Beauty incarnate arose from the seafoam bubbling around her as she awoke. The misty air matched her loveliness. As she took her first steps onto land, grass sprouted around her feet. She was named Aphrodite by gods and mortals alike, meaning “the foam-born.” She was invited to the assembly of the gods, aptly becoming the goddess of beauty and love. Her birth had been an agonizing event, as she had been created out of Kronos’s punishment towards his father. Nevertheless, she became a powerful and enchanting goddess that had portrayed all that love is. Aphrodite had quickly become a woman that was respected greatly by all mortals she had reigned over. Respect for her was greatly recommended, as she could become quite jealous, causing many horrible events to occur. The apple of discord had been a major incident displaying her issue with envy. This apple had the words “for the fairest” inscribed into them. Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were all convinced that they were the one that the apple belonged to. Zeus decided to settle this issue by prompting the mortal Paris to decide which of the three goddesses the apple should belong to. Aphrodite had offered the most enticing bribe to Paris, love. Paris had wanted to marry Helen of Troy, and Aphrodite was able to make that happen. However, Helen’s husband had grown furious with this and started the Trojan War. Helen became known as the woman whose face sank 1000 ships. The love goddess had felt no remorse, and had caused death and destruction in order to be the one who possessed a simple apple. Aphrodite was a seductress. She felt her best being able to woo those with her beauty, and she often was very obsessed with her own vanity. If anyone had said that they were more beautiful, especially a mortal, they were immediately ill-fated. She would curse, kill, and punish those who said that one was more beautiful than her, or had even just disrespected her. Common punishments for those who disrespected her were often along the lines of unrequited love. Pan cursed to be in love with Echo, a nymph that ever returned that love for him. The goddess had also murdered Herakles with a poisoned robe for his unfaithfulness. And perhaps the one most painful for an immortal, making one fall in love with a mortal. However, Aphrodite would soon face this pain herself. Long after her birth from the sea, there was a tragic incident between Aphrodite and a woman named Myrrah. This woman was cursed to fall in love with her father due to her disrespect towards Aphrodite, as it was claimed that Myrrah was more beautiful. Myrrah lusted after her father so much she became with child after anonymously sleeping with him in pure darkness for nine nights. Her father had discovered that Myrrah was the one that he was sharing his bed with for the past few days and promptly chased her with a sword. The gods had then turned her into the myrrh tree in order to save her from her father’s wrath. Soon after the myrrh tree split open and birthed a child named Adonis. He was found by the love goddess, her finding his beauty even from his youth so incredible she kept him away from the other gods and had only shared this secret with Persephone of the Underworld. As Adonis grew up, his beauty became more intoxicating, causing both Persephone and Aphrodite to fall in love with him. Zeus, the king of the gods, was known for settling disagreements, and had allowed Persephone and Aphrodite to each be with him for one third of the year, with Adonis choosing who to stay with for the final third. Adonis, enamored with Aphrodite, had chosen to stay with the goddess of love for the final third of the year. They had fallen completely in love. Aphrodite had never truly fallen in love, let alone with a mortal. The love that they had for each other was deep and unwavering. Many other gods and demi-gods had lusted over him, but his love for Aphrodite had been resolute an true. However, the vice of falling in love with a mortal is that they are not immortal. Adonis could not live forever. It is true that Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, could have made Adonis immortal, but his death was tragic and unexpected, and caused by the gods. It is unclear and was never truly discovered who had done this to him, but the gods could have saved him, but wagered against it. While Adonis was on a hunting trip, he was caught off guard and attacked by a wild boar. The boar had emerged the victor, leaving Adonis to die. Aphrodite had discovered Adonis dying in the woods. Crying, and rushing to his side, she cradled him in her arms until he took his final breath. His death completely shattered her heart, shedding tears that had mixed with his blood, blooming a beautiful anemone flower. Aphrodite held the flower close to her chest as she continued to weep over the loss of her true love. Her cries were heard throughout Greece, notifying people of Aphrodite’s grief. Aphrodite had never truly gotten past the loss of Adonis, she never truly or deeply loved again as she did Adonis. Eventually, Zeus forced her to marry Hephaestus, the god of the forge. This was done to prevent Aphrodite from attracting the attention of any other men. The goddess of love had ironically never been able to marry for love. It is true that she had her many affairs, predominantly with Ares, the god of war. However, no matter how many men she was able to woo, she could never get over her woe. She stared at the stars that she lived among every night, yearning for her departed lover, crying tears for him every night knowing that he would never return. Her teardrops lived among the stars, each filled with blinding despair, shining with the remaining love she had in her shattered heart.


We were outside, in the garden, when it happened. I remember it was dark, though the moon was fat and bright. “Reggie” I said softly, and moved forward to take his hand. I felt some remorse, it was true. He was so dull, so hopeless, so wrong for me. But still, I was sorry for the hurt I was about to cause him; yet the excitement inside me was bubbling, raising higher in my breast, threatening to spill from my mouth and eyes and ears like white hot lava. Reg saw it in my face and recoiled. Shock replaced suspicion on his shrivelled features and his glazed eyes sought mine. “My God,” he whispered. “It’s true then....it’s true.” I told him everything after that. Like a deluge, the held-back pent-up words poured out into the night air, over Reggie, over the house, over the sham of our marriage. They seemed to me to cleanse everything as I spoke; washing away the ugliness and pretence; to leave instead a fresh peace, a happiness newly minted. For a marriage to have lasted as long as ours and yet be so empty of love, or communication, or caring, seemed impossible. If it wasn’t for our son, Daniel, then fifteen - and thank God he was staying with his friend that night - well, I really don’t think I would be here at all. The man standing in front of me; he was a stranger . I realised how little I really knew him. All I did know was that when he was with me, I was so lonely. He never hit me, it was true; the cruelty wasn’t physical. It was just the horrid, cold indifference that had crept into my bones over the years. So the fire I felt from my lover had blazed even more brighter. Then, in front of my eyes, Reggie had bent over, shaking uncontrollably. Oh no, I thought, he’s having a fit, or a heart attack. It must be the shock. In spite of everything, I felt dreadfully guilty. I bent over him and put my arm round his skinny shoulders and murmured platitudes, trying vainly to comfort him. It was then that he raised his face; his ugly, weaselly face. If he had raised his fist and smashed it into me I couldn’t have been more hurt. For the tables had turned. Reggie was laughing, spluttering and coughing with mirth; and he was laughing at me! “Oh, Ruth,” he said weakly “A Green Man! Oh Jesus, I thought you were serious, you daft bitch! God, you really ought to see Dr. Roberts. Maybe he could recommend you to a specialist - a tree surgeon perhaps!” And he spat out the vile words with another obscene burst of merriment. He seemed evil, possessed with the need for my torture. I have never hated him so much as I did then. I had to get away from him, away from his horrid taunts. All I could do was think of my lover; I wanted to run to him, to find solace and comfort in his hard, kind body, and be soothed by the lullaby of his arms overhead. Because, yes, it was true! I loved The Green Man! That spirit of nature was alive and whole and had brought a special kind of magic to my life. The joy and the elation this statement gave me meant almost as much as if Mother Nature herself had embraced me. The truth was so beautiful, and at last it was released for all to observe. Then, as my lover and I stood entwined, from behind came Reggie’s ugly voice. He was laughing still, great sobs of laughter, and pointing and cat-calling, and hurling names at me. He seemed so like a demon that I hardly knew him; though a dam must have burst in him too, because the abuse and the language were thick in the air and were flying at me like missiles, so that I cringed and clung to the Green Man. I had no idea my husband hated me so much, hated me as much as I did him. He called me faithless, and boring; he said our marriage was a washout and called me a trashy wife who would put a tree - yes, that’s what he called my lover. A common tree! - before her husband and family. He said I was unfair to him and Daniel, he had worked hard to provide for us but I was always so unappreciative. The truths hit home like bullets. For they were truths, I could see that now, and, like a lightning flash igniting the moonlit air, I saw myself as he must see me - shallow, cold and ungrateful, my head filled with nonsense. I was stunned with the revelation, and letting go of the Green Man, I began to back away. And then I saw him dimly as Reggie saw him. He had a trunk and branches, not body or arms. What was I doing with this piece of vegetation? Where was my demon lover, my Jack-in-the-Green? It was then that I became aware of the noise. It was filling the air all around, and when Reggie started abusing me it became much worse. A storm must be brewing I thought, for a strong wind was blowing, twigs and debris were performing a cyclonic dance all around us, and the Green Man was again there before me in all his incredible glory, waving his arms ever more wildly. As I looked up in amazement, his limbs were threshing in the night sky, and there was a strange moaning amongst them; low at first like the growl of a menacing beast, but gradually louder, until the sound became deafening and I had to clap my hands to my ears. I had never seen the Green Man like this before, not even in the wildest of the February storms, and it was an alarming sight. Reggie was scared too. He gawped open-mouthed at my lover, and I could see the terror dawning in his eyes. Suddenly the terrible tragedy happened. The Green Man seemed to howl - that’s all I can describe it as, and then his brawny arms were all round Reggie, completely encasing him, his gnarled fingers were like twigs pushing down his throat and in his eyes, and my husband threshed wildly for a moment then was still. I screamed and rushed to help him, but Reggie was dead. The Green Man dropped his poor, limp, body back onto the lawn and stood upright once more, and miraculously the wind dropped and the night was still again. I’ve never got over losing Reggie. I was surprised. For months I had lived for the Green Man and hated my life, but when he took that life away from me I was so angry, and worse - I was frightened of his power, for what if one day I displeased him - or Dan? The funny thing was, I was going to move away, to leave the Green Man, if I hadn’t been arrested for Reggie’s murder. The police didn’t believe my story. They said I had a kitchen knife in my hand and when my husband taunted me I had just snapped. All nonsense of course, but I have been locked away in a mental hospital for many years now. However, I know the truth! It was the dryads, those wicked tree-dwelling nymphs. They invaded the Green Man and, like the malicious sprites that they are, they turned his head and made him do that terrible thing. My lover was innocent, I have to believe in that. But now everything is gone; they ruined my life. The house is sold, Daniel has long since moved away - right to Australia, the other side of the world, and Reggie is dead. Now all I have are my drawings of my lover. He does look strangely like a tree, however many times I sketch him. I show the doctor my book and say proudly. “Reggie’s ashes are buried under here. Maybe his spirit has been sucked into the sap, to lay in the arms of the dryad. She’ll find him a very cold ghost, if so.” And I laugh, but the doctor does not.


