When Claire turned up at Casa Cosy - the worst restaurant in town - she knew she was going to lose her job. She stared into the window and saw plastic seating covered in moss, dirty tablecloths. She turned and looked at where she should have been, The Imperial, drooping in garlands of pink and red geranium. She knew who must’ve got that job but stopped herself obsessing over him and her professional failures: a career that started as a journalist, then a respectable food critic was now ending with a trip to Casa Cosy. She entered the restaurant: it smelled of damp. The kitchen in the corner had tiles missing off the wall, and the ceiling above was stained. As no one welcomed her, she sat herself down, plucked her phone from her bag and found the restaurant on Google. 1.2 stars out of 5, but the true horror was in the comments: “Surely, it’s an illegal drug front. The owner’s more interested in his Racing Post than serving clientele and only talks to dodgy looking men who never take their shades off.” “Ordered a coffee after waiting ten minutes to be acknowledged. My drink didn’t come for another twenty, so I left. Always trying to support local, independent businesses, but with The Imperial over the road, you’d have to be mad to go to Casa Cosy.” “1 star only because there’s no option of zero.” “Had a plate of Carbonara cooked by a lovely lady. It was tasty. Heard a raucous argument in the kitchen and noted the lady didn’t return. Not a great atmosphere, so left without tipping - will not be returning.” This is Jackson trying to humiliate me, she thought, why else would this place need a review? It will be out of business by the end of the week. She let out an exasperated laugh and realised from the trembling tenor at the end, she was on the edge. The HR complaint had nothing but push her into a corner. She looked out of the window and by chance saw Jackson. He sauntered down the street, a man with no worries, and entered The Imperial. He always wore a tired corduroy sports jacket, famous from his daytime TV cooking show. Claire cursed his move away from TV and into critique: it had ruined something she loved. She began packing her phone away and was daydreaming of entering The Imperial unannounced with thunderous words - maybe even an open palm - when she noticed a plump lady of middle age and Italian descent standing at the table with a smile. Although she looked like a cheery type, there were more wrinkles on her forehead than by her eyes. “Signora. How can I help you?” she said. “Hi,’ Claire flapped the paper menu onto the table. “I was actually about to leave, sorry.” Claire began to rise, thinking still of the words she’d deliver to Jackson, when she locked eyes with the woman. She produced an aperitif that Claire hadn’t noticed - olives with garlic and chilis - and placed them on the table. “Please, at least try these before you go. No money.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron, turned and left. Claire resumed packing her bags and decided to take one for the road. She bit into - it was meaty, tart and of good origin. She sat down and called the waitress back over, and quickly scanning the menu, she said: “That was rude. May I please have a bottle of the Soave and some sparkling water. Then, I’ll try your Caccio Pepe,” she smiled. The women nodded quickly and scurried into the kitchen. Claire settled back down into her seat and ate another olive. In the kitchen, Angela washed her hands, then dried them, then washed them again for good measure. She prodded Enzo who was placing a bet on football on his phone. “Enzo. This is our first customer since Flavio. First new one, so please, help me.” Enzo’s didn’t turn, but from the side, Angela could see him mutter an obscenity. “You know, Enzo, your father...” He turned and shot a look at her that told her to stop. She did just so, and found the bottle of Soave, the water both cold to the touch - and the correct glasses. She made sure they were clean before taking everything over. She served the lady some wine. “This... is a good menu. Quite stripped back,” said Claire. “What is, stripped back?” “Erm, sorry, minimal. Not many ingredients.” “Ah, yes. We say in Italy, ‘Alla Romana’,” Angela did something with her hands that looked very Italian. “We try to keep it simple, in Rome.” “Well, great. I like simple. I’ll have the pork cutlet for main and a side of fennel salad. Thank you.” Angela turned and there was an excitement, maybe a slight panic, in her movements. The lady looked important. She wore clothes that she might’ve seen in a magazine, or on TV. She approached Enzo. “Enzo, come on, help your mother. I don’t think you understand how much we need this.” Enzo didn’t move, just kept staring at his phone. Angela couldn’t be painted the villain any longer. “Enzo, your