humans from mosquitoes while they sleep? I've spent every night up here thinking about such questions without ever coming to an answer.”, he ranted. Looking over to his friend he could tell that he was talking into deaf ears. Frank was fresh out of the academy and had unbreakable faith in Anansi, the spider God, and her promise of a life in paradise to those who protect the humans. “Phil”, Frank said in semi stern, semi gentle voice. “You need to have faith. You've reached the end of your time here and should be looking forward to eternity with Anansi. All you need is faith.”, he preached as he placed 3 of his arms onto the old man's back. “Now how much longer until the jump?, he asked. Phil sighed. There was no point in fighting. No point in arguing. “Anytime now.”, he answered. “The air is dry tonight so he should be opening his mouth soon.” “And when he does?” “When he does I will leap from this headboard and into my warm, moist grave.” “And into Anansi's arms my friend.”, giving him a loving pat of the back before removing his arms. They both sat there in silence until the moment was upon them. Phil closed his eyes and took one last breathe. “My only regret in life is that it took a lifetime to realize I have regret.”, he mumbled before jumping into the darkness. The same darkness that took his predecessor and the same darkness that will eventually take his successor.


Ramadan is an Islamic holiday that lasts 30 days in which Muslims throughout the world fast and refrain from eating food and drinking any liquid. Essentially forbidding to have any sustenance or nutrition from sunrise to sundown. It doesn’t occur at the same time each year because Ramadan is based on the lunar calendar and moves back 10 days each year. So this year it started on April 24, next year it will start on April 14. It’s not just a physical fast, but a spiritual one as well. It’s a month to build good habits nd become closer to god. Some Muslims try to quit bad habits during this month, some build good habits. Everyone sets a goal of having a good habit built by the end of Ramadan. You wake up before sunrise to eat and pray, then return to sleep. Then if you have a job, you go about your day as normal. You break your fast at sundown. Depending on where you live, a person can fast from 8 hours to 18 hours to 22 hours. A favorite habit of mine is eating a fruit when I break my fast. Fruits become extremely flavorful when your tongue isn’t covered in what you usually eat. One thing you quickly notice is how much time you spend eating and drinking during the day. You have lots of free time and, luckily, classes coincided with Ramadan so I can busy myself with work. But it’s very difficult to get stuff done because the lack of food and water makes you really groggy. The first 10 days, you really notice the physical effects. I usually feel exhausted waking up. As if I had a heavy exercise the day before, my muscles ache with soreness and pain every morning making it difficult to get out of bed. The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. Your energy levels fluctuate as your body grows accustomed to the fasting state. Sometimes I find I have the same amount of energy or more once I get out of bed and start my day. Sometimes you wake up starving and dehydrated.The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. It’s difficult to keep a consistent exercise routine because too heavy of a workout can cause some problems. Coughing fits that last a while, extreme dehydrations, cramps, and other problems I haven’t personally experienced. There are plenty of health benefits of fasting such as cleaning your body from toxins and the unhealthy foods you eat. Ramadan is time to create better habits and break bad habits. You are given 30 days to try to break bad habits and start good ones. You do your best and carry on the good habits when Ramadan is over. Along with the benefits and consistent exhaustion, the dreams during fasting become strange. Some people I know have had spiritual awakenings in dreams, I’ve had similar experiences but not to the extent they have described. My dreams are usually strange and sometimes metaphorical. My dreams this Ramadan have been strange each day and that has been consistent since 2018. I once had a dream of being a cat who could predict the future but no one believed. The most poignant dream I had this year was my walking into a room and seeing friends and family I haven’t seen in 10+ years. It was a great seeing old friends even though it was a dream. I guess I just miss my friends. Especially now, during the shutdown, I’ve realized something that I hadn’t realized before. Ramadan is not just a fast from your usual habits. It’s not just a way to become more spiritual. It’s a practice of humility.