“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! To anyone that can hear me, this is Isaac Jameson, the only surviving crew member of the mining vessel Akanu 3! The ship’s engine room caught fire following a micrometeoroid shower and we were forced to land! The engine room exploded shortly after and left a large hull breach! I am stuck on the Pallas asteroid and unable to leave! The other two on board were killed in the explosion! Please respond!” I sent the mayday call and waited nervously for a response. I knew it would take about ten minutes for the signal to reach Mars and another ten for a response to get back. It took twenty-two minutes to get a response. It came from mission control at the Akanu mining headquarters, the company I worked for. They told me a rescue would take about three months to organize and carry out, and that I should check to make sure that the life support systems still worked. I double checked my mining suit for any holes and pressed the button to open the door to the life support room. I found that the life support room was completely unharmed and I turned off the air to the engine room so I wouldn’t lose any more oxygen through the hole in the hull. I realized that I was going to be stuck on Pallas, so I went back into the reactor control room and tried to get the fusion reactor to start again. While I worked I thought about my previous job. ● ● ● I came to Mars on an Ares mining shuttle back in 2183. Ares was the largest and most successful mining company on Mars. Ares paid its miners well, so I decided to get a four year contract job working as a drill operator in the Denning crater mines. Those four years were easily the worst of my life. Life in the mines was miserable. You got up every day, put on your uniform, and had breakfast at the mess hall. After breakfast, you went to the airlocks and put on your pressurized mining suit. Every suit had a twenty-four hour supply of oxygen and a radio. The only way you could talk to others was by using the radio because the air was too thin for sound and the radios were unreliable at best. I don’t know what it was about those radios that made them break so easily. Half the time my radio refused to work because of a loose wire or something, so if I ever needed to tell someone something it was hard for me to know if he had actually heard me. Not to mention it was unbearably hot in the mines and the suit’s cooling system barely worked, so I spent nine hours each day drenched in my own sweat, chipping away at rock walls. In fact, I remember one of the miners in the D2 mineshaft actually died of a heatstroke during my first month of work. They made a big deal about it on the news but Ares didn’t do anything about it. At the end of my shift, I had to walk for a good twenty minutes to get to the airlock before I could take my suit off, and by then I would be practically starved and dying of thirst because it was impossible to eat or drink while I was in my suit. My favorite part about working in the Denning mines was always when I got to stop working. They served us a ton of food after we got back from the mines in the mess hall, but none of it ever tasted particularly good unless it was taco night. There were five mines at Denning. There was the old, closed down D1 mineshaft, then there was the D2 mineshaft, which went down into Mars at a 45° angle. All of the excavation in the D3 mineshaft had to be done with explosives because the rock was too hard to use a drill. I worked in the D4 mineshaft, which was the safest out of the five. The D5 mine was brand new when I started working and the tunnels were not yet wide enough for the big mining equipment to fit yet so everyone that worked there had to mine out the walls by hand with jackhammers and shovels. Miners would always talk about problems they had in the other mines. They said the D2 mine was too hot, the D3 mine was too prone to cave-ins, and the D5 mine was too narrow. Noone really ever complained that much about D4, but it was still bad. I was planning to get another four year contract with Ares when I was nearing the end of my current one, not because I liked working there but because the salary was so high. I was going to renew my contract but then people started to get transferred from the Denning mines to the Cassini crater mines up north. All of the miners that came from Cassini told stories of the place. The Cassini mines were the worst place to be assigned on all of Mars. Cassini was home to the infamous C1 mine. On June 25, 2181, the Cassini colony was devastated by a magnitude 6.2 marsquake. The C1 mine was the only mine at Cassini that remained operational, and it was none too stable. I probably saw somewhere around seven different news stories about massive cave-ins at the C1 mine during my four year stay at the Denning mines. There was no way that I was ever going to the Cassini mines but I doubted I would ever be able to find work elsewhere on Mars. The Ares mining company paid for the shuttle ticket to Mars for all of its employees, but once your contract expired, they didn’t pay for the ticket back to Earth. I guess I was expected to save up eight months worth of pay to be able to afford a shuttle ticket back. If my wife hadn’t lost her job then I wouldn’t have had to worry about sending her almost every penny I made. I didn’t want to quit my job at Ares because I needed to support my wife. I needed to make sure I could find a job that paid more than Ares did so that I would be able to save up enough money to get off Mars and head back to Earth. I spent most of my time in the barracks searching for a job with the small laptop Ares issued me. I figured having experience at Ares might help me get a job working for another mining company. I checked but I couldn’t find anything on Mars that paid better and that I qualified for. I eventually found an opening at a company called Akanu mining. The company had only been in operation for three years but if I was able to get the job I would make three times as much as I did working for Ares! They needed people that had experience working with mining equipment on either Mars or The Moon. I did some more research on the company and found out that it already had two spacecraft that were able to pull up right next to an asteroid and use a robotic scoop to grab chunks of rock that would be knocked loose during a mining operation. It actually looked like I had a fair chance of getting the job so I applied immediately. It only took two days for me to get a reply. I went in for an interview and was hired on the spot. Apparently, they were having a hard time finding qualified people that were willing to go to the asteroid belt. They put me in as part of a crew of three. I was going to be working with Richard Higgs, an engineering technician and Joseph Dewalt, a former commercial shuttle pilot. We were going to fly to the Pallas asteroid in the asteroid belt and start a mining operation there. The trip took three months. During that flight, I mostly did small maintenance tasks on the ship and made sure the life support systems were running like they were supposed to. Richard was in charge of making sure the ship’s onboard fusion reactor and engines stayed running. Joseph was in charge of making small adjustments to the ship’s speed and trajectory. We all watched movies and read books in our spare time. The three months went by quickly and we were just about to land on Pallas when we started getting pelted by micrometeoroids. Most of them were too small to do any harm and bounced harmlessly off the ship’s hull. The engine was the only part on the ship that was vulnerable because it didn’t have any hull plating, unlike the rest of the ship. It got hit a couple of times and the coolant system must have failed because a fire started in the engine room. Joseph managed to land on Pallas using the secondary boosters and told me to cut oxygen to the engine room so that the fire would burn out. He went with Richard to the airlock where we kept our space suits. They put their suits on so that they could breathe in the engine room that was at that point, running out of oxygen and full of smoke. I’m not sure what went wrong but after they went into the engine room there was this loud explosion. I honestly don’t know what caused it. The fuel tank must have ruptured or something. ● ● ● I messed around with the fusion reactor for almost an hour before getting frustrated with it and giving up. If Richard were here, he would have had it running by now. Richard was always good with stuff like this... But now I was all alone on an asteroid with the closest civilization three months away. I still needed a way to keep the life support system powered and the ship’s batteries were running low. I went back into the cockpit and found the controls to the solar panels that were on the ship. I rotated them to face the sun and the ship’s batteries started to charge up. I would have to re-orient the solar panels every couple of days to keep them trained on the sun, but it looked like I was getting enough power out of them. I had plenty of food. The ship was still stocked with enough food to feed three people for four months if it was rationed out. Now that I was the only person left on the ship, I had enough food to not have to worry about rationing it out. I had plenty of food, water, and oxygen to last me until rescue came. I had a lot of everything, but most of all I had a lot of time. I had three months to kill before I was rescued and I honestly had no idea what I should do to pass the time. The only productive thing I could do would be to attempt to mine out a small section of the asteroid and verify that it actually contained valuable minerals. Pallas was expected to contain large amounts of platinum and chromium but there was only one way to make sure. I put on my suit and got the mining equipment ready. I double checked my suit and moved into the airlock, holding a jackhammer. I was going to look for anything valuable. I had to run a tether from my suit to the ship to make sure I wouldn’t float off into space. My suit also had boots that resembled very large cleats that I would have to use to anchor myself to the surface of Pallas. I pressed the button to cycle the airlock and pushed by boots into the ground. I walked out about ten yards from the airlock door and started up the jackhammer I was holding. I started chipping away at the rock and bits of it flew off into space. I went down about four feet and noticed something shiny. I wasn’t sure what it was so I dug down a little deeper and caught one of the chunks as it flew past me. I looked at it closely and realized that it was extremely high-grade chromite, an ore of the metal chromium. This was a huge discovery! I had been able to prove the existence of chromium on Pallas within the first ten minutes of digging. I started making plans on how to dig out more of the stuff as I made my way back to the airlock. When I got back inside the ship I went straight to the cockpit and radioed to Akanu. I told mission control that I was alright and that I could easily survive the three months it would take them to rescue me. I also told them that I found chromite and was planning on mining out more of it to bring with me when I was rescued. It took twenty-two minutes for a response again. They told me that they were not expecting me to still try to do my job. They said that I could bring back whatever I dug up and they would pay me a large share of the profit. I could probably mine out enough chromium from Pallas in three months to get a shuttle back to Earth and be set for life. I wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. Until then, I’m stuck on this rock with nothing to do but dig.


