Hello and welcome everyone. This is the story of my life. A story of how a little boy became one of the greatest leaders in the multiverses. Get ready to read a legendary story with a lot of plot holes. To understand this story better you need to know an important thing. This story holds seven major power pillars called the seven realms. First is the power realm, second is love, third is desire, fourth is human, fifth is hell, sixth is heaven, and the final realm is the shadow realm. I am from the shadow realm. I was born into the royal family of this realm and I am the youngest. My father is the king of darkness dark Seigh. My big brother is Seigh junior or as we like to call him junior. I have a sister Nour and finally, there is me Shin. We are known as the dark family in the seven realms. An important background about the realms, they comprise infinite numbers of multiverses, not a universe multiverse. You see the multiverse is a very confusing topic even for us, we don’t know why they are there but they just are. A thing we have noticed is that in a multiverse the events are all similar. Meaning one universe is similar to the other in a multiverse. You probably got confused. To make you understand, imagine yourself in a universe from a multiverse, now every event that happened to you is similar to everything that happens inside that multiverse. I hope you understood because the story is going to start.  Well, this story begins with the announcement of the seven-realm contest. For a proper explanation, it is a battle between the seven realms prince and princesses. The worst thing is it was my turn to participate. Why is it worst you may ask, it is due to me being lazy to fight? I mean why I would have to fight? I am the fucking prince. But yet I involved myself in the battle. Looking around there were royals everywhere. Arya the princess of humans, Amy the princess of love, Arther the prince of heaven, Linlin the princess of desire, Diablo the prince of power, Clover the prince of hell and finally me the prince of shadow. This fight is going to be interesting. You might be thinking despite us being the most advanced civilization in the seven realms why do we fight? The answer is simple for peace. You see we fight to demonstrate our powers so other royals think we are strong and don’t engage in the fight. The first matchup we got was me vs. Diablo. “This will be over soon”, I thought to myself. I was wrong. Diablo was giving a decent fight. He lost at the end when I aged him a million times. That was very funny. The second and third battles were pretty smooth. I, Arya, Linlin, and clover got into finals. Linlin vs. Clover started the second phase. The fight was amazing. Both of them were displaying pretty amazing magic and powers. But Clover got the upper hand and won the battle. Me and Arya well it ended with me going to the hospital to see Arya after I obiblatrated her. For the finals, I had to fight with Clover and I won. Ya, I am not going to go into details about how I defeated him. Now the real fun begins. I had an idea of forming a crew for a long time so after the tournament ended, I announced I was forming a crew. I already had the first and second commanders. My butler Ace and Ean my shape-shifting pet. After I announced my crew, I started recruiting people. I made a base in the human realm and started taking down other crews. Before the next part of the story starts you will need a background. There are seven realms and in these realms, rulers have formed a council for justice. They command a force called CF. which stands for council force. There are two more forces in the realm led by the two most powerful rulers. First, is the RPF led by Nickalous don Earnes aka Fury. And the second is the Shadow Force led by my father. Now the crew I was talking about is not under any of these forces and therefore recognized as threats. So now I wanted to recruit some strong members for my crew. I had recruited some small fries and I think the council didn’t feel threatened by my crew because none of us had a bounty on us. I planned to break free Jack and Joker. Two of the most dangerous criminals and my friends. They were held in a secured prison. I being me just walked in there and took both of them out. How? You may ask. I simply teleported. The prison could stop teleportation but mine was different. Normal teleportation connects two points that the system can detect but I destroy my atoms and reform them in the place I want to go. Hence no one knew when I came and went. This way my crew was formed.


“Tonight’s the night”. Sergeant Muller said to himself as he was staring over the entrenchments across the field. Tonight he would embark on a daring raid across the battlefield from his own trenches to the enemies. It was not his first raid and by this point in the war he was a profesional in the regard of wreaking havoc upon the enemy trenches when the moon is full and night falls on the land. What was once a daunting task when he was a private was nothing to him now as a Sergeant. Even the prospect of death did not scare him. His thoughts were broken when his good friend Corporal Webb approached him from behind “It’s almost time, are you ready?” He asked. Muller used the moonlight shining above them and checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Of course”. Muller then followed Webb towards the firing line of the trenches and they spoke as they passed by soldiers getting on or getting off shifts of mending wire, digging more trenches, or simply going about their own business. “Why do you think the Bluecoats have been so quiet lately anyways? Today I stood straight up after coming out of my dugout and none of them dared even shoot me”. Webber asked. Muller simply shook his head “Hopefully they’ve lost their stomach for this war and went home. Any sane man would have at this point anyways. We’ve been fighting over this stretch of dirt for months now without the battle lines changing”. Webb nodded “Not us of course, we’re perfectly sane aren’t we?” Muller chuckled slightly “As sane as we can be”. As they continued to walk towards the firing line Muller thought about Webb’s question. “Surely we’ll find out soon enough what’s happening over there”. He said to himself. Once they finally reached the firing line they hailed the sentry and they recognized him as Henderson from his broad mustache “Another night on the job then?” He asked earnestly as Webb and Muller past him. “There’s nothing quite like it Henderson. Keep them all safe back here won’t you?” Muller said as he rubbed some dirt on his face. “Will do”. Henderson said in reply. With that, they then made their way across no man’s land. The area between the Ticonderoga and Ulsterian trenches was a mess of shell holes, stumps, and dead carcasses scattered about the land. Every feature Muller and Webb knew like the back of their hands and they constantly used them for cover and concealment as they crawled across the field. No lantern was necessary for the moon was full that night and shined like a candle upon them and lit their way. They then came upon the outskirts of the Ulsterian lines when Webb reached to Muller and whispered. “Blue coat straight ahead”. Muller then looked over and saw a sentry at his post leaning against his rifle. “He’s asleep”. Muller said. “His head is facing the dirt anyways”. Webb then took a more stern look and drew his dagger from his scabbard and whispered “It's best not to take the chance.” They then crawled to an empty section of the trench and Muller cut the wire and they crawled into the ditch. Their boots made a splash in what they assumed was a mud puddle and they made their way along the firing line until they spotted the sentry. Webb then made quick work of him and carefully stretched his hand over the sentry's mouth and drove his dagger deep into the man’s back. The blow would have been fatal if he was still alive. When Webb threw him into the mud he realized he was dead and his throat slit. Muller then gave a confused look “What the Hell is this?” Webb shrugged in reply. They then made their way carefully along the trench but their subtly was unnecessary. It became apparent the trenches were guarded by dead men. Every soldier they came across was ripped apart with cuts and stabs covering their uniforms and Muller became puzzled. “My God what happened here”. The trail of bodies ended at a dugout where a lantern was burning bright from inside. “Lower enlisted first”. Muller jested at his seniority while Webb growled. Webb then carefully went into the dugout with dagger and pistol drawn while Muller waited outside. When Webb came into the dugout he discovered an officer’s quarters along with a hole freshly dug into the ground and a silver coffin with the lid fully pushed open from the inside. “What the fuck is this?” Were the last words Webb said before his throat was slit open and he fell to the ground with a thud. From up top Muller nearly shouted “Webb?! Webb! What’s happening down there?!” Muller didn’t wait for a response when he heard movement coming from down the trenchline and looked to see Webb laying dead on the ground with a red eyed beast looking back at him from within the dugout. Muller’s instinct to survive overcame his need to enact revenge and he ran for his life. By now he cared nothing for crawling on the ground or stealth at all as he ran past the dead sentry and bodies and onto the field. He could feel whatever had murderer Webb chasing him. He sprinted past the shell craters, stumps and dead corpses he had come to memorize and every step of the way he could feel the beast come near him at an inhuman speed. He then tripped and fell into a shell crater and knew it was too late. Muller then drew his pistol in a panicked frenzy and turned to face the beast. However it was gone. He then peered across the field to find whatever was chasing him was gone and wondered if he had gone mad. Muller waited a few moments more before he holstered his pistol again and ran towards his own trench line and hailed Henderson as he came near “Henderson! Henderson! Awake the commander! somethings terribly wrong!” However, Henderson did not respond and Muller did not understand why until he came near and realized his neck had been slit ear to ear and he was only propped up by the rifle he was leaning on. He then came into the trenches to find all his comrades were slain just the same as his enemies were and the culprit of it all standing at the end of the trench with claws extended and eyes as red as blood. Muller however was out of breath and had nowhere to run even if he wanted to. He then drew his pistol again and faced the beast who had murdered Webb. Either he would kill this beast, or join his friend in death.


