X marks the spot. He threw the knife at the red inked cross on the map where it sank in with a dull thud. Bullseye. Thirty years he’d searched. Thirty years of ridicule and obsessive need, and he had found it. The Iris was within reach. That elusive treasure hidden by the best of the best during the golden age of pirates. Bracken retrieved the locket from the pocket at his breast and opened it. The words inside were words to live by. ‘Calm as a gentle breeze.’ They reminded him of a past long gone but not forgotten, and of the family he had given up in favour of his fruitless quest. Sharp pain lanced through him. He put the locket away. A knock came at the door, rousing him from his seat at his desk. The lad, a tiny creature whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him on deck. The smell of salt and the sourness of the vast ocean hit him first. Then came the icy spray of the turbulent sea across his face. The stench of human density wafted across the deck. A sickly concoction of sweat, shit and piss so pungent he could taste it at the back of his tongue. He walked deliberately to his quartermaster and watched the waters while the man spoke. Food stores were dwindling, and his men were dwindling faster. If something wasn’t done soon, they’d all die painful deaths. This was it, then. His final sail. If the treasure wasn’t there, then he’d die the delusional fool everyone said he was. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His legacy would not end here. Though his heart drummed a frantic beat in his chest, he felt calm. Calm as a gentle breeze. The mist cool against his face and the gentle calming sway of his ship beneath his feet. The mists passed soon after. There was no sound in the dawn as he stood at the helm, but for the muffled creaks of wood against wood as the ship made about a particularly hard turn. He supposed it mattered little. If the island had the treasure, then he would leave the richest man across the seven seas. If it didn’t he’d be deader than dead. “Ahoy,” came the cry from the mast. Land in sight. Captain Bracken braced his stomach and licked the grease off his bearded lip. It was time. Calm as a gentle breeze. The ship anchored some distance from shore. Boats were loosed into the blood-warm waters. His men, excited, boarded the shabby vessels in droves. Captain Bracken took his time. There was no need to rush. Best to savor the moment. Even through his boots, the sand scorched his feet. He knew now why people called this island the Devil’s Land. Surely only the Devil would know welcome here. The sun, as though furious at his arrival, beat down harsh light and severe heat that turned the air into a shimmering haze. Sweat beaded on his brow and his throat soon turned raspy and pained with each breath. But there it was. The crypt, larger than he’d imagined, stood as the sole owner of the hellish land. Black walls and faded blue marbled traceries crawling across in patterns that, perhaps, looked beautiful once. He felt the stone, warm to touch and relished in it. The first of his men stormed through the doors like the careless idiot he was. He was the first to die. No great loss. Many and more booby traps came and went. Only two more died. One a deckhand and the other a cook. No great loss. They soon came upon a room, empty, save for the short pillar at its head upon which something gold glinted in the light of their torches. He knew in his heart, this was it. From a distance, the Iris was hard to make out, small as it was. Bracken knew better than to approach it without care. He sent his men first and promised larger shares of the spoils to the first who laid his on the treasure. These were greedy men. They scrambled and pushed each other, abandoning all pretense of caution. As expected the traps were triggered and sprung. His men did well but died all the same. Once he was sure no traps were left, he walked in, taking care to follow only the paths his men had already taken. In the shape of an eye, the thing on the pillar shone with the golden light of his torch in his hand. Its body, translucent, beamed and glittered like stars. Something swirled within it in sharp spirals, and he knew it was the world. Above it, etched as stone into the wall, was another eye. Bracken raised his arm towards it, slowly--very carefully, blood pounding in his ears to drown out everything else. The eye above groaned as though angered by his motions. It wheeled in place, the scrape of stone on stone echoing into the empty silence. Then everything went to hell. Blood coloured roots sprouted out of the grounds in the blackness behind him and in momentary bursts and spasms splintered the room to pieces. The floor beneath him shuddered and split itself from the pillar where the Iris sat. Even still, excitement pulsed in his bones and his fingers seemed to tingle. He reached out, grasping. The pillar looked to be fleeing from him. Running as though it knew nothing of his suffering! He couldn’t reach. It was too far. He stepped closer towards the platform, teetering on the very edge of the island on which he stood. He needed only a touch. To leave this life knowing he had achieved the world. The stone eye on the wall turned and turned, and the floor beneath his feet quivered and wrenched itself apart. Bracken felt the vibrations shake through him. Dust fell into his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he scrambled, flailing. He wasn’t far. The Iris was close at hand. If only he could just-- reach! He leaned too hard against the crumbling floor. It turned to dust and rubble and the gaping chasm between hi and his purpose yawned wider, beckoning. Desperate, he leapt. He missed. He fell.


Everything in my body is burning. Every limb is feeble, my legs are shaking. I drop to my knees. Is this death? It's not even my death. But as I peer at the marble stone in the ground before me, every piece of me feels twisted and rotten. "Ashley Cardowa, beloved daughter and friend," is carved into the headstone, the "A" written with a swooping stroke that underlines the name. As my eyes scan over it, my heart is punctured, each letter strips the nerves from my body, knotting my blood vessels. This pain, it rips and tears and shreds in a way so potent, I can't breathe. Ashley Cardowa is dead in the ground, right under my breaking legs. The fresh dirt is flooded by my tears as they flow hot from my cheeks, pouring into the ground drops of anguished fire. I clutch my breast, heaving sobs as I cling desperately to my blouse and bra, trying to pull it away as if it will free the monster within me, the monster that crushes my heart and shatters my bones. Breathless, I start mumbling to Ashley, whether or not she can hear me from above. Every word is broken as I speak, so silent that the breeze spins each word away before it can leave my lips. Nonetheless, I need to say something, so I narrate to my invisible audience: I met Ashley Cardowa in first grade. It must have been around December, because the first time I went over to her house, her mother had given us each a snowman cookie. The cookies had been formed with a simple cookie cutter, I saw it laying in the sink, covered with flour. Ashley's mom had topped them with a sweet buttercream, dazzling them with mini chocolate chips for the face and buttons. Ashley and I bonded in our first grade classroom, sitting at the reading rug. Ashley was reading a book out loud, stumbling over the harder words like "cookie" and "oven". She was incredible to me, each word hitting my ears snapping my attention to her. I wobbled over to her, sitting near as she read the book. Something about making cookies and sharing with friends, if my memory holds. She read to me for a decent amount of time, and we continued our ritual each day since. I sucked at reading, but Ashley was two levels ahead. Though, just spending time with her improved my skills, and we started reading the books together. By second grade, we were both reading simple chapter books to each other, and we even wrote a story about two princesses. The princesses each got a magic penguin, and went to the sun to play a restaurant game. The last of my simple words fades away, and the monster inside feels lulled. It is still raking his claws against my chest, but it is slower, and has spared me the strength to stand. I'm the last person here, the rest of the funeral party left an hour ago. I knew I wouldn't be able to compose myself, so I delayed seeing her actual grave until everyone else had paid their respects. I think it almost doesn't matter though, I shed more fiery tears than her own parents at the service. I reach a hand out to the head stone, running my fingers across the marble as I shakily turn away. I shudder, Ashley never felt so cold. Then again, she wasn't a slab of marble. The Ashley I knew never left my side when I needed her, and I walk towards the parking lot as my mind torments me with old joys. I open my car and get into the backseat, stretching out across the stained seats. My mind is conjuring so many memories, I stare at the roof of my car and speak: When I was a freshman, I slipped down the stairs at the high school. Ashley walked next to me, even sticking out her hand as I tripped, though her fingers only brushed my shirt. I fell down fourteen feet of stairs, finally hitting the ground with such an impact that I fractured my spine. Ashley called my name as she ran dow, pushing people away as they crowded around me. Another student ran for a teacher, and Ashley plunked her backpack on the ground and sat next to me. I mumbled something to her about my back, though the waves of pain that pounded through my body probably distorted my words. But Ashley understood everything, brushing loose hairs from my face as a teacher found us in the staircase. Ashley refused to leave until the ambulance arrived, even telling the paramedics about my injuries. She saw me again the moment they let her, and told me how relieved she was. I was too high on painkillers to properly thank her, but she was too saintly to have accepted it anyways. My spine is healed now. It wasn't a smooth recovery, but I had Ashley. As I lay on my back, I focus my eyes on the roof of my car. My chest is throbbing, like my heart has leaked out inside my body, beating all the same. My chest feels deep too, a weight is being pressed between my ribs, leaving everything hollow and sore. I send my arms behind my head, folding them for support. I cross my legs, and press my eyes shut. I'm beyond the stage of just seeing black, they're tight enough for all kinds of hypnotic colors to squirm in my vision. I don't even open my mouth to speak this time, but I can hear the voice in my head all the same: We couldn't have been more than ten. Fourth, fifth grade maybe. Ashley's family went camping with mine over spring break. We went to a state park, and booked two campsites. When we pulled up, Ashley's family was already there, and I popped out of the car to hug her. We practically burst with laughter as we played with sticks and leaves, shoving them in our hair and building fairy homes. We played until our parents had pitched the tents, and they told us about a special surprise. They guided us past the two family tents, leading us to a third, slightly smaller tent. Our tent, they told us. Ashley and I shrieked with joy, thanking our parents a thousand times over before setting up shop. We crawled inside our tent, marveling at the way the light shone through the thin blue material, zipping and unzipping every window at least three times. We chose spots for our sleeping bags, and introduced our favorite stuffed animals. Ashley had a small, blue rabbit named Pickles, who I swiftly introduced to my purple squirrel, Peanut Butter. It took us all of three seconds to realize that Peanut Butter had enough room on his back for Pickles to sit on, and we must have spent hours parading them around our tent. We made s'mores together, sneaking around the picnic table and snatching marshmallows with our little hands. Our parents definitely knew we were doing it, but they played their part in our fantasy, leaving us to sneak off and consume our treasures out of sight. When we were finally ushered to bed, we stayed awake for hours, jumping from one sleeping bag to the other, playing clapping games, and tossing our stuffed animals back and forth. We stayed for three nights, each day passing as gleeful as the first. We blew bubbles into each others faces, made dandelion wishes, and hunted through the fields for four-leaf clovers. Every night, every day was teeming with joy, the kind that rushes through your body and won't let you stop smiling, the joy that makes everything funny and your body feel weightless. I open my eyes again, blinking the stars away. I try to sit up, but I feel lightheaded, as if my body will crumble away with the slightest tap. I can't stay in this parking lot forever. I only live a ten minute walk away, and I almost want to abandon my car. Something