You are escorted into a tall dining room lined with windows. The drapes are drawn. A glossy table stretches out to the far end of the room, reflecting the ceiling’s baroque fresco. No one is there except you and the butler. The butler leads you further into the room, passing by rows of chairs, the tabletop gleaming like the surface of a dark river. Neither of you make a sound as you walk, the soft rug padding your steps. Somewhere a little past the midpoint of the room, the butler stops and pulls out a chair. You sit. The chair is wooden and carved with ornate detail. You catch your own reflection in the mirror-like tabletop. The seat is cushioned, but in an uncomfortable way. You try a couple different positions, neither makes the situation better. The butler is already at the far end of the room by the time you realize they have left. You wait. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. You check your watch. 3:27 A.M. Neither morning nor night. Such a strange request, there had to be some rational explanation. You become aware of your clothing. You don’t know why it took this long to realize how out of place you really are in this lavish mansion. They didn’t say anything about how to dress, so you’re wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Why did you wear sweatpants and a hoodie? You don’t even wear that in your normal life. It had to be some unconscious reaction to the strange hour of this appointment. There is no appropriate attire for three-thirty in the morning. So, therefore, any attire is right. You want coffee. You realize you want food. You are hungry. They instructed you to not eat for twelve hours beforehand, so you had gone without supper. Why had they asked you that? This wasn’t a doctor’s appointment. This was a dinner. Not a dinner. Breakfast. Not that either. But it was a meal. Did it count as a meal, though? It was food. You were there to eat food, so, technically a meal. Anytime you eat food, it’s technically a meal. That sounded right. At the far end of the dining room, the butler reappears. Again, they makes no sound, but this time you sense their entrance. You watch them as they walks towards you, a small figure expanding over time. Usually you wouldn’t stare at a person like this. But you do stare. You have a hard time consciously registering the butler as a person, which sounds bad, but they don’t seem to see you as a person either. Mutual absolution by mutual guilt. The butler is cradling something in the crook of their arm. At first you think it might be a baby. You squint. Possible but unlikely. Whatever the thing is, it’s swaddled in a cocoon of silky white fabric. When the butler finally arrives, they unfurl the fabric with the precision and flourish of someone pulling a tablecloth out from under a banquet table. A mint green telephone reveals itself like a miracle or a magic trick. The butler sets it down to your left and disappears behind you. The curly telephone cord is pulled taut, wiggling rigidly, like a fishing line that suddenly caught. There is a slight rustling and a click. A couple moments of silence. You turn to your left and see the butler walking to the far side of the room once more, without a word. This time you watch their retreat. The time it takes to cross the room makes it appear as though the butler is walking slow, but their movements have a sinuous swiftness that proves otherwise. It’s just a really, really big room. Just as the butler exits the room, the phone rings. The sound slices right into your brain and you shake at the impact. A brief interlude of silence and you feel silly for having been startled so dramatically. But no one was there to see it. No one saw it, right? Why does it feel like you’re having to convince yourself of that? And why hasn’t the phone rung again? Did they call and ring once and then just-- The phone rings. This time the aggressive sound is somehow comforting. The promise that something will happen. You answer the phone, but don’t say anything. There is a faint static on the other line, like the receiver is gentling pouring a funnel of fine sand into your ear, something out of a fairy-tale. “Are you ready?” the voice on the other line says into the finely-grained static. You’ve become so accustomed to your passive role in this environment--disconcertingly passive, now that you think of it--that you’re not sure what to say to this at first. You look down at your reflection in the table. Two furrowed brows, four blank eyes. “Yeah,” you say. “Yes,” then add: “Sure.” Behind you, a loud rattling. You spin around, craning your neck around the high back of the chair. A pair of double door swing wide open and the butler enters, holding a silver platter aloft on their white-gloved hand. The butler approaches swiftly places the platter down in front of you, and retreats back out the double doors. The doors clatter shut with the violence of a shipwreck. “Remove the dome,” the voice says, evenly. You do as you are instructed. A block of red velvet cake sits on a jade green plate. “You have thirty minutes,” the voice says and the line goes dead. You stare at the cake a moment, then place the phone back in its cradle. You raise your watch to your chest and set a timer. The milliseconds spin from sixty to zero and back to sixty, time chasing it’s tail in a frenzy. A plastic fork/spoon/knife combo lays in a plastic package to the right side of the plate. You pick it up and pry the package open with a dull pop. You shimmy out the utensils and napkin and dump the salt and pepper packets in the corner of the platter. You take in a deep breath through your nostrils and slowly push it out between your lips. The first bite tastes like any other red velvet cake. The second is the same. But you know that this isn’t any ordinary red velvet cake. You’ve been tasked to decipher what makes it so extra-ordinary. The secret ingredient. Some esoteric element no one else has been able to divine. You take another bite, this time trying not to focus on the taste. Instead, you focus your attention on the curtains. They are some indefinably dark, rich color. You’d call it purple, but it’s something far more complex. Something you aren’t familiar enough with in your comparatively proletarian life--like rare dog breeds or fine wine. You catch a hint of something on your tastebuds. You close your eyes and try to grasp the taste. Like trying to snag a fish in dark waters. You take another bite. You look up at the ceiling. This is the first time you’ve really looked and it gives you vertigo. You close your eyes a moment and reopen them, trying to reorient. The distant expanse is covered in an elaborate, almost bombastic, baroque fresco. All flowing robes and bodies twisting in what is either pain or pleasure. You can’t distinguish where one body begins and the other ends. Some shapes seem more animal than human. Shadows obscure much of the detail. All that really stands out are the eyes, a seemingly infinite constellation of eyes, glistening brightly in the vague bedlam. And, just like that, you know the secret ingredient. The phone rings. You pick it up. “You know the secret ingredient,” the voice says. It isn’t a question. You nod even though the voice can’t see you. The voice can see you, you know that now. “Your wish has been granted,” the voice continues. “An exchange. A gift for a gift.” You nod. “But if you ever reveal it to anyone,” the voice pauses--“Your wish will turn to sand. Is this agreeable?” You take one last bite of the cake and nod.