Liza laid awake next to her sleeping husband, James. She stared at the ceiling. All she could think of was the day she got married. "The happiest day of her life," or so she thought at the time. She remembered the tears of joy that ran down her smiling face as James said the words that meant he would love and care for Liza always. "What a load of crap," she whispered to herself as she glanced at the bright red numbers on her alarm clock. 6:28. In two minutes she would go back to her crummy excuse for a life, but now she would just lay in bed next to the monster that she married not one year ago and hate him. So that's what she did for the next two minutes. "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP," yelled her alarm clock. She quickly squeezed tears from her eyes and climbed out of bed. Grumbling and kicking off blankets, The Monster climbed out of bed and sluggishly walked over to Liza, who was choosing an outfit from her dresser. He gently grabbed her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "Good morning," he said in that terrifyingly gentle tone that a mother uses to a child who keeps putting sugar cereal in the cart at the supermarket. A glint of fear escaped from the defiant stare she gave him. She wanted to ignore him. Well... no. She wanted to punch him in the nose, but, alas she was so afraid of what he would do to her. "Good morning," she mumbled. "What was that?" he said with a warning eyebrow raise. "Good morning!" She said, a bit louder, not looking him in the eye. As he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head away. He harshly grabbed her small, delicate face, in his large, terrifying hands, squeezing so hard his knuckles went white. "I'm in no mood today, Elizabeth. Don't test me!" he spat with the blazing eyes of a dangerous snake. He looked into her fearful green eyes for one more second before shoving her away with such force, she stumbled back against the dresser. "Get up and make breakfast, brat," he growled, walking out of the room, not a hint of mercy in his voice. She did not get up. She sat, eyes wide, palms sweaty, her mind traveling to dark places. Darker and darker it got as she sat on the floor by the dresser, stunned. Finally, she snapped out of it. "Stand," she told herself. "Stand and make breakfast or you know what he'll do to you." She did as she was told and walked to the kitchen. James glared at her. "Don't bother with breakfast now. You were in our room feeling sorry for yourself too long! I have to leave for work!" He yelled, annoyed. Liza looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That bruise on your eye makes you look horrible. I hope you have enough makeup to cover it," he added, his lips curled into a cruel smile. Liza felt her chest fill with anger. She began to raise her voice. "Well, that bruise wouldn't be there if you hadn't-" she began before James smacked her so hard she fell to the ground. "NO LIZA! THAT UGLY BRUISE WOULDN'T BE THERE IF YOU WOULD DO AS I SAY! THIS IS YOUR FAULT, ELIZABETH! YOUR'S!" he yelled, turning and stomping out the door. After he was gone Liza stood up, her eyes filled with tears, and walked to the medicine cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of pain meds she was prescribed a few years back when she tore her ACL. Between sobs, she dumbed the entire contents of the bottle into her sweaty palm. Her heart began to beat faster and faster, and her head began to spin. She stared at the pills, thinking of everything he had done to her from the time they got married. She walked over to the bathroom sink and filled a glass of water, closed her eyes, then sighed as she dumped it back out again. She lifted the toilet seat and dropped each pill into the toilet bowl. She sobbed on the bathroom floor for quite a while before wiping her tears and walking down the stairs to find her cellphone. She dialed the number of her sister, Jen, whom James had not allowed Liza to speak to since they got married. "Hello?" came her sister's familiar voice from the phone. "Hi, Jenny," Squeaked Liza in a shaky voice. Jen gasped. "Liza? Is that you? I haven't talked to you since the wedding! You never pick up when I call. I've been so hurt, El!" Jenny said in a desperate tone. "Jen... I need help," Liza breathed as the sobs began to return. She told Jenny everything. "Oh El! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why haven't you gone to the police or filed a restraining order?" Jenny asked. "I...I...I was just scared! He would have found me no matter what," Liza sobbed harder. Jenny explained her plan. "Listen, Liza. I'm booking tickets for you to come to stay with me in Utah until we get this figured out. Get on the city bus and head to the airport. I'll handle everything else." Liza didn't know what to say. "El? Can you do that?" Jen insisted. "Yes. Yes! And Jen? Thank you. I've missed you so much." Liza hung up the phone as she slid to the floor. She beamed and closed her eyes as the tears of joy spilled over her eyelids, filled with gratitude, love, and hope.


I woke up agitated. My heart was pounding fast. The image from the dream stayed intact, refusing to fade away. A barefoot girl stood in the middle of a completely dark path, raising her hand and telling me, _ STOP, DON'T GO FURTHER! I approached her slowly and saw her little face bathed in tears. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was me! It was my little girl... I ran to hug her and held her tightly against my chest... When I tried to lift her, the image faded, and I woke up with a scream. I sat in bed, my mind circling around the image of my little girl and the questions that troubled me. _ Why did she say STOP, DON’T GO FURTHER ? What are you trying to tell me, my inner child? What danger are you warning me about?' I looked at the clock; it was half-past five in the morning, and I had to get up because I was traveling that day to the Wichí Mataco community of Chustaj lokwé - the Owl’s Lair. It was the year 2000, and I was working as an anthropologist in a social aid program for indigenous communities located along Route 86, which crossed the rugged Chaco forest. It started in Tartagal and stretched to Misión la Paz, on the border with Paraguay, covering just over a hundred kilometers. It appeared as a 'Route' on national road maps, but in reality, it was just a dirt road, only passable during the dry season, and in the rainy season, it turned into a swamp that only the most experienced locals dared to traverse. Fausto, my assistant, was sick with the flu and couldn’t accompany me. He was a member of the Wichi Mataco community 'Lapacho,' a great knower of these forests where he was born and raised. Traveling with him made me feel confident and secure, not only because he knew the area well but also because speaking his native language made it easier for me to communicate with the people. I could have chosen not to go, but I decided to travel anyway because I didn't want to delay my work since there were many communities I had to attend to. _Don't go alone, wait a few days and we'll go together! _ Fausto had told me, but I decided to travel alone. I admit that I am impatient and sometimes a little impulsive, which in the past got me into more than one problem. _What could happen? I worked in so many communities and never had any problems, why would this time be different? Of course, I would miss the company of Fausto who was not only my assistant but also a lifelong friend. Traveling with him made the trips short and pleasant. In the harsh and gloomy reality that the aborigines lived, being able to laugh at his stories and anecdotes was a relief. A few kilometers away, one entered a landscape of magical realism in the Chaco of Salta. A world where goblins played hide and seek during tropical siestas, healers and witches cured fright, made love spells and for good luck, hunters asked permission with coca and cigarettes from Madremonte. It was the territory of the adventures of the fox and the jaguar, of the escapades of the armadillos, quimileros and the bored iguanas. There were indigenous communities of Wichis, Matacos, Chorotes, Tobas, Chulupies, Chiriguanos, Tapietes and others in the most absolute helplessness and abandonment, just as at the beginning of the 20th century when the colonization of the Chaco began. My work consisted of formulating projects in the vain hope of achieving some solution for their historical and multiple needs. It was November, referred to as “ Yachup” in the Wichí calendar, our springtime, a dry season of intense heat in this region. I set out at dawn, having prepared everything the night before: my battered Peugeot 504, worn down by the dusty and bogged paths of the impenetrable chaco, and my backpack with water the canteen, lighter, flashlight, pocketknife, and a small bag of coca leaves, mate equipment, cookies, some oranges and work elements: notebook, recorder, camera. The clear, fresh morning smelled of tusca breezes, and the uproar of doves and parrots crossing the sky in flocks signaled a day that would get very hot. There I was, kicking up dust in my car and Wichis-matacos hitchhiked along the road. They were pleasant company, telling me news, anecdotes, stories of animals and apparitions, the history behind the names of the places, and even giving me advice on what to do if I encountered Tahyi Wuk, the Owner of the Jungle. In mid-morning, I arrived at Holotaj -Tonono-. I went directly to the house of my friends, the Palomos, a family of criollos from the Chaco region. They pointed me in the right direction, saying, “It’s just right there.” It was my first time heading to the community of Chustaj lokwé -Guarida de la Lechuza-, which was in a highly critical situation. At from that place, I couldn’t continue in my vehicle as I had to cross the sandy banks of the Tonono River. I accepted the horse they offered me, a beautiful bay, large but gentle. They helped me mount it by stepping onto a log, and I headed north, carrying my backpack. I was happy, as riding the horse allowed me to experience the forest more closely, a place that always drew my soul like a goat to the forrest. Without a doubt, some ancestral memory of the wild woman that I once was remained in my genes. I let the horse carry me at its steady, unhurried pace as I filled my lungs with the thick scents of the forest and let the noise of the birds fill my ears. My eyes followed the flight of flocks of parrots and doves in the sky. Nearby was the lagoon Inaj pitaj -Water Long-, where the ruckus of chuñas, charatas, ducks, and other animals echoed, all coming to quench their thirst in this harsh, forgotten land, scorched by torrid summers and once home to tigers and jaguars, and mythological serpents. I arrived at Tonono River and crossed the large sandy area. On the other side I looked for the path that they had told me was “right there” and that would take me “straight to the community”. But, surprise! Before my eyes there was not “one path”, but several _ What now? _ I asked myself, observing the three paths that opened up before me. _ Which one would Fausto take? The one on the left, the right, or perhaps the middle?' I remembered a friend who in similar circumstances, consulted coca leaves to help him decide, but I lacked that ancient wisdom. So, to avoid making a mistake, I steered the horse down the middle path. I must have traveled for an hour, entering a forest that became denser with carob trees, thorny bushes, and ancoches, but there was no sign of Chustaj Lokwé. I had no idea where I was, and in my anxiety, I made the biggest mistake one could make in such circumstances. I left the path and went into the woods, thinking that perhaps I could find the community that way. I continued on with the poor horse, which struggled to dodge the thick branches of the trees and the prickly chaguar plants. I