Have you ever wondered what if? It could be what if I took one job over another? What if I didn’t go on that amazing trip? What if I was still single? It could be what if I didn’t get married? What if I caught the later train instead of the earlier one? OK with the last one today I knew if that was the case I would be very late to work. Those two little words in a question...what if? Carry so much power. So much for the imagination to mull over and create endless possibilities. I always wonder if once our lives are over and we are in heaven (or what other place anyone would believe in) that they show us our lives in a show reel and we get to choose the path not taken and seen what would have happened. I have found myself over the years wondering, what if, over many things until today. Today that question, in one of its forms, was answered. Some of my colleagues and I were at the local restaurant that was a mix of an ‘all you can eat buffet or order a meal instead’ establishment, we frequent and waiting in line to order some lunch. I couldn’t decide what to choose as the menu looked so good! “So Debbie, what are you having?” asked my chief investigator Mike, breaking through my indecision. “I dunno Mikey...” “Don’t call me that, you know I hate being called like a kid!” “Sorry...uh Mike,” I apologised as I shoved him in jest, “I couldn’t resist. The steaks look really good.” At that point it was our turn to order and Mike ordered the sirloin steak with chips and salad. Not a bad idea...when it was my turn to order. “I’ll have what he’s having but well done please and the same table...oh and I’ll have a chocolate mousse for desert as well.” “Dessert is ordered separately.” retorted the prepubescent teen (they call them tweens now right or something like that? I’m getting old) wishing she could emulate Robert Smith of the Cure but was failing miserably because she wished she was born 50 instead of 15 years ago. “OK I’ll order that later, thanks.” Jessica, Jasmine and Judy (the 3J’s we like to call them) had just joined us as well and were able to add their order to our table much to the chagrin of others waiting in line behind us. “Wha?” Judy said to an older lady as she tusked at them, “I was here before you and I had to pee. We all did. Wha? You don’t pee?” Yes my colleagues are charming. That’s what I love about this bunch, they make work more interesting and fun. As I walked towards our table, I looked up and that was when I saw...him. He hadn’t changed a bit...OK he’s about 30 years older than when I last saw him but he hadn’t changed a bit. The last time I saw him was at the beach party held after our last day of high school. He smiled at me that brilliant smile he always had and waved me over. “Uh guys I’m just going to say hello to an old friend I’ll be a sec yeah? Let me know when my food arrives.” “Sure Deb,” piped up Jasmine, “who are ya seeing?” By then I was about five meters away from his table with a wide and nervous smile on my face. I could have sworn my heart had stopped if I couldn’t feel it racing. He got up and opened his arms, “Debbie? Oh my God! Debbie! I can’t believe it is you!” “Hi Paul! Wow! It’s been ages.” And he gave me the biggest, warmest hug. He felt and smelled just like he did all those years ago. At which point so many memories came flashing back. “Please sit down.” Paul gestured to the empty chair at his table. “Oh thank you but I’m here with colleagues, friends actually... and lunch is coming...” “Please I insist. My wife will be here shortly but I’d love to catch up and for you to meet her too.” A wife. Wow...I tell you if I wasn’t happily married myself I would be sad with jealousy. “OK sure...wow it’s been so long...” I started, “OK answer these questions as you know they are cheesy but standard when you see someone from school. How long have you been married? Any kids? And what are you doing with yourself these days?” I had to ask. I had to know. The question on my tongue that I didn’t ask was lingering in the air. I could tell he could feel it too. The proverbial elephant in the room. He laughed, “Oh Deb...you haven’t changed...always asking the hard questions in life.. Always to the point.” “Yes well you were the bad boy...and I the good girl remember?” I laughed. “You weren’t always a good girl...” he replied tongue in cheek, his eyes smiling. “Shhhh I have a reputation to uphold still.” He kept smiling and looking deep into my eyes. I swear my heart was racing. He still had that effect over me? “I’ve been married for 10 years. I have three boys, 8, 6 and 4 years of age. Two dogs, a cat and three parrots. We just moved back into the area and I work as an accountant now.” I did a double take. “An accountant?!” “I know a far cry from the movie star I was aspiring to be but hey life happens. I still do local theatre when I can to keep the passion alive but yeah...crunching numbers is my thing now. My wife Marina and I have our own accounting firm too. My turn. What about you? Go!” “Oh...I uh...am married for 15 years, two kids, a pigeon pair, 13 and 11 years old and the main source of my grey hair. I am a barrister now. My husband is a gardener and he loves it. Just as well we are in different fields or we’d always be arguing.” I giggled with nerves. My goodness I am a married and grown woman! Why am I feeling like a nervous teenager again? Oh that’s right...that question. “Barrister! I remember you wanted to get into law school. Good for you!” “Thanks...” I looked down at the napkin I was fidgeting with nervously. “Yeah it has it’s moments but I love it. I have a great team that work for me and we’re having lunch out today for a treat. They are sitting over there.” I gestured towards Mike and the 3J’s. They were grinning and staring at us. Great...explaining this would be interesting. “Nice...it’s so good to see you Deb. I mean you haven’t changed at all. I can’t believe it’s been so long since we graduated hey?” “Yes...30 years...it’s gone fast...” “It sure has Deb, it sure has...” Then silence. He caught my gaze for what seemed like an eternity. As if time stood still...we looked straight into each others eyes answering questions of what has passed unasked. Knowing that if things were different, we may be sitting here having a conversation with a different context. Sure it felt like a day hadn’t passed since I last saw Paul and I loved that. It reassured me we were kindred spirits but time had passed and he wasn’t in my life. I wasn’t in his either. I just had to ask...oh for heavens sake I ruthlessly stare down hardened murderers in court and put them in jail or worse, why can’t I ask him? Right, I’m going to bite the bullet. “Paul I have to ask. What happened? We were high school sweethearts. We had dreams of our own and some them for us to live together. I have realised them with someone else, my husband