inside me feels so weak, and even driving here I knew I wasn't in the right head space to drive safely. I should have walked. I sit up again, this time succeeding, clambering out of the backseat and towards the passenger side door. I open it, staring for a moment at the driver's seat, at the wheel. My stomach turns at the sight, a new wave of sick washes over me. Ashley died in her car's driver seat. Ashley, a twenty-four year old girl, died in that accident. She's gone, and as I grab the cardboard box from the seat, I want to fold in on myself. I close the door and lock my car, I'll get it tomorrow morning. I'm taking a sick day from work anyways, and the cemetery won't fine me for leaving it tonight. On shaking legs, I stumble half a mile home. When I finally fall into my apartment, I drag my body and the box to my bedroom, letting myself crumple on my unmade bed. I pull my comforter tightly around my body, reaching towards my pillow for Peanut Butter. My purple squirrel friend has seen some rough times, but he's resilient, bearing the scars of my childhood on his matted and missing fur. I hold him tight to my chest as my body begins to sting, every internal wound reopening. I open the box, a gift from Ashley's mother. She'd said it was a collection of her things they thought I should have. The top is lined with framed pictures of us, cushioned by loose photos and cards. Ashley'd framed a picture of us at the beach in middle school, our high school graduation, and even one from that camping trip so long ago. My body burns as I touch each picture, spiraling into each memory. I shake my blanket off, quickly pulling it back over myself as chills ravage my body instead. I pull all the pictures onto my bed, and turn a shaky hand back to the box. I close my eyes and grab something soft, and I gasp as I reveal it to myself. It's Pickles. The little blue bunny is floppy in my hands, the stuffing worn down and his fur sparse and worn. But it's Pickles. Something in me explodes, and I cry out in a way I didn't know I could. It's not ringing loud in my ears, but every part of it feels animal. I feel animal, savage and desperate, a wounded beast alone in the woods. I clutch Pickles to my body, holding him close to my squirrel as my eyes stream with hot tears. Pickles is my proof. Ashley is gone. My friend, my oldest and dearest friend, is lost. The biggest piece of my childhood, no, my childhood is dead. Those days of glee are buried in the ground, their life ensnared only in my memory. I set Peanut Butter down, and place Pickles on his back. Pickles is riding Peanut Butter. I sob.


I took off my shoes and rested them against the yellowed wall. The howling wind tried to keep the door handle away from me- and almost won -but I stretched out and caught it, swinging it closed in a sharp motion. It had just started to pour outside and I merely escaped while the rain was still a soft sprinkle. Oh, the stormy summer days . Kathy was waiting by the sink humming something and admiring the weather and the smells and such. “Let’s go eat,” she said as a strike of lighting-or maybe just the booming sound of thunder-rattled the rickety brown windows of her homely little farmhouse kitchen. “C’mon, it’s a Saturday!” The joy that was always brought to Kathy’s fine-wrinkled face whenever she came up with an idea she fancied gave me a sort of youthful inspiration. One I couldn’t help but smile at and wonder. I usually didn’t like going out on weekend nights. I’d just smashed my thumb and was feeling quite pitiful of myself. I hesitated, staring at her big light bulb eyes and frozen smile like a fried earthworm on a summer sidewalk. She went to throw away some trash while my clogged brain worked meticulously, but a corner ticked the bin’s rim and bounced to the ground in a few flat sounds. Another crash of sky as she struggled to pick it up, holding her back and shaking violently. “I... don’t know ,” I forced out before the silence threatened. “I don’t usually like going out on weekend nights.” Copy-pasted straight from the mind of the madman. She was just coming up to meet my eyes again, and with a huff and a puff made out, “Well- my mind is made-you’re coming with me-or you’re rotting here-with the storm and all-” The kitchen lights buzzed their horrible antique orange-yellow and flickered against the rain. The cold seeping through the cracks in the window cill seemed to trigger a headache. Fresh air would help. And we would be out in the air if I decided my mind. It was all a headrush. Moments like these made me realize that there was no possible way I could just “ride along” or “go with the flow” like I’d tell certain people whenever asked what I was gonna do out of high school. “Get a job,” I’d say. “Then what?” “Then work.” “Well of course, ‘then work,’ but what about when that’s all been set and done with? You gonna go to college? Get a degree? Meet a nice girl? Go to Italy and dance with the people and the pizza? I’ve lost myself a great many times in the wild drive-ins of the city! I’ve been to California and I got myself a job in Nevada once! All straight from Texas, how ‘bout that? My family all started when I...” and blah, blah, blah. That only seemed an invitation for them to go on about how proud they were of life-or particular moments of life-or maybe trying to convince the world and god and themselves, most of all, they lived the life they thought they did. I was proud of life too, y’know. When it didn’t stick me with questions or choices, and I didn’t have to make up my mind with answers and decisions. “ Go with the flow, ” I blurted to Kathy aloud. It just came straight out, rolled off my tongue so smooth, like a stock car steering off the raceway. I didn’t know what was the matter. And I don’t think she did either. Maybe she did. I can’t really comprehend lived people- truly lived people, anyway. I just got my sniffer in the rat race last summer. “Go with the huh? ” Her face twisted. “There’s a nice place off the highway with nothing around for miles if that’s what you’re so worried about? Or even food at the station court, where you can sit and study people...in that little book,” she motioned writing with her hands, “ya know the one. I always see you carrying around.” “Hmm,” the diner off the road was cozy; the station lively. “But what about all this rain?” I unfaithfully rationalized. “We’re getting soaked for a few bites and a great loss in money! The lights are going out and the bathroom floors a dripping from a leak somewhere under the sink! And this and that and we’re almost out of coffee! And you know how that coffee stuff keeps me sane from things! Great wraths of bedridden sick days take over when my mind draws a blank!” “Oh, child,” she waved her long boney fingers with a scoff. “All those things happen anyway. You know that! ” “But when the day is done we will be left with the nothings we started with. We will crumble under the pressure of the big sun and fall beneath the waves of endless stillness; like the polos on the sidewalk, or the burnings of the folded fans! And going with the flow will not matter much at all when I’m dead-or if I die early. And life is just water drip-dropping in cycles with no beginning or end in sight until one day it just stops; or it goes dry with the passing days...months...years! You can understand that, can’t you?!” “And where does the water go, son? Just splashes dead against the loneliness of the cold kitchen tiles? Spills out over the sleeping body like blood from a knife of the devil stuck underneath your ribs? The water drips to blackhole days until God herself wipes it all away with a washcloth? Does that-any of that-make sense to you?” “As I see it, or have seen it: Yes...a little. Just going and going and going and going...” “Well, listen here-looky here, at my visions, child-you may be right about one thing. You may be right about the drippings and the water’s endless supply of days and months. You may be right about the sudden halts in its production and the many blank and bedridden days. But all these pins and needles and bullets that are found in such waters you speak of, belong in there! They come with the solution packet that God has ripped open and mixed with the lives we live! And the waters-yes, the waters-they are not as endless as they seem. They go into our own little cups, son! Our cups are filled with the great big waves and projections and the common craziness of a wild life well-lived!” Kathy got feral, breaking into a wild monkey dance as she went deeper into her explanation. It was truly exciting. “This is the reason!” She continued. “This is why the days thunder and we get soaking wet! This is why you cannot just flow amply with the ever-turning world, with all the years going by! This is why dinners on Saturday nights are such a treat, boy! This is why! This is why!” “But I don’t get it,” I had fallen to the same old conclusions with the talk’s lull. “Why do I want to lay in my bed and get swallowed up by the linen sheets? Like a great whale to cover me in its protective shade so I can sit and think and weep forever? Why has this lasted longer than the wounds of bullets and needles, or the heavy wetness of getting soaked in the wild thunders? Why do I sit grey with the gear in neutral and the days just rolling along? Where has all that water gone?” Kathy sat back a moment, leaning on the creaking wooden counter, still covered in flour and sugar from the afternoon’s baking of goddess creations. The dull light glistened off her glasses and hid her eyes with a black shade. Branches and other fine tree debris were smacking the walls and windows in soft slaps. I could see her mouth and nose contort to the side with thoughts conflicted or running. I hope I didn’t just make a mockery of myself. Or enrage a sleeping beast beneath her heavy-hearted chest. Sometimes my strange thoughts overflowed and toppled over onto dead evenings, or quiet afternoons. I assume I was looking for an answer, otherwise a reflection. “Your thoughts run wild, boy,” she spoke softly. “And to think yourself a burden is to think a lie. You are just curious is all. Like a curious little monkey.” “My friends all call me a curious little monkey.” “That’s because you still got something in ya, boy. Some little tadpole that’s squirming around. Waiting to be left off the leash and explode into the daises with the great downtown of the city.” “I believe that tadpole is stuck in frozen ice, Kathy. I don’t know why.” I also don’t know why I said that. But it fell off my tongue as if I dropped a heavy bucket that crashed and spilled along the ground with great satisfaction. “Stuck in the ice but not dead yet. Is that right?” “I’m not sure. Right now I’m not sure.” Who is reading my thoughts on this violent night? Slipping hidden notes under Kathy’s old canvas shoe and confronting me with truths I claim to be bogus? Somewhere outside an argument broke out. It was only a chilling echo against the sounds of the no-mans-land front yard. But the strained, angry voices were just as potent. “Where are you going!?” We both heard; then a wild scream; then, “I’m gonna kill you!” Kathy and I flinched. The voices swirled into one messy blurb of untamed angry nonsense and soon became a dull noise to us like the buzzing lights and fallen branches. “You hear them, child? Their tadpoles ‘gon wild and sporadic! But they ain’t dead and they ain’t bad. They’re just living! They’re living those ruffian lives because that’s all they know. And you can’t hate them for that, can ya? Now look at you”-her red fingernail went into my chest-“you know where you stand on life and things-I mean in the setting and morals around you-you just need to realize you are in there! You are the whale and the water and the sheets and the voices and the storms and the weather and the lights and the breath! You are the waves! You are the sun! You are the lighthouse!” In the middle of all this conversation, I’d pulled out my little black book and began writing in it. Just like Kathy had recalled, I clicked my pen and went about on all the things around me. The things I knew and the stuff that was said. Life and weather and crazies across the street. Inside, my tadpole squirmed a little but was still ultimately stuck. And I think that was okay. “I can’t pinpoint a reason why,” I admitted, “but I smashed my thumb on my bedroom door earlier, and I think that might be the cause of all this. All this talking and indecisiveness.” A soft smile grew on her lips, “And I stubbed my toe the other day, child. It is all in accordance with the water drip-dropping. It is all why I am old and aged like fine wine. It is the law that makes up all the laws that all the different people follow: The ultimate law.” I had to agree. And I also had to agree with dinner that night. At the diner, where I got myself a coffee and could be half-alone with Kathy, and hear her talk. Tonight I would put on my shoes; tomorrow I would walk down the street; soon I would reach the world.