had no notion of the time that had passed and I continued walking without finding the path that would take me to the community. The sweat was running down my feverish forehead, and I realized from the trees that I kept passing the same spot over and over again. Was I going in circles? Everything seemed to indicate that I was. I tried to stay calm, but I was breathing heavily, exhausted, dead tired, hungry, and with a burning thirst consuming me from within. The forest, which had always been a welcoming home, my green refuge, now felt suffocating, threatening, like a wild animal with branches clawing at me with every step. _ 'This can't be happening to me! Where did I go wrong? They told me that once I crossed the river, there would be a path leading straight to the community just a few meters ahead. Why can't I find it? They must have given me the wrong directions, no doubt!' _ I repeated to myself angrily and kept riding the poor horse, who seemed even more lost than I was. _ 'Calm down! Calm down! Breathe... breathe... everything is fine!' _ I kept telling myself, but calm was like a delicate butterfly that landed on my fingers and flew away just as quickly. Then I would hear Fausto’s words again: 'Don’t go alone...' Now, trembling with fear, surrounded by forest spirits and goblins, I recognized my mistake. I should have listened to Fausto’s warning and the message from my dream, my Niña, telling me: _ STOP, DON’T GO ON! _ Overwhelmed and desperate, I finally accepted that I was lost, trapped in that green labyrinth. Terror took hold of me, I trembled with fear, but the worst was the mental suffering. I saw myself arriving at the village, chatting and laughing with the people, drinking cool water from the jar that was under the shade of a carob tree and suddenly I was overwhelmed by negative thoughts. I remembered what Fausto told me about people lost in the woods, how the heat makes them sweat, attracting hundreds of bees and wasps that pounce on their bodies, stabbing them with their stingers, causing painful swellings, and how little by little their minds become lost and their sense of direction becomes unbalanced, and they start running madly, torn by thorns. I dismounted under a leafy guayacán tree. I was completely soaked in sweat and thirsty. I sat down on a log, took out my canteen and, thirsty, took several sips of water. I took an orange out of my backpack and ate it. Becoming aware that I was lost and alone in that wild forest terrified me. I felt totally vulnerable, completely orphaned, and I let out all that fear in a scream that echoed in the forest like a mournful lament. For a long time I screamed for help until my throat hurt. I stopped, I felt dizzy, I was floating in the air as if I were levitating. I thought that the screams had taken all my energy, then my mind began to play tricks on me. Suddenly all the spirits and goblins of the forest that I knew through the stories of the Matacos appeared before me. There were the Wooden Goblins, their bodies were like dry branches, they liked to chase the lost and they watched them camouflaged with the trees and the foliage. Chamin, the “Skeleton of the Mountain” goblin, was the one who impressed me the most. They said he was a terrible entity that the Matacos themselves feared. Sometimes he allowed himself to be seen, but he preferred to be heard by making a noise similar to two branches colliding or the sound of footsteps dragging on dry leaves. I recognized him because he had a white head, large, round, protruding eyes, and terrible fangs protruding from his mouth like those of a jaguar, elongated and pointed. He had no muscles, he was pure bone and his neck was as thin as a finger. He was always wandering through the forest. Suddenly a hoarse song like that of a bird arose from the group. I looked carefully to see who the singer was and to my surprise I discovered Suweletaj, the gardener goblin of the carnations of the air. He lived in them, hanging from them like a nest. In that delirium I saw Etek, the goblin with the head of a sajasta, appear from among the bushes. He had once appeared to me during my siesta when I was playing under a blackberry plant in the yard of my house. He was a short, chubby goblin, with dark skin and boar's nails. He wore a chiripa and was bare-chested and bare-footed. He appeared suddenly and made signs with his hands for me to come closer. But the fear had paralyzed me, and I couldn't move and I was speechless. When my mother found me, I was as pale as a corpse and couldn't speak. They took me to the doctor, but he couldn't tell me what was wrong. I was like that without a voice for a long time, until one day my mother took me to a cuña ipayé, a shaman who had been recommended to her and who lived in the Guaraní community of Yacui. When I grew up, they told me that she cured me of my fright for seven days. At seven in the evening, they say that he called my name loudly three times. That was how he called my soul to return to the body, since it had escaped in fear. Apparently the healing worked because he gave me back my voice and little by little the confidence to play in the yard again. Now an adult woman, I looked at Etek with curiosity. I looked at him straight on, not defiantly but with respect. He looked at me too and smiled. I understood, that time when he appeared to me during my nap, he just wanted to play with me. The others continued to look at me strangely, as if to say: _ And this Sulú, who is she? Sulú in the Wichi Mataco language means, white woman. Luckily, fear paralyzed me so much that I did not run away, which would have been fatal. My heart was beating rapidly, the palpitations were a drum resonating in those lonely places in the woods, I felt that fear was a hairy worm crawling all over my body, so I closed my eyes tightly and repeated out loud: _ This is not true!... It is not true!... It is not true!... When I opened my eyes, the group had disappeared. I began to breathe deeply and calmed down and thought: _ How stupid I was for not listening to my inner child warning in the dream! Why didn't I listen to Faust? How many more times would I have to hit myself in life to learn to see the signs? _ With effort I regained control of the runaway horse in my mind. The heat was pressing hard and thirst dried my mouth, bitter from the taste of fear in my skin. I lit the fire hoping that someone would see the smoke from afar and locate me because I thought that surely at that time they were already looking for me. The Doves, seeing that I didn't return, would realize that I was lost. I waited by the fire for a long time, but I was heartbroken when I realized that no one would come. Every moment I looked at the sky in search of the sun to locate me along its path, but it was completely covered in clouds. I thought it best to get back on my horse and find the way. I tried to get on the horse but it was too tall. I tried swinging one leg, but with such bad luck I fell backwards and hit my head against the ground. I stayed there for I don't know how long. I woke up, slowly opened my eyes and then I saw that the clouds were parting and the sun was visible. I was able to locate myself there, and I realized that instead of going back I was moving away. Then, like in a dream, wrapped in the dust of a whirlwind, a human figure appeared. It was an old Mataco man walking towards me. He was very old, like an ancient carob tree. He was wearing a large, wide-brimmed palm hat, a machete hanging from his waist and a coil of rope across his chest. His large feet caught my attention, with toes sticking out of worn leather flip-flops. The old man came to me and without saying a word he brought the horse to me and helped me mount it, he took the reins and we started walking, I on horseback, he on foot. We made the whole journey in silence without saying a word. We reached the main road from where I saw the Palomos' house. I gave a shout of joy, and I was laughing and crying at the same time and when I turned around to thank the old man I saw him disappear into the woods. That night, already in the safety of my house, I felt a deep joy that invaded me completely. I understood that I had passed another test in my life, a transforming experience that demanded the deepest part of my being. I had faced fear in its purest form, alone in the middle of a threatening I never knew which road we took, I do remember that we never crossed the sandbank of the river, nor did I ever know who the old man was. I investigated, I asked Creoles and Aborigines but no one knew him. mountain, surrounded by spirits and memories, but I had managed to overcome it. I had emerged from the green labyrinth, not only physically, but also emotionally intact. I felt infinite gratitude. I was alive, safe and at peace with my soul, enriched by that powerful experience, because not only had I managed to get out of the mountain, but with me I had taken my Little Girl out of the dark path of loneliness and fear in which she was lost and in which she lived for so many years.


Last night Anna dreamt she was secured in a large rose bud. Every petal of the flower was strategically placed to protect her from the outside world. Thick and thorny vines snap on the ground, threatening anything or anyone that might come close. In that moment she felt nothing in the real world could give her as much comfort as the flower and constantly moving vines did in that dream. The roses she examines in front of her now at her local garden fresh flower shop are more delicate. That’s part of the beauty of them. You have to take care of them in order to keep their dainty looks and vibrant colors. Freeze them, put them in ice, put them in water, press them, preserve them, even dry them and keep the petals. We’ll do all sorts of things to keep flowers around for as long as possible. Moving away from the roses, she sees a basket of mixed bouquets that are on sale because they’re a couple days old. She’s always had an interest in older items. Lockets gone brass. Chipped tea pots. Jammed typewriters. Flowers are just one of the many things in this life that start to lose their splendor as time passes. Anna feels that way, like a fading beauty in an unromantic world. She knows she can adorn her hair with ribbon, rub cherry colored tint on her lips, and wear frilly skirts for now. However, as her appearance ages and changes, everything else will change with it. All of her efforts to beautify herself will be seen as futile. Some of the bundles have many different types of flowers, mixed carnations and roses embellished with pieces of baby’s breath and wildflower. Some are rose bouquets, in an array of different colors. Suddenly, one stray bouquet of tulips, colored a deep scarlet red, catches her wandering eyes. Roses are delicate and fresh, representing a dream of security. Then, there are tulips, the flower of spring. The bulbs blossom into cups fit for a fairy. The stem is free of thorns and leaves, as if to say that they don’t need anything to prove their beauty. Flowers in hand, Anna moves towards the check out, but not before her eyes can catch a bumble bee flying out of a rose bud. She thinks back on her dream last night, wondering if bugs ever take a second to hide in a flower just for a few seconds of safety. She thinks that if she was a bee that she would do that. The person in front of her in the ever growing line has another bouquet of tulips. His frame is tall and boxy. He turns his head from side to side, observing the world around him. He lets out a playful chuckle as a child waddles past. There is an aura about him that makes him seem just as fresh and vivacious as the season. With spring awakening an effervescent and talkative energy within her, Anna feels the need to approach him. She composes herself, pushing her hair away from her face, and pulling at her sweater