Gregory. I love him, don’t get me wrong, I’m not fishing or anything and I wouldn’t go back in time to change anything...and I feel you wouldn’t either with Marina but I have to ask...after the beach party we swore we’d keep in touch and meet five years later at the same spot. We swore that we’d let each other go to chase our dreams and if we felt inclined we’d meet again but not leave the other hanging. We’d find a way to get in touch even if we didn’t feel the same way about each other. Wow we were quite mature for our time huh?” Paul kept staring into my eyes, “We sure were...” “Where were you then?” I did it. I asked. “I was there. I waited. Where were you?” He kept my gaze and didn’t break it all this time from the when the moment set in. “I was there...I saw you from afar but I couldn’t go through with it. I was in a bad place in my life and I chickened out. I’m so very sorry.” Then he looked down at his hands. I didn’t know what to say. I felt the rejection of that moment of so long ago fall away only to be replaced with a unrelenting sense of unspeakable cowardice. I couldn’t answer him. I just kept looking at him. “You see I’d gone travelling, tried the Hollywood thing which bombed. My father got sick and I had to come back to take care of him. It was then I realised I couldn’t go back to acting and I felt like I’d failed you.” “What? No...” I started, “caring for ones parents is a noble thing. Not many people do that especially in some cultures. Are your parents OK?” “My father passed 15 years ago and my mother soon after from a broken heart. They loved each other very much.” So did we Paul. So did we... “I’m so sorry to hear that. I really am. And sorry I was so blunt. I just had to know. I have always wondered and from time to time ask myself what if? What if we did meet again that day?” At that point he met my eyes square again. “I think the same thing too a lot at times. Yes I love my wife, my kids and my life dearly. I too wonder as well...” And there the proverbial elephant in the room that many feel but don’t see, felt like it was finally visible. It felt like the elephant got it’s answer and walked out of the room. The air felt lighter again but I had to get away. “Well, I better get back to my colleagues. It was lovely to see you...” I got up slowly to make my escape this time around. “Since you’re back in the area, don’t be a stranger. I would love it if we could be friends like we used to be.” Never have sillier words escaped my mouth. Could you be friends again with all that hanging from the past? “Sounds great! It was lovely to see you again too. I don’t know where Marina is, she’s running late but hey we should catch up with our families yeah? Get to know everyone.” “Sounds lovely! Wow yes it was great to see you again. I better go. Take care yeah?” At the point he grabbed me and gave me another hug. This time it wasn’t a happy warm hug. It was one that said goodbye. “Yes you too. Bye Debbie.” “Bye Paul.” When he let me go I turned and walked with a fake smile on my face back to my colleagues. “Who was that hunk-o-spunk?” piped up Jessica. “Oh and old high school friend.” I replied as I sat, glad that my meal had arrived and I could focus on that rather than look any of them in the eye. “Just a friend?” asked Mike. “Just a good old friend.” I replied before putting a juicy bite of my meal in my mouth hoping that would stop the questions. I felt sad. Sad for what could have been not what was. Sad yet relieved that the question was answered. Was I mourning the loss of a dream? Perhaps but I was glad that I got a second chance. A chance to put a ghost of questions from the past to rest. A chance to be grateful again for how things turned out. Maybe things are meant to be as they are meant to be and we don’t need to wonder but appreciate what we have, right here. Right now. No need to wonder anymore...


The cannon head swiveled, groaning as its gaping mouth lowered itself to Émilien’s face. The gnarled ropes dug into the underside of his ribs as he shifted on the mast, his husk sandals sliding over the damp deck. The Captain slapped the top of the cannon affectionately. Her tricorn hat sat at a jaunty angle, and the Screaming Sword hung at her waist, silent. She turned to her prisoner, tracing the collar of her coal-colored vest. “Answer me this, stowaway,” she said, and Émilien tried in vain to sit up straighter. Her voice was liquid steel, smooth and dangerously low. “Do you have any doubt I won’t blow your head off your body? Any at all?” “Several, actually.” The pirate thoughtfully leaned her chin on her palm. “Do you, now. Well then, what do you think will save you from me? The hand of the war god? A voice from the heavens? Or are you secretly Áspero reborn?” “Well,” said Émilien. “I’m tied to your mast. You’d hit the mast.” “I’D HIT THE MAST! I’D HURT MY DARLING!” The Captain raised her arms to the sky in jubilation, her eyes closed and cheek bared in supplication. One beetle-black peeked out. “Untie the prisoner. The decks need scrubbing. Hop to!” The crew gave Émilien various scowls. A one-eyed woman squeezed a fish so hard its head burst. A bear-faced man with a body like a wooden barrel met him stare for stare. He lit a pipe, popped it into his mouth, and started to chew. A squat man with a spoon tied to his wrist in place of a hand scooped seaweed out of his soup bowl. Loud slurps filled the awkward silence. “Fine,” the bear man grunted between crunches, flicking a gleaming butter knife from his sleeve. “I’ll do it.” The knife landed a hair away from Émilien’s ear, and the ropes rolled off his body. He scooted away from the blade, scrambling to his feet. His smooth hand brushed off his white robe with the remnants of his dignity. The bear man picked splinters out of his teeth. “That’s the last favor anyone’ll do you. Better thank me proper, boy.” “Thank you very much.” The bear man scowled. Émilien pulled a coin from his breech pocket and tossed it to the bear man. “Thank you very, very much.” The coin went high, and the bear man snatched it out of the air. He lifted it to catch the sun. Satisfied, he breathed on its surface and rubbed it hard against his sleeve. “Smart lad. What you do?” Émilien’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry?” “What you do?” “I’m an -- I was an altar boy. If that’s what you’re asking.” “Altar boy?” The man began to shake. His body shifted and rolled as he roared with laughter. “Har! Saint in the making, this one! Trying to catch Jesus walking on water, are you? Har! What are you called, holy man?” “Émilien.” “You are canonized, Saint Émilien!” The pirate ducked his bulk into a low, mocking bow. “I am your faithful servant, Mammoth Man. Har!” Émilien returned a weak smile, his eyes wandering to the shrinking stretch of land behind the laughing giant. Forgive me. The crew of the Motley Minx