The Civilized Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice. Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins. In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers. Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of men didn’t slow down at the cry though, they kept marching. Rewind further, something’s still missing. His daughters tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father. The proper way to sharpen an edge, the best way to swing a blade, his father taught him the right way to do things. Kuru would work in their family’s field with his father and they would talk. That’s where Kuru first learned of Rome; the wondrous city, the running water, the books of letters, of laws and democracy. His memories were interrupted by a scream, then another. Kuru stood up just in time to greet a trio of soldiers as they entered his home, swords already drawn. He saw a flash of iron and was barely able to dive out of the way as the sword came down where he had just been smiling. He got to his feet as his family screamed again. The solider that flashed the iron stood between him and his family as the other two soldiers grabbed his wife and daughter and took them from their home. Kuru was confused, scared and angry, but mostly confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He took a step towards the women he loved but had to jump back to avoid being struck by the iron blade. Kuru had never fought a man, but now he had no choice. Gripping his scythe, he swung attempting to cut the soldiers legs down, but the soldiers bronze leggings stopped the blade short of flesh. Pulling back his scythe, Kuru looked at the man’s face. A smile was on his lips as he swung his sword again, narrowly missing Kuru’s shoulder. Kuru regained his balance in time to catch the soldier’s fist in his stomach. His breath was driven from his lungs. He panicked, his mouth reached for air as he fell to the ground, scythe fleeing his hands. He heard the solider speak, “Roma Invicta” right before he felt the hilt of the sword on the back of his head. Fast forward through the chained march with strangers, a march that lead him to the city he had dreamed about, and ended with him entering into the largest building he had ever seen. Fast forward to after the sword and shield had been forced into his hands and he was shoved into a dusty arena, surrounded by more people he had ever seen, screaming in a language he didn’t understand. The sword in his hands felt heavy and as foreign as the words that the people were shouting. He stepped in a circle, seeing a spectacle that he couldn’t have imagined, Rome. While Kuru didn’t understand the words spoken he could read the faces. They grimaced as they spat angry syllables at him. Fists were directed at him, thumbs pointed downward, fingers sliced throats as he looked at their eyes. Hate, anger, evil was the language they spoke. He feared the mob that surrounded him, prayed that they would be held back by the massive structure. Kuru cringed as the crowd erupted, even louder than they had been, deafening him. A man in a gleaming golden suit of armor stepped out from behind a gate. His muscles rippled beneath the metal, his chiseled face shown only one blemish, a scar from his hairline to his chin. Slowly the earsplitting noise organized into a chant of ‘Spartacus’, their hero, their God. When the man raised his sword in response to their love for him the crowd’s chant devolved back into a thunderous roar. Kuru was at a loss, the sword and shield hung limply at his sides as he watched the spectacle. The scene seemed like a dream to him, no a nightmare. Spartacus, their God, lowered his sword and pointed it in the direction of Kuru who looked to his sides, behind him, looked for what was being pointed at. Then he recognized it was himself. He began to tremble as the people’s idol began an effortless run at him. Kuru was shocked that he was able to get his shield up in time to deflect a blow from being delivered. He thought the force that was delivered may have broken his arm through the metal that protected it. The world broke into flashes of metal on metal, pain and blood. Kuru’s body burned, his chest heaved, blood and sweat dripped from his frame as Spartacus paused to rally his supporters. Even Kuru marveled at what seemed to be a marble carving of a man glistening with perspiration, standing merely feet away with his back turned. Time slowed for Kuru. He breathed in a breath that felt like ice as the peoples God turned, thrusting his sword into Kuru’s middle. Kuru looked up into the cold eyes that held the sword. He was no God, he was a monster. Falling to his knees Kuru looked to his chest, he saw blood leaking from around where the metal entered him. His hands trembled as they slowly reached up to the sharpened blade. In slow motion his fingers wrapped around the blade, red flowing from where they touched it, and pulling the sword out from whence it had entered. Existence spun in Kuru’s eyes, the hard dirt hit his side. As the world faded to black Kuru heard the name of his reaper cheered. So this is civilization, he thought.


“What if they exist?” “So now Tim’s afraid?” Albert chuckled. The rhythmic crunching of the leaves was the only sound that broke the calm of the woods. The chirping of the birds, the occasional rustle of the leaves were the sole sounds the forest produced. The greyed leaves on the ground crumpled as the group strode on. The treetops loomed above like silent watchers, waiting. The subtle fog and the dark tree trunks constricted their vision to a few metres. Kyle glanced around, looking for something of interest. He noted how the weather had conveniently turned gloomier than when they left. He quietly stared at an owl which was overseeing the group from its elevated branch. He pulled out the map. An outline of the forest, with a point marked on it. He checked his compass. They were heading west, in the right direction. Paul kept his eyes on the trees. He couldn’t help but register how the leaves were turning greener the deeper they went. Even occasional bird sightings grew rarer. The calm orange of the autumn leaves were now a dark green that seemed out of place. The four of them stopped as they reached a clearing. The path opened into a small space without trees. The ground was now covered with a thick coat of grass, shining a bright green. Water from a small stream burbled nearby. Small shrubs were scattered round the meadow. Flowers filled the scenery with little dots of color. This one clearing was more vibrant than all the forest they had seen since they started. They noticed an oak tree stood to the side, its branches spread widely about. Tim took in the sight with eyes wide open. This was not what they set out for, but Tim gladly accepted it. A nice little meadow was surely better than tree monsters. He walked ahead into the grassy clearing. Albert followed. *Of course the Dryads don't exist*, he thought. It was obviously just a myth, and they set out here for fun. He remembered the morning, when they initially planned this endeavour. Kyle was the one who introduced them to the legend. The legend of the Dryads, the tree-stalkers, the wood-watchers. He turned to see Kyle, who was cautiously glancing around. Paul rather hesitantly walked ahead. He was still wondering what this vibrant patch of land is doing in the middle of these woods. *It might be someone’s garden. But there’s no sign of human settlement here,* he thought. *Maybe it's to do with the Dryads?* But for all he knew, it was just another creepypasta. Kyle followed the others to the oak tree. He thought of the woods they crossed earlier. How it juxtaposed to the meadow they were standing. But it felt off. The bright grass and the vibrant flowers. Something about them didn’t feel quite right. Though he was not able to figure out what it was. Tim and Albert went up to the tree. Having decided to have some fun, they tried to climb it. Albert managed to sit atop a branch, while Tim tried to follow. Albert gazed at the horizon. He found it intriguing to see the rather dull forest that they crossed. How it contrasted to the clearing they were in. Paul approached some flowers to have a closer look. He stopped to admire a few flowers. Their petals were stained a bright lavender. He found it odd that there were no bees here in this abundance of nectar. He looked around and wondered if there were any birds here either. He scanned the treetops but was met with just bark and leaves. Kyle sat on a rock, faint traces of moss covering it. His eyes ran along the woods surrounding them. Dense and moderately dark, with the treetops obstructing most light. He looked at the path they came from, noticing the tree branches arching. Looking along the perimeter, he spotted something near the trees. A small speck of light brown, standing out in the soil. He rose and headed towards it. As he approached it, he realized it was a jacket. An old one. It appeared to be made of leather and was faded, wrinkled, covered in mud. *Someone had been here then,* he thought. *Well this venture was disappointing. I honestly didn’t expect any Dryads but at least hoped for something interesting.* He recalled the forum threads he scoured over. Link after link after link. All of them entirely unrelated, summoned by a few keywords. All of them except one. The one that initially caught his attention. A small post, marked as ‘creepypasta’. He remembered reading it to his friends in an eerie monotone. *Beware them. Beware the Dryads.* *The wood-watchers.* *The tree-stalkers.* *You will be lured in.* *You won't suspect until it is too late.* *These nightmarish entities are beyond what we would fathom possible.* *The woods possess a will of their own.* *They lay quietly in slumber.* *Waiting. Waiting for prey-* Hearing footsteps, Kyle turned. Paul was standing there, looking at the jacket. He stepped closer and crouched down. “Someone’s been here then,” he said. “Not recently, of course. The thing’s covered in dirt.” Paul leaned closer. Kyle’s mind wandered back to the post. He recalled. ‘*You will be lured in.’* *This clearing would be a perfect trap. And we’d be some perfect fools-* Paul spoke, breaking Kyle’s trance. “There’s a scrap of paper here,” he said, pulling his hand out of the jacket’s pocket. “Great now you’re searching the jacket?” “I’m bored,” he said. He held the scrap of paper up, for Paul to read. The paper was yellowed and dusty. Evidently pretty old. Words were scratched on it as if there were just a few seconds to write. It read so: *This did not seem right to me. I was correct. It was all fine until they smiled. It all started when they smiled. They are coming for me. I do not have much time left* The corner of the paper was stained with deep red. This morbid detail left Paul unsettled. He called out to Tim and Albert who were still on the tree, jumping from the branches. Tim followed Albert as they walked to Peter. Kyle stood there, transfixed in thought. He wondered if they found something. They did. Paul handed them the paper. “They’re coming for him?” Tim asked meekly. “The paper is old. Really old.” “Is he dead?” Tim questioned again. “Perhaps. There’s even a blood stain here-” Kyle replied. “I get that, but what about the part where he says *they smiled*?” Albert interjected. Kyle thought again. *We can’t ignore that. Even the post I showed said something about smiling*. “Even the post said something about smiling,” Kyle mentioned. He tried to remember what it said. *It begins when they smile-* He kept his hand on his head, trying to remember what followed. Glancing around, he tried to recall the words. He froze. There he saw it, amidst the woods. Just a tree, but the trunk reflected a smile. A cruel, twisted smile. *Surely my mind is playing tricks on me.* Blinking his eyes, he looked around. Looking back at the tree, his blood went cold. He was met with the same crooked smile, staring into his soul. The bark of the tree was contorted, forming a curved line. Above, two holes in the bark stood. Hollow holes, inside of which you could see but void. This rather deceptively simple geometric configuration met Kyle with the eeriest thing he ever saw. “Tha- That tree is..... smiling-” his voice quivered. “Pfft, you’re tryna scare us aren’t you?” Albert laughed. Paul looked around at the trees. His eyes sifted through the treetops. *He must be seeing things*, he thought. He laughed at Kyle. Until he saw it. The bark of a tree distorted ever so slightly. Slight, but enough to make him see a face. The crooked smile gazed at him with a cold inanimateness. He refused to believe it at first. *I’m seeing things now?!