nervously. Before she can tap his shoulder, he turns his head in her direction, stopping her in her tracks. She sees his narrow brown eyes, peering through wire glasses at the red tulips in her hands. She can’t move, stuck with her free hand glued to the bottom of her sweater and her other hand still holding the tulips. Just tighter than before. “You’re lucky I didn’t grab those,” he teases, as he turns around with a bright and sprightly smile. His glasses look too big for his face. He has raspberry colored lips that look shiny and hydrated. His skin is the color of golden beach sand in the summer sun. He has a glowing smile so big, it could light up the sky on the night of a new moon. Something about seeing him face to face sparks something inside her. The light that flitters through the trees is brighter. The flowers in their hands take on a richer, more vivid color. The cashier smiles bigger, and her voice raises in pitch. The birds chirp in harmonies. The butterflies thump against the walls of her stomach. The world comes to life around her. “I suppose I am,” Anna laughs, feeling relieved she didn’t have to start the conversation. However, in just one second she feels the need to say something else. She gestures to the ‘For Sale’ basket that she found her tulips in. “I meant to ask you if you found those in the basket right there? I really love tulips, but I didn’t see any other ones around.” “Yeah,” he answers, longingly. “The only two bouquets of tulips they have, I think. I’m glad I left one. No matter how tempting it was to take the last one... I knew there was someone out there who loved them just as much as me, and they deserve their tulips too.” “Thank you very much.” Anna doesn’t know if she’s thanking him for leaving the tulips or taking the time to talk to her. Even so he accepts her gratitude with a nod and a grin. “You know what tulips symbolize?” She furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity. The only thing tulips have ever symbolized to Anna is her hometown. On her way to visit her mom every few months, she passes the local farm, where they grow in neatly arranged rows over the hills. Anna wonders if that same farm is supplying the tulips that are in their arms right now. “No, I’m not familiar.” “I used to read about the language of flowers,” he leans in, as if he’s telling a great secret, so close that she can smell remnants of cloves and cinnamon on his breath. “Tulips, red tulips specifically, represent true love. Passionate love.” Her face burns, and her body shivers. Her heart races, and her mind slows. She wants to say more, but her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. All of Anna’s feelings are conflicting with one another. It keeps her still, standing there stupidly smiling until they’re interrupted. “Excuse me, sir,” the cashier prompts him to move forward. “You’re next.” “So sorry,” He says sincerely, walking forward in line. Even the way he apologizes to strangers is pleasant. As he steps up the counter, turning away from her, the reality of the situation dawns on Anna. The smile falls off of her face. Her shoulders slump forward. She drops her head and stares at her ruffled socks peeking out of her black Mary Janes. She just knows that the conversation is over this very second. Meet cutes only exist in movies, she thinks to herself. She stares at the flower of true love, feeling bad that so many red tulips are bought by people who may never experience such a thing. She feels bad for herself too. Anna has always been a hopeless romantic, though she will never call it that. The phrase seems so comfortless. The word hopeless burrows itself under her skin. Is it really so pathetic to want to find love? “I’d like to buy her flowers too please,” he says, cutting off the rampage in her mind at once. Anna hesitantly looks up and passes her flowers over to the cashier with unsure hands. She looks up at the side of his face the whole time he’s paying, examining everything about him. His unruly facial hair. His golden earring that she didn’t even notice before. The way his smile looks charming, even from the side. She looks away as he shoves his wallet back into his pocket, silently hoping he didn’t catch her staring. He hands her back the bundle of tulips with steady, calloused hands. Her fingertips feel his warmth for just a moment, immediately wanting more. She can barely mumble a thank you while accepting them, shyness finally taking its hold on her. He seems more confident than when she first walked up. “I forgot to ask your name.” Still stunned from the reality of the whole situation, Anna takes time to breathe before answering. She worries somehow it would all come out wrong if she speaks without thinking. “I’m Susanna. My friends call me Anna.” “My name is Asher, and I’d love to see you again, Anna.” He pulls a red tulip out of his bouquet and hands it to her. She keeps her eyes locked on his brilliant honey colored ones, as she accepts the flower in her hand. “Until then.” Anna stands there unmoving, watching him as he walks away. Finally, she looks down at the tulip, planning to place it carefully in her hair. Unexpectedly, she sees a small piece of paper tucked into the flower bulb. Of course, he wouldn’t just leave without giving her a way to get in contact. The small piece of paper is the ticket to communicating with him again: a ten digit number in flowery writing. She sits on the sidewalk, tucking the flower into her hair and the number into the pocket of her vintage sailor shorts. She watches as families and couples flit from one store to the next. Birds fly from tree to tree, singing out beautiful tunes. Teenagers walk through the streets in groups, laughing and talking amongst themselves lightheartedly. As she sits, allowing the world to rush by her, the blue sky fades into various shades of purples and pinks. Puffs of cotton drift across the ever changing heavens and out of her vision. In her mind, she compares them to her doubts and fears. Fading away so she can focus on the beauty of her life. Anna thinks back on her experience meeting Asher, and the dream she had just the night before. His rough hands are reminiscent of the thorny vines that protected her in the dream. His warm laugh and melodic voice is comforting like the petals. His considerate and gentle outlook on life brings a similar feeling of calm to her. It makes her think if her dream was really that comforting? She woke up feeling more relaxed than she had been in a long time, but meeting someone like Asher has brought her to a new level of euphoria that she didn’t know existed. She feels herself vibrating on a whole new frequency, feeling things she never felt before. Her soul is filled with the colors of spring. Spring may be a season that brings life, opportunity, rebirth, and joy into the world around her. But in this moment, Anna is convinced Asher is her spring, birthing new opportunities for connection into her life. The birds are the messengers of his presence. The flowers are the symbols that he uses to convey his love to the world around him. Just like the spring is thawing out the ground below her, Anna could feel that Asher’s company began to thaw her heart. She can’t help, but ask the question circulating in her mind. Was her true comfort waiting here for her the whole time?


“... she said, surprisingly. ‘What of all our love before? Did that mean nothing? ’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘It did at the time ,’ he said firmly. ‘ But not anymore .’ ‘Oh ,’ she sighed sorrowfully-” “Stop, stop, STOP,” Rob exclaimed and waved with his hands. One of them looked like it was going to fall off again. “I can’t take this anymore! What is this, Sally? Are you trying to poison me? I’m dead already!” A gasp traveled through the room. The rest of the writing circle participants looked at Rob with surprise. “That’s a bit harsh, man,” said Joe, a rotting old farmer. “I’m sure she’s doing her best.” The old lady up front clenched to her little writing pad and nodded fervently. “See? She’s nodding and all...” Rob shook his head. “What, are you all deaf? I’m just asking because that would explain how you could stand and listen to this crap!” “Rob!” exclaimed Denise, a woman that still acted from habit and put make-up on her face. “We do not talk like that here! Only positive encouragement!” Rob snorted. “It’s best she hears the truth sooner, rather than later.” He turned to poor Sally, who’d probably be turning all red, had she not lost all her blood already. He placed both palms around his mouth, to make his next words even more clear. “You suck!” “Rob,” Bill said and stood up. Of all of them, he still looked the most human. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. This group is for supporters only.” Rob stood up. “I was just about to. You sorry lot make me rot faster than normal.” He deliberately bumped Bill’s shoulder as he walked past him and out on the street. What a bunch of losers , he thought. Thinking they can write just because they can hold a pen- “Rob!” He turned around. It was Bill. He was waving an extra hand in his hand at him. “You forgot something.” Rob looked at his hands. The right one was missing. He sighed. Even with a faulty hand, I can still write better than Sally. He stomped up to Bill and snatched his hand. “Thanks.” “Why are you such a dick, Rob?” “I don’t know, maybe it’s the weather.” The heat was getting to him. Or perhaps it was maggots, eating at his flesh that caused all these frustrations. Constantly chewing and biting. It itched and he couldn’t really scratch because they were somewhere deep in his flesh. He could hear them feasting on him at night. “If you keep acting like this no one is going to want to read your book, should you actually finish it,” Bill called after him. “Good,” Rob replied. “Wouldn’t want their simple minds to twist an ankle on my fast, clean pacing!” He limped down the street, readjusting his hand as he went along. In his mind, all those disgusting adverbs screamed to him in Sally’s high-pitched, nervous voice. Surprisingly, apologetically, sorrowfully... He snorted. “She’s right though,” he said to himself. “First I was surprised, then I was sorry for coming and now I’m full of sorrow for the slaughtered prose.” Being dead is no excuse for writing dead weight. Rob limped all the way from Bill’s street to his own house. Quite a feat for a broken-legged, maggot-infested, irritated to hell by bad narration zombie. All he needed now was some idiot with a 12-gauge shotgun to spray his brains all over the street. That kind of stuff happened rarely these days, the apocalypse settled and all, but there were still human survivors roaming around. One couldn’t do wrong by being careful. Eventually, Rob arrived at his home, hand readjusted and brains still slushing in his skull. He noticed his neighbor watering the grass with a garden hose. Poor fool. Didn't he know there was no water? “Hey, Ned.” The man snapped up straight. “Huh? Oh, hey there, Rob!” “Sprinkling, I see?” “Yeah, man’s gotta do what the misses tells him to, you know.” “How’s the wife?” “Still dead, thank heavens!” “That’s great!” Dear God, the pinnacle of conversation, right there! Still, better than surprisingly, apologetically and sorrowfully... “Hey Rob,” Ned said before Rob would disappear inside his house and not be seen for days again. “Would you like to come to our house and have dinner tonight?” Rob sighed. “Ned, we’re zombies, we don’t eat dinner. Unless you've got a fresh human in the fridge, then perhaps you can persuade me.” “Oh, right.” Ned seemed confused. “Forgot about that.” “Not surprisingly ,” Rob said and grimaced. “Your brain is rotting. Cheers.” He slammed the door and cursed when he saw Mittens, his pet dead cat, chewing on her paw in the hallway. “How many times have I told you, stop eating yourself!” Mittens