father, he ruined everything. Please, help me save something from this rotten mess he made.” Enzo rose to his feet. Angela thought he was leaving. “What does she want?” He pointed to the table. “What does the lady want?” “Pork. Thank you.” She wanted to tell him that saints weren’t born out of every death but instead touched her cross to repent her sinful thought. She boiled spaghetti and heated a lump of butter in the pan. She pulled the pasta out and some starchy water, then blended everything together over the cooker. As she ground pepper, she felt as if she were soaring in the sky, free again. She added cheese - a 70/30 split of parmesan and pecorino - mixed it together and strode to the table and placed the plate down with a smile. “Come a Roma,” she said to the lady. Just as in Rome. “I can see that,” Claire smiled. “Thank you.” Angela turned towards the kitchen and found the two men in shades at the entry. They gestured to their table in the corner and said: “Peroni.” Angela felt her smile disappear. She walked to the humming fridge and took two beers out. She arrived at the table with her finger tensing the bottle neck. “Do you not have any respect? It’s been one week,” she said as she placed down the beers. Neither man looked up to her. “Signora, your husband, it’s him you should be angry at. It’s him who liked our blackjack tables,” one of the men took his shades off; he had cold, black eyes. “A bad husband, a bad businessman, and an even worse gambler. Look at this place,” he grimaced, as if he’d bitten into a lemon, “a stain on Italia.” “I’m turning it around. I need time,” she said. The other man, still with his shades on, tutted. “You see number forty-six, down the road? They asked for time. Now on the counters is just ash.” Angela stiffened; a bell rang. She narrowed her eyes and walked back to the kitchen, but the lady on table four called after her. She composed her manner and approached her. There were spots of sauce on the tablecloth and both plates had been eaten fully, the universal sign of a well-loved meal. “That was delicious,” said Claire. “Truly a delight. You should have more people in here.” Angela nodded and thanked her. “I don’t want to be rude, but why don’t you get a loan, improve the appearance, maybe? It would help.” “This was my husband’s restaurant. He, erm, ran it how he felt was right. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was, but this is all that he left me,” she picked up the plates, the cutlery. “Excuse me.” She returned into the kitchen and Enzo was cooking the cutlet. He was a master, letting the fats and the garlic simmer at the perfect heat. It smelled of rosemary and butter. He plated up the dish as she shaved the fennel, before cutting thin strips of parmesan off the block and adding them to the salad with a simple olive oil and lemon dressing. Enzo turned. “Who are they?” “No one. Don’t worry.” “They were here when dad was. I’m not an imbecile, you know,” his shoulders stiffened, and he lifted his chin. “Enzo, you’re a chef. Leave the business to me.” Angela picked up the dishes and took them to the guest. The meat had the right amount of juice seeping out of it, and the salad was crisp and aromatic. The lady smiled when the plates landed before her. “Prego,” said Angela, but as she placed the plate down, there was a loud smashing sound from the corner of the room. She turned and saw Enzo and the two thugs arguing, a bottle of beer in pieces on the floor. The two men raised from their seats, dusted off their jackets and left with a wry smile on their faces. The man with the black eyes turned from the entry and shouted. “Look at forty-six. We will be back soon.” Claire didn’t want to make a scene. She watched as the woman swept the shards of glass, then mopped. She ate the pork, then the salad - it was delicious. She couldn’t understand the poor reviews. She finished eating, drank another glass of wine, then asked for the bill. The owner arrived. “How embarrassing,” she bowed slightly, “sorry.” Claire smiled. “Listen, lady. I think you need a fresh start. Close for a week, make some changes: the name. Start again. Your husband may have been a good man...” “He was not.” “In that case, start again. Your cooking is too good, and this place is filled with bad memories and wretched reviews.” Claire paid double what the bill had asked and bid the woman farewell. She touched her arm. “You’ll be OK. Don’t worry about them,” Claire pointed to the entry. “Why not call it Caccio e Pepe?” Claire winked, then she left. She crossed the street and arrived at The Imperial and saw Jackson through the window. He spotted her and asked his table to be excused so he could come outside. He walked with straight, confident strides and his blonde hair bobbed in springs beneath his ears. His wide smile broke