I hope you’re happy. I still remember when we first met, you know. We were both so young back then. Do you remember? That house was tiny, really, but it felt so big, like a whole world. That first time, it was raining, raining in June. You’d just finished your first year of middle school. The Summer months stretched long and lazy ahead of us, the exciting mundanity of temporary freedom. The rain had put paid to talk of a picnic, a disappointment not easily recovered from. You were playing a telephone game with your sister, when I walked in the door with your dad. He knew my parents, and had brought me to play with his children. When we were introduced, you were entranced, and I, enamoured. We were always together after that. We went to school, played in the shade during recess. You told every teacher about me until they gritted their teeth. Sometimes we were encouraged, but more often than not we were ignored. I miss that house, with the wood panelling and the short-mown lawn. I miss the schools we attended together, the high school where you had your first kiss, the university where you took a creative writing course. We were closest then, in that universe of learning. Now this room is the world, with its flaking yellow paint and wilting buttercups in a little vase. I’m wilting with them, flaking with the paint. I watch the door, hoping you’ll visit, but you never do. If I had a window, maybe I could watch you. Then again, how often would you be passing by? It’s not like there’s anything else for me to see. Maybe you think I’ll be okay in here alone, as if I can live without you. I know you, you’ll justify it, you’ll say, “it’s fine, I can always try tomorrow. Besides, I’ve got so much work to do.” I would agree with you, but there’s only so many tomorrows left. I had a dream not so long ago. If you were here, I’d tell you all about it. Since you aren’t, I’ll tell it to the walls you put me in, to the paper of my soul. I was big and strong and rooted in rich soil, a great green oak spearing the starry night sky. My branches brushed moon-dust, my roots wrapped ‘round diamonds in the deep. I was a tree, and I was your home. You were living in me, you’d made of me a house. You carved rooms through my trunk and hung your happiness from my boughs. We lived and grew, you in me and I with you. Time passed, and we aged, but never did we falter, never did we part. You wrote your tales and I kept the thunder from shaking your hand. You died in me. I was left utterly hollow, but you’d filled me with your memory, and everyone that passed saw in me a monument to you. All took little pieces of me for inspiration, and more trees sprouted. A forest rose, and it was all us everywhere. I woke up when you did. You rolled out of bed and left me here, work calling you away. If only you hadn’t taken that job. I think I knew I was going to die when that happened. You didn’t want to do it. We both knew it would be grey, boring, lifeless. We also knew that you needed the money. It was your dad that convinced you, funnily enough. “You can’t fill your belly with fantasies,” he said. I guess he’s right, but I don’t want him to be. It’s strange to think that the man who introduced us would also break us apart. Y’know, it’s funny that we never talked about this, when you were here. You didn’t notice, and I didn’t want to trouble you. I never said that I was clever. If you were here, now, I’d tell you: I’m dying. There’s so much I should have said. I should have told you to turn down the job, I should have asked you to run away with me, I should have taken your hand and made you leave. Then again, you should have offered. Maybe I’m too harsh on myself, taking all the weight of this blame, this guilt. Who has all the power here, really? Me, dying in a tiny room, forgotten and alone? You hate what you’re doing, you’re bored and depressed, but it’s my fault for being out of reach. You never even tried to come along with me, to see if it would work. They say it’s never too late, but I’m beginning to feel like it is. I remember when you started. You’d stay out late, working those lingering hours, and I’d wait for you to visit. I was still in your life then, still a part of your future. You promised me, again and again, that it would be over soon, that you’d have enough, that you’d quit and we’d run. Every time you said it, we believed you less and less. You had energy then, the vigour of a youthful spirit. Your eyes were as bright as your smile, and you shared both eagerly. Where, then, did those shadows come from, that sooty grimace? When did your eyelids become grim hoods of skin? How could you let the grey sap your senses away? Why is your back so crooked and curled? Who is this person you’ve become? You won’t answer me, but that’s okay. I know that you can’t. Deep down, you’re asking yourself the same questions. Not that it matters. A honey trap holds you, the stickiest of all sweetnesses: comfort. Every day is the same, you wake, you work, you eat, you sleep. I waste away in my yellowing casket, and you forget to even think of me. Comfort has poisoned you. It has devoured your spirit, gulped down your energy, put a tap to your strength, and shriven away your lustre. Yet, still it wants more. From what I’ve seen of you, more it will have. I would save you, but I’ve not even the strength to stand. Your comfort has robbed me, too. I did have hope, that one summer. You had saved up all your vacation days, at last to spend them. A whole month! It was like being a child again. You remembered me, and came to see me. I was weak and wan, but still hopeful. We went for a ride together. There wasn’t much rain that year. The cornfields had grown, but the plants were too dry. I can still see the fields of gold and beige, stretching out to the blue horizon. That bike was a boat, in an ocean of drought. You were so close to being happy. A little smile teased the corners of your mouth, and your eyes twinkled amidst the crow-footed wrinkles. Of course, it had to come to an end. Full of hope as I was, happy as you nearly felt, of course it couldn’t last. A month is just a handful of days, in the end. Days like any other, whether at work or in the vast crop-sea. So you went home, and I stayed in the cornfields for a while. It was nice there. Nothing but the wind, the sky and the stalks. I think that’s where you should have left me. It was a peaceful place to die. But you did pick me up eventually. You rushed back and put me on life support. The year following that trip was probably the hardest time of my meagre existence. You were back at work, but you still toyed around with me, said you still wanted me, said that this time, this time, it was for real. I think the trip rattled you around, because it was uncomfortable. It had been too hot, too hard, too uncertain. Comfort only kills you if you let it. I was still dying, but your scraps of attention just barely kept me going. It was like being trapped in the desert with a rain-cloud floating overhead. When you rained your notice down, I had the briefest relief. But it was never enough to nourish me back to health. Just like the cloud, eventually your attention would dry up. I could scream at the sun, but I’d only waste moisture. You did come back a few times, and for some of those, I wished you hadn’t. You burst into my room one night, disturbing my gentle rotting. You were drunk, and unhappy, and you screamed like an animal. Our conversation was incoherent. You begged for forgiveness, but not from me. You wanted someone to absolve you of the sin of never being who you wanted. Why you had to do this in my wasting chamber, I don’t know. I forgive you, for all that it matters. What choice do I have? If chastising you would save my life, if tormenting you would restore my ailing self, then I would still forgive you. I love you, in the way that only I can. You told me you hated me once. It was in your car on the way to work. Traffic had slowed to snail molasses, and you said, quite coldly, that you hated me. I think vitriol would have been less hurtful. It was so bland, so matter-of-fact. You said it as if it were obvious, as if it should already have occurred to me. Passionate spite was at least warm. I would die a thousand deaths, suffer a thousand hells, before I would hear you say it again. You didn’t love me any more, and I wasted ever faster away. If you held me up to the light, you’d see right through me. Not that you’d hold me. Fear was something of a companion for both of us in those days. Fear of forgetting, of losing each other completely. It was odd, I suppose. Even in your frigid despite, you never really wanted to get rid of me. Do you think that that’s why I’m still here? Eventually you did forget me, or so I thought. Even fear abandoned me then. I was truly alone for the first time. As it turned out, you hadn’t fully forgotten me yet. The last time I saw you, you opened the door gently. Timidly, like it was a first date. You came close, standing and staring. That day, you’d found your father’s old books, and remembered me. The day we’d met had surged to the surface, and you’d come to see me. There was a pen in your hand, ink staining your fingers. You were so old; grey and paper-skinned. Not the old age of the body, but of the soul. I’d never seen you so weary. Still you flirted with me, let the spectre of that old smile play on your tired lips. I think we both knew what was coming. It was over, as much as we might not want it to be. If there’s a place after this ever-shrinking room, then I think I’ll remember what you said forever. You turned to look at me, one last time, and your smile turned wry. I never was all that good, you said. I haven’t seen you since. I don’t want to let hope die, but perhaps it’s time to bury it. Perhaps all I’ve been cradling is a corpse. I’m almost gone myself, at that. So, I suppose this is farewell. Maybe you’ll look in again, and find this decaying dormitory empty. I won’t be here, but perhaps the flowers will be. Wilted, rotten, buttercups, a reminder of childhood nothings and sweet promises whispered in the heights of fantasy. I have, do, and always will love you. I hope you find this note. I hope you find your happiness. I hope you remember your hope, that you think of me sometimes. Probably not though. I’m better off forgotten. After all, I was just a dream.


This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. My constraints were from /u/stickfist: Gnomes, a lost package, and a midnight deadline. The mailman shrugged as he stepped off the Wilkinson’s porch leaving six-year-old Charlotte pouting. “I’m sure the package will turn up,” Sarah Wilkinson said to her daughter. “And if it doesn’t, Gramma will send you another.” From the well-tended lawn, the trio of gnomes stood in silent vigil of the girl’s disappointment. Tears welled in her eyes, her pout became a frown, and a sigh drooped her shoulders lower than ever before. “Come in, Charlotte,” Sarah sighed. “We’ll call the post office in the morning.” All was still on the lawn until dusk arrived. It started with the wrinkle of a ruby-red nose, then a wiggle of their porcelain toes. With a sneeze, all three gnome brothers woke from their daytime slumber. “Lok, Log, hurry! We haven’t much time,” Ori announced as he straightened his tall red hat. “For snacks?” Log queried, his hollow gut rumbling beneath his belted potbelly. “For fun?” said Lok, Log’s twin in all ways but the length of his moustache, long ago chipped in a strangely fashionable way. “For mischief!” Ori reminded them. As they did every night, all three trotted about the Wilkinson’s property with mayhem on their minds. Ori took the lead for his hat was the tallest. “I have grand plans this night!” he promised, as they crawled in through the dog door. That the Wilkinson’s had no pet was forever a boon. “What’s first?” Log asked, picking at his teeth. “And next?” Lok wondered aloud as he tripped over nothing at all. “The blankets, my brothers. We start with the blankets.” And off to the living room Ori led them. “First, we collect each one misplaced and left unfolded. Then, we put them in the grand blanket chest.” “Where they should be?” Log frowned. “That sounds odd.” Lok scratched his nose. “It’s perfect! Mother Sarah always insists Father Glenn put them away but he doesn’t, so she’ll never find them there!” “It’s brilliant!” Log mused. “True genius!” Lok squealed. Both twins clapped and they set off to task. In minutes they’d collected and folded each blanket and tucked them into the chest by the fire. “Hurry brothers, find all the shoes and bring them to the front door,” Ori said and they scampered off in all directions. In minutes they’d found every shoe, sandal, slipper, and boot - both lost and not- and gathered them. “Now, put the lefts on the right and the rights on the left,” Ori said whilst wringing his hands. “Father Glenn will wake and come down to put on his shoes for work and what shall he find? Left on the right? How will he dress! He’ll be late and lose his job for sure!” “How devilish!” “What madness!” And off the brothers went to work. Once they’d finished with the very last slipper, tucked in neatly and arranged from smallest to largest, Ori motioned for his brothers to huddle. “I’ve saved the best for last, a true mischievous deed that struck me this afternoon at a quarter past three.” “Go on!” Log insisted. “Do tell!” Lok echoed. “The package. The one Daughter Charlotte is missing.” Ori grinned. “I know where it is.” The twins gasped in unison. “I propose a mountain of mischief, a truly daring task. We take the package that tumbled into the garden and...” Ori paused for effect. “Place it on Charlotte’s bed!” Log and Lok looked confused and exchanged quizzical frowns. “Isn’t that helpful?” Log asked. “We’re not helpful, are we?” Lok sounded most distressed. “Pish pish, not at all! She’ll be utterly confused. Can you imagine it? The thing that wasn’t there the night before is there the morning after? Discombobulating! Madness indeed!” “Huzzah!” The twins shouted together, but Ori quickly hushed them and they tackled their final task. They rolled the package from the garden and with each turn Log nibbled on the corners. Twice Lok tripped; over shoes, over carpet, or nothing but himself. Through the hardest work they’d ever done yet, the three brothers dragged the package up to Daughter Charlotte’s room. Then on to her bed they climbed and pulled and climbed some more. All three brothers huffed and leaned against the package just feet from the sleeping six-year-old girl. “Just imagine the squeal in the morning, brothers,” Ori said between breaths. “We’ll hear it all the way on the lawn!” “Of delight?” Log wondered. “Or relief?” Lok worried. “Of confusion!” Ori assured them triumphantly. But with a look out the window at the high moon, Ori gasped a quick breath. Clocks chimed about the house. Midnight was arriving. “Hurry, brothers!” Ori declared, straightening out his tall red hat. “To the lawn before midnight falls!” With a yelp, the gnome brothers scampered from the pastel sheets, a full night’s work of mischief done.