looked up, her black tongue sticking out. “I know you’re too slow and lazy to catch mice, but geez! Your own foot? Seems kind of desperate, if you ask me.” He shooed the cat away and walked to the kitchen. Then again, what did he eat? Nothing. The maggots were the ones eating him . And it was the damnedest thing. By all laws of physics and nature and the holy bible, he should have been dead the moment his heart stopped beating, yet here he was, still walking, talking and insulting other should-be-dead-too people. Ain’t this a hell , he thought. Well, at least I can still write. For some reason, perhaps the same one Ned was still ‘watering’ the grass, he checked the fridge. Of course, beer was long gone. So was everything else. Not that he needed any of it, but it just seemed right to stuff things in his mouth. Perhaps I should munch on my hand, like Mittens . He shuffled his feet to the living room where a desk awaited him. On it was an old antique typewriter and a work in progress manuscript of a novel. Computers were out of the question as they were out of electricity as the power plant workers were out of life. Such is the nature of apocalypse , Rob guessed, planted his butt on a chair, and threw his hands on the desk. He sighed loud and deep. Not that he needed to breathe or anything. It just helped calm his nerves. He listened to the silence for a moment. The lack of that thumping in his chest didn’t bother him anymore and neither did the lack of hearing himself breathe. The noise from the maggots in his flesh did, though. God, they’re as annoying as those adverbs! He placed his hands on the steel keys and began typing. The stamping of metal on paper helped to distract him from the maggot-chewing sounds and his mind soon fell in sync with the story. The words flew out like piss used to. It took a little effort, but when it came, it came in a torrent. Rob sat there, in the zone, writing and in his mind telling Sally ‘Look here, meat bag. This is how it’s done!’ A grin crept upon his face, pulling the dried up and shriveled skin of his cheeks closer. Then, his right hand fell off. Again. “Son of a-” “Meow!” “Mittens, NO!” The cat jumped on the desk with a sudden spring of energy from her saggy legs and snatched Rob’s right hand. “No, you devil! Leave that!” He tried to catch her with his left hand, but the lack of hair on the cat’s body and her rotting skin made her slippery to grab. She jumped down and ran away with the hand dangling from her mouth. Rob cursed and sprang after her. If she eats my hand... Nah, it was probably too big for her. But she could tear it apart. “Give back my stupid hand or I’ll gut you!” He heard a crash coming from the kitchen. He rounded the corner as fast as his broken leg would allow him and caught a glimpse of the cat’s back legs as she jumped out the open kitchen window. Out went the hand. Rob sighed. Why did you leave the window open, stupid? Oh yeah, to air the house from your decaying smell... It was hot outside and Rob didn’t have the nerve or the will to go Mittens-hunting. But he did need his hand to write. I guess I could type with just one. It would take him longer, though. But it’s not like he was in a hurry anyway. He was dead, he had all the time in the world. Or at least before the maggots ate him whole. And so, Rob shuffled his zombie feet back to the living room, slumped behind the desk, and continued punching the keys, this time like a granny, using only the index finger of his left hand. I bet this is how old Sally writes... Day turned into night, and night into day, and so it went for weeks. Rob did not need to sleep, though he did occasionally lie down and pretend he was still a human. Old habits die hard, they used to say. For Rob, he died before his habits did. As Rob continued to work on his debut novel, Mittens came to check up on him from time to time. He didn’t let himself be fooled by the sweet purr, he knew the beast was just waiting to see if anything else fell off from him. On occasion, she would jump in his lap, but he’d shoo her away. “My wiener was the first thing to go, so scram!” Typing with one hand proved to be slow and awkward, not only because he was right-handed, but because he was dead as well and therefore inherently clumsy. He’d press the wrong keys from time to time and fuss about it. There was no delete button on the typewriter. All your typos and grammatical mistakes were forever imprinted on the page. Stupid cat, snatching my hand... As he continued to write, determined to get the book done, Ned would come knocking on his door once a week. When Rob wouldn’t answer, the man would walk around the house and come knock on the living room window. “Rob!” his voice would come muffled from outside. “Not unless it’s a human, Ned!” Rob would answer every time and Ned would walk away, bewildered at his forgetfulness. From time to time, a fat white maggot would fall from a hole in Rob’s body and land between the keys of the typewriter, or on the floor or desk. “Ha!” Rob would smile, and pick up the maggot. “Payback time!” Then he’d eat it. Not because he was hungry, but because he was angry. And so it went. Until three weeks later, when the last words were finally put down on maggot-stained paper, and Rob found himself finishing the book he began writing when he was still alive. “There you have it, folks,” he announced to the empty living room. “I’ve done it! To all the critics, doubters and nay-sayers, you were right. I did die before I finished the book. But I finished it nonetheless! Ha!” He stood up from the chair - which he didn’t move from for the whole last week - and noticed a pool of maggots where his butt used to sit. He felt much lighter. It was ironic, having suffered from extra weight all his life, even though he went to the gym regularly, to find himself losing weight by sitting and punching keys on a typewriter. The bloody bastards are omitting me like I omit those accursed adverbs! Rob collected all the papers of his novel and bounded them together into a neat-looking manuscript. He felt immensely proud. He couldn’t wait to show his masterpiece to the blokes at Bill’s, who were probably still writing only a page a week. “Hey Rob,” Ned said as Rob left the house with the manuscript under his arm. “Wanna have some- Ooh, what you got there?” “A book,” Rob said with pride. “You finished it?” “I did.” “What's it about?” “It’s about the attitudes we take towards life and death,” Rob explained. “It follows the story of a mortician who discovered joy and passion in corpses. Its title is Dying Alive or Living Dead, a story of a mortician’s way to happiness. ” Ned nodded with approval. “Sounds very profound and interesting. Are you going to publish it?” “Sure am,” said Rob and felt an immense sense of pride. “But first, I’m going to rub it in some people’s faces.” “Have fun, neighborino ! When you come back, me and my wife are having dinner tonight...” “Sure Ned, sure.” Rob walked down the street, pride and confidence making up for the slouched neck and broken leg. His mind was soaring high up in the clouds, thinking of how people would react to his book. Oh my god, they would say. Brilliant! Just brilliant! You're a real prodigy, Rob, a natural! Oh, I wish I’d written that! He chuckled to himself. The thing he was looking forward to the most was to see the expression on Sally’s face when he smashes her silly prose with his gripping narration. Surprisingly, non-apologetically and triumphantly indeed. Then a sound of screeching tires ripped him from his daydreaming. Rob turned. He stood in the middle of the road, crossing the street at a crosswalk. Another stupid old habit. There was a car, a pickup, racing up the street. A bunch of humans were sitting tight in the back and they held guns in their hands. They were shooting innocent zombies that walked the street. No way in hell , Rob thought. Now?! He just finished a book. He was not going to become a brain splatter, not until Sally gets her ass whooped! Rob quickened up the pace. He couldn’t run because his leg was broken and he was dead, energy was not that high, but he could limp faster. And so he did. The pickup was coming closer, the gunshots sounding louder. He could hear the thuds of bodies falling to the ground, his fellow zombies dropped dead again. The humans cheered and whistled. God damn sons of- “Hey look, Cleetus!” a voice shouted from the pickup. “We’ve got a runner!” “Whoo-wee! Look at ‘im go!” “Speed up, speed up, I wanna get ‘im in mid-run!” “What’s that he’s carrying?” “I bet it’s some zombie-invasion plans! He’s a messenger! Shoot him!” “It’s a book, you bloody halfwits!” Rob shouted over his shoulders, but all the humans could understand was growling and grunting. They were dumb like that, didn't speak the language of the dead. Rob heard gunshots echo behind him and bullets flew over his head. He doubled down on his limping, nearly ripping off his rotten feet. He reached the sidewalk. There was a store nearby where he could hide. “Dang-nabbit! Don’t let him escape!” Something hit him in the back, hard. Probably bullets. But Rob kept going. So far as they didn’t get his brain it didn’t matter what happened to his body. Don’t hit the book, don’t hit the book... “Davis, ram the sumbitch! We can’t hit his head!” Rob didn’t dare look behind him. He heard an engine revving up. Car tires hit the sidewalk and the humans grunted. He opened the door to the store and noticed they were locked. What idiot locked- Then something big and heavy slammed into his back, plowing him through the door and through the front of the store, smashing wood and glass. The pickup crashed into the building. Rob found himself pinched between the hood and the store’s wooden counter, unable to move, but still alive. Or dead, rather. Undead. There was some coughing and some moaning, the humans complaining about hitting their heads in the crash. An argument erupted between them. But Rob didn’t pay attention to them, all he was concerned about was his book. He glanced down and noticed he still held it in his hand. He relaxed a little. Then he smelled smoke. “Look what you’ve done! The car’s a wreck!” “At least we got the messenger zombie! He ain’t gonna-” “You idiot! Them Z’s ain’t smart enough to have messengers! It’s probably a newspaper it’s holding!” The gas leaking from the pickup ignited. The humans began taking salvageable stuff out and away from the car. “No!” Rob growled. He tried to break free, but couldn’t. The fire was starting to lick his legs. It didn’t hurt. But his book would burn. “NO!” he shouted and raised the manuscript as high as he could. “Take this! You bloody idiots take this!” He waved the manuscript at them. “What in tarnation...” One human stepped closer. “Careful, Cleetus! Don’t get bitten! And the fire-” The human reached and took the manuscript from Rob. “Yes, take it! Take it and show it to the world! Show everyone my legacy! My masterpiece-” A shot from a 12-gauge shotgun splattered Rob’s brains all over the wooden counter in the back. “Why did you do that for?” Cleetus asked. Davis shrugged. “I didn’t like how it growled. What did it give you?” Cleetus looked down. “Dunno,” he shrugged. “Looks like a manuscript, but I can’t read a word of it. Total gibberish.” Davis snorted. “The poor bastard probably used to be a writer. You reckon he wrote that?” “Nah, look at him,” Cleetus said. “He’s got one hand. And he’s a zombie . They’re dumb as f-” The fire reached the pickup’s bed where a heap of C4 rested in a gym bag. The explosion that ensued incinerated the car, the men, Rob, his manuscript, and a good part of the building. A few blocks away, at Bill’s house, the writing circle was in session and they heard the explosion. “Oh my,” Sally exclaimed. “I dearly hope no one is hurt badly.” At that remark, the fires consuming Rob’s flesh hissed and sputtered violently .