* He looked elsewhere, his mind racing. Biting his lip, he glanced at the others. Kyle stood transfixed, uneasily shifting his legs. Albert was looking at them intently, with a confused expression. Tim stood, his eyes wide with fear. A cold breeze swept past them. Kyle shuddered. He knew something was wrong. Either that or he was going insane. He swirled around, with his heart still pounding. Every single tree he saw stood bearing a cold smile. He didn’t understand how or why his brain picked up the faces. Yet he saw them everywhere. They appeared to see him too. He glanced at the others. Peter bore a look of horror on his face. Albert stood scrutinizing their expressions. Tim was staring at them nervously, trying to figure out what happened. At this point he was breathing hastily. Kyle tried to calm down. To no success, his eyes darted back to the woods, the inanimate faces staring back at them. Paul took a few steps back. He was certain Kyle was seeing this too. He wondered why they were still standing there. All senses in his body told him to run, run for his life. He looked at the others and spoke hurriedly. “We should... go now,” Paul said. He turned around and started running. Almost instinctively, Kyle followed. He ran for his dear life. Watching their second friend depart, Albert and Tim ran too. Tim’s heart pounded as he ran through the thick woods, following the others. Though he was scared, the fear was nothing compared to what followed. His muscles momentarily froze when he saw it. The trees, they appeared to be smiling at him. The queer, twisted faces sent a sense of foreboding through his blood. The inability to understand all this didn’t help either. He ran faster, wanting nothing but to be back at home. Albert wondered why they were running. He looked around, attempting to find the reason. He was about to question them when the sight struck him. He stared wide in horror. The woods were somehow smiling at them. Crooked, evil smiles. The hollow eyes pierced through him with a cold gaze. It appeared that the trees were watching them from above, like little ants crossing a pavement. The coiled faces appeared to be looking down upon them. His heart pounded quicker and quicker. He felt goosebumps creeping around his skin. Suddenly, a thunderous noise erupted from behind. Visibly startled, the four of them halted. They turned around. Tim shrieked in horror. Kyle gasped and stumbled backward. Albert stood there, his shoulders trembling with fear. The breeze began to grow stronger. The four of them stood in the grim woods, their eyes wide at the monstrous sight ahead of them. A behemoth of a tree stood in front of them. It appeared to be standing on four limbs, attached to its trunk. Branches contorted and moved, like a thousand hands adjusting their position. It stared at them with dead, hollow eyes. Eyes so void you could wonder if they were eyes at all. Yet the human brain couldn’t help but interpret them. Two dots over a concavely curved line would always be a smile, no matter what. *This is it, this is a Dryad,* Paul thought. *But is there just one?* His attention was taken by a low, deep rumbling that echoed through the forest. He glanced around, looking for the source. But then, his feet felt funny. The ground was vibrating. The vibration grew as the rumbling amplified. As the rumbling peaked, trees in front of them uprooted and moved around. Branches warped and twisted like tentacles turning. Moments later, they were facing an army of Dryads, similar to the first. Around 30 colossal wood entities stood in front of the group, glaring with their inanimate faces. Noone had to be told twice, the four of them did as anyone would. They fled in the opposite direction. Tim screamed like a woman, as he sprinted across the trees. The sinister faces watched them from above, like an audience watching gladiators in a stadium. The hollow eyes seemed to follow them as they passed through. A loud thumping emerged from behind. Paul chanced a look behind. He shouted and ran faster. The Dryads were following them. Not even running, the Dryads walked, coming visibly closer with each step. The four went faster, running as hard as they could. Yet to no avail. The Dryads approached closer and closer with each step. Albert was on the verge of tears, wondering why they even came here, cursing himself for arriving. Kyle however, found this quite exciting. He marvelled at the sight of the monstrous Dryads. Soon he came to his senses. He casually reminded himself that he could die here. “Kyle!” a voice screamed. It was Albert’s. “Are we going the right direction?!” Realization struck him. They didn’t know which way they were going. Who knows how longer they would have run if not for Albert. *We headed west while coming. We should be heading east to go back*. He checked for the sun’s position. Just then he noticed the weather. The clouds were thick and the sky was grey. No sign of the sun. Cursing the weather under his breath, he realized that he had a compass. He pulled it out of his pocket. He slowed his pace and looked intently at the needle. It turned and eventually stopped, pointing to the top-left. They were going north-east. He yelled, “We’re heading the wrong way!”, and halted. The others stopped too. Paul misplaced his foot and fell flat on the ground. He winced, and shakily stood up again. Kyle pointed east. Suddenly, a deafening *thud* shook the forest floor. Visibly frightened, they turned around. Right behind them a boulder lay embedded in the ground. In the distance, they saw the Dryads holding rocks. They raised their boulders and sent them hurling in the humans’ direction. Kyle jumped behind a tree, hoping it would shield him. Paul panickingly turned around. He leapt behind a tree. He heard a loud crash behind him. Nervously, he turned around. The rock missed him by inches. Tim whimpered. A tear slid down his cheeks. Trembling, he tried to step back. Instead, Albert’s hand caught hold of him. He pulled Tim behind a tree. A deafening crash sounded behind them. Another rock skidded through the forest floor. Paul nervously looked around. He doubted if they would get out alive. He glanced over at Kyle, who was peeking behind the trees, trying to get a look at the Dryads. Just then, a deep rumbling went through the forest. Paul flinched. The rumbling was louder than before. Before long, the ground was shaking intensely. Paul anxiously waited for something to happen. Quite randomly, he recalled the moment they left for the woods. Little did they know what would follow. Adventurously, they hoped to meet some Dryads. But logically, they didn’t really expect to find anything. And now here they are, one step away from death. Of all the ways to die, he didn’t expect to be murdered by a tree monster in Farwell forest. Paul was brought back to reality with a huge *crack*. A loud thumping ensued. The dryads were coming. He signalled to the rest of them to move. As they hurried away, they could still feel their legs resonating. The rumbling of the ground hadn’t quite ended. Kyle was leading the group. They ran as fast as their legs could take them. The thumping behind them didn’t stop. They ran and ran, all sense of time drowning in their pure terror. They ran until they reached the outer parts of the forest. The leaves were now orange, as they ought to be autumn. They stopped when the rumbling could no longer be heard. Panting, they stood there for a while. Still they looked behind their shoulders for any movement. After being nearly murdered by tree monsters, the paranoia was inevitable. After catching their breath for a while, they started walking home again. Tim constantly looked behind his back. He felt goosebumps when looking up at the trees. Every little sound made him flinch, rightly so. Still processing the unearthly incident that just occured, he strode forward with a fast pace. The birds chirped in the sky. The owls hooted from their tree hollows, watching down with their big eyes. They were beyond relieved when they spotted the road. The town was in the vicinity. Being back in the neighbourhood after almost dying was ecstasy in its own way. Kyle sighed and reassessed the rather peculiar chain of events. *We went into the forest. We found a clearing. Out of nowhere, we saw the trees smiling at us. We ran. We encountered some big tree monsters that tried to kill us. We ran away.* *Yes, totally normal. Just another day.* He gave one last glance at the woods before heading back.


It’s really all Dave’s fault or maybe his nephew’s, but either way, this isn’t me, this isn’t who I am. Dave is a coworker of mine and a personal rival. We’re basically in a competition for most popular in the office. I know I’d be number one if it wasn’t for him. If they would just open their eyes, they’d see how much of a loser he really is and how cool I am. Then everybody would quit following Dave around hanging on every dumb word he says, and they’d finally talk to me for a change. I’ve never really spoken to Dave one on one, but I can tell what he’s up to. He’s definitely obsessed with ruining everything for me, in fact he’s a lot like me, charming, funny. But that’s because he’s copying me, basically stealing my personality, how can some people be so selfish? Okay, okay I’ll get back to my point. Last Monday I came into work in the best mood ever. I was on top of the world because I’d worked all weekend on it, the thing that would finally best him. I’d researched, choreographed, and performed a completely original dance routine to ABCDEFU, amazing song BTW. You know “ABCDEFU and your mom”. Anyway, I posted the video early that morning, I really think it deserved to get more traction. I had it queued up on my laptop in the break room ready to inconspicuously start playing. It’s an awesome dance, they would’ve gone crazy for it. Way better than my last one, you gotta make it pop, ya know. You would like it too, I can tell. I’ll get back to the point. I guess you're wondering why I say “would’ve”, that’s because sadly my plan was interrupted. I was the first one in the breakroom, the others were starting to file in, I was just about to “accidently” start the video on my computer, and say “oh how embarrassing, oh but if you guys insist on watching,” so smooth. But Dave entered looking sad and pathetic, staring down. Everyone gathered around him. “What’s going on over here”, I said and Jennie, she’s the hottest in the office, said “didn’t you hear Dave’s nephew was in a car accident.” Then Lisa, she’s the loudest in the office, blurted out, “Yeah, he’s in the hospital, a drunk driver hit him!” My chest sank, I’d been defeated again, Dave’s always one step ahead. And to use a situation like this. And all week it just went on and on. Every Day Dave would come in and immediately share about how well his nephew was doing with his situation and how he felt blessed to be able to spend more time with him. And the worst one, “how we take the people we love for granted”, puke. And everyone was just eating it up. Jennie kept telling him how he was “so sweet for helping his nephew” and Dave would say, “I’m just glad to be able to spend time with him.” I almost puked for real! Point being, Dave was milking this situation for everything he could. Disgusting if you ask me. So, you see I had no choice but to come up with something tremendous or devastating, something huge. It had to be big, but I didn’t really have any dirt on Dave even though I know he’s the worst. I didn’t have any injured family members, and even if I could injure them, I wouldn’t want to have to spend time with them. That’s when I figured it out. Sick Dogs! I could say I adopted terminally Ill dogs. He only has one nephew, but I could have multiple dogs and while his nephew is recovering, these dogs ain’t gonna make it. The next time Dave was going on about his crap I casually brought up my much more heroic situation. They all stared at me. “You adopt dogs?” Jennie asked. “Terminally ill dogs, yes” I replied. I really needed to drive that point home, that these dogs were goners. “I Thought you hated dogs!” Lisa exclaimed. “What no!” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I saw you pour your Big Gulp on that dog that used to come around the parking lot so it would get away from you” Lisa said. “No what no I was that’s bullshit” I said deflecting perfectly. Then Jennie said, “Well I think it’s great that you adopt sick dogs, I’m not sure how it relates to what we were talking...” “I’ll bring them in tomorrow!” I blurted out. Now you can see I’ve got to get some sick and dying dogs right away. I went all over town, but it is like basically impossible to get a dog fast, dying or not. There must be some rule or law, maybe you could do something about that, anyway, it’s b.s. So, when I got to the last place, I was a little bit fed up, understandably so you might say. When the guy told me I couldn’t have a dog I flipped out a little bit. I tried to flip his desk; it was very heavy though. I knocked everything off his desk though. Then I grabbed his keys and started unlocking cages until he tased me. But the adrenaline was flowing so strong. I jumped up to my feet and bolted toward the door to the backroom, where I knew they were probably keeping the really good dogs or the really sick ones. I lunged for the door, busted in and saw what I couldn’t believe. It was a fighting ring. Men were betting on dog fights right in the back of the animal shelter. I was disgusted, what a horrible thing. But my old gambling days flashed in my mind. The cock fights in Tiajuana. I put down every penny I had on Red Rover. Then your cop buddies raided the place. So, you can see I only bet on the one fight and not even, cause it hadn’t even started yet. I’m really just a victim here, of gambling addiction, and Dave. So, you can let me out right. Jail Guard: “That was a great story and all. Well not really. It did kill a little time on my shift. But the thing is I’m just a guard, I can’t let you out. Even if I wanted to. Oh, but if it makes you feel any better, I can relate. See that guard over there, that’s Jim. Let me tell ya bout Jim. Now Jim, he’s a real Dave.