This story is dedicated to Morag, Alison, Viv, David, Diane, Pat "Miss America", Sonnie, Milo, and anyone else who is battling, has battled, or has been affected by cancer. *-* An old man sits alone in his dark house and pours himself a drink. It is the first birthday he will be spending without the woman he loved for so many years; the woman he still loves. He was lucky to meet her; it came as a fleeting chance that he seized upon. And from that, the purest form of love was shared. From their first kiss, to their first house, to her saying ‘I do’; he fondly recalls her smile. He takes a small sip of his whiskey; the ice has melted as he was lost in his thoughts. He smiles warmly, remembering her as a tear trickles down his cheek. He looks back on it all; their adventures, their struggles, their life. He didn’t think it would end so early, let alone so suddenly. What started off as fatigue quickly became sinister; a tumour growing inside her. She fought hard and she fought true, but she could not beat her sickness. And now, the old man drinks alone. He fiddles with the radio which quietly begins to play, providing a backing track to the memories he holds. Her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Her laugh. Things he wishes he could see again, hear again. But, he cannot. He cannot kiss her. He cannot laugh with her. He cannot hold her waist. Instead, he drinks alone. His hand reaches down and touches the spot on the couch that was hers. ‘That’s my spot, silly’, she’d claim if he ever dared sit there. He loved to though, just to annoy her - even if it was just to get her attention. But now, it’s empty. He would never dream of sitting there again. That’s her spot. The man is unsure whether he drinks the whiskey to numb his pain or to step closer to his grave where she’ll be waiting for him; perhaps, he drinks it for both of these reasons. Every sip of the liquid is met and equalled with the now steady flow of tears that he produces as he quietly cries. The radio flickers, almost as if it is interrupted, and begins to play a song the man recognises. It’s their song. It’s the song they first danced to. He stifles laughter; the mass of emotion proves too much for him to know how to properly react. Soon he is smiling once more, but the tears continue to fall. The song quietly plays as the man closes his eyes and remembers their first dance. She was so beautiful that night. As he held her waist, she held his heart. And they danced. He imagines he is back there, his butterflies rising at the first sight of her. His eyes closed, he remembers her smooth skin against his as they slowly danced, ignoring the world. Her hair, in his face, tickling his nose, but there was no way he was moving it away. Her scent - The man opens his eyes and they dart around the room. Her scent. It’s here; her sweet perfume drifts into the room. Suddenly, he is not alone anymore. The room is empty, but he knows she is here. Her presence is unmistakable. His heart flutters, as it always did when she was close, and the room brightens. He opens his mouth to speak, to call out to her, but no words come out. His eyes frantically search the room looking for the woman he’d lost too soon. Beside him, she sits. He cannot see her, but he knows she is there, sat in her spot on the couch. He stands, feeling wary and confused yet somehow safe. The overwhelming safety that he’s only ever felt with her before. The kind of safety that turns a house into a home. His quivering eyes stare at the spot on the couch. The vast sense of love the man feels repairs the pain in his heart more than his whiskey ever could. Then, as if he following her, his eyes rise. The man stares ahead; the same height he had stared at for so many years looking into her eyes when she had stood before him. And now, she’s standing with him once more. He knows she is. He reaches his hands out as their song continues to quietly play. He gently rests them on the waist of the woman he knows is there, but cannot see. Despite this, he looks into her eyes. And then, they begin to dance. They move slowly, in complete unison; a step forward, a step back. The song provides their only company, but the man could be in the middle of a war zone and he wouldn’t notice. All he sees is her. With every step of the quiet dance, the room brightens. With every step, the old man’s house becomes a home once more. As they dance, the tears dry on his face. The tears carrying the pain, the torment; dried out by a single dance. He knows she won’t be here for long, so he smiles. She’d rather see his smile than his pain. His nose twitches; her hair tickling his face as her head rests against his chest. The song is almost over, but the man prays for it to never finish. *Please*, he silently begs, *please don’t end.* But it does. And with the final words of the song and the final strums of the guitar, the old man is alone once more. He slowly lowers his arms, desperately hoping that he will feel her as he had a second ago. But he knows deep down he will not. He knows he won’t feel her again. He quietly thanks her for giving him one last dance. Gradually, he moves back and picks up his bottle of whiskey as he rests beside her spot on the couch. The old man sits alone in their home and pours himself a drink.


My fingertips run on the crisp, thin, flaky layer of the croissant; I can smell, will taste like melted chocolate and too much butter. It's fascinating, just as much as it is a shame; how many people miss it. It's beautiful, it's delicate, it's fragile, and yet, most people simply won't take the time to feel it. And maybe I shan't feel superior, because the only reason I do it's because it's the only way I can give it any attention at all. Its exterior is golden-brown and perfectly, masterfully baked; or so they say. I can feel its warm and toasty smell in my nostrils, mixed with the floral notes of lavender. The mauve lavender that's sitting on the marble windowsill by my bed. Or so I'm told. Along with the cream porcelain vases, a high ceiling, and box panelings on these bright walls. Or so I've heard. And it's hard for me to picture it consistently. Faces, colors, shapes. They're dancing, changing because I don't think I can remember them. It's like losing the voice of someone you loved. Losing the wrinkles on their face, forgetting how their laugh used to sound. Crimson, Indigo, Teal. Now, they're all down to meaningless words, words that make me trip, those ones that, if repeated too much, they would start growing spiky and shapeless in my head. I used to be blond, now I'm not sure. I used to look pretty, now I don't know. I used to stare at every imperfection on my face, now I can't stare at all. That day I was running from that car in the meadow, now I can't run from anything but my thoughts. Thank goodness, I possess a voice outside my head, other than my own, to break this loud, unbearable silence. The delicate, protective Margaret, the only soul I've ever spoken to since the accident - my caregiver - speaks once more of how the sun shines uninterrupted on Rosewood Manor, as it always has and always will. At this point, I'm not even sure it's true, but I can't smell the pungent rain, so I can't dispute her. She told me, once again, about the vast, mahogany-paneled library I can't see. And the foyer, with a grand crystal chandelier that I tried but couldn't find. I've always dreamt of living in such a manor, and I honestly never stopped because even though now I do, I can't savor any part of it. It never actually came true. Because I might be living in a castle but all I can feel is the smooth texture of the silk duvet of my bed. And that croaky, loud and annoying crow of the Cuckoo Clock that yells that it's time for Margaret to present me with those violent, acidic, pungent eye drops that I can feel fighting with my clouded eyes. The ones that are supposed to magically give me back my sight, like that's even a thing. And days seem sometimes as if they'll never end as they fade into a confused blur much the same as the whole world around me; that I can only imagine, a collage of confused memories. And I have no clue where I am even though I make her describe it to me every single day. I don't know anything of what's around me, but I could tell you what color is the inside of my carillon. It's turquoise, TuRqUOiSe, TUrqÙöiSê, TūRQÛoÏsë. Whatever that means. And the night breeze on my skin, the heat of the day, and cuckoo screams, hours, seconds, minutes, sounds, smells, tastes. And again, every day - the sound of footsteps behind my closed door, the gentle knock on it, and Margaret's warm, reassuring voice, telling me, once again about the well rehearsed and detailed description of this room. But not that day, that particular morning, there is no knock, no voice, just silence. Just pitch-black, wide-open nothing, and my voice bouncing off those walls. Blinds that never got open, bread that never got toasted and the light kept locked out of here. The ring of an alarm that never got turned off and no voice to guide me out of bed, petrified under these covers seeing, hour after hour, an unmaintained world, a world that was waiting for a hand to be lived. And I could do nothing but wait, unable to do anything remotely independent. Meals left untouched and unused eye drops, and damn tears in my eyes that I know I shouldn't let form while taking the meds, and yet, there they were, running on my face, maybe trying to reach the floor to rush out that door; in vain. My only solace had been her voice; and wasn't that pathetic? That too had left me. I felt truly alone, and for the first time, truly impaired. I finally get the courage to sit on my bed, mostly out of hunger rather than actual bravery. I prepare to jump into the void, for my feet to fall in the never-ending mist surrounding me; except they don't. Their bare soles met with the icy marble floor. I push myself forward trying to map out anything surrounding, me and the comfort of my bed. A shot in the dark. No, more like a hand in the dark. A shaky, uncertain hand dumbly taking its body along. "The blind leads the blind." My throat pushes those sounds that lay on those walls and furniture, that send me back, based on how much echo they carry with them, how far away the next obstacle will be. Thud. Damn, I didn't sense that. My knees, shaky on the floor, my hands pressed against the smooth, patinated wood of the desk that creaks slightly under my weight as I get back on my feet. Dust on my fingers, now in my nostril- I cough as my dusty hand follows that buttery smell stretching to reach it, the cold, forgotten croissant. I drop my hand on it, I feel it for an instant under my palm before I hear its thud on the carpet. Usually, my mom would've yelled at me for taking it up and eating it - but I'm starving, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind this once. I feel the dust of the carpet, now on the croissant's flaky skin, entering my mouth. I cough again. I'm miserable. Eating dust in the wide-open nothing. Sobbing, letting every little drop of the medicine that my eyes managed to keep, on my cheeks- along with the tears. And so it went for days to come. Margaret's absence started hanging like a heavy feeling in my chest, and the odds that she was gone for a family vacation really started to wear off. They went on with other sounds and the waiting for echoes, bumps into furniture and bruises and cold meals. Updating the mental image of the space around me, which seems to be somewhat inaccurate now that I touch it, smell it, feel it. It's back to when I was a