quite soon forgot there was ever a time where Émilien wasn’t there. His own brooding thoughts were often cut short by shouts of, “Bless me with another pipe!” and “A bottle, Saint Em, there’s a good lad”. His days filled with menial chores and crude teasing and pirates everywhere he looked. When the captain caught him staring northwards back where they had come, she clapped the boy on the back and bellowed, “Save the holy visions for after the deck’s swabbed, altar boy!” Mammoth Man cast him a reproachful glower. “Shouldn’t dally.” He put down the barrel of mead he’d been drinking from. “Not with the Captain around, anyway.” “She’s deceptively strong.” Émilien’s mop hit the deck with a wet splat. Its worn tendrils slid over the wine-stained wood. “Aye. Gets it from her godfather.” “How do you know her godfather?” Mammoth Man raised a brow so thick it could be a normal man’s mustache. “The church must’ve sheltered you like a babe. The tale goes that Soltaire’s parents named the heathen god Nari as her godfather in jest.” “I suppose I wouldn’t have heard anything about heathen gods in the church.” “Aye.” “So that’s the secret? Her parents had a strange sense of humor?” “Well, there was that.” Mammoth Man glanced past him, nodding at the captain. “Turns out Nari didn’t take it as a joke.” Émilien laid awake that night, his arm splayed across his face. Even the Minx ’s gentle rocking couldn’t lull him to sleep. He squeezed the silver crucifix tied around his neck. Its corners dug into his smooth palm. It must be tonight. I fetched everyone enough drinks to kill a whale. There’s no better time. “Ow!” He sat up, hissing and grasping his hand. Beads of blood swelled where the cross had cut him. He curled his fingers into his hair, sucking the cuts. What am I doing? Why did I waste so much time? Now. It has to be now. The blanket fell away, crumpling over itself as he stepped over it. The door made no sound. Moonlight slashed across the darkened room. Then it was gone. Émilien walked into the captain’s cabin to find her fully dressed and sitting at her desk, hands folded on her knee. She bared her teeth into a sawblade smile. “Took you long enough.” “You knew?” “It was unlocked, wasn’t it?” “You knew and you let me -- ” Émilien scowled. “You hit me. You made me swab the deck until dawn broke.” “Fun and games. I wanted to see how long you’d last.” Soltaire gallantly waved her arm at the chair before her. “Sit.” “I think I’ll stand. Thank you, though.” She drew her pistol, bussing it with a corner of her sleeve. “Sit.” He sat. “So. My time has come.” The pirate leaned forward. Her smile widened. “I really appreciate you coming to fetch me yourself, godfather.”


Magdelena Brumhauer’s weathered hiking boots crunched through the twigs, undergrowth, and detritus of the forest floor. The incline was steep enough to take her breath away and slow her pace, and she leaned against a tree near the summit of the hill to rest. A large swig of water from her blue plastic bottle cooled and rejuvenated her as she looked to the treetops, searching for the birds that chirped and tweeted invisibly above her. None of the trees looked familiar, and she shook her head in a silent argument with herself. It had been nearly forty years since she had been here, and she wasn’t sure she was even on the right hill. In 1985 she was only 16 years old. She was in love with a boy who loved her back, and they were going to be together forever, she just knew it. Brad Comstock was going to graduate and then work for two years until she graduated, saving every dollar he could. Then they would pack up their stuff and drive away together, parents and expectations be damned. They walked through these hilly woods often after school and on the weekends, dreaming together about their future home, children, careers, and the bliss that would accompany it all. They gave themselves to one another in these woods, near the top of one of these hills under the shade of an oak tree. It was around her somewhere. Since returning to her hometown of Springborn, Magdelena had reminisced on her old life here often. Her old high school was gone, torn down after asbestos was discovered in the walls. Her favorite diner was gone, replaced by a strip mall with a vape shop, liquor store, tattoo parlor, and pawn shop. Her former home was still up, but the current owners weren’t maintaining it as well as her family had, and when she walked by to see it she barely paused to give it more than a cursory glance. What used to be a downtown Main Street was now more of a ghost town, with the economic hub of activity shifted outwards towards the highway. When she concluded that not much of her hometown was the way she remembered it, she felt she truly understood why they say, “You can’t go home again.” Home isn’t the way you left it, and even if it were, you’re not the same person who left. She rented a room above Main Street Bakery a few months ago. It had the basic furnishings she needed - a bed, a chair, a television - and she always woke to the aroma of freshly baked pastries each morning. Her frequent hikes through the hills and forests east of town were the only reason she hadn’t put on ten pounds since her arrival, and she knew it. But now in her fifties, she wasn’t so concerned about her hips or curves anymore. She was pretty and kind enough to be in love with four men in her lifetime and marry three of them. She wasn’t looking for a fifth. She was looking for her first. She parked her Honda CR-V at the wide spot in the road that served as the informal parking lot for the Greenwoods Forest, just like Brad used to do with his old farm pick up, driving the old country roads with tools rattling around in the bed calling all the attention in the world. She headed north-ish on foot, but that was as far as her memory served her. Erosion and four decades of growth had changed the landscape considerably. The trees were taller and closer together, and the valleys and glades were smaller and more crowded. She thought their spot was about fifteen minutes in, but the pace of a 16-year old girl giddy with love and anticipating her first sexual encounter is far more rapid than that of a 50-something-year old woman who hadn’t been giddy about anything except dark chocolate for more than a decade. Most of the trees in this forest were aspen, their slender trunks and white bark forming a swaying, impenetrable wall to block her vision. Their heart-shaped leaves hissed in the wind, shushing her whenever she swore or talked to herself too loudly. “Hush, hush, keep it down now, voices carry...” she sang under her breath as she traversed the unfamiliar landscape. ‘Til Tuseday’s hit debut single wasn’t a very good love song. In fact, it describes a toxic, controlling relationship, but twitterpated, teenage Magdelena didn’t care. She sang it to her