Every day I paint a mask. The features shift and change with the tide of my own self-confidence but it’s always my face. The different masks of me, which I wear to avoid scaring my loved ones. I have a mask for strangers, a mask for friends, a mask for acquaintances, and one for family. I have masks for myself, depending on my mood, and sometimes they fight while I’m driving to work. These masks are not lies, merely a fraction of the truth. Every day I paint these fractions and every day I see the same face. It’s not until I show the canvas to someone that the image shifts into the fraction they find familiar. I’ve seen a carefully painted smile droop down into a stoic stare. I’ve seen an impotent scream blur into a smile so bright I don’t recognize it. I stare for hours at that smile and wonder how a painting of my own face could hold more joy than I’ve ever felt. Occasionally, I paint to try and grasp that joy. My friends ooh and ahh and compliment my smile. They go on and on about how impressed they are with my ability to pull such joy from myself. They bemoan how they are "forever tortured artists" and “full of emotion and anxiety”. I suppress the urge to tell them how I hope every day for anxiety, for anything. I say my polite goodbyes and take the painting home to inspect every line and crease in my face. I stare deep into the eyes, windows to an empty house. I try to find something that would send their impression of me into my heart but all I find is the same dying ember, an ember too dull to feel alive but still too scared of going out to extinguish itself. I hold onto it just to fill the space. I plummet into a dark abyss of existential dread. And just when I think it’s all for nothing I realize that it’s just another mask. A mask that protects me from failure. A mask that makes everything easier. And if it’s just a mask then it must be a lie. The portrait I paint returns to a smile. It’s not as brilliant but it’s real and the ember grows to a small flame. I take that flame and use the energy to explore. I leave my home and go out into the world. I see strangers helping strangers. I see families. I see lovers and friends. The beautiful coexistence that makes up life. I take it all in and acknowledge my unimportance. My problems are nothing in the grand scheme of the world. All around me are swarms of stories, big and small. People with their own masks that they just never put to canvas. I see a car rip down the road with no regard for others. I see a woman stop in the middle of the sidewalk to blabber some nonsense and block my path. The scream of a spoiled child. The barking of an untrained dog. None of them understand how small they are. They don’t realize that their petty problems are so very unimportant. My flame burns hot with annoyance and anger and the portrait I paint when I return is one of rage. I put it on my wall in the backroom so that only I can see it. I hold it for myself. I need it to be pure, unspoiled by the gaze of someone I know who could transform it back to that vapid grin. But even as I put it up on my wall the face turns back to an even stare. My flame has burned too bright and used up its fuel. I can now barely remember the rage that was there. My painting continues and the faces stay the same. I’ve added one for the frustration that was born from my efforts. My walls are covered in half-remembered paintings. I stopped inviting friends over as the number of canvases has worried them. I played it off as a joke and told them that I’ve just been inspired lately. They think I’m getting rid of them all in a week or so. I don’t intend to. I keep hoping that one of them sticks but they never do. All I get is flashes of feeling, little sparks of something that gets lost in the void. I once threw a can of paint on the canvas in a desperate attempt to see something new but the paint just slid down the front. I ripped another canvas to shreds and it reformed in an instant. Every night I walk to bed through a hallway of blank faces. I can barely remember the spark I once had. There’s no energy for rage. My pursuit is now an addiction, a madness. I thought I had a breakthrough several days ago. The face that appeared when I pulled back from the canvas was unfamiliar to me. It had a look of contentment, of satisfaction. It also wasn’t me. I had hoped to paint a new mask for myself but a new face was at least a change from the endless blank stares. Perhaps I could learn more about my own spark by painting others? I took the painting to my hallway, emboldened by my success, and put it up next to the others. I stood back and something in my head emptied out onto the floor. The painting was me. It had always been me. I just couldn’t recognize my own face anymore. I felt my consciousness float to the ceiling. I was looking down on myself from above. I’m still me, but I don’t know what me is. I watch my body go back to the canvas. I watch it pick up the paints and continue with another self-portrait. The quality is better than ever before. The strands of the shirt, the individual hairs on my head, and the pores of my skin are painted in vivid detail. The work is incredible but I notice that the portrait has no face. I wait for my body to finish but it just picks up the faceless painting and hangs it on the wall. Then it hangs another. And another. The blank stares and old emotions are replaced by an endless line of faceless nothings. And that’s where I am now. Watching from above as my body paints faceless self-portraits. I no longer want to find a new mask. I have no more masks. These are who I truly am. Nothing. An empty sack waiting to be filled. Eventually, my body requires food and so it leaves the apartment. My body talks to friends and it mimics their laughs. It hugs my family and tells them it loves them only after they say it first. I float above it and watch. Not happy. Not sad. Not scared. Not joyful. Not anything.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion As writers, our internet search histories can be quite interesting (to say the least) and it’s a running joke that if any government agencies got a hold of them they would have some serious questions for us. This week, I thought it would be fun for everyone to answer the following questions about their **search history as a writer**. I’m looking forward to all of your answers. * What search would these “government agencies” have the most questions about? * What is the most ridiculous thing in your search history as a writer? * Have you ever fallen down any rabbit holes while researching? * Which topic have you enjoyed researching the most? ***Please keep all answers within the rules of the subreddit*** *** * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? * You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


It was a warm August afternoon, a gentle sun blessed the immaculate fairways of the Long Island Country Club, an oasis of tranquility and temporary shelter from the violent storm raging on Wall Street. Lehman Brothers was in trouble. Four elderly men, dressed in polos, colorful slacks, were ambling toward the club house, heads down, pensive. “My God, Bernie, your chip shot on 17 was a doozy”, said Danny Solomon the suave Gold Coast realtor. It had been an unusually subdued round of golf, opportunities for small talk few and far between. Bernie Madoff was visibly anxious and spent much of the morning off by himself on his cellphone, missing the action on a couple of holes. His three companions gave him space, they knew he had a lot on his mind, but Danny needed guidance, the man’s wisdom. Things were getting serious. Should he sell his stocks and take a loss? “Thank you, Danny. The more I work at my stroke, the luckier I get,” said Bernie, smiling wryly, enigmatic as ever. His three companions - friends of Bernie - were in thrall of the great investor, and chortled at the remark; a combination of brilliance and self-effacement that they’d grown used to over the years. Bernie stopped at the threshold to the club house, on the patio, where they might not be overheard by the staff or other members. His three companions, alert to his every word, attentive to his every gesture, stopped and gathered in a polite huddle. “Gentlemen, I know you are worried about the market,” said Bernie, slight frown, hands clasped, the look of a sympathetic priest. Larry Folsom, a jumpy guy, owner of a local metal fabrication firm, allowed his agitation to show, “Oh, Bernie, please tell us that we are not in trouble.” The exclamation was a lapse, a social misstep, born of anxiety; Larry’s business was struggling owing to cheap knock-off products from China, so he relied heavily on his Madoff portfolio to sustain his North Shore lifestyle. “Larry, for goodness’ sake, calm down,” said Bernie. It was a gentle admonishment that shifted Larry’s status ever so slightly to the periphery of the inner circle. “The reason I wanted to speak to you - in private - is to tell you that my traders are hedged against this volatility and are riding a handsome profit from the market crash”. “Options?” said Jimmy DiNapoli, who liked to think he knew a thing or two about investing, “Out of the money puts? I heard on the radio that they’re the only game in town right now”. “Yes, options, put-options, and some naked shorts,” said Bernie momentarily surprised at Jimmy the Pizza Parlor operator - from the mouths of idiots - “two, three standard deviations, we’ve got it covered”. Jimmy was honored by the answer - so receptive to his input, so clever - and huffed with approval. Indeed, all three clients nodded knowingly, though not one of them understood a thing about trading and investing. All they really cared about was the Madoff & Co portfolio statements, up-and-to-the-right, every month, regular as clockwork. They were fat and happy, and obviously super smart. It’s all about choosing the right horse for the race, having the right friends. “Genius” said Danny Solomon, a big handsome man with swept-back silver hair and a winning smile. Danny’s portfolio was over $10 million, and he was months into his third marriage, each bride younger and more beautiful than the prior - all thanks to Bernie. Bernie dismissed the praise as unnecessary, but it felt good to be in the company of his close friends, his rich friends, his grateful friends. He’d built Madoff’s investment firm from nothing, and now it was worth billions, and he’d taken his friends along for the ride. They’d all started with nothing - scrappy boys from Queens - and now they were rich men, living the dream. “We have an opportunity to double our money in the next six months. The Fed is throwing money at Lehmans, and I know for absolute certain that the liquidity crisis will be resolved by next Tuesday,” he tapped his nose. The other men understood that he was close with top men in the business - moguls, bankers and politicians - and something very big, very hush-hush, was obviously in the works. “Big guns?” said Jimmy, the Pizza guy. “Massive market intervention,” confirmed Bernie. “Opportunity?” said Danny the realtor, nudging Larry Folsom playfully. “Yes, massive opportunity,” said Bernie. “Are you interested?” “How much?” said Larry, a bit skeptically. He really was on a tight budget, and Bernie would not let him dip into his portfolio. He was grateful of course - the value kept going up - but his wife needed a new car, his daughter’s college fees were due, dental implants cost a fortune. “As much as you can afford,” said Bernie. “Count me in!” said Jimmy, “I’m good for a million or two, Ginny too”. “Me too!” said Danny, who had Madoff money squirreled away in some offshore accounts. “Why don’t you guys go in and get lunch? I just need to take care of business. I’ll join you in a moment,” said Bernie. A couple of million was small potatoes. His friends wandered into the clubhouse, relieved that their nest-eggs were in such good hands. CNBC was playing on the TV monitor. The news was very bad, things were getting worse, but not for them. +++ “What the fuck” shouted Bernie into the cellphone, “you’re supposed to handle this shit”. Bernie was reaming Brian, the Madoff head trader, a second asshole. “I’m trying to dump the Lehman position, but Goldman and Morgan are both selling stock faster than green grass through a goose. We’re stuck holding the bag”. “Aren’t we protected?” Bernie paused - what was it that fucking Jimmy-the-idiot said? Options! “What about put options?” said Bernie. It was the first time Bernie had ever mentioned options. Brian was shocked. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? When did we ever hedge our positions?”. Bernie conceded the point with a grunt. Things were bad. He hung up on Brian, and called Janice, his back-office manager. “When do the statements go out?” asked Bernie. “Tomorrow” said Janice. “Do me a favor, send out the Friends and Family statements asap, but wait up on the rest of the clients. See if we can buy some time. Make sure everything is priced appropriately”. “Appropriately?” said Janice in response to the code word. “Use your discretion,” replied Bernie. He trusted her to massage the numbers. “Lots of inbound calls today, Bernie,” said Janice. He detected a note of terror in her voice. She was the ballast in his ship, and had worked with him for over 30 years. They’d been through tough times before, they’d get through this one too, somehow. “Anything I should know?” said Bernie, pulling at his soaking polo shirt, he was sweating profusely. “JPMorgan is making margin calls,” she said. This was bad. JP could make or break Madoff & Co with a single phone call to the Fed or the SEC. “Take cash out of the F&F accounts and wire the funds to JPMorgan so that they’re off our back for a while”. The Friends and Family accounts were like a big slush fund. The trick was to never ever let it run dry. “Will do”. “Don’t tell Brian, don’t tell anybody”. “How are we going to get out if this situation, Bernie?” “The same way we always do. Just keep a record of the transactions in your book, the special book. Call me if things get worse”. Bernie walked into the club house. His friends were seated near the TV monitor, each ignoring a tall glass of iced tea sitting in front of them. They were transfixed by the screen. “Gentlemen” said Bernie, taking his seat at the table. He glanced up at the screen. The Dow was down 17% and Lehman stock was trading down more than 80%, trading under $5.00 a share. “We’re not in Lehman stock, right, Bernie?” said Danny, worried. “Right, we sold out of the bank positions weeks ago”. Danny and Jimmy looked relieved; Larry was still troubled, twitchy. “Bernie, they say that there’s margin calls, some of the smaller hedge funds are struggling. That guy up in Boston thinks Madoff is in trouble”. Bernie laughed and took a sip of the iced tea, laced with Captain Morgan rum. “Hey Larry, relax,” it was Danny speaking. He placed a reassuring hand on Larry’s tense shoulder, “Bernie’s got this covered”. Larry was not easily reassured. “The Boston guy says he’s simulated your portfolio, and the returns are statistically impossible”. Larry was beginning to irritate Bernie. “Gah! Such nonsense” said Bernie, “An outsider cannot understand our risk-management methods”. He took a deep draft of the Iced Tea. His phone was ringing. He glanced at the screen - Janice - and denied the call. “How’s my God Daughter doing at Rutgers?” said Bernie, looking at Larry. Larry’s face lit up, “she’s doing great Bernie”. “Tell her I’ve got a job for her at the firm, next summer”. Bernie’s phone was ringing again. Janice again. He turned off the ringer. It was buzzing in his pocket. “Do you have to get going?” said Danny. “Yeah, I should probably check in with the team. Remember to wire Janice the funds if you want to buy at the bottom. Fortune favors the bold”. “You got it Bernie!” said Jimmy the pizza guy, two thumbs up. +++ A couple of million from his friends wouldn’t cut it. Bernie gave the valet a $50 bill - word of his generosity would get around the club - and slipped into the driver’s seat of the sleek black BMW. He idled the car on the forecourt, a lazy breeze brushed the dogwood trees. Bernie’s hands were shaking. The situation was dire, but it could change in an instant and get better. The phone was buzzing again. It was Janice again. Things could get worse. Bernie threw the phone onto the passenger seat, shifted the transmission and the automobile screeched off the hot forecourt.. Best to stay out of the office and away from the sharks in Manhattan. He headed for the Expressway, east bound, toward Montauk; he’d lie low for a while at the beach house, with his wife, Ruth. +++ The maid opened the door and looked worried. Bernie could hear the TV playing somewhere in the living room. He handed the car keys to the maid, and joined Ruth in the living room. She was twisted up like a pretzel on the white sofa, watching the financial news. “Oh Bernie!” she said, tears streaking mascara down her face, her neat, trimmed hair was mussed up. She was the most put-together woman he knew, his rock, so the tears were upsetting. His rock was crumbling. “I’ve got to sit down,” he stumbled, fell wearily into his reading chair. “Lehman’s going under”, she said, “and it’s going to take us down with it”. Angry, she hit her thighs with her hands, “you should never have listened to Jan”. Jan was the CFO at Lehman, a family friend. He’d reassured them, not once, but twice, late night phone calls. They’d bought more stock. “We’re ruined, aren’t we?” said Ruth. Bernie reached across to grab her trembling hand, to reassure her, but she spurned his advance. “No, we’re not ruined,” said Bernie, “our money is ring-fenced. If the firm goes under, we’ll be fine. The boys too.” It was a small relief. He was still the smartest man in the room... that funny looking kid from Queens with the big ambition. “But won’t we be liable for our clients’ funds?” she said. It was a good question; Madoff the firm would be liable criminally, but Madoff the man, maybe not. He needed to make sure that the paper-trail stopped with Brian and Janice, stopped with the Special Book. It was a good plan. They signed the books. They dealt with the regulators. They would take the fall. “Don’t worry, they’ll have a hell of a job pinning the blame on us”. “We’ll never be able to show our faces in public again,” said Ruth. Her calendar was jammed solid with galas and charity events, the opera and trips to Europe. And the neighbors, the cousins and in-laws, their closest friends - the Friends and Family - they were all clients of the firm. How could she ever face them? The maid came into the room, “Mr. Madoff, Sir, there are men at the door, with cameras. It looks like a TV crew”. “Tell them to go away”. +++ Bernie was hunched over the bathroom sink, wearing his striped pajamas. He could end it now with razor cuts across the wrists, or a bullet in the head; he had firearms in the safe downstairs. He knew it was the easy way out, maybe the right thing to do because it would make things easier on the boys, on Ruth. He could take the whole damn mess with him to the grave, but who was he kidding? He didn’t have that kind of courage. He’d always imagined a graceful decline, the best managed care money could buy, he’d die in his sleep surrounded by paid help, eased into the night with medications. He pulled an amber vial of sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and examined the label. Fifty years and counting since he’d taken the big leap, the one act of courage, using money saved from summer jobs and a loan from his father-in-law. It started off well enough - the big scheme - he was the boy genius, king of the heap, but a setback here, a bad bet there, an unlucky one-in-a-million streak, and suddenly Madoff was in a hole, and the hole just kept getting deeper and deeper. Sleight of hand, cooked books, spinning dreams, he kept everybody happy. When Peter demanded payment, he borrowed from Paul. When Paul needed money, he borrowed it from Mary. Just for a little bit, for a little while... temporary measures... until the market came back, till he’d dug his way out of the hole. But the market never came back, and he kept digging, digging, digging that hole. He took three sleeping tablets. +++ “It’s a fucking miracle, Bernie”. It was Brian the trader on the phone, first thing in the morning. Bernie was staring at the TV screen in disbelief. “Lehman Brothers Bailed Out, Market Rebounds” said the banner headline beneath the talking head. LEH stock was up four-fold. The Saudis took a stake in the company, Buffett too; it was a fucking miracle. “I told you not to worry”, said Bernie, trying the words out for size. He was quick to understand the new reality. It needed a narrative that cast him in the best possible light. “Bernie, you are the fucking man!” Brian was gushing, but then went quiet, conspiratorial. “Last night I was so scared that I nearly did something very stupid,” he almost choked on his words, and seemed about to start crying. . Bernie let the confession pass. It wasn’t his job to provide comfort to this man. This man that nearly blew up his company. If Brian wanted to dwell upon his own failings... that was his narrative, not Bernie’s. “Well thank goodness you didn’t!” said Bernie, jovially, no hint of sympathy. The news was coming at them thick and fast. The S&P500 marked up more than 20% in the pre-market, animal spirits were at work. Lehman was saved, Madoff’s was saved. Yesterday’s blood bath seemed like a bad dream. “We might even make a profit on the Lehman trade,” said Brian. “Tell Janice that I’ll take client calls after the open”. Bernie ended the call. Ruth looked tired but relieved. “Do you think we’re going to be OK?” she asked. “Of course we’ll be OK” said Bernie, snapping his gold cufflinks into place. It was safe to go back to the office. He might even charter a copter to take him to Manhattan from the Hamptons. +++ Danny Solomon was grinning like an idiot; he just could not contain his happiness nor his gratitude. “A toast to our good friend, Bernie Madoff!”, he said, raising a glass, clinking it merrily. Bernie’s golf buddies were in ebullient mood. They were the center of attention in the club house. “I nearly shat my pants, Bernie”, said Danny, “but the Lehman trade worked out, just like you said it would”. Bernie acknowledge his friend. “It was a smart move, Danny. You have to keep your head, when others are losing theirs”. “So true, so true,” said Jimmy the pizza owner, “when do you think Janice will send the statements through? I can’t wait to see this month’s numbers. Up-and-to-the- right, I’ll betcha!” “Soon enough” said Bernie, enigmatic again, wry, smiling. It was Larry Folsom’s turn; he was happy enough, but not as cheerful as Danny or Jimmy, “Yeah Bernie, you’ve still got that magic touch”. A touch of jealousy. Bernie had scanned the F&F accounts, like Santa, tallying the naughties on his list. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t get in at the bottom, Larry. These opportunities don’t come around so often,” said Bernie. It wasn’t just gratitude that Bernie needed, he required compliance too, a key element of the big scheme. “I’m sorry Bernie but I was scared shitless,” admitted Larry, twitch-twitch. Bernie the forgiving, the magnificent, the beneficent, “That’s OK Larry, there’s more important things than money... like family and friends”. There was nothing more important than the slush fund. “I’ll drink to that!” said Danny, “up-and-to-the-right” “Up-and-to-the-right, regular as clockwork”