Once upon a time, there was a man that smelled like candy cane. He hated it. He doesn’t know why he smelled like candy cane. He doesn’t even like candy cane. When he was a young child, he remembered his father smelling like chocolate all the time. His father hated chocolate. He would never go near one. Maybe he had the same candy-smelling body odor problem. Some people may ask what’s wrong with smelling like candy cane. There are perks to smelling like candy cane. Everywhere the man went, people were nice to him since his scent brightened their mood. Sometimes women would flirt with him. The downside is everything else. Everything he touched magically smelled like candy cane. His entire house reeked of it. Old ladies would walk by his house and always asked him if he was baking something. He would tell them with a disgruntled look on his face, “No. I hate baking.” Another downside was every time he walked home, animals followed him. He couldn’t go into the woods without wearing his uncomfortable scent-proof clothing. He also smeared his face with a thick, dark, slimy substance that he bought from some shady website online. The website claimed that the yucky substance was animal-proof by being odor-proof. It’s the only way he can keep the animals from following him. Every time he wiped the substance off his face, it left a residue that looked like he went coal mining. When everyone could recognize his scent, they started calling him the candy cane man. It was embarrassing. He tried everything under the sun to remove the smell. He talked to many doctors about it but they all recommended for him to remove all the skin on his body and grow it back. He tried that and the smell remained. The more scrubbing, the stronger the candy cane. He tried bathing in vinegar. Nothing. He tried rubbing rotten eggs on his body but the candy cane smell was too strong. He tried to not bathing for a year. He ended up smelling like death wrapped with candy cane. As he aged, the smell got stronger. By the time he turned 50, the candy cane man learned to accept that he will forever smell like candy cane. He will forever have old ladies walk by his home to ask him what he was baking. He will forever have random animals follow him home. He will forever have random children constantly ask him if he had candy. If he said no to those children, some of them would kick him in the knee and run. It follows him in his sleep. On his 65th birthday, he wished to turn into a candy cane. He thought if he became one, life will be a hell of a lot simpler. Unfortunately, that never happened. The scent of the candy cane man grew so pungent, he smelled up the entire Northern Hemisphere. The atmosphere smelled like Christmas every day. Several scientists that studied him say that by the time he turns 100, the entire Earth would smell like him. Be prepared when that day comes.


* CW: Vague detail of Child Abuse and running away.      There is a puddle, sparsely lit by the dying light of a setting sun. The gravel surrounding this small mirror of water is threatening to choke out its life. The sky is set aflame with purples and soft pinks. A bitter cold is creeping in as the shadows of trees scratch farther and deeper across the ground. An unknown face is reflected on the water’s surface. Where did it come from? What is it doing? Each time I close my eyes, the world around this puddle seems to completely change. I want to stay in between the gaps of blinking and seeing. This face is actually extremely clear to me. I do know who she is. A young girl, my sister. My eyes are borrowing this image from my mind. It’s not really her, but that’s her. The sight of her saddens me deeply. A young face that has not seen a sunny day in over ten years. I am knelt over this puddle, licking the surface of the reflection with my stinging eyes. I am looking for anything that confirms this is an illusion of my sick mind, a trick of unbalanced chemicals. A tender face and empty, loving eyes looking back at me as if I am the one inside this shallow water. Screams of my abusive mother echo in my skull. The words crash into each other like mud in a blender with dull blades. I feel so sick. I am sick. Sick of myself and this fucking unforgiving life. I have tamed the loneliness for so long and I have held different expectations to this idle existence. Holding on to only a small kindness, I made an oath. An oath that even if my small wishes are denied, I would live on for her. I, an older brother who should have been there, ran away from the pain and unrelenting clawing of monsters under my bed. Monsters with our mother’s voice and face. Her eyes have locked on to mine. Drips fall from my face and ripple the surface of the water. These ripples distort her mouth and eyes into a soft smile. Her eye socket is sunken and spilt, bleeding. Even through this, she smiles at me. I reach my hand into the water. My palm swishes through the liquid and she interlocks her tender fingers with mine. I can feel her warmth, the last time I saw her wasting breath saying my name. Do you still remember? Me making you say goodbye as I climbed out the window? You said something, with your sapphire eyes looking back at me. I wish you covered your eyes from watching me so intently. You said something. Your voice has snuggled into me and still embraces even after all this lurking time. The ripples of the water have a power to draw out the guilt and the water seeks a reward. I can feel your hand gripping mine, pulling me closer. Your mouth opens, begging me to listen Please, fill me with love. You’re not dead yet, scream out. Please respond while I just happen to be here. Please tell me, what did you say? And I hear her, my feet already running. Pounding the pavement with the same rhythm of my exploding heart. My young lungs are pulling in the burning cold air. The final thing you said to me, what did you say? My hands are shaking, drag me into your words. The vibrations of your voice tickling the air around me. Leo... Her hand lets go and I fall backwards. Scrambling back to the puddle, searching for her I see nothing. I scratch away the remaining water, digging for her body. My fingertips are bloodied. Please forgive me, I didn’t know anything. You didn’t say anything. Nobody would notice, even if there was a place for her body to return. I died in that coffin with her and I am still laying on the freshly dug up soil.


Many questions once nagged at the back of my head. Are we doing the right thing? Is this okay? Should we be doing this? It's taken a long time, but I no longer need an answer to any of those. I found my own reason to do what needs to be done, regardless of circumstances. My name is Elaine Marco, and I work for a special branch of the military that operates underneath the government. It is currently 4:03 AM, according to the clock hanging in my office. I look up and the digital calendar on my wall tells me the day is Tuesday, the month is August, and the year is 2302. Below that calendar lies a small glass coffee table with a coffee synthesizer and cup dispenser on the top. The coffee is old, and smells burned from where I sit; an old wooden desk, a rarity in today's world, with too many hardlight government and military reports scattered atop it. I like to think my office is big. It's larger than most, that's for sure, but I know that I could be doing much better. My eyes track down to the hardlight report in my hand. It's good news, for once. The operation went off without any trouble, and we got our guy. I sigh, placing the report on the desk, and give my temples a quick soothing massage with my eyes closed. Then why am I still so stressed? ***\~KNOCK KNOCK\~*** I open my eyes and look to my door to find my assistant standing there with several more hardlight reports in his hand. I inwardly groan, and speak. "Please, come in.", I say as I gesture him in. "There's... something that resembles coffee there on the table if you'd like." Leo looked to the coffee and to me before saying, "No, but thank you.". All with a polite smile to match. I returned the smile and looked down to see the reports in his hands. "Please tell me there's more good news in those.", I said with a bit more than a hint of desperation. I had dozens of reports on my desk already, and only one managed to not give me a killer migraine. When I looked back up, Leo was still smiling. "Actually", he began, "These reports are different. These are in regards to the big project." He gave heavy emphasis on "big". The big project or, as it's really called, "Project D" was the entire reason why this special branch existed in the first place. We were tasked with finding and collecting individuals who had something we were calling the "D" gene. What does the "D" mean, you ask? Divinity. You see, we've been hard at work creating an army of superhumans to spearhead our expansion into the stars. We need people that wont deteriorate before reaching their destination. Our top biologists and chemists have been working on a serum that will allow that "divine spark" to wake up in those people, and we will hopefully have ourselves a group of people strong enough to survive the harsh conditions of other planets. Humankind has already begun their interstellar expansion, but there's only so much we humans can do. We need something more, and that's where those with the "D" gene come in. It's speculated those who have it are descendants of literal living gods that resided among us humans in the distant past. Of course, there's no evidence of this, but the things we have been able to do with the "D" gene is incredible. Disease is a thing of the past, healing salves that mend cuts, breaks, and abrasions before your very eyes, and we've even found a way to weaponize it. Of course we have, right? Leo hands me the reports and I wave him off as I begin looking through them. According to these reports, awakening trials have been hit or miss. While it's easy to extract the "D" gene from a blood sample, and activate it in a controlled environment, it is much more difficult to activate the gene within the host itself. It appears there's been several failures, which have resulted in each carrier passing away before full activation can occur. I've seen what happens when it fails, and it's not nice to look at, let alone remember. When it fails, the body is engulfed in white fire and burned away. We don't know why the awakening rebounds in such a horrific way, but we've been finding ways to mitigate harm to both carrier and personnel. Despite this, there have been successes. I've witnessed a few of them myself. There is always a bright flash and a general feeling of calm and happiness. When it passes and we can see again, the carrier lives, though they are forever changed. Most changes aren't too noticeable, but we've had a few grow pairs of wings within months after activation. Others have acquired horns, tails, and many more abnormalities. I yawn and look to my clock and see it's now 6:42 AM. I turn to look out my window to find the sun is now rising. Time sure does fly when you're having fun. I turn back around and grab the final report, but I freeze only after the first few sentences. It had to be a typo. An error. I had to read it one more time to be certain. *'-and we have found an individual with a high concentration of the "D" gene. While most we've collected have had between 80% and 90% dilution to their gene, this one is quite the anomaly at only 20% dilution. A team is currently being put together to collect the target.'* This was something I had to see for myself.