as he spoke. “How was ‘the worst restaurant in town’?” Claire took out a cigarette and lit it. “Delicious.” “Sure,” he snorted. “I wanted to thank you,” Claire exhaled smoke to the side. “Today was important to me.” “Well, a thank you is much better than a HR complaint. Are you going to apologies, for that, also?” Claire didn’t respond, she kept smoking and stared directly at Jackson. His sharp features made him look like a weasel - never will she let a man do that again. He knotted his brows in confusion then gestured towards The Imperial. “Do you want to join us? We’re just about to have a Crème Brulee.” Claire took another drag. Her right arm was folded across her chest, and her left held it in the air like a crane. She took another drag then dropped the cigarette and stamped on it. “Thank you, but I’d rather die.” She walked away, making sure to take photos of number forty-six on her way to the tube station. It was a burnt-out mess, with black pieces of timber hanging disjointedly from frames and ash still marking every inch of the walls and structure. Graffiti inside issued warnings. She knew she had a lot of work to do, so hailed down a cab. “Where are we going, love?” Asked the driver. “King’s Cross. The Daily Reviewer head office.” She called her old friend as the cab bumped its way across town. Angela did what the lady said. She shut down for a week, her and Enzo re-tiled the kitchen, re-did the bathrooms and painted. They peeled off the vinyl on the front that had said Casa Cosy, and instead had a friend paint the words Caccio e Pepe. She found new wooden chairs and tables and printed menus on thick paper. Finally, she asked Enzo to remove the old Google Listing and start anew. On the first day, she was thrilled to be opening. It was light outside, and although early summer, it reminded her of winter days in Rome. That excitement waned as customers didn’t appear, and after a further three weeks and a growing pile of bills through the door, she accepted that Flavio had ruined both her lives: the one with him and the one without. It was a terrible feeling, watching time eat into your only chance of a future. Across the road, The Imperial had customers willing to queue for an hour instead of eating with her. Then, she did receive her first customers. The two men wish shades walked in and whistled sarcastically, then sat themselves down in their corner. “Look at this, what a change! Flavio would turn in his grave,” said one man, “I’ll have a Peroni,” he grunted. “It doesn’t look like your fortunes are different, eh, Angela?” The other smirked. “We said we’d give you four weeks, but maybe, it’ll be tonight...” Angela felt her arms shaking as she wrote down the orders. She approached the fridge and plucked two Peronis. She opened each with a hiss. She looked to see Enzo, how he was reacting to the men, but his face was thrilled by something. She felt a gust of air crawl up her neck and her skin shivered. She turned, and a group of four people were waiting to be sat. She approached them and they smiled. They asked for coffees and Italian pastries and fizzy water and Angela was busy and smiling, and she saw many more people were now waiting to be seated, all women. She took orders and Enzo readied food, and soon, the two men left having hardly drank their beers, leaving on the table a copy of a newspaper opened on page 12. Jackson Hendrick arrived at The Agency. He wore his sports jacket and was, as always, twenty minutes late. The lady at reception looked at him with dead eyes. He was used to those looks, and wasn’t surprised she was annoyed, as he hadn’t text her back since they made love last week. He took off his jacket and sat at his desk and opened his laptop, but before he could get onto his emails, The Daily Reviewer landed on his desk, and the towering figure of Al - the agency owner - stood above him. He felt cold. “Hello chap,” said Jackson. “What’s this?” “This,” said Al, “is the end of your career.” He pointed to the paper. Jackson opened it, saw the article with his name in the headline: Handsy Hendrick from daytime TV fame accused of sexual abuse and bullying by Claire Stoddard, former Senior Food Critic. An attempt at demeaning her professionally saved her life, she said. Story continues P12, including a piece by Claire herself on patriarchy and mob influence in the culinary world, and a call to all women to support and protect our women in the kitchen - starting with a trip to Caccio e Pepe on the West side of town. He couldn't believe it - rape! She was lucky they spent the night together! Jackson laughed wildly. He’d easily beat this attempt at a smear through HR - this would be no issue. He rose to his feet and turned, only to be faced by Jose, the big Spanish security guard, who had two policemen at his back. “Shit.”