I was only fooling myself. To think she would stay with me when my wallet got thin and front page headlines turned to passing mentions on some obscure fan site. Sheila was long gone but I understand. I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did. The news feed on my mobile used to light up as the band got famous but now we were old news, a fan site somehow knew where I was: *Rock legend Dennis Crip spotted today by the Mavis Motel, not *quite* the teen idol he once was...* And this was from the reporter who always said nice things about me. I met Shelia backstage after a show in Dallas two years ago. “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a place like this?” I said as I lowered my sunglasses to flash my blue eyes. She laughed. “Which lying asshole told you I was nice?” She said while she flipped her hair back for dramatic effect. “I’m Dennis,” I said and held out my hand. “Sheila,” she said. What followed was eighteen months of hell intermixed with an *almost* hit record, an *almost* hit tour and an *almost* normal relationship with Sheila. But soon the private jet and luxury hotels went away when the hit didn’t happen. We went from flying in a Gulfstream to riding in a Dodge van. And soon the Ritz Carlton morphed into the Mavis Motel. It was worse being an *almost* rock star than being nobody; if you never got a taste of it, you don’t know what you’re missing. The room smells like a thousand dead elephants and she didn’t leave a farewell note or message. But her shit was gone and the battered door was left swinging wide open. The Mavis Motel slogan should have been, *We don’t give a shit as long as you pay.* It was a place where the cops wouldn’t respond to calls anymore, a place with more broken glass than carpet, a place cops called the *murder motel* since the mix of drugs and booze ended most Saturday nights with crime scene tape and them counting the shell casings. And the only saving grace was that most of the shooters were too high to aim, so bullets might fly but only add to the holy decor. *Fuck.* I fumbled for my cigarettes but she took ‘em, as if a hit of nicotine would lessen the sting from where she busted my nose the night before. Two bottles of Jack Daniels blurred into some sort of coke fueled fight about whether Clapton or Hendrix was better. So now the TV was half-buried in the drywall where a mirror used to be. And Sheila was halfway to Mexico by now with my cigarettes, wallet and lighter in her cherry red claws. I outta drive the van, the one thing I ever paid cash for, off a high desert overpass. There would be no more mornings of waking up hungover and bleeding with my cigarettes five hundred miles away in the purse of the woman who broke my nose the night before. Hendrix was better, there I said it.


“It’s so quiet in here,” Tom always said when he came through the door. “You’d swear the world was ending out there, with the waves crashin’ and the wind blowin’, but in here not a peep.” I never answered, I only glanced at him and smiled. There was a lot to smile about back then. His head of thick blond hair, the smell of sweet lemon mint coming off him, those strong, reliable arms that used to carry me through each room of the house. I spent evenings just enjoying his presence, wondering how I got so lucky. I certainly didn’t deserve it. When the policeman first came looking for Tom, he couldn’t believe either how quiet it was inside. Before he reached the door, I braced myself for the knock. I’d spied him from the window, hidden behind the white, frilly curtains. I spent many hours there, absorbing the view of the dark blue-gray ocean, letting my thoughts ride the waves. Up and down. * The day I met Tom, when he came to install my computer. I stood there in my living room, between the sofa and the TV, scratchy carpet beneath my bare feet, and stared at him. It’d been a torrid day and the smell of rotting seaweed had invaded the small house, relentless and overbearing. I prayed he knew there was nothing I could do to get the smell out, not until the currents shifted. “I’m sorry about the -” I began to say, wanting to assure him the stink wasn’t my fault. But he spoke at the same time. “Them seaweeds,” he said, and we laughed together. * The day he left for work without saying goodbye for the first time. He’d moved in two years before, and we’d gradually got used to living under the same roof. Though far beyond our twenties, the experience was new to us both. I stopped complaining about garbage and dirty laundry being strewn all over the floor, and he stopped asking me to go outside all the time. By the time of our first big fight, he’d been going out alone every weekend. I treasured the hours of solitude and put them to good use. “We haven’t gone anywhere in months,” he had said the night before. “Why do you hate people so much? It’s like you can’t function in society!” I replied that, if that’s the case, it’s his bad luck, since I’m the only one who would have him. * “When did you last see him?” The policeman asked me. “Had you argued?” “Where would he have gone?” I answered his questions as carefully as I could. I let my eyes slide only once to the basement door. * On our first date, Tom picked a small Italian restaurant, a ways out of town. “I thought I’d be quiet,” he said as we shuffled awkwardly to our table, trying not to touch the other dinner-goers. Even when seated, the strangers boxed us in, making it difficult not to rub elbows. The clanking from the kitchen came through the walls, pounding on my eardrums; the din of conversation around us numbed my mind. I had nothing to say. “I’m sorry-” “What?” “I said I’m sorry for choosing this place. I thought no one in their right mind would drive out here just for spaghetti.” Yet here we were, not in our right mind. Tom hadn’t accounted for the local’s gorgeous view of the ocean, from high up on its cliff. I had overdressed, and my skin itched and burned beneath my sweater. Heat rose up my neck, and I prayed he couldn’t spot the rivulets of sweat rolling down to my stomach. I was too embarrassed to look at Tom too much, so I rested my gaze on the large windows framing the waves and the rocks. I couldn’t hear the water. When the waiter arrived to take our order, I had to visibly shift my chair to avoid touching him. I accidentally bumped into the woman sitting behind me and I feared she would make a scene. Inside, she prepared to raise her voice and insult me, wanted me to pay for the blouse she had ruined. The heat pulsating through my skin went up a few degrees, thinking how I should react. Her partner calmed her, and, outside, she said nothing. Though my thoughts were shaking from the noise, the words, the half-spoken phrases, I almost made it through the main course. My mouth was so dry, everything tasted like cardboard, but I managed to push it down with a generous supply of wine. I figured dessert would be easier. But then the waiter floated by with a plate full of fish, letting the smell waft right to my nose as I was fighting to swallow a mouthful. I had to run outside. After I finished throwing up, I saw Tom standing nearby, poised to intervene should it be necessary. “I am so sorry,” he began, but I stopped him. “It’s not your fault. I’m really bad with crowds and loud noises, always have been. It’s like I hear them in my-” “Yeah, you probably get a lot of noise where you live.” I stare at him for a second. “You mean the sea? Oh, I don’t hear that.” * After the police officer left, I took his coffee cup to the kitchen and thoroughly washed it before putting it away. I vacuumed the hallway and the living room and fluffed up the sofa pillows. My eyes wandered more and more to the brown, wooden door keeping the stairway hidden. A dense November fog had rolled onto the shore and terminated the day abruptly. By the time I finished tidying up, it was night outside and there was nothing left to do but go downstairs. I stood in front of the door, letting the silence wash over me. The ocean raged outside, I knew, yet not a hint of sound could reach me. The tiny stars bobbing up and down far on the horizon, ships going out to sea, were conceivably the closest souls around me, yet there was an ocean between us. The basement door was locked. I fiddled with the key in my pocket, not bearing to bring it out, pretending it was too heavy to lift. Then I was in the stairwell, breathing in the humid air, not bothering to turn on the light. * He was already preparing to leave me when he started noticing. The electrician didn’t answer his phone anymore, the traveling saleswoman never called to reschedule, people disappeared from our lives. “Why won’t you let me go down there?” he asked. “You can go wherever you like, for all I care,” I used to say. “I can’t, because you keep the door locked.” “I told you, I can’t find the key.” He would want to call a locksmith; I would promise to search for the key one more time. One day he altered course, he said, “It’s ‘cause you don’t want me living here isn’t it? In your house? You want to keep a space to yourself where you can lock me out, don’t you?” He was right, of course. I wanted him to stay forever, close, where I could touch him, smell and taste him, but that couldn’t happen if he went beyond that door. When I came home and found his clothes and tools packed in cardboard boxes, I knew I had only one option to keep here. I pretended to find the key, to go downstairs, to have found a leak in the wall behind some shelves. To call for help. He trundled down the steps, and I wonder if he registered what he saw as he crossed the space. The saws, the pliers, the axe. The body bags? Hadn’t he wondered why the house was sound proof? There was never any smell. I prided myself on that. It was easy to run upstairs and bolt the door behind me. It was hard to bear the knocks, the kicks, the yells. I heard the yelling, the screaming and the begging as I always do, both from outside my head and from within. The outside noise stopped three days ago. The inside one took longer to languish. As I spoke to the officer, the sound finally subsided and, once I was alone, my mind buzzed with sweet silence. All I must do now is clean, and find a place for my quiet Tom to rest.