###Please take note of the new feedback rule! #Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: **Media Prompt: ** **Bonus Constraint:** Story reimagines a classic fairy tale. We haven’t done a media prompt (or fairy tales) in a long while, so this week’s challenge is to use the above song and/or video as *inspiration* for your story. You can use the lyrics, the title, or the video itself and the interpretation is entirely up to you. Be sure to follow all post and subreddit rules! The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to leave feedback on at least one other story by the deadline (Mon @ 2pm EST), per the new rules!** **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Authors are required to leave feedback on at least one other story each week that you write.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/katherine_c - - u/TheLettre7 - - u/ZachTheLitchKing *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I’m just a bird. I can’t do much. I like to make sounds at other sounds. I don’t go hunting for food like relatives of mine. My little protector feeds me every day, as soon as he walks through the big blue door at the front of the house. My silver cage is in the living room next to the blue door, in the corner between two couches. It’s hung up low, so that my little protector can sort of reach me. The two loud people that live with my protector aren’t so nice. They don’t bring food, they barely even look in my direction. It must have something to do with their size. I’m small, and I get along with my small protector swimmingly. They are big and they are not that nice to small things. The blue door swings open slowly, and I feel a drive to let out my beautiful song! But I cannot. If this is a loud person, they will only return with angry loudness at my song. I do not like their loudness. Before I was brought here, I heard many many beautiful loud sounds from birds just like me. I sometimes try to mimic them myself - but not these kinds of sounds. The loud people here only sing about anger and redness. Red like their faces, or red like their hands. A blonde head pokes through the doorway. Small protector! It has been so long since I’ve seen you - oh you look just the same! How wonderful. I let out a small chime to let him know how excited I am to see him. “Hello Angel I hope you had a good sleep today!” the small protector picks up a bag from under the kitchen sink and walks over with a scoop of food. Oh right! He calls me Angel - how pretty. It must be because of my white feathers - yes that's it. Wait what's that smell... Oh! There is food behind me now! I cock my head around and look at small protector. He’s standing on the tips of his toes to be able to see me in my cage. Did you put that food there? Well I’m going to eat it anyway. The blue door is thrown open with a loud slam and my feathers ruffle up. Wow I hate when that happens! Small protector, you look worried. I am okay - let me just clean myself and make sure I’m pretty. Then I will eat my lunch. The biggest and loudest walks through the doorway and slams the door behind him. Darn it! My feathers ruffled again! Small protector please watch out for me while I fix this. “You’re home early today daddy.” small protector has a shake in his voice now. I wish I could put a shake on my voice. “I got fired... “ as soon as his sound reaches me so does his musty smell. Why does he smell so... sour? Has he been eating too many treats? The big person lets out a cackle, and takes a small metal flask out from his jacket pocket. “Or should I say... laid off...” he takes a quick swig and puts it back into his pocket. My small protector looks conflicted, his eyes dart from one side to the other. “Daddy what does laid off mean?” The loud person stomps his way to the kitchen before slugging his shoes off in the middle of the floor. Now his voice is loud again. “Laid off is when your boss is too much of a pussy to say you’re fired!” He takes off his jacket aggressively and throws it on the floor. A soft clang is heard and a look of utter horror is plastered on the loud person’s face. His eyebrows lower as he kneels and moves his jacket. Oh! A puddle is there now! Someone isn’t potty trained - I remember small protector trying so hard to train me so he wouldn’t get screamed at by the loud people. I got so many treats I learned pretty fast but apparently the loud people have to go back to basics. “You just made me forget about my booze! Your stupid and dumb questions just cost me half a mickey.” I don’t think me or small protector know what measurement “half a mickey” is, but the loud person has a red face now so it must be very important to him. This usually means something loud is about to happen. I really wish I could cover my ears like small protector does. That looks safe. “I... I’m sorry daddy.” “You just always gotta have your mouth open yeah? You never know when to just SHUT UP.” He shouted the last two words so loud! Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever been that loud. Small protector looks really scared now... maybe he wants treats? I don’t have any near me to give him though... well now I feel sad for small protector! He has helped me so much but now he needs my help! The loud person has stepped closer to me and small protector. He is stood right beside him, towering over like a big oak tree. “Remember last thanksgiving? AH?!” “I... I’m sorry daddy! I said I was sorry already - “ “ALREADY? You think thats ENOUGH? Do you think you really learned your lesson?” Yes! Yes he has! Small protector got yelled at for ruining thanksgiving last year even I can remember that and I have a bird brain! “I... I said I was sorry to mo - “ “Mom is not here right now!” the loud person raises his arm high into the air and small protector shrieks. “NO!” I shout. The loud man puts his back up straight and looks at me. Small protector turns to look at me, with watery eyes and sweaty palms. It worked! My song stopped him! “NO!!!” I sing. “Tell your stupid bird to be qui - “ I don’t like that tone! “NO!!!!” Small protector crawls his way into the corner, behing my silver cage. He grips my stand until his knuckles go white and he sobs for the loud person to leave him alone. The loud person doesn’t listen to small protector... but maybe he will listen to me! “NO!!!” The loud person points a finger directly at me. “I will eat you for dinner tonight if you do not shut up right now.” Ha! He’s starting to repeat himself... maybe he’s related to the parrots. Parrots are so annoying! It all makes sense now. Well my only option is to be even MORE annoying. “No! No! No! No! No! No!” I can keep this up all day, how long can YOU be loud for? The pointed finger comes closer to my cage and I peak my beak out, getting a tiny nip on his skin. “Ow!” He backs up, taken by surprise. He sticks his finger into his mouth and turns to the kitchen mess. “I want you to clean up your mess and then bring a beer to me upstairs, got it?” Small protector puts on a very brave face. “Got it.” The loud person grunts and starts his walk up the stairs, away from small protector. Small protector rushes to the kitchen, hops over the puddle, and onto the countertop. Oh! He’s looking for treats! How many do I get now?! 3 or maybe even 4!! Small protector runs over with the entire box, half a smile glued to his face. “I don’t know how many you should get so... “ He pours a big pile into my cage and I can’t help but tweet and do a fast twirl! All of this for just scaring away the really loud people! I could get used to this. ---------------------------------- If you made it this far - thank you! I really appreciate the time it took to read this. Hopefully you enjoyed reading the story as much as I had fun writing from the POV of a bird. Go easy on me in the comments since it’s my first time posting. Or don’t. Whichever is more fun.


Foreword: I made this to be submitted into a small contest, but I failed to meet the minimum word requirements. I am quite satisfied with the result and just wanted to share with someone. I hope you enjoy! **Sarah** She was nervous. Her face remained emotionless as she looked upon the curtain, knowing that soon it would open and that she would be exposed to the world beyond it. She sat in a circle of her peers, holding hands. The other actors all encouraged her. They all supported her. They believed that they could help her, but was she ready to accept them? She fought hard against her nerves. She knew what she had to do. She knew her speech. She knew every word by heart. She knew exactly what she had to say; what everybody wanted to hear. She recited it once to herself quietly and she could feel the encouragement rolling off those around her. They held her hands on either side. She didn't really understand the encouragement but she accepted it. At least, she didn’t reject it outright. Her heart beat faster and faster, but for every beat that accelerated the grip on her hand and wrist tightened a little bit more. She felt secured by it, grounded and held. She knew someone was watching out for her. She felt hope. Or was it despair? She swore she could hear her name whispered in the wind. The wind that passed from each member of the troupe to her. She was not yet ready, but the curtain was starting to open already. She could see the light shining glorious beyond it. It was beautiful and ever so bright and she somewhat feared it and loved it at the same time. Looking around her, seeing those that support her, she knew that she was going to face the light and she knew that they would be happy for her. What if it wasn't what she expected? What if the curtain opened and the audience beyond was disappointed in her, did not accept her, did not believe her performance? She'd been performing for so long that she couldn't imagine someone not believing her, but she always feared it. The time was nearly upon her and she could feel it. The cold sweat flowing about her body but she could also feel the tightening on her wrist as someone to her left supported her, encouraged her, called her name. It was time to sing. It was time to perform. It was time to dazzle those around her. She tried to pull away but the grip tightened and desperation filled the voice. She stayed a moment longer but the curtain was opening and she knew that curtain call was here. She knew she was on and that it was time to dance. She waited a moment longer, smiled and tried to reassure them that she was ready. The curtain opened a little bit more. She felt the grip on her wrist tighten and she felt a loving touch on her neck again. She tried to reassure them that she was ready but could barely mutter. She was ready. It was time. She could hear the audience now; could hear the murmurs and apprehension of the discussions happening beyond the curtain. People had gathered, watching at the edge of their seats, ready to see her but not wishing to be too loud and disturb her. Finally, she gathered her courage. She gathered her strength. She walked forth. She stepped into the light and the din got louder and louder. She did not notice. She did not care. She was there to perform, and none could doubt her. Everything went as she thought it would. She sang the tune as she had practiced. She called upon the audience's tears and love. She danced, twirled and played her part exactly as it was meant to be played, and it was wonderful. Everything was exactly as it should be and the light grew stronger and brighter. Blotting out everything in the world except her own voice and her own performance and her own presence. * * * Minutes passed and Mohammed cried. He held on to his sweet friend. He did everything he could. He tried to be supportive. He tried to encourage her but in the end it was just too late. The paramedic gently grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her neck and her wrist. He shook his head and said: “I'm sorry she's gone.