He was no stranger to this, this strong pain resonating from his forearm up. This was a normal act, almost routine to perform. Josh had blood streaking down to his palm, pooling in his hand. The gleam of the metal in his other hand had reminded him that there he wasn't done yet. He curled his hand into a fist and struck again, the box cutter tearing apart his clean unscarred flesh of his arm. This time was different, he didn't feel any pain and didn't feel the need to stop. He was going to keep going. He knew this was coming though, he had planned this night. He went into the kitchen earlier while his parents were asleep and had shoveled as many pills as there were in the house down his throat. This night was different. Josh had scars all over his arm, he couldn't wear anything less revealing than a long sleeved jacket around other people including his own family. In school he had friends at one point, but everything dies off eventually. Those friends found that it was too much work to be friends with someone who shared so little of himself, all he is is cutting though, and he could not share that. He was a smart kid though, he planned it out well. He knew he couldn't tell anyone, that was his previous mistake, he learned from trial and error with this and made the perfect plan. This was a perfect night. He kept going until he couldn't see the pale white of his skin color on his wrist. He wouldn't stop. Josh was determined this time, he was pushed to the limits. Earlier that evening he watched his ex-girlfriend of two years go with someone else to prom, he asked and she said yes. That was a cold reminder that he was alone. Josh would rather be dead than alone. His plan started with the pills, washed down with bleach, now he was sitting on the edge of the roof, wrists cut, and vision fading. He missed one part. The note. He was frantically fighting for consciousness now, he couldn't leave his family without saying goodbye. His stomach was on fire and it was burning upwards towards his throat, his vision was fading, too much blood lost, all he could do was claw his way indoors. He wouldn’t make it though, there wasn’t enough time left. The next day the police arrived to the scene of a young 13 year old boy named Josh fallen on the fence next to his house, it was an obvious suicide. Josh’s younger sister would forever be scarred with the mental image of her brother almost cut in half by their fence when she went out to get their morning paper. Josh had wandered off a lot in his sleep, so him missing in the morning wasnt out of the ordinary.


“No way you make this putt, cher.” The big man tossed the words out like coins into a beggar’s cup. Ian shook his head and leveled his eyes back on the ball, playing the big man’s taunts off as nonchalantly as he could, though he knew he was nowhere near a good enough actor to not be noticeably annoyed at this point. After 17 holes of Cutter’s (he still wasn’t sure if that was the big man’s real name or not) incessant peppering, Ian’s patience was worn out. Since the first tee box, he had been heckling the thinner man at every drive, chip and putt. He had even criticized Ian’s handling of the golf cart. Ian had endured it all with a polished smile that was only now showing its cracks. He needed Cutter’s business -- badly. The big man controlled seafood distribution for the better part of the entire Southeast and Ian’s restaurants (a small chain, but a chain nonetheless) was on a knife’s edge of profitability after years of work. This deal could push him out of the red and into the black for the first time, and that was certainly worth 18 holes of blue comments from Big Cutter. Crass and obnoxious as he may be, the big man could *golf*. Ian was no slouch. He still prided himself on making the collegiate team at ASU and had once entertained aspirations of a life on the PGA Tour. Those dreams had obviously remained only dreams, but he still made it out on the course on a regular basis and enjoyed the rarified air of the Scratch Golfer. Even still, Cutter had kept pace through all 17 of the previous holes (even while downing a beer a hole) and now was stood -- one hand on his ample wait, one wrapped around his 18th bottle of Budweiser -- on the final green, smiling smugly as Ian eyed up the decisive putt of the match. “Tell ya what, cher,” Cutter said with a slur that was only barely decipherable. Ian had to admit he was impressed by that, this many beers in. “If yah sink this putt, I’ll sign yah contract right’n this very green. Whaddya say, cher?” Ian straightened. This was it. “Are you serious?” “Deathly.” “Alright,” Ian said. He was skeptical. The big man had been yanking him this way and that for the last four hours. Maybe the beer had finally loosened up his wallet. Still, Ian didn’t trust him. “And what if I miss it?” The big man let out a thunderous laugh that shook Ian’s slight frame. “Not too conf’dent, eh, cher?” Ian curled his lips into a curdled smile. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know what I’m wagering before I lay my chips down.” “Yah a cautious man, cher. Some folks admire that.” Cutter took a mighty swig from his Budweiser, belched, and then wiped his thick lips with a massive forearm. “Not me, though. Yah want a wageah, here’tis: Yah sink it, I’ll sign. Yah miss it,” he smiled his drunken smile down at Ian, “I take the stake in all yah lil eat’ries. How’s dat for a wageah?” Ian’s smile dropped like a dead leaf. “No,” he stated flatly. “I figured ‘twas a bit rich for yah blood. Well, thanks for the round, anyhow.” The big man took another swig from his beer and then turned his back on Ian. He began to waddle off the green. Ian cursed to himself. He couldn’t lose this deal. “Wait,” he called out, angered by how desperate he sounded, even to himself. He thanked God he at least had the luck of not seeing whatever self-satisfied grin must certainly be creeping across the big man’s face at the moment. Ian wrung the grip of his putter. “Deal,” he spat out. “Well, alright, then!” The big man turned, his face lit up like Bourbon Street, and made his way back up the hill to the green. “Hold on,” Ian said, fishing a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You’re signing this contract right here.” “There’s that conf’dence, cher! I like it!” *Yeah, I’ll show you, you fat prick*, Ian thought. He turned back to his ball and lined up his putt. *No pressure.* He had made big putts before, this one was no different. 12 feet away, the cup sat patiently, waiting for him to realize his dreams -- or bankrupt himself at the behest of some obnoxious seafood magnate’s drunken fancy. *No pressure*. “Get’n with it, cher!” Cutter belched. Ian ignored him. *No pressure.* He gripped his putter tightly, but not too tightly. He shifted his weight on his heels. He eyed the cup, his ball, the putter. *No pressure.* He drew back the club face, held his breath. *No. Pressure.* He brought the putter forward in a smooth motion, his arms locked and straight. The face met the ball and sent it skittering across the green. Ian exhaled. The ball rolled, straight as an arrow, right at the cup. He felt his chest swell. Butterflies swarmed his stomach. He had it. His stroke was pure. The ball rolled on, agonizingly slow, drawing out the moment. Behind him, he heard Cutter swish down the last of his Budweiser. The ball carried on undisturbed, a foot away from the cup... six inches... three... two... one... And then it stopped. Impossibly, it stopped. Ian felt the strength leave his legs. “Hoh hoh!” Cutter burst out. “My goodness, but that was close! My heart nearly stopped, cher!” Ian barely heard. His own heart very well may have stopped. He felt nothing in his chest, only emptiness. *How could I have left it short?* The big man, meanwhile, was hollering. Big, boisterous laughter rolled across the green like a tornado. Ian, who had sunk in on himself and was now hugging his own knees, felt a wide hand slap him, hard, on the back. Whatever breath was left in him whooshed out in a gust. “Well,” the big man was saying between laughs, “a deal’s’a deal.” He laughed again, harder. It sounded like a burlap bag being torn apart. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal!” And now he *really* laughed. It was a hideous sound, like heavy rock music turned all the way up on a speaker that had already been blown out. The big man was laughing so hard he was actually beginning to cough in between guffaws. It was like listening to a dog choke down a bone. In fact, it sounded exactly like choking... Ian managed to bring himself up from his knees. The big man had backed off a step or two. His wide face had gone from red to purple and was moist with perspiration. Round eyes bulged from above cheeks like hamsteaks. The laughter was now replaced by choked barks and the big man was clutching at his chest, clawing. Ian, wide-eyed, rushed forward dumbly, unsure of how he could help but wanting to all the same. It made no difference. The big man let out one final, chopping cough and then collapsed backward. He hit the green like an atom bomb. Ian actually felt the impact through his spikes. *Clink*. Ian turned. His ball was gone. In a daze, he walked across the green. He knew what he would see waiting in the cup, but he leaned over and looked anyway. His ball rested inside, the smiley face he had drawn on in Sharpie staring up at him, celebrating his victory. “Oh my God...,” The words left him in a breathless sigh. Then, without any thought, his arms shot upwards. “Oh my God!” Ian yelled out. “Oh my God! It went in!” He hollered and began to hop up and down, almost delirious with joy as he reveled in the impossibility of his putt dropping. Shame crept up on him suddenly. A man was lying dead behind him. A terrible man, but a man. He knelt, picked up his ball and headed back to Cutter’s body. Again, he knew what he would find before he checked, but he dropped to a knee and worked two fingers beneath the big man’s chins. No pulse. Of course. Still a bit dazed, Ian worked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed in 9-1-1 and brought the device up to his ear. He told the woman on the other end what had happened. She said they were on their way. He hung up. He wanted to feel worse, but he didn’t. Without realizing it, he found that the contract had worked its way back into his hand. He stared at it. Then he looked at Cutter’s blue face. He shrugged. “Well, a deal’s a deal,” he told the dead man as he pushed a pen into his cold hand. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal.