kid. Swallowed in soft blankets, certainly less soft in the darkness of my room, in the solitude of my room, at witching hour. My little bored mind and my eyes still lit and alive making monsters emerge from the dark. To transform the pitch-black into my worst nightmare, just for the fun of it. But now it wasn't the same. The black that surrounded me wasn't just darkness and day after day, the shapes and shadows that I began to see were not echoes of a mind with too much imagination. They were real. I was seeing them. And it felt like they could see me. Not the mental map of my room, not a dream, they were there, before my eyes. I squinted, as if testing the gears of a machine that had just been put back into operation. After years, what felt like decades, even. It was back working. I was back working. As the fog around me began to dissolve, leaving a forgotten space for light to filter against my over-sensitive retina which began to tear at the first shining beam bouncing off the back of my eyeball. It wasn't much, but I could see the beautifully confusing and almost indecipherable reality around me. It was there. Maybe it was working; the drops were having their effect. I hold out my hand to feel the smooth, cold bottle come from my palm, then my index finger and thumb on the rubbery dropper, trying to get at least one of the twenty drops that are ending up on the carpet to fall into at least one of my eyes. Oh, but when they do, it can't go unnoticed. Because it hurts, it burns. Crack. The fog runs, smoke again filling my pupils, my, once again, gray, clouded, dead pupils behind an equally coffin-like stare. My eyes fighting the drops, the tears trying to chase them away, my hands clumsily doing the same and my squeaks, my sobs as the world around me turns black again. No. It was impossible. There was no way in any logical corner where the drops given to me by Margaret could- It couldn't be. Yet it began to creep up from the back of my mind, a slow but steady whisper. Could they perhaps be the cause of my blindness rather than the cure for it? Stop. It was Margaret. Her absence was driving me crazy. Or maybe it was setting me free. So I stopped taking them and waited for the shapes in the back of my mind to make sense again. I should have paid attention to what I wished for. Think twice. I'm like balancing on breaking branches as the world around me shows its truth, day after day. I wasn't broken anymore, I wasn't impaired and yet, I felt more helpless than ever. The reins of my life slip from my hands, how sweet ignorance was. I would like to turn a blind eye. Turn them both blind again, because the room I'm now looking at not only doesn't match its description. It's a terrible, pale, mediocre lie. My chest throbs with each breath, faster than the previous one; as I look at the claustrophobic, filthy, dark cell I thought for a castle in the last few months. My castle, my dream. I tripped and fell from heaven to the room I dreamt to see. Except it's not. The dried lavender that's sitting on the dusty, wooden windowsill right by my bed. Now I can see. Along with the cream shattered plates, a low ceiling, and stains on these dark walls. Now it's crystal clear. Her words shaped my world and wasn't that quite convenient? No. It can't- all this time...there is also perhaps the slightest possibility that she had been my sweet, quiet, caring...kidnapper? Crack.


I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy. Prologue: Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. Chapter 1: 2 days earlier... "The front line?" "Yep." "But we've only been here for a couple days!" "Well, you won't miss it then." I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show. "So, Alan, how long for?" "2 weeks, then they rotate us out" "Only 2 weeks?" "Yep. Pack your things." Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack. Chapter 2: The front line... Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets. Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches. About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour". Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge. "Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!" Chapter 3: The next day... Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is- "Sam?" I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast? "Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now. "Yeah, Alan?" "We're moving up-trench" "Really? Why?" "Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight." That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked. "Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds" I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?" These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting. Final Chapter: The next day, I had had an epiphany. I was that man, now. I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by. I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand. Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend. It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander. These men would follow me to hell and back. Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us. The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go. 18. 15. 11. Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped. Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same. Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping. I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner. And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.


Jake and Chloe stood side by side in the dimly lit bathroom they had shared for the past five years. Their reflections were so familiar but the persons they now shared this room with were not. They had always intended to repaint the dull gray walls, but those plans fell to the wayside, like so many others. They looked at each other nervously, first in the mirror, then directly in side-long glances. Chloe strained to draw a deep breath from air so thick with tension. Jake fumbled with his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers. His eyes darted to Chloe's reflection. Her body was stiff, as she meticulously applied her mascara, her lips pursed in concentration. “You know,” Jake began, “we could’ve avoided this whole mess if you’d just let me keep the damn house.” Chloe's mascara wand froze in mid-air. She scoffed, “And let you turn it into your bachelor pad? No way. Besides, it’s my Nonna's house.” “Your grandmother’s house,” Jake muttered, “which I’ve been paying the mortgage on for six years.” “FIVE years” Chloe corrected in an icy tone. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your wandering eye during these lawyer meetings. Not that I care ...” "Then why bring it up?" Jake shot back. "Because I'm not going to have you screwing my divorce attorney in Nonna's house!" Chloe shrieked. Chloe dabbed at a small tear on her cheek, "And your phone is buzzing ..." "That's not my phone ..." Jake scanned the countertop. "It's ... the toothbrush?" Jake and Chloe's gaze slid to the bathroom counter, where their shared electronic toothbrush lay, a relic of happier times. Jake had always let Chloe brush first. She would then rinse and dry the device, remove her brush head, and return the toothbrush to its charger. Jake would grin at her as she inspected her smile. Then he'd grab the toothbrush from its charger, insert his brush head, and the buzzing would resume. But this time the buzzing had begun on its own ... the toothbrush stood in its charger. It buzzed only briefly, and then it stopped. Jake and Chloe looked at each other. "That was weird ... " Chloe said softly. "Maybe the battery is going." "Well," Jake chimed in, "we'll soon find out." Jake reached for the toothbrush, but before he could grab it, the toothbrush began to buzz again. When he withdrew his hand, it stopped. He reached once more, and it buzzed, louder this time ... but stopped when an alarmed Jake stepped quickly backward. "What the fuck!" Chloe was getting frustrated. She looked at her watch, "We don't have time for this! We're going to be late!" She grabbed the toothbrush, inserted her brush head, ran it under the tap, and applied some toothpaste. Chloe grinned, "Never send a man to do a woman's job!" As Chloe pushed the head of the toothbrush into her mouth, she pressed the button 'ON' button and the toothbrush sprang to life ... but it was not the steady buzz she was used to. The pitch of the toothbrush was rising and falling ... a tune from deep in her memory ... a lullaby. From Nonna? She felt both frightened and consoled. Attempting a return to normalcy, with her mouth full of foam she garbled, "Yeah, I think the battery is going." Jake was irritated, "It's not battery-powered. Are you done yet? " He was standing next to Chloe with the uncapped tube of toothpaste already in his hand. As soon as Chloe set the toothbrush down Jake snatched it from the counter, without changing the head, and immediately began to apply the paste. When he did the brush head sprang to life and splattered toothpaste all over Jake's shirt and tie. "Goddam this thing!" Jake was angry but undeterred. He shoved the toothbrush in his mouth, growling and gurgling as he did. No sooner than he did, his eyes opened wide, and a look of terror spread over his face. He was choking. Jake pulled the base of the toothbrush from his mouth, but the brush head was missing! Chloe grabbed the base of the toothbrush from Jake and it stopped vibrating, but she could still hear buzzing! She looked at Jake. The buzzing was coming from inside Jake's mouth! Jake was turning blue, and his knees buckled. Staggering backward, he hit the counter and fell to the floor. Chloe leaped at him, straddling his body, and pushed her hand into his mouth. Her fingers flailed wildly inside his mouth until she felt the base of the brush head at the back of his throat. The plastic was slippery and vibrating wildly. She couldn't get hold of it. Jake's head was now on the floor and she was pushing hard at the back of his throat. Jake gagged as if he were about to throw up, which pushed the brush head forward, and Chloe was finally able to get her fingers around the plastic stem. The vibration stopped. She pulled it from his mouth. For a second, the room was very quiet. Chloe became alarmed. "Jake! Jake! Are you okay?" Jake's eyes opened slowly. Chloe looked at him, then at the toothbrush head in her hand. She grabbed the countertop and pulled herself up. Jake soon appeared next to her in the mirror. He was badly shaken but had thought to grab the toothbrush base from the floor. It was now buzzing once again. He looked at his assailant and a wave of anger surged over him. He cocked his arm preparing to rifle his buzzing enemy into the mirror. "NO!" Chloe shrieked. "Don't!" She reached up and gently took the base from Jake's hand, and the vibration stopped. She took both pieces and slowly moved them together, inserting the brush head into the base. Tipping her head downward toward the newly joined pair, she said very quietly, "I can still use them." Jake's eyes narrowed, and he forced a smile ... but then his face softened. His lips pursed and he let out a gentle whistle. "We're going to be late. Fuck my teeth. We need to go." He turned to walk away, then stopped and turned back to Chloe. Looking at her in the dim light of the bathroom he said softly, "You're right. It's time for me to move out." Again Jake turned to leave but stopped. "And, I remember that lullaby the toothbrush was playing for you. You know what I’m talking about? You sang it to me the first time we slept together."