A small tear rolled down Gabe’s pale face as he looked on his father in a hospital bed. After five years fighting illness the man he thought of as a hero had been reduced to sunken skin and foul odors. The man’s dark brown hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. Tubes ran through him like an alien being examined in a science fiction movie. The machine next to him chirped with each heart beat but the sound was far from reassuring. The time between beeps had slowed since their arrival a week before. Now, in the sterile room, every sound seemed louder. At first the machine signaled the fight left in the man who lay on the bed, but now it was the drum beat of time running out. Gabe looked at his father trying not weep. The doctors and nurses had been buzzing in and out all day in an effort to make his father comfortable in what little time he had left. The kind gesture only seemed to make things worse. Their severe expressions made everything feel harder. His father was all he had left. His family was scattered across the country and his mother had passed when he was three years old. His earliest memories were of his father picking him up from school where they would walk in the park and talk about life. They would get dinner at a food cart and watch the people in the park and talk about the day. Gabe would tell tall tales about great oceans and far-away lands as his father would laugh. He would tell him stories about the people he worked with who did boring things because that’s what adults did when kids weren’t looking. He would hold his son’s hand when it rained because thunderstorms scared the boy. The laughed together and played together. When Gabe missed his mother, they would cry together. Gabe’s father was everything to him and to see him as he was now brought nothing but pain and fear. He wanted to be brave but it was hard. The only one he could talk to was his uncle Vincent who had come to look after him while his father was in the hospital. Unfortunately, he was always too busy dealing with the doctors and his family back home to spend any time with the boy leaving him alone most of the time in that stark hospital room. The chirps on the heart monitor were slower still as Gabe looked at what was left of his father. The doctors told him there wasn’t much time. Vincent had brought him to the hospital and waited just outside the room. He was meant to be saying goodbye but he couldn’t find the words. How do you let go of someone so important? He looked down at his feet and began to sob. The tears flowed freely from his eyes and his shoulders shook with the force of his emotions. He tried to console himself to no avail. With tears in his eyes Gabe stood and took his father’s hand in his. “Dad, I can’t tell you goodbye. I’m not ready for you to go. I want to be strong, I want you to be proud of me but I can’t do it.” Gabe spoke quietly to his father. “Uncle Vincent doesn’t know how to talk to me. He acts like I’m a little kid. You were always honest with me and knew how to make me feel better. Remember that time we sat in the living room looking at the old pictures of Mom? Do You Dad? You told me she was somewhere better and that just because her life was over didn’t mean ours was. We promised to live a really long time for her. We were going to make up for the time she lost. Do you remember Dad? I knew we were going to make it. And I told you when were really old we would die in our sleep and the people we loved would be happy that we had a lot of adventures. I thought we would be the same age at that point; that I would have caught up to you and neither of us would ever be alone. I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand why good people die. I’m not ready to be alone. I still need you. And I haven’t done anything to make you proud yet. We haven’t discovered a new animal, or buried treasure. I haven’t even finished school yet. Don’t go now. Dad, please. I can’t lose you yet. I can’t.” His father’s head tilted and a tear ran down his cheek as he spoke. “Gabriel, you make me proud every day. You will find your way without me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there like we promised.” The machine next to the bed hummed loudly and the beeps were no more. Gabe called to his father. He shook the bed with his free hand refusing to let go of his father hand. After a moment he fell on to his knees next to the bed, still holding his father’s hand and wept. It had been a long five years but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. He wasn’t ready for his father to die. Vincent ran in the room and lifted the boy from the ground never taking his eyes off of his brother in the bed. “He’s gone Gabriel. I’m so sorry.” Vincent spoke softly. Not knowing what to say he held the boy and rocked him. Gabe shuddered under the pressure of his sobbing. He refused to let go of his father’s hand. He had never been away from his dad. He wasn’t ready to let go. He hoped if he held on long enough his father would be ok. That he could do the fighting now that his hero had fallen and together they would recover.


On an ordinary day; on an ordinary street; in an ordinary state; was an ordinary town with nothing out of the ordinary going on in it. There lived an ordinary man named Milton Magee. Milton Magee had an average build with; an average weight and height. His features were non-descript. The clothing and shoes he wore were plain and non-trendy. He owned a used, plain, dull blue Toyota Sentry which he drove everyday to his simple job as a toll booth attendant on I-76 North. Milton Magee was an only child to parents that had him late in life and had passed away 10 years ago. Milton Magee was not married, didn't have any friends (close or otherwise), didn't have a hobby, didn't smoke or drink, and owned no pets. Nothing stood out about him to anyone who saw him in passing. The apartment he lived in was ordinary. His furnishings were ordinary. He shopped for ordinary items he needed from the store. He watched ordinary shows on t.v. He didn't know how to dance, play a musical instrument, or speak a foreign language. No one would ever say things about him like outgoing, (though he was polite and mannerable when addressed) vibrant, flashy, loud, sporty, life of the party, (he was rarely invited to those anyway and never went when an invitation was extended to him), or just a cool guy. No Milton Magee was just...well...ordinary. Milton Magee's life held no surprises. His daily morning routine was simple and orderly. 7:00 a.m. An alarm sounded Milton Magee hit the snooze button for 5 extra minutes. 7:05 a.m. Milton Magee gets out of bed only half awake and still yawning....shuffles to the bathroom where he pees, flushes, washes his hands, removes his pajamas, gets in the shower, washes his hair, washes himself, he then gets out of the shower towel dries his hair and himself, brushes and flosses his teeth, combs his hair, then exits the bathroom; towel wrapped around his waist at precisely 7:35 a.m. 7:35 a.m. Milton Magee heads to the kitchen where he turns on his coffee maker, peels and eats a banana, while he waited for the coffee to begin brewing. Then he fries three strips of turkey bacon, scrambles two eggs, toasts and butters two slices of bread, pours the freshly brewed joe in a mug adding milk and sugar. Lastly he grabs a bottled water from the fridge to go with his breakfast. After he eats he cleans up all dishes used; disposes of any garbage; and wipes the counter and sink clean. 8:00 a.m. Milton Magee heads back to the bathroom to brush and floss his teeth again and splash on some cologne. 8:05 a.m. Finds Milton Magee taking his Navy blue short sleeve shirt (it's summertime now in the winter he brings out the long sleeves and packs away the short sleeves) and tan khakis out of his closet. He takes Navy blue socks from his sock drawer puts them on and finishes getting dressed. 8:10 a.m. Dressed now including his belt Milton Magee checks himself out in the mirror. Then he grabs his watch wallet phone keys and his work duffel bag. 8:15 a.m. After getting his lunch from the fridge (that he placed in a double insulated lunch bag the night before) he's out the door. He gives the door knob two twist to ensure it's securely locked. 8:20 a.m. Milton Magee pulls out of his parking lot and heads to work. 8:45 a.m. Milton Magee arrives at his assigned toll booth, parks, grabs his work duffel and lunch bags making his way inside his booth. He then fires up his P.C. 9:00 a.m. Milton Magee clocks in and settles and waits for the first car to come through his lane. It happens this way Monday through Friday every week. (Milton Magee is off on Saturdays and Sundays) No surprises, no deviations, simple and just....well....ordinary. On Wednesday, however, after Milton Magee completed his morning routine and waits for the first car to come through his lane; he noticed a new add on a billboard that sat on the opposite toll booths side. It said in bold lettering. ♤TIRED OF YOUR MUNDANE, DRAB, BORING, ORDINARY LIFE?♤ Then take a walk on the wildside with 8th Wall. The worlds largest and best virtual reality company. Our company is reknown for creating style, pizzaz, zing, fun, excitement. We bring to the world some of the most amazing incredible experiences that make life worth living. Do you want to ski on the French Alps, scuba dive in Tahiti, do the walk about in Australia, hunt seals in Alaska, bunji jump, parasail, sky, dive, visit Madagascar?... well 8th Wall brings you face to face with your imagination combined with cutting edge technology and immerses you in a feeling that is out of the ordinary and all from the comfort of your living room sofa. The message on the headliner ran a repeat loop...'Don't be ordinary be EXTRAORDINARY!' After Milton Magee saw that billboard add he began to feel something he could not quite explain; something he couldn't put his finger on. He felt different, off, not like himself, odd, weird, strange. He looks around him hoping for a clue as to what is happening; what is making him feel this way. He is somewhat annoyed, and a bit scared; because the way he is feeling is out of the ordinary for him. Milton Magee closes his eyes inhales a deep breath and exhales slowly. He does this continuously while counting to ten. He had to calm his nerves before traffic picked up. He opened his eyes to see four cars fast approaching his lane. Good, he thought, time to get busy. Traffic distracted him for awhile....but the feeling persisted....not only did it persist it grew and got stronger. His pulse raced. His face flushed. His palms sweated. His mind demanded an answer he did not have to give. The feeling continued as the day went on and in between the steady flow and lulls in traffic Milton Magee determined his present state was not good. He could not last too much longer like this. He knew if he wanted to stop the feeling once and for all; he had work to do. He must investigate and get down to the bottom of the dilemma he found himself in. Yes, he told himself, he would find out the cause of why he felt the strange feeling he was feeling and then come up with a plan to stop it. Milton Magee wanted his life be just as it had always been. Simple, orderly, no frills, no drama, no surprises, plain, and...just...well ordinary.