Once upon a time, a monkey named Rory lived in a jungle. Rory’s jungle was particularly dark and especially terrible--full of flesh eating fish, savage spiders, and cunning crocodiles. Rory resided with a troop of gargantuan silver back gorillas. The troop adopted Rory after a bask of crocodiles ate his tribe. (By the way, a “bask” is a group of land crocodiles, while a “float” is a group of water crocodiles.) Carl, the alpha gorilla, protected Rory from the evils of the wicked jungle, but not without remuneration. In exchage for Carl’s protection, Rory entertained the troop with stand-up comedy every evening after dinner. After a long day of gathering bananas and, well, just being gorillas, Carl--and the rest of the troop--revelled in hearing Rory’s outlandish jokes. One night, Rory told jokes from his joke stump, which was the remains of a tree that skirted the inner circle of the gorilla camp. “Three flesh eating fish walk into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Hey, we don’t serve flesh eating fish here,’ and the flesh eating fish say, ‘Really? Hmm. Must be a new rule because we had a Tom Collins and a grasshopper here yesterday?’” Carl and the troop burst into boisterous laughter. “Haha, do the one about the spider! The spider!” Carl shouted. Rory grabbed his tail and played air guitar with it. “The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the ‘rilla’s snout. Out flew some snot and slimed the spider out. The spider creeped into his mouth, down his gut, and out in his butt. And the itsy bitsy spider was all shit out of luck.” Carl and the troop loved that one. They slapped their knees and howled. Then, Rory launched into his final joke for the evening. “Why did the crocodile fall asleep by the side of the road? Because he ate the chicken.” “Bawhaha,” Carl gaffawed. The troop followed Carl’s laughter. As the laughter died down, a slow clap rang from just outside the troop’s circle. “That was a good one, Rory,” Morrissey the crocodile said from the shadows. Carl jumped up from his seat, grabbed Morrissey by the collar with his left hand, and cocked his right fist back behind his head. “Crocodiles don’t belong here, Morrissey. What gives?” “Temper, temper, Carl. I have a deal for you, brother.” Carl eased his grip on Morrissey’s throat. Rory shook. He hid behind the joke stump. Morrissey was bad news. Morrissey led the bask who ate Rory’s tribe. And now, he was planning some kind of ruse. “Speak,” Carl said. “It’d like to make a trade.” “Whatcha got?” “In exchange for your stock of bananas, I offer you--and the rest of your troop, of course--this magical elixir.” “Elixir?” “No! Don’t do it, Carl! It’s a trick! It’s poison! Morrissey’s bask killed my tribe! And, now he’ll kill us too!” Rory said. “Rory, please, the adults are talking.” Morrissey pulled out a jug from his cloak. “This here elixir is enchanted. It will magically take away all of your worries.” “We don’t have any worries,” Carl said. “Really, Carl? What did you do today? Y’all broke your backs gathering bananas, swatting down spider webs, and passing over pirahna. And for what? Only to sit around and be mildly amused by this junior amateur?” “Carl, he’s lying. Don’t trust him,” Rory said. Carl paused. He said nothng for a time and then exhaled sharply out his large nostrils. He turned to Rory in ire, “What do you know, Rory? You’re just a comedian--a joker, a liar.” “Imagine, Carl. No conundrums, no pain,” Morrisey said. “And, what’s the worst that can happen? You lose your stock of bananas. You can gather those back in no time.” Carl ran his knuckles across his forehead, in thought. “Deal,” Carl said. “Take it away, boys!” Morrissey said to his bask. His grin showed off his crocodile teeth. Then, ten or so crocodiles slithered into the camp circle and each removed a sizable bunch of bananas. Morrissey bowed and winked at Rory as he left with his bask. Carl yanked the cork off of the bottle, smelled its contents, and took a swig. Carl felt a sense of ease and comfort wash over him. He passed the bottle around to the rest of his troop. They too felt a sense of tranquility as they drank. The troop fell silent. Carl fell asleep in the circle and the others followed, letting the fire die out and covering themselves with their sturdy gorilla blankets. Rory panicked. He ran from the troop’s circle, deep into the jungle. But after a minute or so, he stopped and turned around. To his left was a river of flesh eating fish, fiesty to feast on fresh monkey flesh. To his right were the savage spiders, salivatng to suck simian blood. Beyond the camp to the South was Morrissey’s bask of crocodiles, lying in wait for their next chance to plunder. Rory climbed a tree and curled himself around the top end of the trunk. He waited there until dawn. The next day, Rory returned to the camp. There, the troop awoke complaining of dry mouths and headaches. Carl barfed in the empty banana pit. “Carl, please, I need to talk to you,” Rory said. “What now? Can’t you see my stomach is not constant?” “Yes, I know, but Morrissey . . . he’ll be back tonight. Don’t drink the elixir again. Please.” “Rory, I think we can handle ourselves. And besides, I’m the alpha. It is I who will makes the decisions for the troop, not you. You are the omega.” After breakfast, the troop left the camp to gather bananas and supplies for the day. They crawled slowly and lethargically. The troop only collected 5 bunches of bananas, half of what they usually harvested on a given day. At his appointed joke time that evening, the troop ignored Rory. “Did you hear the one about the disappearing Gorilla? His name was King Gone.” Rory heard crickets in the distance. “Give it a rest, Rory,” Carl said. The troop waited in silence, each gorilla twitching a little as he awaited Morrissey’s arrival. A half hour later, when Morrissey did eventually slip into the camp, the troop fell alert and expectant. “Did you bring it?” Carl asked. “Why, yes,” Morrissey said. Carl leaped to his feet and ran straight for the jug. “Not so fast, Carl. You can’t get something for nothing, now. Your bananas, please.” “But, Morrissey, we only collected 5 bunches today. We don’t have enough to trade.” “How about your existing stock of bananas. . . and your blankets?” “How will we keep warm?” “Come now, Carl. The elixir will keep you warm.” Carl exhaled from his large nostrils. “Take it all then,” he said. Morrissey and his bask took the five bundles of bananas and the gorilla blankets. Carl took two big swigs from the new bottle of elixir and passed the bottle around. Soon after, they welcomed oblivion. As they slept, Rory looked around in digust. The troop shivered as it slept. Rory thought of a plan. He grabbed the empty bottle and ran to the river. The flesh eating fish smelled him as he dipped the tip of the jug in the water, filling it. The next morning, the troop awoke well after sunrise, later than ever. Carl threw up in the empty banana pit, as did every other member of the troop. They attempted to gather bananas later that day, but together, and with all their might, they could only collect one bunch of bananas. That night, Rory didn’t even bother taking his place on the stump. Carl and the troop were sullen, their hollow eyes awaited for Morrissey’s return. “Anybody thirsty?” Morrissey asked. Carl ran headlong to Morrissey and said, “Give it to me!” Morrissey placed the new jug on the ground and stood on the stump to speak. “Now, now, everyone. Hear me. You want a new jug of elixir and I want . . . your stuff. Wait, let me guess, you only collected two bunches of bananas today.” “More like one,” Carl said. “One? That’s it?” Morrissey said. “No matter, I want your last bunch, your firewood, and . . . the deed to your camp.” “You want our camp? But where will we live?” “You’ll find a new place, I’m sure.” Carl paused and looked down at the ground. “OK, then. We need the elixir. We can’t live without it,” Carl said. Morrissey reached down behind the stump and gave Carl the last bottle of elixir. Carl grabbed it, blushing. “Take it all, boys,” Morrissey said. His bask slithered in to the vomit filled banana pit to retrieve the last bunch of bananas. They also took the troop’s firewood. “I’ll be back tomorrow for the deed, Carl,” Morrisey said. As they slithered toward the camp exit, their crocodile arms loaded with gorilla loot, Carl took his first swig of the elixir. He immediately took a second. Then, he took a third. Then, he threw the bottle to the ground with all his might. “What the fuck, Morrissey!” Morrissey turned and gasped. “Carl. What’s the problem, Carl? That’s good elixir Carl! Wait, Carl! No, Carl!” “It’s fucking water.” “N-n-n-no, it’s elixir. Opium concentrate. From my private stash.” “If it’s elixir, then what the fuck is this?” Carl pulled a pirhana from his teeth. “This is river water you croc-o-shit!” Carl and the troop growled, howled, and brayed with anger. Carl blew a fuse. He took Morrissey by the neck and threw him to the ground, punching him over and over and over again in the snout as hard as he could. Carl was very strong. When he finished thwacking him, Morrissey looked as if a ton of bricks had landed on his face. While Carl was punching Morrissey into dead, green goo, the other gorillas similarly pounced on the remaining crocodiles, taking no prisoners, giving no quarter. The troop did very little gathering over the next week as it recovered from the its figurative and literal monkey. While the shaking and hallucinations sucked, the troop enjoyed copious amounts of crocodile meat grilled over open flame, which, much to Carl’s chagrin, tasted a lot like chicken. “Rory, I am sorry I didn’t listen to you. You were right.” “Carl, I forgive you.” Carl patted his monstrous hand on Rory’s back. “But, Carl, can I ask you something?” Rory continued. “Why did you call me a liar?” “Well, before all of this, I used to think that entertainment was a facade, a constructed untruth. A lie, if you will. A fantasy world that, at best, could only poke fun at the real world.” “What do you think now?” “That I should not be so quick to judge a joker. Sometimes, they speak the truth. You aren’t an outsider, Rory. Not anymore.” "I switched the jugs, Carl. I poured the elixir in the river." "I know." "How?" "All the fish are dead."