Brad every night on the phone, and he never got tired of it. At least, he never told her he was tired of it, and that was just as good at the time. Day rolled into day and week into week, searching for their spot. He carved their initials into one of the few oak trees in these woods, claiming it as theirs. The Greenwoods were a popular place for making out and sex among the teens of Springborn, which is why Brad took her so far back. “I’m so special - what we have is so special - that the usual places, the places close to the road aren’t good enough for our love,” she told herself then. In present times the charm was wearing thin, and Magdelena would have thought their spot a lot more special if she could just find the damned thing. At least she had the time to look. She would never describe herself as independently wealthy, but she got by alright. Her late husband’s life insurance money would last her a while, especially when she lived as simply as she did. With as many crime shows, documentaries, and podcasts were around these days, she sometimes wondered if she would ever see her own face on the screen one day, a jarring headline labeling her a black widow. She doubted it, but still wondered. Just like the chances of being killed by a cow are pretty low, but they’re never zero. That’s also why she liked her name. Magdelena provided her with many names to use, and they were all plausibly still her name. Maggie, Lena, Del, Aggie, Elena - new city, new name, new life. She moved away from Springborn the summer after her sophomore year of high school. Her father was promoted at the tire company at which he worked, and it meant moving to Chicago. She was distraught as most teenage girls being told to move halfway through high school would be, but she adapted. Philadelphia, Boston, Asbury Park, Albany, and finally back to Springborn. She learned to love the thrill of reinvention, discovering new versions of herself, trying them on like a stranger’s clothes until they became her own. But now she just wanted to talk to Brad again. She learned how to put satellite overlays on Google Maps and searched for likely candidates for their oak tree that way. The bigger challenge was pairing her digital searches with the physical terrain as she hiked it. She was down to two possible sites left, and she could see one of them up ahead. “Hush, hush...” she panted up the hill. “Keep it down now, voices...be damned. This is it.” She sat down on their rock. It was a flat boulder protruding from the earth near their oak tree. Barely the size of a coffin, it was an ideal bench for two young lovers sitting side by side. Their tree towered before her. Wider, stouter, and taller than before, but still bearing the scar of their love: B.C. + M.H. in a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow. The bark had swollen around the lines, but it was still legible all these years later. Another heart, roughly and shallowly etched in stone peeked up through the dirt and mulch at the base of the tree. The oak’s roots had barely moved it before embracing the stone and growing around it. “Oh, Brad,” she began, but then gave in to the grief that unexpectedly arose in her heart. She buried her face in her hands and silently cried. She hated how crying distorted her face, having caught herself in a mirror once after some forgettable teenage tragedy, and vowed to never see herself that way again. Naturally, she couldn’t avoid crying sometimes, but she learned to shed her tears in silence, avoiding even the sound associated with the awful visage. Wiping tears on one flannel sleeve and snot on the other, Magdelena started over. “Brad, I miss you. I’ve missed you so long. There’s so much I wish we could have done together.” The unknown birds continued to chirp and peep, the trees persisted in whispering, and Magdelena paused to listen. The last time Brad brought her up here to their spot replayed in her mind. She closed her eyes to see him again. He had been seeing a Navy recruiter in the city and was going to sign up now that he had finished high school. The recruiter promised him 25-thousand plus benefits every year for four years. Brad tried telling her it was better than working at the gas station for the next two years, even if it was for twice as long and would take him away from her the whole time. She looked forlornly at the heart on the stone being swallowed by the tree. “I was so angry at you. We had it all planned out, and then you made your own plans with that Navy man, and I... I reacted... poorly. I was mad, and I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you that then, but you were gone so fast. We never even got to say good-bye.” Magdelena rose from the sitting rock and crossed over to the heartstone in the earth. She knelt down before it with her hands in her lap. “Your parents were so surprised, too. They couldn’t believe you just up and left like that, but they came to believe you just wanted a way out. Out of this town, this life, away from me... When you never wrote or called, they just believed it was true and that you were done with all of us. Your mom cried about as much as I did, but your dad just stayed sad and mad like he does. You remember what he was like. We kept in touch for a few years, but then that just kind of went away, too.” She cleared away some of the dirt at the base of the stone, exposing the pointed bottom of the heart and the rust staining the granite. “I visited the overlook at the quarry lake where we used to go. There’s a guardrail up now, but otherwise it looks the same. I never heard about anyone finding anything at the bottom of the lake there, and I don’t see why they would bother looking. You left to join the Navy and never looked back. I got home so late after walking back from the overlook; my parents were so mad, but then I told them you were gone and they felt so bad for me...my mom made cocoa and just held me on the couch as I cried. They never even noticed I had changed clothes.” Rising to her feet, Magdelena wiped her nose on her sleeve again. “I really wish we could have had our life together. I think it would have been great. If you don’t mind, now that I’m back in town I’ll come visit from time to time. Despite the way it ended, this is still a beautiful spot you found for us. I love it, and I love you. I’ll talk with you later.” On her way down the hill, she looked back frequently to help her remember the path better. She didn’t know how long things like this took or the science behind it all, but she figured the soil, tree roots, and whatever creepy crawly things were in the dirt had done their part. His fingerprints would be long gone by now, and that heartstone had made sure he wouldn’t be identified by his dental records. Not that anyone would ever think to dig there. Now that she knew the way, she’d come back often.