She woke up before her alarm and after not enough sleep. Years of routine had conditioned her to be up and out of bed, dressed and ready for work before her brain even consciously engaged. She functioned on an autopilot born from long experience and repetition. Recently that autopilot seemed to be breaking down. Everything felt difficult, slower, more painful. Things she had done without thought or hesitation for years were now challenges. She got out of bed reluctantly. At least this time she remembered her injured leg. Or at least lack of leg. She had been using the prosthetic for two months and was gradually getting used to it. She looked at herself in the mirror. A scarred tired looking woman approaching middle age, her short messy dark hair had some grey in it. Her olive skin looked rough and dry. She was fit and well muscled although she had gained some weight lately. She smiled sourly at that thought. She'd lost weight too. A legs worth. She wasn't the type for introspection or self pity but she was starting to think that might change. She had nightmares about the words 'Medical Discharge'. If she was booted from the agency she didn't know what she would do. It wasn't as if she loved her job but she had been doing it so long she had no idea what else there was. It wasn't just the leg injury. Having your leg bitten off by an angry land octopus was bad but hardly her first line of duty injury. She had been the sole survivor of her team on three occasions. That was an agency record. People didn't want to work with her anymore. She was bad luck, bad for morale. Rumour had it that Jurado no longer bothered learning her team mate's names. The truth was she had never bothered. She was an experienced if unremarkable operative for the agency. Her skills would not be hard to replace and her recent Injuries and failed psychological assessments meant she was a prime candidate for discharge and everyone knew it. Her salvation came in the form of budget cuts and the new prisoner. The agency didn't have the budget to train many new recruits, they didn't have the numbers to waste field agents on admin duties and right now they had a job no one wanted. The agency had captured a bio mech queen after managing to down a hive ship. The queen, six feet of hissing cadaverous cyborg zombie nightmare, had surprised everyone by being a model prisoner. She was cooperative to the extent of actually being helpful. Everyone was suspicious but so far the information provided had been accurate and useful. Despite the queens surprisingly friendly demeanour she provoked instinctive horror and revulsion in most humans. The agency scientists said it was a mix of pheremones and psychic backwash. Agency commander Carter thought it was because the bio mech were just creepy AF. The creatures used people as food and spare parts. Just being near one felt like being naked in a room full of scorpions. Even the agency scientists who were desperate to learn more about the biomechs were reluctant to be near her. Although the agency successfully concealed the biomechs existance from the general population a few ex agency staff had gone to work for Hollywood using thinly disguised Biomechs in scripts for sci fi shows giving the creatures a ridiculous swedish sounding name and silly catchphrases. It had the helpful effect of making occasional public sightings be written off as overenthusiastic cosplay. Royalties from the TV shows also boosted agency funding. New agency recruits were often disappointed at how derivative the biomechs seemed compared to their well known fictional cousins. Indeed over exposure in fictional media made the whole concept of the agency seem cliched. It was excellent cover. Carter's problem was that the prisoner engendered such revulsion that even the most level headed agent had to fight the instinct to pull the trigger on her. The biomech queen was a hugely useful intelligence resource, too valuable to lose but she needed a handler, a combination of liason, guard and bodyguard. Jurado was the only member of the team who was seemingly unaffected by the queens aura. There were a number of unflattering suggestions why this might be. Jurado needed a job. Carter needed somewhere to put the unpopular injured agent. It was perfect. Carter got the base doctor Kelly to certify, under protest, that Jurado was fit for light duty. Since then Jurado had spent the last two months in close proximity to the biomech. She escorted the alien to and from briefings and medical appointments. She sat by her cell in case any overzealous agent came looking for payback for the many who the biomechs had consumed. The Queen went by the name Elsa. She didn't actually have a name just a designation but after her capture her armour had been confiscated and someone had given her a Frozen T shirt to wear as a joke. The name had stuck. The Queen didn't seem to mind. Carter had hoped it might make the six foot super strong flesh eating killing machine seem less intimidating. It did not. Elsa seemed to react well to Jurado's company. The biomech were a hive species and she seemed to like having a new drone. Jurado was also enjoying the light duties. Because of her injury Jurado spent most of her guard duty in a folding chair seated well out of arms reach of the cell. She tended to fall asleep. On one occasion she was awoken by Elsa throwing a book at her to alert her that Commander Carter was about to walk in. After that Jurado began bringing her laptop and setting it up outside Elsa's cell so they could watch TV. They were currently watching 'Gilmore Girls'. It baffled the base psychologist Dr Kelly. It baffled Jurado too. She actually began looking forwards to the long night shifts spent watching TV with Elsa. Biomechs didn't sleep. Staying awake all night with Elsa actually helped Jurado sleep when she returned to her quarters. No more insomnia and fitful day napping. Jurado started visiting Elsa when she wasn't on duty. The guards thought it was weird but were more than happy for Jurado to relieve them. Jurado wasn't the curious type but out of boredom one evening she asked why Elsa was being so cooperative with the agency. She certainly did not seem scared of her captors. Elsa had laughed her wet hissing laugh. "I spent 2000 years as hive queen making every decision for my drones. My people do not have the concept of a day off." "This is a holiday for you?" "This is retirement for me." "But you are helping your enemies." "Ha! Humans are barely enemies. You are lunch and spare parts! No offence. My biggest threat was always rival hives. No, I'm happy here." Elsa stretched and not for the first time Jurado found her gaze pulled to the way the aliens powerful body arched against her thin shirt and drawstring pants. She even liked Elsa's pervasive warm bleach odour. She reached into the tub of popcorn she had wedged between the cell bars and her hand brushed Elsa's smooth grey claw. She found she was in no hurry to move her hand away and instead left it resting in casual contact with the biomech. Not acknowledging it. Not thinking about it. Definitely not holding hands. Jurado's sex life had been a matter of conjecture on base for some time. She'd never been seen to hook up with anyone. Don't ask, don't tell really don't want to think about it was the general consensus. The reality was Jurado had never been that interested in sex and losing her leg had not helped. So she was surprised to find herself having intimate thoughts about Elsa. It was actually nice to realise she could still feel that way even though the cause was a little offputting. She had seen Elsa naked at medical check ups and that image of mottled grey white flesh and dull grey implanted cybernetics haunted her in a very different way to how it haunted the medical staff. People noticed Jurados closeness with the prisoner earning her the knickname of 'Elsas girlfriend.'. Valentine's day some joker left a card by Elsa's cell. "So they believe we are romantically involved?" Asked Elsa. "No it's just a joke. Obviously they don't really think we're an item." "Why not? You are quite attractive for a human." Elsa reached between the cell bars and ran a finger down Jurado's bare forearm where her fatigue shirt sleeve was rolled up. Jurado kept very still. "Bio mechs reproduce asexually." Said Jurado hesitantly. "I was not suggesting we try to reproduce. " Elsa smiled thin grey lips peeling back over ceramic fangs. Jurado quickly changed the subject. Jurado had regular medical check ups with Dr Kelly to ensure prolonged exposure to the Biomech wasn't affecting her. "Is it possible she could be influencing me? " Jurado asked reluctantly during her check up. "Influencing you? To do what?" " They've got psychic powers right? It's how the hive communicates. Could Elsa be controlling me?" "Unlikely. Elsa's influence is limited to Biomech drones and anyway that part of her brain was damaged in the crash. I doubt she could even influence a drone to get her coffee right now let alone a human." "Right..sure.." "Why do you ask? Has she tried to get you to do something?" "Uhhh...not exactly..I..uhh" Jurado was too old and too mean to feel this embarrassed but she was also a professional. If there was even a chance she was compromised the doctor needed to know. "I've been having romantic thoughts about her." She blurted. "I thought that was just base gossip. Is it true you do it in the showers?!' "No!..well not with Elsa...look I just need to know if she is controlling me." Jurado spent the rest of the day undergoing medical tests. Elsa was also brought in for testing. The smirk on her face suggested someone had told her why. Jurado reported to Commander Carter. "So all your tests came back negative for alien influence. She's not controlling your mind. Your cholestrol is a little high though. Elsa's tests confirmed she is psychically neutered interesting side effect to that is apparently her sexual instincts are resurfacing." "Oh?" "Jurado, two weeks ago Elsa asked me if I had ordered you to flirt with her. She was concerned I was pressuring you to get close to her.." "Oh." "She was very happy when I said I wasn't." "Oh." Carter rolled her eyes. "Dismissed." Woman her age did not blush Jurado told herself as she went to see Elsa. "Well that was awkward." said Elsa teasingly "Dr Kelly says I must address you as sweetheart now. Or cuddlebunny." "Can we just pretend this did not happen?" "Of course cuddlebunny." A few weeks later Carter and Dr Kelly went to check on the prisoner and found Jurado seated in a folding chair alongside the cell. There was a tub of pop corn wedged between the cell bars where they could both reach it. Jurado was asleep against the bars drooling slightly with her head resting against Elsa's shoulder. The big biomech sat on the other side of the bars watching 'Greys Anatomy." on Jurado's laptop with the sound low. "Asleep on duty?" Whispered Kelly "She's not on duty. I think this is date night." "Kind of cute." "Doc, she's made of people parts." "Aren't we all? " "Honestly I don't care what or who she is made of so long as she keeps giving us information." Jurado woke from her doze and jumped to attention as Kelly and Carter entered. "Relax Liutenant. I just wanted to tell you because of her ongoing cooperation were moving Elsa to guest quarters. Elsa you'll still only have limited access to non classified areas with an ankle monitor and lieutenant Jurado will escort you but I see no reason why you shouldn't have more comfortable quarters. Jurado you can help Elsa settle in." As they departed Kelly looked at Carter "Did you just tell them to get a room?" 'I suppose I did.