I took my time packing up at the end of today’s meeting. Wanted a chance to talk to Fiona alone. She’s usually the last one left in the room, clearing up the cups and gathering the confidential waste. It’s her disrespectful attitude you see. Always the same. Like today. I get there early and as usual she has already set up the coffees and is tapping away at her laptop. I ask her why the agenda was cut short and she says it’s nothing to do with her and she only types it up and sends it round. Tells me to ask Janet and turns those earnest green eyes straight back to her laptop. I never get any conversation out of her. Now I'm not particularly conscious of status, but as commercial director, I deserve more respect. So after everyone has left the meeting I give her another chance to be friendly. I suggest we go over the draft agenda together for next week, but she fobs me off, saying the information isn’t ready and she’ll email it to me. She’s already walking out of the door at this point. Most unsatisfactory. That's why I'm here in a café when I should be on my way to the car park. Awful noisy place with the screeching expresso maker and constant babble in the background, but this window table is opposite the office. My idea is to watch for when Fiona comes out. Then I'll just bump into her. It’s quite clever if you think about it. I can have a quiet word on our way to the car park. She'll be more relaxed outside the work environment and listen to what I need to tell her. That way, I won't have to speak to Janet about her manner. Yes, speak to her manager or worse. There’s a restructure coming up and there may be staff cuts. But that’s my ace card. I won’t play that at the moment. You won’t believe where I am now. Sitting on a bench in a graveyard. Through the trees is a pub garden and Fiona and the team are chatting and laughing round one of the tables. You’re wondering what happened. Well I finally caught up with her in the street after a long wait and she said she had worked late to catch up and was on her way to meet the team in the pub. I mentioned that it was good for colleagues to get together away from the work environment. I asked her what pub it was, but she said she had to go and rushed off without answering. She could have easily invited me along. It would have been beneficial for my working relationship with the team. Another example of her unhelpful and disrespectful attitude. So I had to follow her and now I’m stuck on this hard wooden bench waiting for her to walk back to the car park so we can finally have our chat. Despite the traffic I can just about make out their conversation. Fiona’s telling Janet some tedious thing about being very busy with the other administrator off and having to log in and work at the weekend. Hang on, now she’s talking about me. She’s telling Janet she doesn’t think I like her because I ask questions I know she can’t answer. Apparently, I’m trying to catch her out. And that she thinks I’m staring disapprovingly at her while she’s trying to get work done. What rubbish. That’s’ just an excuse for her refusal to have a friendly conversation. Did I mention I’m the Commercial Director? It's imperative I speak to her now. Janet’s telling Fiona she can’t expect senior managers to know what everyone’s exact role. Janet’s also just said I look at everyone with a bit of scrutiny. She thinks I just want to see who is motivated and who isn’t because I don’t want people going off to join the opposition. Well Janet will be fine in the restructure. I favour people who talk sense. The conversation is getting louder with each round. She’s chatting and laughing a lot with Roger. They shared a cigarette even though I know she doesn’t smoke. Disgusting habit. I’ll need to speak to her about that too. I’ve never liked Roger. Might get him transferred out of town or find him surplus to requirements in the restructure. Maybe the drinking isn’t such a bad thing though. Fiona will be more relaxed and ready to talk to me when I do manage to get her on her own. Now Fiona’s talking on the phone. She keeps repeating something about letting the dog out. I know her mother is elderly and unwell as I’ve seen it on her social media. Well alright yes I had a look at her profile. I thought a bit of knowledge might help get a conversation started. She’s telling people she has to go as she’s already left her mother on her own too long after being at work all day. This could be my break. She’ll be walking back to the car park and I can bump into her. This time she’s going to listen. Roger is offering to walk her back. The interfering idiot. That transfer is looking more likely. Fiona’s declining. He’s got half a pint left and she’s fine. I’ve been so intent on the conversation, I’ve only just noticed the sky has gone dark there are a few spots of rain. Well that was a complete waste of time. Fiona’s practically ran to the car park getting soaked with the downpour. I saw the way the water was streaming off her long hair. Why didn't she just shelter in one of the doorways. Then I would have caught her up and she could have come under my umbrella. When I got to the car park there was no sign of her. Now I’m back in the car stuck in a queue. A heavy rainstorm and everyone forgets how to drive. I should have been home long ago. Fiona doesn’t know how much trouble she’s caused. And all I’m trying to do is put her right so I don’t have to speak to Janet about her. For goodness sake these idiots should get out of the way. The bus stop mob is spilling into the road. There are so many people. Wait. That looks like Fiona in the rabble. What’s she doing there. I stop and open the door in the pouring rain telling her to get in. She hesitates, letting her surprise show and asks me what I’m doing here. For goodness sake why does she have to question everything and make a fuss. I try not to let my frustration show. I’m doing this for her. I tell her to get in quickly to my nice dry car and I’ll drop her home. She’s still hesitating. I point out the indicator says the next bus isn’t for 30 minutes. I can feel my irritation deepening but I keep my face passive. At last she struggles in with her two bags and pulls the door shut. She thanks me and tells me she does actually need to get home urgently. Her elderly mother is getting very anxious and needs her medication. She’s been trying to calm her mother down over the phone but the battery is running low. I ask her about her car but she tells me she’s leaving the car there until tomorrow. She just got the shopping out of the boot and headed for the bus stop because she’d had more to drink than she realised. I tell her I’m glad she’s here and mention I want to have a little chat. But she interrupts me She’s noticed this isn’t the way home. I tell her there’s a diversion due to a flood but really I thought I’d drive the long way round to give us more time to talk. Fiona asks me what I wanted to talk about. She gives a nervous cough. The cough reminds me and to mention the smoking. She says she doesn’t smoke. I point out she was smoking this evening and Roger was encouraging her. I realise I’ve given something away. I can feel the atmosphere in the car tense. I try to explain I happened to be passing the pub but it doesn’t work. The stupid girl starts asking me to let her out. I calmly tell her I can't let her out on her own in a country lane in the middle of a violent storm. I try to explain I’m trying to help her and she needs to cooperate. I mention the staff cuts but it doesn’t seem to register. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out her mobile phone. That’s ridiculous. I lean over and try to take it from her. We need to have our conversation in peace. She jerks the phone away. With sudden horror I realise I’ve driven past a red traffic light. My mind seems to freeze as I see a huge fuel carrying lorry coming from the left. I jerk to life and brake but it’s too hard. The car lurches forward on it’s own. “You stupid stupid girl” I shout. Look what you’ve made me do. I’m aware of tyres screeching on the wet road as the huge articulated lorry looms towards us. I can’t get my brain or body to react. I feel paralysed I don’t see a way out of this. Fiona has opened the passenger door. I yell at her but she’s gone. Her last selfish act.


I love winter. I do social commentary occasionally, on a site built by my friends. Sometimes we go to protests, talk to activists and listen to speeches made. These speeches are usually reflective of a movement, as it appeals to a certain audience. Their speeches were not made to speak to those who are not listening, but to a specific selection of preferences and beliefs. It is not likely that I could understand these speeches completely, as my only purpose in this country is to study here. Yet it does not stop me from enjoying my stay. I enjoyed when the gust crushes my spine, when the coldness wets my socks. These rallies are hours long. Do their speeches mean anything to me? As you can see, the coldness distracts one from the speeches made. I adore bald trees and frosty mornings. I met her at one of these mornings, on a field trip held by a local left-wing group. The harshness of winter drives excitement into my otherwise uneventful life.  “How’s your friends and family back home?” “My fiance is seeking asylum.” “Is he okay?” “...”, “I hope he will.”  It was a numbing night. She reminds me that I could be very alive, she shares my appreciation of freezing winters. It was when we talked about the mystical, and were realised right in front of our eyes. Men are cursed by their own being, such as belief. In my opinion it is not truth that we care about, but of what we choose to believe. Worship becomes understandable when one looks at the sublime, stars and silent forests. They are infinitely far away. Yet it could be seen. If we can conceive the heavens, how could God not be real? Despite our own mortality, our imagination of the sublime provides agency. My love of winter came from my desire for agency. I wrote her a poem shortly after the trip. To be honest, it was a piece of shit. It was something about Greek mythology and Bruegel’s paintings. Speaking as the minotaur, as he looks onto Icarus’ fall, while he rots at his own labyrinth. I spoke as I watched her wings burn, but no one really cares about the minotaur, nor do the moth who flew into the fire. Another reason why I love winters is because I hate my sweat. Cold weathers are therefore perfect to eliminate these beads of embarrassment. I have a high metabolic rate, my discomfort shows through my sweat. Of all the signs that allow one to read me, my sweat tells the most obvious stories. My sweat melted away any sort of facade I had, melting into the sheets while my ego disappeared in her warmth.  “Let me give you what you want.” “What do I want? Why are you asking that?” “Because I love you?”  Her partner came to the country in September, not an event I am totally fond of. The winter grew harsher, I am not necessarily in love with the pain, but the thought that I might come out of this unscathed. Winter was not an exception for me to skip swimming back when I was in high school. The unheated pool water always pinched and gnawed at me until I was finally awake.  “Are you leaving?” “Yes, I told you I have to leave by 10.” “Please don’t?” “You know I cannot stay.”  I would always tell myself the water is lukewarm, and that I am comfortable suffering the unbearable cold. Swimming usually heats one up, as I was jumping up and down underneath her dormitory on one of the chillier nights. I called her to come down for a cigarette.  “Do you want to grab a cig?” “Yes sure, let me ask him first.”  This is probably the reason why I like winter, because I can tell myself that this cold might not be unbearable after all. I was telling myself the streets were not too cold, that my ultimate goal is to see her, the rest are irrelevant. Who she is with, who she wants to be with, nothing is important compared to seeing her. Despite my confidence in maintaining temperatures, my body never obliges. I would willfully heat up myself to bear this bleeding cold. My nose would irritate from temperature changes and sneezing would become a recurring theme for the day. I detest the bitterness of winter. There are unchangeable things. The pool water would always be at 12 degrees, the breeze would always sting my dried up skin, the nights would always dim at 5 pm. Despite how I tell myself how I enjoy winters, the coldness still remains and there is nothing I could do about it. She is always going to leave by 10, despite how much love she has for you.  This is denial, my naive rejection of determinism. I remember being asked why I like to suffer, it is because of my sheer confidence that I believe that “I” will not suffer despite the circumstances.