Would the meek and mild ever triumph, so love could find its way? Fabio drove to his day job as vet, wondering. That morning, he had awoken in the usual way, surrounded by the smother love of his Zia Gabriella, or Gabby as she was affectionately known in his little 'hood. Long ago and far away now, Fabio had become an orphan, so his father's older sister had brought him up, family first. Fabio brushed off his trousers, covered with cat fur again.He did love all creatures great and small, hence his vocation. Zia Gabby had taken to feeding a vast array of stray felines in the suburbs, in his little corner of the world. The cats understood Italian quite well, and dined on pasta Bolognaise in different formats. "Let's face it," Fabio told himself, "we're all in a good paddock! Not exactly malnourished. No dumb arguments from me." He patted his developing pot belly, and started his day of healing fur and feather, with a compassionate smile for all his pet owners. At the age of 35, every Sunday, Fabio dutifully drove Zia Gabby to Mass, still feeling like the oldest altar boy in the Church. He walked before the parish priest, a good shepherd, as he held the bible of the Holy Word. It was what it was, the days of an ageing male, devoted to his vocation. Brushing off more pet fur when he arrived home, Fabio commenced upgrading a website for his voluntary job. You guessed it, he spent his spare time at a homeless pet refuge. It desperately needed more funds for pet food, more foster owners, more volunteers for pet walking and socializing, to feed the fur pals, and to clean their pens. "This is a sign of the times," Fabio reflected, as Zia Gabby was cooking up a storm in her kitchen, surrounded by her adoring cats, waiting for their pet bowls to magically fill up with food again. Other people in the community were having to confront the emotional chore of surrendering their beloved fur to the refuge in their suburb. The local Food Donation Center was trying to collect tins of pet food, but this was a battle for all pet lovers. On Saturday afternoon, Fabio was there, at the homeless pet refuge, as a new volunteer breezed in, with a smile for everyone. She, too, was slightly vertically challenged, and soon commenced walking dog duties with Fabio. Lucinda was her name, a really lively chatterbox. Bemused, meek and mild Fabio was soon fascinated by her entertaining company. He did not quite know how to respond, when Lucinda shared that she was an atheist, modelling her personal philosophies on Bertrand Russell, hoping to be a humanitarian. She kept on chattering away, sharing her opinions of living in the universe. Strangely, after one walk with the fur boys together, for want of anything romantic to say, Fabio showed Lucinda all his phone photos of Zia Gabby's cats. He did not think any more of that, so he went home, no dumb arguments planned at home or anywhere. Maybe he was a star-crossed lover wannabe. Realistically and practically, he could just envisage his voluble Zia meeting an atheist. Zia Gabby was not exactly inclusive. But by six pm, there was the front door bell. At the door stood Lucinda, smiles aglow. "Who is this?" Zia Gabby asked, "A disgrazia?' Lucinda entered, saying, "No, Zia Gabby, I'm a good girl. Look, photos of my kittens. I've come to meet you and your cats. You are a legend!" Soon, coffee and almond biscotti were flowing. Fabio had no dumb arguments, as the chatterboxes really got on so well, bonding over tales of their love for furry friends. Lucinda finally drove off, honking her car horn, after half an hour of goodbyes with much embracing. "You come back soon!" Zia said, glad for this new friendship. "Bella, bella!" Zia Gabby sent their surprise visitor home laden with plastic containers of pasta and home-cooked biscotti, and a crochet cat jacket. Fabio stood amazed by this by this turn of events in his otherwise devout mild day. Zia Gabby went indoors, and made several signs of the cross in front of her array of plaster saints. "Grazie, dio, now I can have a brag book of babies, real ones!" Really, Zia Gabby had been quietly praying that Fabio would end his days as a permanent bachelor. She had been losing face with no cute baby photos among her peer group of coffee gals, the gossip clutch of their neighborhood. Fortunately for all concerned, Lucinda soon regarded Fabio as walking sex on legs. No, Fabio was so meek and mild, he had no dumb arguments. The reader might say he never took one step back from his love finding its path. Better late than never. Holy nuptials followed, with a beautiful bride, a very proud and happy bridegroom, and more photos for Zia Gabby. Love had found its way, so Fabio kept on praying for Lucinda to have some belief. It was the true magic of the universe, star-crossed lovers meeting in some chance coincidence. Fabio could imagine a rosy future ahead, surrounded by love and permanently covered in cat fur. Acceptance at last. Amusing really, the happy couple's kitties were bilingual, understanding Italian and English. Zia Gabby never arrived empty handed, soon Lucinda's cats had matured to eat both pasta and best chicken mince. The felines were even known to enjoy Chinese takeaway. Malnutrition was definitely not a problem in this version of the family circle magazine. Cultural competence had somehow made it in the 'hood. This little family soon had a thousand reasons to smile, despite Fabio being the oldest altar boy in Christendom. Crochet cat boleros and bandanas soon gave way to hand-made layettes, kept away from cat fur. It was all so humanitarian, of course. Zia Gabriella held her own in the entire 'hood, so thankful that she could hand over Fabio and his pizza and pasta bar to Lucinda. Perfect, they all agreed that they would not discuss religion. But the kids were all baptized anyway, each way bet. They were all animal lovers too. There were never going to be any dumb arguments from Fabio, always so meek and mild.


She began on the floor. Unfeeling tiles. Cold. Sharp smelling dust. Numb. No, that was not the tiles, that was her cheek, blue and swollen, resting on the tiles. The most comforting caress she had felt in this home was the frigid embrace of the cold tile floor doing what it could to numb the throbbing. Arms, hip, leg, hands, they felt the cold too. They would not respond. They weren’t hurt, she just did not believe moving them would help. He stood there. Fuming. Screaming. Hot, ragged, animalistic in his movements. A contrast so stark she was always surprised to not see fog forming in between them. Though the fog did come. She would find herself in the bath. In pajamas. Under his touch. Under him. Never really remembering how she got there. Always being told he could fix it, she could learn, it was her fault, but he forgave her. How he forgave her. She remembered she was in an office. Paper crinkling underneath. Cold. White walls that almost hurt the eyes. Gaudy posters of children and parents that did. A gloved, purple hand appeared in her peripheral, mimicking and floating toward the bruise on her cheek. She flinched so hard she almost fell off the table. Her bag clattered to the floor. Her heart was beating against her ribs. A heat raced through her veins, so sudden and intense she felt dizzy. The doctor held their hands up. She clenched, wrenched and wove her clammy hands into her sweater. Rubbing and itching her way into her skin, trying to remember what she was doing, what she was supposed to do. She began crying. She returned to that office often. Making excuses to get out of the house. The kids have an appointment. There’s a half day at school. My boss needs me to pick up a shift. Weekly lies building her courage. She began to say she had her own appointments. He fought back. He threw his tantrums. She began to realize that those were his problems. She would cry until her lungs hurt, but her headaches stopped, and she could remember every moment of every day. Taking notes. Filling out reports. Waiting in lines and keeping all of the receipts. She would walk until her feet hurt, but she could feel the blood in her legs and arms. The tension was gone, and she believed it was doing her good. She spoke until her throat was raw. Oh how she spoke. With fury, with purpose. She began to practice. Breathing deeply, control over her core, feeling her lungs. Tensing her fists, stretching her jaw, clenching her toes and rolling her shoulders. She was not in control of everything, but she remembered how to learn. It was never easy. She could not remember getting a good night’s sleep, but they were better. Her heart still beat against her chest when she heard the sound of keys jingling or floorboards shifting, but was able to rock it back to rest. She began to treat herself with the same care she would show a child. It was new to her. Every baby step was beautiful and awkward. She would fall, but she began to get back up. She began by tensing her fist, inhaling deeply, thanking the full feeling in her lungs. She exhaled, her breath mixing in the crisp morning air, as free as the new wind blowing in from the bay. The taste of the air was a little sour; the feeling in her back was a little sore. Though, her arms, hip, legs, hands, felt alive. She knew what she wanted to feel, and chose to begin walking toward the sun.


Escape Short fictional story - set in London 2012. I flung my shoes down the stairs instinctively, like a target that I had to reach, a bullseye, and my body an arrow, right to base where the front door was. The flat was small and confined as it was, and while inside, we were always within a few easy steps of each other. I was suddenly aware of the small space between us and that every second of hesitation on my part would fatally reduce my chances of escape. He would humiliate me, he would trap me, and another part of me would be taken and kept there, perhaps forever. All I had to do was make it to my shoes at the base of the stairs, to the front door, and on to the safe street, filled with couples, mums and dads with their infant children, happily enjoying the weekend, and unseasonably good weather, still young enough to have complete faith that nothing bad could happen to me in front of adults, they would stop him if they had to, I just had to get myself there. I half ran and half threw my self down the stairs, every step unsteady, filled with adrenaline, focused on retrieving my shoes and getting out of there. I nearly really did trip over my legs, nearly betraying myself with those impossibly large strides that my body was taking. I reached the base of the stairs, my brown hands, as if in a natural transformation, turned into eagle-like golden talons, cleanly sweeping through the air, ready to scoop up the shoes, swooping in low to claim the prize catch. I faltered as I stood there, in wonder that I had done it, this time it had worked. I had passed, unscathed, as I thought at the time. Only a few minutes ago I had thought the window was my only escape. This simple victory spread a wickedly delicious sensation through my body. But not a moment to waste. The prize was mine and in that second of brief victory I inadvertently and dreadfully turned my head to him, my hand on the latch now, no longer the triumphant eagle but a hunted and terrified girl. He had reached the middle of the staircase, for a brief second we made eye contact and he bellowed at me in a deep snarling voice, sending volts of fear through me “Come back here”, eyes bulging in rage at the thought of me attempting to make an escape, willing me with his complete and pure rage to paralyse me on the spot. I almost froze. But - I tore my eyes away from that unrelenting dark passage and opened the front door, letting the cold crisp air intoxicate me and fill me with a simple and fresh joy - I had made it! I won! I slipped into my shoes and bolted down the street, passing artisanal bakeries, a restaurant offering delicately roasted free range meats, an assortment of quirky cafes where middle class white people seemed to congregate on weekends, a respite from the usual offerings and busy high streets of inner London. Not for a moment, did I take in the possibly startled expressions of the passerby’s at my sudden bursting out and departure on that relatively quiet early afternoon. Freedom. For now.