His head smashed into the low wooden doorpost of the Flagon Inn as he was leaving. All eyes were on him as he rubbed his head, trying to suppress the throbbing pain. He noticed the awkward glances he was receiving and smiled. “Ouch!” he said, amusingly. Several men laughed as they returned their attention to their gambling. A serving girl smiled and resumed her duties. The innkeeper nodded sympathetically. “Watch yer head ther’ mister,” he said, “it’s a bit low.” Alan smiled as he closed the door behind him and started down the dirt street, his head still throbbing. He passed several people heading for the inn. It was a busy place he thought. Especially in the early hours of the day. They always had a pot of stew or a leg of lamb that would satisfy any man’s hunger. Alan headed for the training grounds. He would be working with a few of his men on sword combat. Their small city didn’t have many trained soldiers, except for those that he taught. His men were there practicing as they awaited his arrival. They greeted him, then resumed their positions. He demonstrated a new maneuver with the sword. He then observed as they applied it to their previous training. The blunted swords rang all morning as the trainees attacked, blocked, and counter-attacked. As soon as the sun was directly above them, the practice was over. Grabbing his bow, Alan started for the city gates. The best place for archery practice was outside the city. No need to accidentally hit an innocent bystander inside the city. He enjoyed the woods more anyhow. But, as he reached the wooden walls of the city, a horseman came galloping through the gates. He pulled his steed to a halt. He didn’t bother dismounting. “Sir Alan,” he began, out of breath “their coming!” “Who?” He asked. “Raiders! From the East!" “What do they want?” There was a moment’s silence. “To raid us, I guess,” observed the rider. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Alert the city officials." “Yes sir.” The horse’s hoofs thudded on the ground as the horse galloped through the street, people scrambling out of the way. Alan turned ‘round, heading for the barracks. This was the time that he had been training his men for. And he hoped that they’d prove worthy. Two hours passed since the first sitting of the raiders. The city had been fortified to the best of its abilities. The walls were manned by the seventy men-at-arms and the thirty-odd archers. The raiders had formed a line of warriors, just outside the forest edge. Far enough to ensure that arrows were not a threat. “What are they doing out there?” asked William. A well-trusted archer who Alan could always rely on. “How should I know?” he said with mock disgust, “Feel free to go ask ‘em.” “Ha, only if you’ll come with me.” “Ah no. Your the one who is so anxious.” “Not Anxious, just, curious.” “Same thing," Alan said mater-a-factly. William silently mouthed the words “Is not” but made sure Alan wasn’t looking. They both stood staring at the enemy wondering what would happen next. “Do you think they will take the city?” asked a young soldier standing next to William. “Na,” Started Will, “they don’t stand a chance. Look at ‘em out there. They don’t know the first thing about fight’n.” The young lad didn’t seem convinced. He stood glaring at the forest edge. “Ah come on Al. Tell him there’s nothin’ to fret about.” Alan leaned forward, looking around William. “Well, we haven’t had to face a threat like this before. This is the time to use all that you’ve been taught and use it well. Or else,” he paused before continuing, “we’ll all end up lying on the ground with our throats slit.” The young man swallowed hard and nodded. William heaved a sigh and nodded as well. “Oh come on. It’s not the end of the world. No need to get all huffy puffy,” put in a passing serving boy who was bringing water to the men. William whirled around and gave him a playful, kick in the pants. Then realizing that he had water, ran out after him, longing to quench his thirst. Everyone who had witnessed the scene busted out laughing. It was nice, thought Alan, to have a local comedian to cheer up everyone. Despite his tendency to make a fool of himself, he was an excellent marksman with a bow and a good soldier to have watching your back. Another hour or two past and yet, the raiders were still waiting. They had now started fires and were cooking what smelled like stew. Somehow Alan knew that they should be using this precious time sparingly. But there was nothing that he could do that would make a difference. There wasn’t any way for them to get help. Even if they were able to get a messenger past the enemy, it probably wouldn’t amount to much. Even if the nearest city did send troops, it would be too late. A fifty-mile march would take more than two days. By that time they would surely be defeated. All he could do was position his men in the best positions possible. He put men on all sides of the city walls. Although the majority was facing the oncoming enemy. If he had more men he would have fortified the entire city with plenty of men. But the circumstances called for risks. He placed the locals, who weren’t official soldiers, on the undermanned walls. It was better than no men at all. However, if they were counter-attacked from behind, they would be at a major disadvantage. “Why don’t they just attack?” asked one of the soldiers. “Yeah,” started William, “I think I’d fare better fighting a man than facing this dreadful waiting.” Several men chuckled in agreement. “I think they are waiting until they get their food,” put in an older man, “I get the impression that they’d rather fight on a full stomach!” He stated with a stout laugh. The ranks of men boomed with laughter. How could men facing potential death be so eager to laugh and make jolly? Perhaps it helped put their minds at ease, or maybe it was a way of getting ready for what awaited. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, they were laughing and having a good time. “Or maybe they’re...” The still air was disrupted by a blaring horn near the forest. A battle horn. It meant something. The enemy ranks formed quickly. The rattling of swords and equipment was audible, even from such a distance. There was another horn blast, and the enemy began to advance. Suddenly, another rank of warriors appeared from the forest, then another. They had kept their true numbers hid until now. Alan knew that the morale of the men had dropped slightly. The raiders advanced steadily. He estimated two-hundred fit and fighting men. He judged the distance between the city and the advancing army. Taking an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it on the string, singled out a single man in the middle of the group, pulled back, and loosed. The arrow arced across the sky; a blur, as it sped towards its target. He was rewarded by a cry of pain that echoed across the, to be battlefield. He had hit something. They were in range! “Archers!” he shouted, “Let loose!” Showers of arrows rained down upon the enemy. One after another. An ever-present threat. A never-ending fear that would discourage those advancing. Soon, the raiders had crossed more than half of the field. Perhaps an eighth of them were lying on the battlefield. Stuck with a mortal shaft. A heavy log, with rope handles, was brought to the city gates. They smashed it into the gates time after time. Each time the gates shuttered. “Archers,” Alan shouted over the chaos, “aim for those on the battering ram!” Arrows took out a dozen or more men, causing the heavy log to drop to the ground. The log was later lifted, reaping havoc on the gate once more. More arrows rained down on them. Men climbed up crude, wooden ladders, making their way over the walls. Alan shot an arrow through the first man, who crashed onto the ground, landing on his own men. The next man on the ladder hesitated, wondering if he would meet the same fate. William grabbed the top of the ladder and pushed it off the wall. The log crashed into the gates again. The ladder was back on the wall within seconds. Warriors clung onto each rung; heavying themselves up. Grabbing a battle-ax, that had been dropped by a raider, Alan smashed the top rung of the ladder. William pushed the ladder down again. The ladder was turned around so that the missing rung was near the bottom. Alan made an out-witted gesture with his hand. He hadn’t thought of them just switching it around. He put an arrow in the man who had had the idea. “Shoot those who are on the ladder,” William shouted. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” “Quite your complaining.” Three of the five men climbing the ladder fell to the ground, stuck with an arrow. William grabbed the ladder and turned it over, dumping the remaining men. He then hauled the empty ladder up and over the wall, throwing it down below, inside the city embattlements. “Climb the wall now!” shouted William. “I guess you can be useful at times,” Alan said, staring in amazement. “Yeah, at times.” There was a loud crack as the gates gave way. Then a bang as they smashed onto the ground. “Archers! The gates!” He loosed an arrow into the flooding mass of warriors who swarmed through the opened gates. He had positioned forty of his best men to guard the gates, in case they were breached. A volley of arrows met the advancing men, bringing down over a dozen. Steel rang on steel as the two foes made contact. The raiders gained ground for the first few seconds. Alan feared that the frail line would break. But instead they began to make headway; pushing the attackers slowly back. Surprised by the unexpected success, Alan and the other archers continued to rain arrows down from the embattlements. He knew that the forty men down there couldn’t hold on forever. He had to do something. William threw down another ladder that he had wrenched from the wall. The heavy oak wood crashed into several men, sending them sprawling. Alan looked at him briefly, “Keep ‘em coming Will.” He reached for another arrow. His hand didn’t find anything in his quiver. “I knew I was running out,” he murmured under his breath. Throwing down his bow he drew his sword. He glanced at William, who was fighting two men who had made it over the wall. Alan darted forward, thrusting his sword through the first. William took care of the other. “I’m going in,” shouted Alan, “they need help down there.” “I’ll keep ‘em off the wall,” said William, “Good luck.” “It’ll take more than luck,” he said as he descended the steps to the ground. He picked up a wooden shield that had been dropped as he charged into battle. He caught a blow from an ax on his sheild, then thrust his sword at the man, who crumpled to the ground. Ducking a sword, he rammed his shield into a man. Then blocked another sword with his own. Keeping his shield poised in front of him as best he could, he traded blows with the enemy. He parried, then attacked. Ducked and counter-attacked. Charged, only to retreat. He could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought on. He could hear his fellow comrades breathing the same way. The enemy was tiring as well. But there were more of them. Lots more. Dodging a sword, he swung at a large raider, missing him by an inch. A young lad, seeing his chance, darted in and sliced the man's leg. The man fell to the ground grasping his leg. Alan finished him off. He and the lad continued fighting this way. Alan, a trained warrior, would attack a man; leaving him open for the lad to get a blow in. Alan could then put him out of commission. An ax swung at Alan's head. Jumping back, he avoided the deadly blow. Hiding behind his shield, he advanced. He felt his arm give as the axe came down on the shield. Then, quick as lighting, the lad lunged forward, stabbing the man in the stomach. The axeman, big as an ox, swung his ax at the boy despite the wound. The back end of the ax sent the lad hurling back. Crashing to the ground. Filled with rage, Alan advanced once more, his shield raised. The ax splintered the wood as it smashed into the shield. Ignoring his throbbing arm, he dashed forward, taking a chunk out of the mans arm with his sword. He then smashed the pommel into the man's face. The man fell to the ground. Soon his lines began to give ground. Little by little the raiders moved farther into the city. Then, in a sudden burst, his lines gave way! Raiders surrounded him on every side as he fought for his life. He managed to get the upper hand with the first two, but the other men were giving him some serious trouble. A metal blade sliced through his cloth armor and cut deep into his arm. Warm liquid ran down the length of his arm. A shield hit him in the face, throwing him back a yard or so. Blood blurred his vision as he regained his feat. It was evident that they were loosing the battle. He was grateful that they had sent the women and children, along with a few young men, down river. The raiders had been polite enough to give them time to do so. Unintentionally of course. He glanced down at his arm. Deciding to ignore it, he swung his sword round experimentally. His thoughts lingered on Aliss as he made his last stand; taking two men on at once. He heard William shouting “Look out Al!” He ducked instinctively. A sword flashed viciously over his head. Alan dashed forward, slashing the man's legs. A boot caught him in the ribs. Grabbing the boot, he drove himself forward, driving the man into the dirt. He rolled to the side, a sword missing him by an inch. Having dropped his sword he drew his small dagger from his belt. He could hear William shouting something at him as he charged. Blocking a sword with his dagger, he grabbed the man's wrist, driving his shoulder into the man's chest. A sword caught him on the other arm. He turned on the next man, the dagger still in hand. Armed with an ax, his opponent swung at him. He managed to dodge the first. But the second hit him in the chest; sending him to the ground. He struggled to get up but fell to the ground. He could see William chopping and slashing at everyone in his path. He knelt beside him, putting his hand on his chest. “Alan, Alan. Just hang on,” He hesitated a second, “You’ll be fine.” Sword poised, William charged the raiders. The few men who were left rallied behind him. Alan knew it was their last stand.


The glow of the LED cast a circle of red light around Tommy’s wrist. He looked up and shouted, “C’mon Lee! It’s fixin’ to be eleven soon!” Lee scurried over, the knot of his stomach twisting as the weight of embarrassment set in. “Goddamn idiot!” Lee murmured to himself. He’d been waiting months for a chance at this trip. He could not afford another embarrassing mistake. Was everything ready? Lee double checked his mental list. He had inventoried the cigarette boxes. He had extra cash for gas. He had his .22 in the glovebox. Tommy knew the route. Tommy stood leaning against their van fiddling with the source of the LED, a digital watch attached to a gold band. He continued to bark orders at Lee as he ran over. Lee quietly apologized as he arrived, and both men were soon in the van and on their way. For the first hour or so they sat quietly, listening to the gentle rumble of the engine as it trotted down the road. Both were too exhausted to say anything, they had been working for over fourteen hours getting the cargo ready. Lee only occasionally broke the silence to help spot deer in the road. “I didn’t mean to snap at you son,” Tommy at last spoke, “you’ve been doing good lately. Taking initiative. You just have to learn to trust me when I tell you what to do and move with a sense of purpose.” Son? He was hardly five years older than Lee, who wasn’t sure if Tommy meant it as a veiled insult. Didn’t matter if it was. A few more of these trips and he’d have enough money to bring a load up north himself. Tommy continued to drone on, Lee only half listened. “Yessir, thank you, thank you...” was all he could bring himself to say. Pretty soon both men returned to their silence. After some time, the headlights flickered onto a billboard on the side of the road. On it read, “Howell for Governor.” Tommy gestured towards it, “That deal right there makes fifty miles to Maryland,” he said, “Yep, I measured it last trip with this new watch. Tells the time with numbers like a computer. No hands or nothing and it reads in the dark too.” Lee wondered how it might feel on his own wrist. Maybe instead of that watch, he might one day just buy a simple gold band. Something just to peek out of his sleeve when he shook someone’s hand. Lee quickly shook himself back to reality. No time to daydream when he could learn how to get the real thing soon. “The boys we’re selling these too, they sell them in Baltimore?” asked Lee. “Nah, Philadelphia. You wouldn’t believe the tobacco taxes there if I told you. They just meet us halfway. After that they sell them to Koreatown for their shops.” “Why don’t we just sell directly to them?” Tommy shrugged and shook his head, “cause they don’t buy from no one they don’t know. It’s fine by me, makes the trip shorter.” Lee made a quick mental note. He needed someone up north to get him in touch directly with the customers. His cousin was in Delaware for college...that’s pretty close, right? At that moment the van snaked around a corner, and the headlights went from illuminating trees to illuminating a car parked haphazardly in the road with the hood open. Inside the car sat a young woman, eyes closed. As the van came to a halt, she opened her eyes and began to shout incomprehensibly. Lee thought that she may have said something about her engine not working. On his right, Lee heard the faint yet distinctive noise of dead leaves being crushed under foot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur which quickly disappeared from view. Lee came to the sudden realization of what was happening. He went to reach for his .22, his arm moving unexpectedly slow. Anxiety had made his movement sluggish, and two steel barrels were jammed into his cheek by the time his hand reached the latch of the glove compartment. Lee turned his eyes to the left to look at Tommy, a similar situation. A tall, slim man stood with a Ruby model pistol pointed towards the driver’s seat. “What in the hell do y’all think you’re doing?” Snarled Tommy. The man to his left grinned, spreading his attempt at a moustache thin across his upper lip. “Yep,” he said, “This is Tommy Jackson.” Tommy was speechless for a moment, before weakly forcing out a question, “don’t y’all know these cigarettes are for Louie Regio’s boys?” “Yeah, I know Reggie. Get out of the van.” Both men silently complied. As they got down, Lee was able to get a good look at his own captor. A man on the stockier side, his fingers were pale white from his death grip on his sawn off shotgun. “By the way, I saw that you fell fucking asleep!” The slim man shouted at the young woman, who by now had exited the car. She replied, “Shit, it’s hot sitting in there! And it gets boring!” The slim man made no attempt to respond, instead he turned to his stocky companion to mutter some instructions. The twin barrels of his shotgun remained on Tommy and Lee, swaying steadily in his nervous grip. After the slim man finished, he and his companion lead Tommy and Lee off the road into a low lying clearing. As they walked, Tommy stealthily slipped his hand into his pocket. Lee felt a slimmer of hope, did he have an extra pistol hidden away by chance? Tommy’s hand and wrist reemerged empty. He was hiding his watch. Lee figured Tommy hadn’t quite realized the situation they were in. The stocky man flinched with each shot. The recoil always did that to him. As they re-emerged from the forest, the slim man put his hand on the shoulder of the other and said, “Not too bad, next time just try to move with more of a sense of purpose.” The stocky man nodded in reply. The woman sood waiting for them in the road, car idling and re-oriented to leave. The two men climbed into the van, following her car as it gently turned the corner.