Damian shook his head. How is it that he ended up here, on the death train? He wanted to tell himself it was all some big misunderstanding, but part of him knew it was more than that. But still - what a terrible place to find yourself. Sure, most were there voluntarily, those who were "ready to go" and didn't have the guts to do it themselves. There were of course a population of psychopathic thrill seekers, those who tried to time the jump off of the standing mat to prevent the electrocution but bring themselves intensely close to death. Then there were those who offended the public's sense of decency- the unsuccessful jumpers, those who threw themselves in front of cars and buses. Really anyone who tried to off themselves in public was taken to the train. You were, of course, welcome to botch as many suicides as you liked in the comfort of your own home, but do it in public by any means, and the train was where you went. At least the train traveled through the country. Damien's ex, who admittedly was the cause of his public misunderstanding who landed him here, was in Tampa. If he could just make it there to see her one more time, he'd be fine going out. The trouble wouldn't be in timing the jumps, he'd heard enough stories about how so-and-so's friend lasted 18 stops by timing his jumps with the windup of the buzz, before the shock ripped through the metal plating. The problem, as Damien saw it, was that all of these stories ended the same way- a missed jump, and then the buzz. It made sense, it'd be nearly impossible to time those jumps while drugged by the warden. That would be Damien's biggest challenge. Even if Alyssa showed up at the Tampa station so he could see her face one last time, he'd have to make 24 jumps in complete sobriety, which meant going without food for at least two or three days before the stop. The death train was not an attraction to see the country for free, and it was rumored the headmaster bent the rules of the train from time to time to make sure it didn't become one.


“These sessions are built on you being honest with me.” She says with her fingers gripping each other over her bony, arthritic knee, her eyes behind thick rimmed glasses balanced on her nose and whenever she moves she smells like sand. Everywhere smells like sand. There is sand in his shoes every day when he walks to work. His dog chews the sand at the bottom of the water bowl; his wife takes her tea with a splash of milk and half a teaspoon of sand. If he gave her an honest answer, he feels guilty because he knows he shouldn’t be drinking on the job. But if you were me, he thinks, you’d do it too, he thinks. He always thinks. Always wants to tell her that there’s no shame in taking the edge off of a job that shows just how far down those edges drop. He’ll never not be at work. Try being honest when you do what I do, he thinks. See how far that’ll get you. His wife’s bouquet was coated with sand the same way her veil was encrusted with it, weaving its way into the carpet as she walked barefoot across the desert. Across the church to the altar. All of it, sewn in between her teeth. Her kisses burn now. She's not the sea now. At night now he sleeps alone, with a pillow that smells like sunscreen and covers that sting him like sandpaper. He doesn’t want her to feel it the way that he does. But he leaves sand in boot prints on the landing and hand prints on the mirror wherever he goes for her to cry over, later. There’s a scratch to his voice like gravel. Like sand. The next day he walks to work with the very same sand that coated the inside of his throat during the night crunching between his toes. So dehydrated he eats it in a hope he will find something within it all that makes him feel as though what he eats in the night will grow his muscle like it used to. Just like normal. They walked across the sand in walking boots and through the sun in fur coats. Sand sticks to hot sweat. Sand sticks to hot, dishonest sweat. There’s always a Jeep just ahead of them kicking up sand in their faces that sticks to the creases of their foreheads and the inside of their eyelids. It makes it so difficult to see anything other than an orange shower of desert and hear anything other than the roar of an artillery Jeep. Makes it difficult to hear the gunfire. “Jacobs is down!” His friend is lying there in the Iraqi sand breathing like a maniac. He sees the sand on the other side. Try being honest when you do what I do. See how far that’ll get you. “Jacobs, listen to me.” He holds his friend’s hand tight against his chest. He whispers a prayer. He doesn’t believe in God. Not anymore. “You’re gonna’ be okay,” he says, “Jacobs? You hear that? You’re gonna’ be alright.


I hold the photograph tight in my hands, weeping. I will never see them again. I study the photo, tracing my fingers along the white creases of use. It's been folded and tucked hundreds of times but now maybe never again. That day was warm and cheery. The perfect day to depart from Earth with a lasting memory of the way life felt. Life was in everything on Earth. It greeted you in the mornings with songs of the wild. It caressed you in the rivers of the world. It captured and pulled you into it's overwhelming fullness. It was a place to love and become accustomed to. A place to live and a place to die. And here I am trapped and alone with nothing but steel cold walls to mock my existence, my life. No hope and no way out. My crew dead or dying and soon I will follow. Soon I'll float endlessly in a metal coffin touring the Galaxy. The creak of the steel awakens me from my stupor. I pull myself on a beam, propelling my body towards the window. I see a mass of blue hues expand the length of the window. Wreckage spans before me in an array of debris. The last of the ship that would've pioneered the way for generations to come. All lost now. I see in the far distance hunks of ship exploding and rocketing towards the unknown planet before me larger than before. Getting closer...too close. "Daddy! Daddy!" I turn quickly from the window to see my 4 year old boy. "Daddy do you want to play with me?" The tears bleed from my eyes, grouping in droplets in front of me. I swat them away in grief and anger. How could my little boy be here, in this place. I see his face but I know it isn't real. Still I drink it in and float before him. I look into his blue eyes and remember. It is unbearable. My loss is complete. I will never see my family and will never play with my boy again. I will never hold him high in the air to fly. He loved that. He used to tell me that he wanted to fly like iron Man and I would lift him in the air turning in circles until his laugher filled my ears. I looked at my son, my soul on fire. "Yea buddy, let's play." "Can I Fly daddy?" the ghost asked. My hands drift up to reach under his arms but there is no resistance and my hands simply move past his arms. I look away in dismay towards the air sealed door. The alarm lights flashing, indicating a breach to the ships infrastructure. (I will not escape this. I can either die the way the universe decides or I can die my way. I can die like a intergalactic space ranger.) I walk to the air sealed doors, glaring out the window at the gas giant before me. One small man facing a giant. I lay my finger on the emergency breach button. I look at the photo one more time showing a laughing father and son. My hands lifted high above while my sons arms stick out in front of him in the superhero fashion. He was wearing his iron man suit. "Let's fly now, son. Let's fly" I push the button.


When you were in high school or maybe you still are, obtaining the knowledge of multiple subjects and then writing about them for seven hours a day, every day, it was or is probably overwhelming to do. Or maybe that first bit came easily to you. Or you were that one student that was always scared of what the day might come to. Like, something so traumatizing and downright frightening could take place, right in the middle of class! Unfortunately, this fear was not thought of at all when something so horrifying took place at a young girl’s high school on May 19 th , 1988. This is the story of a 16-year-old girl by the name, of Jade Moon. A slight breeze, so soft that it could barely be felt came through the window on the wall that was left of the bed, it very softly grazed upon Jades’ rosy cheeks. The breeze slowly drifted around her room but at a human-like pace, suddenly, Jades’ alarm had awoken her. She continued to soundly sleep, before quickly sitting up in her bed and turning off the alarm, which was going to fall from the bedside table before she had abruptly stopped it from doing so. Jade wiped her eyes as she got out of bed to get ready for school. After Jade had put her clothes on, she began to apply a soft pink gloss to her pale, but full lips. She leaned in closer to her vanity mirror, looking into her ocean-blue eyes, while also glancing at her long wavey blonde hair that reached down to her lower back, then she applied a thin layer of black mascara to her eyelashes. When Jade finished applying her mascara she stood up and walked over to her tall mirror that was sitting as still as a rock in the corner of the bedroom to the far right of her bed that was now made. Jade stood as ice in front of the tall mirror, looking at her white shoes, then she moves her eyes towards the outfit she had put on. She is wearing her light-blue bell bottoms and a thin white shirt with long sleeves that fan out toward the end, she had also remembered to put on a white noodle-strap tank top under her shirt just in case. Jade then turns her attention to her alarm clock and a rush of panic falls over her head, as she quickly shoves her volleyball uniform into her backpack along with her homework from Thursday that she had left out overnight. I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on it! Jade scarcely thought. She runs out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen and looks around for the car keys, but she can’t seem to find them anywhere. Then something on the refrigerator catches her attention, she walks closer and realizes that it was a note from her mom which read, “Dear Jade, my work asked me to come in early this morning and I had to take the car. I’m very sorry, I promise to make it up to you when I get home. With loads of love, Mom”. Jade rolls her eyes in a forgiveness-like way, then starts making her way to school. As Jade walked into the high school, she felt a very sharp burst of excitement in her veins because, not only did she make it to school early but, she also has volleyball practice at