“Your honor, I believe Daniel Jace murdered Andrew Wells.” Oliver Ford spoke softly. 36 years of age. For the past 15 years, Ford worked for the Greenbelle police department. Too short to let the horrors of the job kill him, just long enough to add color to his black and white world; to blur the lines of right and wrong. “And by Daniel Jace, are you referring to the husband of Mary Jace, Mr. Ford?” Jim Parker was the youngest lawyer in Kentucky, but he was smart enough to manipulate the Jury. “Yes sir.” “Mr. Ford, could you please summarize what you’ve already told the court?” “On October 7th, Andrew Wells was found in critical condition near 153 North Square Avenue. He, unfortunately, had passed due to his injuries in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He was shot twice in the back. The bullet casings point to the gun being a Glock 19.” “And the Jace family had recently hired Andrew Wells, is that correct?” “Yes sir, he worked as a Private Investigator. Daniel and Mary lost their youngest daughter, Maggie, a few months ago. I didn’t believe he’d do the job better than us, but the Jaces did, and I’ve never experienced grief like the Jaces.” Oliver knew he had only a limited amount of time to convince the court of the truth. His truth. Mary’s truth. And make sure the secrets died with the deceased. In a small town like Greenbelle, everyone knew everyone and everything. Hell, when Maggie was first diagnosed, the whole town knew in an hour. She was the sweetest little girl. Maybe that’s why so many attended her funeral. However, one fact made the entire Greenbelle town a suspect of inhuman decency. Yes, Maggie had Leukemia, but that’s not what killed her. In a rural town where murder was scarce, every once in a while you’d get a case like Maggie Jace’s. “When first investigating the death of Maggie Jace, you interviewed her family, right? Is that when you first spoke to Daniel and Mary?” Jim’s cold, brown eyes had the effect of secreting a single bead of cold sweat above Oliver’s forehead. “While I did interview her family, it wasn’t the first time I ever spoke with the Jaces. Mary, Daniel, and I had all attended the same school since 6th grade. Mary was always quiet, I know she and Daniel both had a rough home life. It molded them, shaped them. I used to feel bad for them, especially Mary. She went through so much, and I befriended her.” First mistake, Oliver made it known he was Mary’s friend. He silently clenched his fist, realizing what he had done. “Mr. Ford, please tell the court how Daniel and Mary have changed since school. Could you see Daniel murdering someone back then?” “Change is relative. To everyone else, Mary became quieter and more timid. Daniel, on the other hand, let his anger against his own father and failures grow into violence. To me, neither changed. Mary was still as loving as she was in high school. I still believed she was brilliant, with her only mistake marrying the son of a bitch. He became more of the piece of shit person he always was, who his father was, who he was destined to become.” Everything in the room went silent; the lawyers, the judge, the normal citizens of attendance, Oliver, Oliver’s thoughts, Oliver’s own heartbeat. He hadn’t died, had he? No, he was alive, otherwise, he wouldn’t have felt the sudden urge to vomit. Finally, the judge broke the silence by asking for a recess. This gave Oliver the time he needed to rush to the bathroom, throw up this morning’s breakfast, and question whether he was going to go through with his plans. He couldn’t let Mary down, not after everyone else already had. He splashed some cold water on his face, hoping if it worked in the movies it would work for him. It felt nice and brought his pale corpse to the land of the living. Locking eyes with his reflection, a voice of a person he no longer recognized pierced his ears. “I’ve got this.” The trial soon resumed, and Oliver sat back down as a witness. He knew they couldn’t keep him for much longer, and all he had to do was wait it out. Jim Parker approached him, “Mr. Ford, could you please confirm details of the crime scene?” “When I pulled up, it was raining pretty hard. I got out of my cruiser and ducked under the yellow police tape to get to the curb. The paramedics were already loading Mr. Wells into the back of the ambulance, so I sent Officer Rogers to question him on the way to the hospital. We, unfortunately, didn’t get anything out of him before he died. I looked around, trying to find evidence. Of course, we found 9mm Luger bullet casings, but that was it. No D.N.A. or anything.” As Oliver spoke, he twisted a small gold coin in his hand. The same gold coin he found at Andrew Wells’s murder scene. The same gold coin he had previously given to his friend, when she lost her daughter, to a cold-hearted world. “It’s not that simple, is it, though, Mr. Ford?” “No one in this town just dies. I believe Daniel Jace shot Andrew Wells because he thought he and Mary were having an affair.” “What makes you so certain? Did you find any records of an interview between the Jaces and Mr. Wells?” “Mary told me Daniel was suspicious. Andrew and Mary never did anything, but she explained to me that it was impossible for her to change Daniel’s mind. And for any records, well, we have 10 pages written in his journal, but one is ripped out. It’s missing.” “Do you know who tore it out?” “Daniel, I assume. He was always angry and aggressive. I wish I could blame it on him shooting up, but he was just a shitty person.” “Mr. Ford, is it true that the Jaces purchased any illegal substances?” “Yes sir. Mary said that she couldn’t help it. I never did like that.” As Oliver spoke, his tone shifted. It was unknown if anyone could tell, but a drop of sorrow and blame inspired a chorus in his voice. He looked at the crowd, and his tongue sobered up. “I truly believe she would've left this town if it wasn’t for Daniel poisoning her with that shit. He started her, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.” His anger blinded him from the fact that Mary chose willingly to use. His thoughts were