I used to look at people when I was younger; Right in their eyes... I would try to understand if they were there, being able of thought abstract and minus self. I used to wish and hope that maybe they were. That something would dawn upon one and they would look at me and I would see, feel, taste anything that would show me. I looked for year's, I got older and older and I still couldn't find it. Every so often i would see intelligence and glimmers of something better described as a twitch of a muscle you didn't know you had. I gave up, I stopped looking. What I couldn't stop was thinking. I grew wary of what I deemed was called hope. That thing that drives people to want and love and fuck, before greed sets in and once was love turns to lust and they forget what they had held once dear. That conditioned morality that was what they thought of as I themselves. Their flawed idea of uniqueness dissolves. As with all things lost, the human condition prevails and one must search. I thought maybe i wasn't looking right. Was it a given? Was there a mass presumption ingrained into us? If that was so then why did I not have it. Why. That was my fall. I turned on my self and I couldn't stop. I kept cycling and cycling in the true fashion of Einstein's definition. I could control it, which only created more whys. Was it really control? If that was up there standing on the soap box, that idea of being able to stop mid breath, Harness one away from want. Then everything was. Sweet opioid. Love. Quite. I could look up now. I felt what i deemed control, that wary thing I carried with me,not for the sake of other as most do, but for myself to keep me from falling away no longer necessary. I could look at someone in the eyes and not wonder or search, but see exactly how they did; feel, touch, taste, be. The notion of my singularity was null. Well for as long as it lasted. It was worse now. I saw I wasn't wrong to question and look. I wasn't asking the wrong thing or not looking the right way. Alone again. Though with more knowledge. I have conditioned others to act differently why not me? I tried so hard. tearing bit by bit away. Using more and more to see were work was needed. I slowly unraveled it all and put it back. Then kept using more and more. less breaks. It had to stick I had blend it and life together. Had to forget what I was doing to myself or it would never work. Then I stopped. Time went by. Calmness and ease, that frolic on the beach. But nothing last.... A itch was starting to form...


41236Fafnir [13:30]: Happy thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy your uncomfortable family reunions and screaming arguments. Bjid [13:33]: My younger sister and my grandfather are already arguing about Trump. KRS [13:36]: That’s four years in a row now. You’d think they’d realize it’s a pointless conversation. 41236Fafnir [13:36]: Didn’t they start throwing food at each other last year? Bjid [13:45]: Yup. We aren’t even at the dinner table yet and it’s already a nightmare. How about you guys? 41236Fafnir [13:48]: My wife and I are driving to her parent’s place later today. Should be fine. KRS [13:49]: Honestly, I’m just home alone. :/ Bjid [13:58]: For real? 41236Fafnir [14:01]: That’s rough. Things bad back home? KRS [14:03]: No, not really. I got this job just last month and don’t want to take any time off. Going home for four days is a pretty big commitment when your folks are on the other side of the US. Figured I just had to hold the L and not go home this year. I still get today off though, so it’s not the worst. 41236Fafnir [14:13]: Shit, that sucks. Sorry to hear that. KRS [14:10]: Eh, I kinda knew this would happen getting the work. Still beats working in retail. Bjid [14:21]: Hah... yeah. I can imagine. I had to go into work this morning for a half shift. 