the end of her first class today, instead of at the end of the school day, which usually left her dead tired. Jade walks down the long hallway ending at her classroom. She walks into the class and takes her seat as the teacher checks her name off on the attendance board, Jade then realizes that she wasn’t early, in fact, she just barely made it because she was the last student to enter the classroom. Jade pulls out her all-yellow notebook, then places it on her desk, and reaches back into her bag to grab a pencil. Mr. Cobalt, which is Jade’s algebra teacher, starts to explain what he was going to instruct the students today. As Jade is taking notes, she starts to feel extremely tired and her head started throbbing, with each throb, she felt a sharp pain in the back of her head. She decided to put her head down hoping it would stop the pain. After forty-five minutes pass Jade put her head back up, but she couldn’t see that her face was very pale, her once rosy cheeks were now cold as ice, and her soft pink lips now looked white as snow with a hint of purple, and her once alive eyes now had bags, with all of this she looked like death itself. Jade, very snail-like, glanced at Mr. Cobalt, then they made eye contact, “Jade, you need to go to the nurse’s office right now!” he said, “B-but why, sir?” replied Jade, Mr. Cobalt looks at Jade, then looks down towards her desk and nodded, motioning his head to get Jade to look down at her desk, this she understood. So, she looked down at her desk and saw a little puddle of blood just as another drop fell, then she knew why, her nose was bleeding! She grabbed all her things and quickly tucked them into her bag as she put the long strap around her shoulder. In a hurry, she rushed out of the class to the nurse’s office. “Welcome in, how can I help- Oh dear! Let me grab an ice pack and some cotton balls for you!” Nurse Joy said in a sweet but frightened voice at the sight of Jade’s death-like look and her bleeding nose. Jade let Nurse Joy wipe the blood from her face so that she could place the cotton ball under her nose. Once Jade was holding the cotton in place, Nurse Joy told her to look up to stop the bleeding, then she asked Jade if she wanted to call home. Jade didn’t want to go home though because of volleyball practice, so Jade shook her head saying, “No thank you.” After a while of waiting, Jade shifted her attention toward the bathroom, then she got up and went in to look in the mirror, “Nurse Joy, the bleeding stopped!” The nurse looked at Jade just in case, but the bleeding had stopped, so Jade was free to go even though she still looked half dead. As Jade started her way back to Algebra the school bell rang, which meant it was time for volleyball practice. Out of excitement, Jade ran as fast as she could to get there. In the girls’ locker room, as Jade was getting her gym shorts and shirt on, she noticed someone, a girl with long red hair and the perfect body shape, Jessica Thompson, a rude rich girl that thinks she’s better than everyone. Then Jade realized that she was headed right to her! Jessica shoved Jade out of her way and just continued to walk by like nothing even touched her. This incident made Jade furious and soon Jessica would regret that. When the girls left the locker room teams were chosen for a practice match. Jade noticed that Jessica was on the opposite team and Jade was still terribly upset with Jessica. Jade was chosen by the team leader to spike the ball, but instead of spiking it, she looked dead in Jessica’s eyes and throws the ball straight at her, but Jade somehow threw the ball so hard that it cut through the net like a knife and hit Jessica right in the chest, the blow to the chest sent Jessica flying backward into the concrete wall that was behind her, Jessica had hit the wall so hard that when she slammed into it, you could hear several cracks as Jessica slid to the floor unconscious. Everyone turned from looking at poor Jessica to slowly staring at Jade, but when they did everyone froze in horror. Jade Had a blank expression on her face, but the reason why they were all staring at her was obvious, Jade’s eyes are all white and her hair ever so slowly faded from blonde to a deep dark purple as she was now starting to hover over the floor as she got higher, the high school shook, then right from under Jade, cracks start to form causing the students to panic and run around in fear. The floor stopped shaking and the students could see what once large cracks in the ground had now formed a giant cave-like hole, leading deep down into the earth. Without any notice, a huge claw-like hand reaches out from the hole, grabs Jade by her legs, and quickly snatches her into the dark abyss all while she kept her blank expression the same as if she were in some sort of trance. After a moment or so passed, a loud growl can be very well heard coming from deep within the hole, causing everybody to panic again. After another moment or so passed, another growl can be heard from within the hole, this one being much louder than the last. With this, followed a ground-shaking rumble from the hole, it stopped for only five seconds, just to start again then stop again. This continued over and over, each time getting more louder than the last while reaching closer and closer to the surface of the cave-like hole. When all of what seemed like hours of torture, everything went to complete silence. Right when the panicking students started to gather what had happened, a loud roar shook the floor from the surface of the hole. After this roar, EMERGING FROM THE HOLE WAS A GIANT BEAST LI- “Okay class! Pop quiz!” Mr. Cobalt said as Jade quickly woke up at the sound of his voice. "Did I fall asleep when I put my head down?" ...


The party was its expected level of seediness. Luke and his I-guess-you-could-call-it girlfriend Lola got there just after one in the morning. The apartment was dingy and dimly lit, Luke was only just able to make out the piles of clothing and garbage thrust to the perimeter of the place in an obvious attempt to straighten up before anyone had arrived. It was stifling hot. The smell was an exacting combination of patchouli, shit weed, mold, and the air freshener attempting to cover it all up. The music was almost inaudible, but it was just some overrated jam band anyway. The host, Jeremy, was in the corner of the living room, his body wrapped in strands of infrared lights. For a party, the room seemed suspiciously quiet. Luke hardly recognized a majority of the people there and he wasn't sure if this was because he really didn't know them or if it was the drugs beginning to warp his ability to attach a face to a name. Lola seemed to know everyone there, mannerism-fucking every guy in the room, even the gay ones, and asserting her dominance over all of the girls. Primal. The room began to breathe with Luke and the light suddenly brightened and the noise intensified. The faces were still unfamiliar. He convinced himself that the voices he heard were actually the thoughts of everyone around him that he suddenly had the ability to hear, each one chastising Luke for acting like he could hold down a girl like Lola. Paranoia. The realization that the girl he associated himself with and actually had feelings for was little more than loose came at the most inconvenient of times. More than anything Luke needed to get out of his head, and in a desparate attempt to get himself together went into the bathroom. He dunked his entire, sweat soaked head into the sink after filling it with frigid water. Solace. He had detached himself so far from the misery of the party that he didn't even reason to listen to what happened on the other side of that bathroom door. Until he opened it to an empty room. Vanished How long was he in there? where is everybody? whos apartment is this? who did he come here with? confusion. The drugs allow him to engross himself into every small detail of this curious, distantly familiar, apartment. The hot fragrant air still complemented the music the way it did before he went in the bathroom. Nostalgia. Luke accepts his personal assingment to figure out what happened while he was gone. The unpretentious venue seemed to be shrinking in on him when he finds himself wishing he could still hear the thoughts of everybody he once knew. Illuminating on the couch, in the center of the room, is an abandoned white and blue blazer and matching bag. His first clue. Lola. The apartment is empty, that was apparent. Luke grabs Lola's belongings and decides to search for her on his way home in hopes to find some answers there. The streets are cold and crisp, a different world from inside the apartment. Suddenly nothing seems familiar is a once mundane town. Detachment. He is starting to think the entire world vanished with the party guests when a truck pulled up beside him. Through a foggy windshield a pitiful glance drops Lukes stomach. It's Jeremy. No words are exchanged while Jeremy helps Luke into his truck. All Luke could do was submit to the help. "I lost Lola. Where did everyone go?" Luke pleads to Jeremy. "You've clearly had a rough night. Why are you carrying that stuff" Jeremy questions pitifully. "i lost Lola" He repeats "She left all her things" The car stops. Jeremy looks at Luke like he has heard the story a million times. "I know" Jeremy confesses as he takes the things off Lukes lap. "Now go inside and get some rest. You cant beat yourself up over it any longer. Its time to move on" Confused, Luke went inside and tried to take the advice but could not sleep. This place suddenly felt like home. He was back inside the apartment where he last saw her but suddenly everything seemed alleviated. There were never any party guests inside, just the haunted thoughts of those he used to know. This apartment was familiar now, filled with all of Lukes things, burried under months worth of garbage and laundry. Bachelor pad. He makes plans to clean up his apartment in the morning and sprawls out on the couch that once was home to her most prized possessions. Luke cant remember the last time he was able to fall asleep without the drugs. Cleansed. "Hey babe, sorry I'm late. Guess who i ran into" He places her old bag over her shoulder while she examines the items inside that she she easily replaced so long ago. "This is going in the trash tho" He throws the outdated blazer on the floor. "I'll get you something better" She smiles and welcomes him home with a kiss. "Oh my God, Jeremy, Where did you find this? I have not even thought about this bag in years. What was i thinking back then? Its hideous!" she says with a smirk. Lola.