loud, but no one could hear them. He felt as if he was on a plane, thousands of feet into the air, alone, but in need of help. Hopeless. He could shout at the ground all he wanted, but it didn’t matter, his voice could never reach that far. He was stuck, and all he could do was scream, maybe until his throat was raw with blood, but it was useless. Oliver could only manage to spit out two raspy, low-voiced words, “I’m sorry.” The court all gazed with puzzled looks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Mary. She had it rough since day one. No father in the picture, and a mom who couldn’t care less for her. I was one of her few friends growing up, and I remember her being an amazing person. It really was an ill-fate, her and Daniel. She thickened her blood whenever she would use. After losing one of her children, I’m surprised she held up as much as she did. You know, the last thing she ever said to me was, ‘It feels like we just give and give, and all this world does is take.’ Was she wrong, though? I mean, if so then we wouldn’t all be in this room here today.” “Mr. Ford, we are sorry for your loss. Can you answer just one more question? If we could bring it back to Mr. Wells's journal, did anything stand out to you? Maybe something that hinted at Daniel hating him, or maybe he was scared for his life.” “No, no. Nothing like that. The guy wasn’t even halfway through on solving Maggie’s murder.” When Oliver first read Andrew’s journal, a quote about life being on a spectrum, much like colors, has really stayed with him. Sometimes, his life *was* on a color spectrum. It could be as red as the fire that he used to burn the missing page. As black as the ink that tattooed the page, that bore the writings, “Today, Mrs. Jace admitted a secret. She knows who murdered Maggie. She claims that it was an accident, but it was Charlie Jace, her other child, who found the gun and shot Maggie.” Maybe life is gray, like the ashes and embers of the once white page. Maybe blue like the water he used to cool them, or as green as the grass he dumped the pile in. Oliver knew everything. He knew that Mary wore long sleeves for two reasons: to hide bruises and the needle pricks. He also knew that he would protect Mary as well as Mary had protected Charlie after he accidentally shot Maggie. So he kept quiet the fact that Mary killed Andrew Wells. Even if he wanted to tell the court that, it might get out that he helped kill Daniel Jace cover it up as a suicide. But why? Because he loved Mary. It was a harmful, toxic, one-sided love. So he decided to not lie, but instead, tell the court everything he *knew*. “Daniel Jace was an awful human being. He was a horrible husband who shot and killed Andrew Wells who he believed to be having an affair with his wife, Mary. Plagued with guilt, he shot himself, ending a tragic cycle.” “I know we said one more question, Mr. Ford, but another question has come to mind. Earlier you said no one just dies, and I was curious. Curious as to whether or not that applied to Mary Jace when she was later found on the side of the road after she had overdosed?” “I don’t think she would’ve minded where she ended up. Mr. Parker, only innocent ones are dead, so I’m begging you, please, for the love of God let them rest in peace.


When I was little, my father told a story. It was a story of ancient times, before him, before his father. Before man. A story of gods and monsters. A story of Titans. Long ago, when the world was cooling, the first beings rose from the primordial ooze that covered the planet. Beings of immense and immeasurable power. These beings, who called themselves the Elysians, thought themselves to be the Earth Mother’s will. They could shape her form with only a swing of their mighty limbs. She trembled beneath their every step. Their breathes would cause storms that raged for days. The Elysians were the firstborn children of the Maiden Earth, and thus were made to stand above all that would come after. Born to be gods. Not all the Elysians were content to simply rule over their sibling races, however. A powerful warrior called Havi felt that he should stand above the others. He felt that even among the Elysians, he was superior. He called upon his brothers and sisters, told them of his thoughts. Some called him mad, said that installing a monarch among them would only cause strife. Others of his kind agreed, though not all thought that it should be Havi who would rule. Slowly, over many millennia, a rift formed among the Elysians, the mighty gods. Where once they were equal and proud, this schism tore them apart. A bloody, gruesome war scarred the flesh of poor Mother Earth as the first of her children split apart. Three factions were formed, and three factions fought. The first of these groups were the Asrithi, rallied behind Havi in a bid to conquer and rule over all others. The Asrithi, in preparation for war, had studied magic in its purest forms. They could call storms with ease and would use powerful weapons to beat their opponents into subjugation. To oppose their tyrannical siblings, the Aurra’Maaz rose. Benevolent and wise, they sought only to reunify as equals, to maintain the status quo. Gifted with the magic of Creation, the Aurra’Maaz erected stalwart walls and hardy lesser beings to fight for them. They claimed to rule as a democracy, but the wise Elohyym served as their voice and the most respected among them. Finally, from within the ranks of the Asrithi came the Olymparate. Those Elysians who disagreed with the selection of Havii as the Monarch of Elysia instead allied themselves with a sky-king called Dyauss. Under his leadership they formed an oligarchy of kings and queens, with each choosing to specialize in a unique aspect of magic. Dyauss, the strongest among them, was said to be unbeatable in combat. The war raged for eons. With each clash of her children, the Earth wept. She would heave and tremble and shake and split. Great chasms scarred her flesh, so deep and wide even the Elysians dared not risk falling into them. Soon, only twenty-six Elysians remained of the