"LMAO, Bitch. You can't actually be serious," Amy smirked down at me. She's always had it out for me, and I don't know why. We were friends in Kindergarten and 1st grade, when we both joined Pierre Deaumont Charter. In 2nd grade, we had been put in separate classes, so we started to grow apart. I had never dreamt that we'd be enemies though! Yet it had happened. In 3rd grade, we were once again in different classes, but she went out of her way to find me and tease me. She had blossomed into a bully by 4th grade. Elsewhere, she'd be the stereotypical popular girl, but here at Charter, well, they're different. They don't like to admit that they have those kinds of kids too. Social hierarchy? Can't be! Not at Charter! They like to think that the Social Emotional classes they provide us with, along with the 'all round energy of peace and acceptance' -their words, not mine- have changed us all greatly for the better. They like to think that they aren’t like other schools. Well, here’s the truth: that’s just as stupid as the whole not like other girls thing. But whatever. I glared at her and stood up. While I sat, she towered over me in her 3” heels(which she should not be wearing to school!), but when I stood up, I was taller. I’m the tallest girl in 6th grade, which annoys my parents, because they don’t want me to grow too much before I get my period and then be stunted, but it’s not like I’m that tall. It’s just that the kids here are waaaaaaaay short. Literally, the 2nd tallest girl is 4’7”. In 6th grade. Seriously. Like, what are they smoking???? JK, JK, even if we do have a social hierarchy, we truly don’t have any smokers, vapers or stoners, so that’s nice. And our school has a high school section too on the same campus. “Shut up, Amy. And maybe zip your fly,” I smiled, grabbed my books, my four person group of friends stepping in besides me on our way to advisory. Amy wasn’t even wearing any zippers, except for the one on her leather jacket- REAL leather, talk about horrible!- but she hadn’t realized that yet, so ha! I know, I know, how immature, but I couldn’t help myself! “Forget about her, Anusha. That witch will move on soon if you ignore her. You need to stop humoring her, or she’ll keep annoying you,” my friend Aalini fancies herself some kind of psychologist. It’s usually hilarious, the things she says, but also often annoying. I playfully swatted her arm, “Aali, bbg, don’t you see that lovely look on her face though? She’s still trying to figure out where her zipper is!” Lana, Athena and Norie laughed with me, but Aalini just rolled her eyes. Our laughs sounded so interesting together. My deep chuckle, Norie’s sweet giggle, and Lana and Athena’s high pitched cackles. They are twins, and though they’re, like, SUPER different in every other way, their laughs and voices are exactly the same. They moved here to NorCal (that’s North California) from Greece 2 years ago, but they only joined Pierre Deaumont last year, in 5th grade. After a while, Aalini finally joined in, snorts popping up in between her sharp bursts of laughter. I knew she’d give in, since she can never be upset for more than 5 minutes. I remember one time, in 3rd grade, when we first became friends, we had met because she was mad at her brother and was ignoring him. No joke, 3 minutes later, she ran back and apologized to him profusely. It had been hilarious, watching him shake his head at her. Suddenly, I heard the sound of something whizzing through the air, and then I felt something smack me in the back- super hard! It knocked me over and I fell to the ground, all the wind knocked out of me. I heard my friends turn and start shouting at Amy and her idiot squad of jerks, who were tittering. Norie bent down beside me. “Are you ok? Of course not, here let me help you up. I’ll take you to the office, ok? Yeah, and then we can tell the teachers- sorry, educators- that it was that horrible witch and her sniveling sycophants. Ooh and then we can tell them about all their other horrible deeds!” Two things to know about Norie- she is very caring and kind, but she also doesn’t really listen to people and she almost never stops talking. She’s also the only one of my friends who doesn’t get upset at me when I use- in their terms- fancy smart person words. Instead, Norie goes as far as to adopt them, peppering them through her speeches. I swear, she’s gotta have some sort of, like, notebook somewhere, where she documents all the ‘fancy smart person words’ (like sniveling sycophants) that I say, since she can’t seem to remember, like, anything else. I turned onto my side to face her. “Norie, bbg, I’m fine, well, I’m not, but I just need some rest. You can help me to get to the office, but I don’t want to deal with anything about that idiot right now. My head hurts too much for me to care enough. It hurts too much for me to get this sentence out!” She smiles at me. “Okay, I can do the talking. You just rest, and I’ll carry you there- actually no. I’ll call the girls and we can all carry you! It’ll be a team effort, like this school loves!” I craned my head to look at our other friends, who were still bothering the jerks. Aalini was shouting insults - I was astonished that the teachers hadn’t yet arrived!-, Athena was writing a list of all the things that the witch and her jerks had done to us- it was fixing to be very long. It was already up to her waist!-, and Lara was recording the whole thing, while bragging to Amy about how she had the newest phone, while Amy had last year's model. She never talked like that to us, and we didn’t have any phones(well, I had the model from 6 years ago, but that doesn’t count!). “Um, okay. Norie, sure. But first I have something to say,” I winked. She beamed at me and helped me stand up. Then, she supported me and we waddled over to where Amy and her jerks were still standing. She saw me and turned from my friends, poking her minions in the back. The 6 of them glared at us, then smirked. “What do you want , idiot?” she sneered. “Just a quick question, honey ,” she looked confused, “Why do you hate me so much?”


After another hour or so of trekking through the forest, we arrived at a clearing. For a brief moment, the dense foliage of trunks and vines gave way to compact brown dirt. And there, at the far side, there was a group of some twenty or so men, women and children - the rest of our captors’ group. “They back,” one small child screamed as he ran up to one of our captors, wrapping his arms around a leg the width of his body. The man leading the group turned to us. “You. That tree over there.” He pointed to a short, stout oak tree with the tip of the spear. “Go there. You try run. You die.” We obeyed the command and sat by the designated trunk. “You think spirits are hunting these people?” I asked. Alessia just tilted her head towards me, her eyes rolled upwards. I chuckled. “So how do we get out of this?” “Not sure. No weapons. No idea where we are.” “We need to know more. About this place? About where they’re taking us?” The man who led us here was sitting down with a few of the adults who had stayed at the clearing. They leaned in, listening closely to quiet words with their eyes glanced downwards. While elsewhere the returnees were running around with children or sharing jokes, that small group of three remained solemn. Alessia followed my gaze. “We can’t ask them. They believe any knowledge we share corrupts them. They’ll kill us if we try it again.” I thought on Alessia’s words for a second. “We can’t share knowledge *with them*...” I trailed off, pushing myself to my feet. “Where are you going?” Alessia said, placing her hands by her side, ready to follow. I held up my arm to stop her. “I’m going to ask some questions. But, stay here. They’ll be less jumpy with one of us.” Alessia relaxed against the trunk once more. “Just. Please Ferdinand.” She paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Please don’t do anything stupid. Be safe.” “I will,” I smiled. I walked towards the small huddle. As I approached I began to overhear their conversation. “Cold claimed three. At least winter stopped. But vargs took child last week. If we don’t have children soon...” The woman speaking stopped as she saw me approach. The leader turned to face me, but he remained sitting. “What?” “I wanted to ask you some questions-” “Each time you speak, and share knowledge, you make death on all of us.” He gave a dismissive wave of his arm. “The rules state that you must not be corrupted from nature. But that only happens if I share knowledge. You can share nature with me. Tell me. I will only ask questions. No sentences, no opinions, no facts, just questions. No corruption.” “Why I accept?” “It costs you nothing to tell me. And this way, you control what I say. In return, I stay quiet. Make sure not to say anything that corrupts you from here on out.” The man pondered my offer for a second, exchanging a quick glance with the others. “Come closer,” he said to me. I took a couple of paces forward. “No. Closer.” I obliged, closing the gap between us, so that I was only a metre or so away from him. The man raised a hand to let me know I could stop. The man quickly reached for his spear, and with one quick movement thrust it up to my gut, stopping mere centimeters away. “Ask questions. You share. I thrust.” I swallowed hard, feeling the movement of the air through my body, pushing my stomach that moment closer to the tip of the spear, the edge brushing against the fabric of my shirt. “Who were those people who attacked you?” I asked. “Another group,” the man said. He stared at me with unmoving eye contact. An intense, unaltered stare. “Why did they attack?” “Food.” “They thought you had food?” The man let out a small shake of his head, but the eyes remained glued to mine. “We were food. They hunt.” “And they are why you carry the spears?” “Them. Hunting. And the varg.” “Who are the varg?” “Monsters.” I took a moment to check the questions I wanted to ask, making sure that at no point would I share knowledge. Looking down, there was the smallest of spaces where I could make out the uneven brown dirt between the tip of the spear and my belly. That brief gap that kept me alive. “Who are the Leviathans?” “Don’t know.” “Then how will you take us to them?” “At four years Leviathans demand a child. The river enters a cave. The cave leads to Leviathans.” “So you’re going to make us swim down the cave?” “No. Your bodies will float. You are not a child. You don’t need life.” I instinctively took a half pace back. My right foot, resting a few inches behind me. The spear though remained far too close. “You’re going to kill us for the Leviathans.” The man simply nodded. “Then why not kill us already?” I hated saying the words, feeling as though I was daring him to thrust, to do it now instead of later. I closed my eyes as I continued to speak, waiting for the pain to erupt in my gut. “If we are to be offered