T’was naught but great misfortune that led my carriage’s wheel to shatter just short of journey’s end. The long ride from Essex to the Whitlingham estate had been long and fraught with all manner of discomforts, leaving one quite longing for an evening of soaking in warmth of a wonderful lavender tub. Alas, such wonderful fantasies turned to bitter longing as we struck a gastly rut but mere miles from the gates. I cared little to spend such a villainous autumn evening shivering beneath my jacket until a labourer could be found to repair the carriage, thus I made a bold decision to wander hence and find a tavern for the night. My coachman told me of a village a mile past - a whole mile! I thought to myself - and we resolved to meet again upon the morn to resume our journey. As I began my long foray into the twilight, I found myself wondering whether that crafty coachman would relieve me of my belongings in the small hours, or whether I would return to no carriage at all. My legs, as sturdy as they are when we engage in a good hunt, were not built for such long distances afoot, thus my soles were worn and blistered by the time the twinkling lamplights of a small township came into view. Night had fully fallen, casting a dark shadow and bitter chill across the green fields and hedgeways. As I pulled my jacket tighter around myself, I was appalled by the state of travelwear. Was that a rip in my fine cuffs? A scuff on my boots! Such trials as this would make for fine retelling the next I travelled to the London clubs, but I must say, I was presently rather unkeen on the whole affair. I found a small tavern, a shabby inn named the Candle and Canton , and inquired about a lodging for the night. “Not ‘ere gov”, said the barkeep, rubbing his meaty hands together, “I’m flooded with a party off the highway. But, I hear old Sampson there has a spare bed to share. Why not make an inquiry?” He gestured across to where an older gentleman sat nursing a rough flagon of watery beer. He struck me as a weary fellow, with dark shadows under cold grey eyes, under thickset and bushy brows. His hair was matted, his lime-green tunic barethread and holed in parts, but what struck me most were his shoes. Despite being the image of rural peasantry, truly unlike my normal acquaintances, the old chap wore the most striking set of crimson riding boots. They were high to the knee of rich leather, bound with delicate black thread stitching and a sturdy sole. In all my years had I never seen such a wondrous set as those there on the feet of a tumbled-down fellow. Perhaps then it was my wandering gaze that drew his eye, or perhaps he’d simply heard the barkeep’s booming tones across the floor. Nevertheless, his eyes set about micheviously twinkling as he appraised my clothing. “Ye wanting a bed, eh?”, cackled the old man. He seemed to grow with excitement. As his eyes thawed, never before had I seen such an intese, yet gleeful, stare. “Ha! Old Sampson will give ye shelter if ye ask him of it. Never leave a lad of finery out in the cold, that’s what I say! What be yer name, sir?” “Gideon”, I managed to stutter, quite caught off by his sudden change. Before I took all leave of my sense of etiquette, I added, “at your service, master Sampson. Your offer is most kind, though I’d hate to intrude...” “Ye be a strange sight in these parts, master Gideon. Where ye be a-going to, huh?” I told him of my errands, and of the company expecting me at Whitlingham Hall. I didn’t care for the man’s questioning, or how he seemed to appraise me like I was a particularly fine mare at the races. “All these folks of leisure and wealth, yet never do they come of down to chat with us humbler folk. Y’er a rare one you are, master Gideon”. He finished up his drink - a foul smelling concoction that reeked of a violently strong liquor - and reached for an old wooden cane propped against the wall. “Let us not delay young master, let us not indeed! The night is drawing long and we best be getting you comfortable. You shall stay with me this eventide! Come now, come along!” I shot many desperate looks about me, for someone - anyone - to offer me an opportunity to excuse myself, yet I felt the hope dimmed as I caught upon stony faces. I felt a deep unease in my stomach at being left alone with this man, yet it simply wasn’t done to refuse such an offer of hospitality. Unless I quite fancied a night in the warmest nearby ditch I could find, I would need to accept with whatever grace and humility I could muster. I faced Sampson with a thin smile. “Lead ahead, good sir. I shall accept your generous offer”. The old man grinned a crooked smile. I followed him from that small tavern, and together, we wound through the village. My spent feet hurried to keep up with the quick clip-clap of the man’s cane on the cobbles. Sampson was spritely despite his age, as if taken by new purpose. As we walked, my eyes returned to his exceptional boots. How had Sampson - unable or unwilling to patch even the clothes on his back - come by such a fine and marvellous pair? I simply had to ask. “I say, Sampson, your boots are most exceptional. How came you to acquire such a pair?” “Thank ye lad. Found them in a field, would you believe”. I did not. “Really?”, I asked. “Is true, young master. Musta fallen from some wagon passin’ by. Ol’ Sampson didn’t have a pair at the time, see, so he hoped they wouldn’t mind meself putting them to good use”. The further from the village and its flickering lanterns we travelled, the rougher and narrower the trackway became. We wound this way and that until I was quite sure I’d be lost without Sampson to guide me. I shivered in the frosty night air, jumping with fright as a fox barked somewhere nearby. By contrast, Sampson seemed as comfortable as if walking on a bright summer day. Presently, as we rounded a cluster of beeches, I heard the gentle splash-splash of a brook. We picked our way along its edge until a glimmer of flickering lights appeared ahead of us. What emerged from the darkness was a battered old water mill. In its day, it would have been a delightful two-story structure of half-timber and stone with its sturdy water-wheel rotating gently in the current. Now the mill slumped towards the river like a drunk, gnarled wooden beams leaning at odd angles and the wheel turned no more. Dark ivy snaked across the walls, I dare say holding the stonework together better than any mortar did. The door was a crooked oaken slab, the hovel’s windows shattered and repaired with scraps of soiled rags. I felt my stomach drop. Surely, this couldn’t be our destination. “Welcome sir”, said Sampson with a flourish of his cap, “to my most ‘umble of abodes. She ain’t much sir, but she’s done right by me and she’ll do right by you”. The unpleasant, sour mingling of unwashed flesh and fish greeted me as I stepped through the door. Straining against the impulse to gag, my eyes strained to make out the strange twisting shapes cast by the dancing candles tied from the rafters. It was as if someone attempted to bring their life into the bones of a long deceased creature. The house was a single stretching room filled to bursting with all manner of old and cobwebbed machinery from the mill’s days of activity. Here and there, pieces of furniture had been squeezed into the clearer spaces of the floor. There, on one side of the room, was a table and set of chairs squeezed in a small alcove formed by a grind-wheel and a large cog. A wooden cot rested on a higher wooden platform above a pile of old barrels. The air tasted bitter of iron and rust and mold. Sampson set his cane against wall and clapped his hands together. “Come this way master Gideon. Careful now, mind those gears there. Strip the skin from yer shin at the sligh’est touch, they will. Come now, sir, let us show you to yer lodgings” Never before, and never again, will I see such a man, who walks with the assistance of a cane, spring about a room of ancient and silent machinery with the grace of a boy several decades his senior. He danced about the room, tugging blankets from unsuspecting corners, laughing all the while, and assembled them into a corner that I assumed would become my bed. It certainly lacked the comfort I was used to, yet to have a pillow of duck and eiderdown seemed quite unlikely indeed in this place. I kept my eyes fixed on Sampson all the while. The more his antics defied my expectations, the harder it became to shift the growing gnawing sensation deep in my chest. I jumped as suddenly Sampson cried out. He threw his arms in the air, “the fish!” he groaned. “Yer call yerself an ‘ost, Sampson you goose. Beggin’ yer pardon sir, I’ve shown the most terrible of manners. Wait here, get yeself all comfy like. Yes, sir, like that, let me pull out a chair for you. That’s it. Make yerself at ‘ome, and I’ll be back shortly with our supper”. I found myself bundled into one of the two chairs by the fire, before the old man headed out through the door once more. I was alone in a stranger’s house. Invited indeed, but not at home. I was deeply troubled by my surroundings. The shadows seemed to draw closer, as if each contained some hidden miscreance looming over me. I knew not the way back to the village, not even how to find my broken carriage again. I was truly alone. Alone but for Sampson. Sampson! The old fellow had done me no harm, yet I felt a great unease from his manner. So quick to draw a gentleman of good standing to such a remote location. I again found myself dwelling on his shining red boots - those boots that stood apart from all I knew about him like an urchin at the races. He was hiding something, of that I was sure. What else was he hiding? I rose slowly, careful not to make a sound lest Sampson overhear. Though it might have been the rudest crime of etiquette, I simply had to know what else the old man was hiding from me. I began to explore the shadowy mill, clinging to the darkness like a common thief. I searched through alcoves, behind the husks of machinery and behind piles of barrels, looking for - no , knowing - that some secret lay hidden here. My foot clunked against something hard and heavy on the bare stone floor. I looked down. A large metal ring. A ring attached to a trapdoor. I almost found myself wishing my instincts had not been so correct. I pried open the trapdoor, carefully, carefully lifting the heavy wooden boards until it was wide enough to slip into. Bracing myself and offering a silent apology to my dear launderer, I crept down the hatchway. Beyond the trapdoor was a set of stairs. The light was almost blinding after so long in the dingy candlelight upstairs. Lanterns hug from shepards hooks on each way, revealing before me... my goodness! A hoard. A loot hoard. Piled around the space, as large as the mill above, were items of all manner, shape and size. I saw wicker baskets, ceramic pots, an old chaise lounge with a red wine stain, three rugs with intricate and careful designs, a dozen wonderful ballgowns, a bathtub cracked and chipped with a thousand holes, travelling trunks, crystalware, butler’s jackets and bellboys shoes, teapots and shoes... my goodness so many shoes! From galloshes and slippers to boots and dancing flats, there seemed to be dozens, no, hundreds, of them! “Ah, ye weren’t meant to see this, young master”. I whipped about, finding myself face-to-face with Sampson. He stood plainly before me, a large fish in his hands, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. My mind raced. How had he acquired all this? My suspicions rose tenfold in that moment, and I found myself turning angrily on the old man. “See here, sir. I shouldn’t be ungrateful for your gracious offer of shelter this night, but I should say I find this... this ... to be very unexpected indeed and I should jolly well like you to answer my questions. Who you are, where did this come from and what do you intend to do with me?” Sampson’s face dropped. He regarded me as if I had struck him, his eyes wide and lip quivering as the fish trembled in his hands. His energy seemed to sap away, his shoulders hunching so that he seemed smaller than before, lending me the impression of simple old man. An old man I’d just turned on. Who held a fish he intended to cook for me. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I’d committed the most greivous sin and spat in the face of his hospitality. Here was a man, who’d done naught to me but kindness, and here was I, challenging him on his motives in his home he’d offered to me for the night without any question of payment. A low sob escaped Sampson’s mouth. He slowly fell to his knees and let the fish fall to the cold stone floor. “Oh, young master Gideon. Beggin’ yer pardon sir, but I don’t mean no ill to you, not at all sir. I....”, he stumbled over his own words as he choked back his tears, “its just me out here sir, just me. I’m an honest man, I am, and a lonely one. I’m sorry that I gave yerself cause for doubting meself”. I took a step towards him and offered him a hand. Sampson looked up at me with those grey eyes, took my hand and pulled me into a tight embrace. To my utmost surprise, I did not flinch or attempt to pull away. I put my arms around him. It mattered not that he was unwashed, or that he might stain or crumple my clothing. We stood there, all notions of class or rank forgotten. We broke apart. “Thank ye, young master. Ye’re a rare one”. “Please, master Sampson, I should be the one apologising and seeking your forgiveness. I was wrong to make such gastly assumptions of you”. I looked down at his shiny crimson boots, and across to the collection amassed behind him. “Perhaps this was in a field too?” Sampson nooded. “Used to be a time when the old Whitlingham family from yonder estate would just leave their unwanted goods out in the fields. I just collect it, I do. Some things I find a new home for, others I give away to those in need or use to fix up the mill. Some of them”, he gestured to his boots, a mischievous smile creeping back onto his face “well, sometimes there’s no harm in keepin’ sommit fer meself”. I found myself laughing. Sampson joined in. “Good fellow”, I said, “you are a strange, but wonderful individual. Please allow me to start again”. I took a step back, and bowed low. “My name is Gideon, and may I trouble you for your hospitality this night?”. Sampson’s face lit up with the biggest grim. “Ye be very welcome, master Gideon, very welcome indeed sir! Come upstairs, what is mine is yours!”. We climbed up into the mill once more. Sampson cooked his fish over the roaring fire. For the first time in many years, the mill was flooded in its light; a beacon amidst the dark night beyond its slumping walls. Sampson came alive once more, never once needing his cane nor losing the boyish grin on his face. I must confess, I slept most excellently that night. The next morning, Sampson and I walked the short trail back to the village. It was my turn to lead him to where my carriage awaited us and usher him inside. I gave the call to the coachman, and once again, we were off. It was past time, I thought, that the Whitlinghams met the man with the red boots.