thousands that had once lived. Nine were Asrithi. Sixteen were Olymparate. Only one of Aurra’Maaz remained. Unlucky Elohyym. He had watched his brothers and sisters die around him, cut down by yet more of his family while he only grew stronger. Where once his greatest strength had laid with the powers of creation, eons of loss had warped his mind. His infinite creativity turned toward more sinister powers, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lost himself to madness. Abandoning the name that the Earth Mother had bestowed upon him on his creation, he bade all that saw his terrifying Hex Magic call him by his chosen title, Luxilishan. Seeing what this feud had done to their eldest brother, Dyauss and Havii called a truce and attempted to reason with the mad Luxilishan. This, however, only ended in the loss of Havii’s right eye while Dyauss was beaten within an inch of his life. Luxilishan had proven stronger than both powerful brothers combined, capable of conjuring hordes of nightmarish creatures with a wave of his twisted and deformed hand. It was only through Havii’s quick thinking that nothing more than an eye and their pride was lost, as he was able to distract Luxilishan long enough for Dyauss to harness the power of the Rainbow Bridge to spirit the pair away. Even with his remaining siblings in hiding, the terror of Luxilishan did not cease. He instead turned his sights on the fledgling races that had managed to avoid extinction. He tormented these beings with his nightmare army, forcing upon them acts of malice and depravity. Havii and Dyauss, though not rejoining, knew that Luxilishan could not be beaten by either one of them alone and thus the Asrithi and Olymparate formed an alliance that against their wicked brother. The two factions conspired together to create a plan to split the power of the Mad God in half and combined their magic to create a weapon capable of doing just such a thing. Hephairon, the Olymparate forge master, created Gungnir and Astrapes for Havii and Dyauss. The two legendary spears would be able to cleave Elohyym from Luxilishan if used together. Simply splitting these two aspects, they knew, would not be enough. One would need to be sealed away from the other, to keep them from ever rejoining and resurrecting the Mad God. After a few centuries of preparation, the time finally came for the allied pantheons to face their twisted brother. The battle between the was brutal, twenty-five Elysians finding themselves losing ground against their eldest sibling. Havii and Dyauss were given no opportunities to strike as Luxilishan released wave after wave of monsters. In a desperate bid to turn the tide, Tywazz, the loyal lieutenant of Havii, sacrificed his right arm to bind Luxilishan long enough for Havii to drive Gungnir through the Mad God’s chest. Dyauss wasted no time using Astrapes to strike Gungnir with the sky’s fury, forcing the madness of Luxilishan from Elohyym’s form. The diminished Luxilishan wildly rushed towards his other half, only to be bound by Sheolus. The eldest Olymparate sacrificed himself to bind Mad Luxilishan, flinging the pair into the deepest of the Earth Mother’s pits and using his corporeal form to create chains that would hold the Mad God for as long as his own will held strong. On the surface, Havii, Dyauss, and the remaining Elysians stood over the weakened form of Wise Elohyym. He was emaciated and frail, though he also appeared at peace for the first time in eons. He pleaded that his brothers remain allied and leave him be. He wanted no more bloodshed between family. Ultimately, the other two agreed to go their separate ways and divide the dominions of the Earth Mother between the three. Elohyym was given the Southern Realms, a peaceful kingdom where he could rest easy and guide his people with a gentle hand. The Olymparate decided upon the Western Realms, a fertile kingdom of farmland and seas. They passed down the importance of strategy and philosophy to their people, instilling in them profound ideals of free thought. Finally, the Asrithi took the Northern realms as their own and created a hardy people, powerful and skilled warriors who held honor and glory above all else. The three kingdoms prospered and grew as the scars of the Elysian War slowly healed. Elohyym never really recovered fully, and eventually withdrew from his people entirely, only intervening when necessary while the story of his Mad half slowly found its way into their minds, giving birth to the legend of Elohim and Lucifer. The Asrithi eventually became known as the Aesir Gods, the Rulers of the Wild Norsemen. The Olymparate, after creating a stronghold atop their realms’ tallest mountain were renamed the Olympians by the people they protected. As time grew long and guilt ate away at the hearts of the Asrithi and Olymparate, they too withdrew from their people. They came to deem themselves unworthy to lead after the parts they each played in the torment of their own brother. Instead, they came together one final time to create a bloodline of champions, born of both factions, to protect the world from the same terrible fate they had set upon it. Once this task was done the powerful Elysians withdrew into their lofty homes amongst the skies, hoping that their final gift to the world would be enough. This was the story my father told me and it will be the story you pass on to your children when I am gone, for this is the story of our family. It reminds us of the terrible power we wield, of the destruction caused by unnecessary violence. We as the scions of Elysia of a duty to be protectors, a safeguard against those that would misuse power in any form so that the mistakes of our forefathers are never repeated. We are the last of those mighty guardians and when I die, you will be all that is left of us. My son, take heed of this tale. Engrain its lesson deep within your being. Once, there were Gods, powerful but fallible. Now only we remain, a final gift to a healing world. A safety measure to ensure the circumstances that allowed a being like Luxilishan to rise never happen again.