dead, then why are we alive?” The man chuckled. I squinted as he finally broke eye contact from the ripple of laughter. Finally he turned to me, and smirked. “Dead don’t carry themselves.” My mouth opened. But no words came. The air had been sucked from my lungs, my voice stolen. “Done with questions?” The man asked. “Go. We leave soon.” I turned and walked back to Alessia, my mouth still open, my mind unable to process our fate. Alessia was already standing staring at the tree we’d been sent to. “How’d it go?.” I didn’t respond initially. I was unable to find words to tell someone I cared about that our bodies were due to be offered to make-believe ghosts. Instead, I stood, perfectly still; my nervous, shaky legs, planted to the spot, until the words made themselves apparent. “They’re going to sacrifice us. Kill us and throw us in a river that will take us to the Leviathans.” Alessia let out a wry smile. “I’m not surprised. What were you expecting?” “I don’t know,” I said, my hands raising to the sky. “Not to be murdered because some stupid people believe some fictional spirits might come and harm them.” “I wouldn’t say it’s all made up,” Alessia replied, her eyes returning to the tree. “What? There’s ghosts that come and kill them if they break nature? There’s no real threat-.” “Ghosts? No,” “What are you on about?” I said, my voice becoming increasingly terse as Alessia failed to meet my fears. “While you were gone, I was looking at this tree. It’s covered in these little scars, where something hacked at it years ago and it had grown over.” “Spears?” Alessia shook her head. “So I started looking on the ground near the tree. And...” She reached into her pocket and placed a small metal bullet in my pocket. “That tree isn’t hundreds of years old is it?” I said, rotating the bullet in my hand. “Fifty years at most,” Alessia replied. She turned to me, her gaze steady, but her eyes wide. “Someone on this island is a much bigger threat than anyone in this camp.” “What doing?” a voice barked from the clearing. We turned to see the leader of the group heading our way. I flung the small metal bullet out the back of my hand and into the forest. Removing the trace of something unnatural. “We’re ready to go,” Alessia replied. “When you are.” The man looked at us for a second, deciding how to proceed. He nodded. “Yes. Move. Let’s go.” He headed off and gathered the rest of his crew before marching us off once more into the woods. As we left, the sun was just lowering past the tops of the trees. Sunbeams clawed through the gaps between the trunks, as long shadows crawled across the ground. Pace by pace, the sun slipped further down, till the horizon swallowed it. Red light burnt across the sky, and the embers of the day began to die out, slowly fading into the dark blue of the night. My hearing began to take over as the primary sense as the forest around us took on a different voice. Songbirds chirped for territory, as owls whistled their arrival, ready to hunt the forest for mice or voles. I looked at Alessia. The last of the sun’s light reflected off the perspiration on her face, as her eyes were cast in shadow. “We’ve got to make a move soon,” I whispered. “We can’t just wait to die.” “I know. If need be, we wait till the last second and try to fight back. But, we could do with something changing our situation.” Our pace slowed as shrubs and leaves snared at our ankles, trying to hold us back. “I...” My mouth ran out of words. “I didn’t really want it to end with a death march.” Alessia let out the smallest chortle. “It wasn’t my plan either.” “I’m sorry I got you into this, but... I’m glad to have spent this time with you.” I muttered. “Shh,” Alessia replied. “Stop pretending you know how this ends.” I tried to force a smile, but it quickly melted. “It’s looking bad though.” “Yeah. I just don’t like giving up.” Alessia looked at me, head tilting forwardsl. “So don’t you give up. No matter what.” I nodded. The leader of the group grunted behind us, and pointed to the right. We turned and descended through a steep bank of trees. I held out my hands against the trunks for balance, as the bark scratched back at me. The twisted mess of ivy beneath my feet hissed as I dragged my feet through it, the brushing leaves threatening me. Then, as we reached the bottom of the bank, we came across a clearing. The forest abated and wild grasses, thigh high, instead covered our surroundings. The river descended down rapids and into a gorge, heading to a large cliff to our left. Then it hit me. This river. This is where we were due to meet our end. The water flew down a series of bony rocks. Gravity gave it a kick on the way down, and the water raced towards the cliff disappearing into a cave. However, the cave wasn’t filled with jagged shapes like you’d expect from erosion. Instead it was a perfect semi-circle. The kind of shape never seen in nature. It was man-made. Not a cave, but a tunnel. As I looked up at the cliff too, I noticed that behind the bushes and creeping vines, the steep slope was made of individual stones piled into a great mountain. Each rock, no doubt, carried to the top, and added to the pile by human hands. I had no idea who built this construction or when, but it wasn’t part of nature. Whether our captors knew it or not, man-made structures had always been with them. We began walking out into the clearing. The sun had gone, only twilight remained. The long shadows had withered, retreated to the earth. The tall grass shivered in the evening breeze as we marched across the clearing to the whispering leaves. My pace slowed, trying to delay the inevitable. I looked behind me. The group was getting closer, their spears prepped out in front of them. Ahead, I could hear the water churning over the rocks, beckoning us towards it. My mind was in a haze. A thousand, desperate screaming thoughts looking for an option. My feet slowly trudged as an automatic process, while my brain fought with itself, throwing accusations at past decisions, futilely pleading with the Gods for a route of escape. The world around me disappeared. The entire universe consumed by nothing but the fury inside my own head. The lights, the sounds, the sense of the breeze on my skin, all dissipated as I lost myself in the tumbling, frantic thinking. Then a howl. A high-pitched, but deep-throated whail into the nighttime air. That same howl I had heard on the clifftop the previous night. I turned to face our captors. They all stared at the forest, their bodies braced: back legs stretched out, spears by their side ready, eyes watching. I heard a growl. A rumbling snarl seeping through the woods. Then it stopped. Silence returned. Time stood still for a brief moment as no one moved, no one spoke, no one dared breathe. Then one of the group with a single exhale muttered. “The varg.” The bushes shook as great beasts leapt from the undergrowth. The animals looked like dogs, but their size was at least twice that of any I had seen. Huge, padded feet paced towards us. Black snouts sniffed the air, and the corners of lips raised, revealing jagged teeth. The varg charged at us. One spearman tried to swipe at it, but the varg was too quick, leaping up and latching onto the man’s arm. He screamed as he fell backwards. The great creature clenched its jaws around the man’s neck, as another of the group thrust a spear into the creature’s flank. The varg winced, retreating a couple of paces, but it didn’t fall. It stood, turning its attention to its attacker, the lance still sticking out of its hip. I tapped Alessia’s arm. “Quick, let’s go.” We ran towards the river - the only route available to us. We stopped at the edge of the rapids, the water swirling beneath us. Behind us, there was another scream. I saw a man being dragged back towards the forest, teeth firmly sunk into his shoulder. I looked at Alessia, her eyes caught by the slaughter behind us. I grabbed her arm, and her head whipped round to face me. Her mouth was open, her lungs gasping for air, as her wide eyes pleaded for sense. I nodded to her. She took a deep breath, and nodded back. Then, we turned to face the water, and jumped. \ Next chapter released 4th November.


(WP) A Shroud of Protection I can barely remember my life before her: I was tucked into a wooden chest in the attic, being saved for a special occasion. Being a treasured family heirloom was an honor, but it was a lonely calling. Then she was born, and again, as before, I had purpose in life. I was taken out of the chest, able to feel sunshine again, and Grandmama Ruby spread me out, swaddling me around her fifth grandchild, and the warmth would have been enough to make me weep, if I’d had eyes. It had been so long since I’d felt the touch of a soft infant’s skin on my body. No matter how many years I had in the dark, these moments in the sun were always enough. Ruby cradled the sleeping child, staring down at her in silent wonder. I knew how she felt; with every life added to our extensive family tree, it never got old. A tiny life calling us home, giving me purpose again. Years had passed since Ruby’s mother had sewn me with her own hands, and after all these years, I would be tucked away, lying in wait for the next child born. And here she was, a baby to hold me close and snuggle me and take me everywhere. “Look at you, beautiful,” Ruby murmured, rocking her back and forth. “You have no idea how happy we are, that you’re finally here!” She was smiling, her dimpled cheeks flushed with joy. As happy as I was, I was also bristling with impatience. The bond would not form until Ruby told me her name, and as much as I wished I had a voice, my sentience did not extend that far. I had to wait until the time was right. “Oh, Frida. I cannot wait to show you everything,” Ruby whispered, and a subtle glow began to form around my edges, creating a protective barrier around the child. “I can’t wait to see what kind of person you become. But in the meantime, you’ll have this blanket. As long as you take it with you, you will be safe.” I was one of the family’s most closely guarded secrets, one of their sources of magic. Most people thought it was genetics, or good luck, but that wasn’t the case at all. Ruby and her family had been entrusted with secretive magical objects, and they only shared them with those who were trustworthy. I was one of the oldest in the entire collection, and Ruby always gave it to the youngest grandchild, as a way to safeguard against delicate mishaps. I was a shroud of protection, sewn into life and given a soul born from a family’s fierce love for one another. But, of course, this did not mean that other people, humans full of avarice and hatred and greed, did not covet or try to steal myself, and my brothers and sisters. Power is a truly dangerous, fluid thing, and there are some who would do anything to attain it. But I knew my purpose: to watch over the children of this line, until I turned to dust.