41236Fafnir [14:45]: Wal Mart? Bjid [14:24]: Yup. KRS [14:30]: That’s fucked up. 41236Fafnir [14:40]: You’re leaving there soon though, right? IIRC, you said something else was coming in. Bjid [14:45]: Yeah. Maybe. IDK, they haven’t gotten back to me in about two weeks. KRS [14:48]: I mean, this week is Thanksgiving, so it’s a little fair. You should probably try contacting them. Y’know, just remind them you exist. Bjid [14:51]: Is that a good idea? I thought that would come off as pushy. KRS [14:53]: Eh, they really won’t mind. It shows you care. 41236Fafnir [14:59]: Yeah, you have literally nothing to lose. You should shoot for it. Bleeksley [15:08]: Happy thanksgiving to the all you Americans down there. Bjid [15:10]: TY KRS [15:13]: Riiiigggghhhttt. Canadian thanksgiving is in October. Did we forget this year? Bleeksley [15:14]: Don’t worry about it. 41236Fafnir [15:17]: I keep forgetting that you have Thanksgiving in October. Canada’s practically another planet, haha. Bleeksley [15:23]: Hey, we’re all the same. We all wake up in the morning and ride our polar bears to work. Bjid [15:27]: JFC, I started laughing like a maniac in front of my entire family. Thanks for that. Bleeksley [15:30]: Right. How dare I tell a joke. Might as well ban me right now. [KRS has banned Bleeksley] [[Bleeksley has joined the server]] KRS [15:34]: J Bleeksley [15:35]: I’m not even mad. That was great. KRS [15:40]: I figured you’d enjoy that. 41236Fafnir [15:46]: Well, I have to drive in a minute. So, I’ll be offline for a while. KRS [15:48]: Have fun driving to NPR for seven hours. 41236Fafnir [15:50]: It’s practically just white noise at this point. KRS [15:52]: In all seriousness, seven hours is pretty bad. At some point you should probably look into air travel. Bleeksley [15:54]: You can’t have an emergency escape if you need to wait for a flight. Bjid [15:56]: Fucking Christ, dude. Bjid [15:56]: You right tho. 41236Fafnir [15:58]: Nah, my wife’s family are just a bunch of nerds and they’re great. I’m pretty sure I won’t need to worry about emergency exits anymore. We just both hate air travel. 41236Fafnir: Anyways, logging off. If I don’t manage to get back on later, then I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Bleeksley [15:59]: Drive Safe. KRS [15:59]: Yup. Have fun. Bjid [15:59]: What they said. KRS [16:30]: Anyways, Bleeksley, do you want to play a game or something? I don’t really care what kind, honestly. Bleeksley [16:34]: I wish I could. I have a final paper due this Sunday and it’s kinda kicking my ass. Bjid [16:40]: Then why are you here? Bleeksley [16:41]: Good question. Fortunately, I have a perfectly good reason. Bleeksley [16:41]: I’m procrastinating. Bjid [16:43]: So you’ll procrastinate online, but when you’re playing a game it becomes a problem? Bleeksley [16:45]: ...Yes. KRS [16:48]: I mean, a quick drop into the group chat is different than playing a game for an hour. I get it. Bleeksley [16:49]: Yeah, let’s hope I have enough self control to actually get off in a few minutes. I have some doubts. KRS [16:51]: We’re still good for Mafia night tomorrow though, right? Bleeksley [16:52]: Yeah, totally. I don’t think I’ll have any problems on my end. Bjid [16:53]: I should be fine too. Jeppers [16:53]: I should be down. Bjid [16:54]: Oh, hey, Jeppers. Bleeksley [16:56]: Hey, Jeppers. You just log in? Jeppers [16:57]: Hey guys. And yeah, I did. Jeppers [16:58]: KRS, if you’re still down for games in anything, I’m open. You still play Fighterz, right? KRS [17:01]: I do. I’m not great at it, but I can play. I’ll be on in a bit. Bleeksley [17:05]: You aren’t doing Thanksgiving stuff this year, Jeppers? Isn’t it around the middle of the day in the Midwest? Jeppers [17:10]: I mean, I was at a Thanksgiving thing. I just headed home early this year. Bjid [17:13]: ...Oh boy. That bad, huh? Jeppers [17:16]: Yeah. It was pretty awful. Bleeksley [17:20]: Did your brother tell everyone about you coming out like you were worried he would? Jeppers [17:23]: Yup. He did. Jeppers [17:26]: I wish I never told him. I don’t think I’ve ever regretted anything so quickly in my life before. Bleeksley [17:30]: Gotta love those Christian values. Jeppers [17:33]: I know you’re joking, but I fucking hate them. I almost thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, but it ended up being a disaster. KRS [17:36]: It has to be better than holding it back, I hope. Jeppers [17:40]: It is. I’m pissed right now, but it’s better than having to feel anxious every time I go there. I just wish it didn’t happen the way it did. KRS [17:42]: If it makes you feel any better, The worst thing that’ll happen is having to cut off some shitty family. Which is no harm done. Jeppers [17:44]: It’s fine. I’m going back to college tomorrow, so it’s not like I have to deal with the blowback right now. Bjid [17:46]: Until Christmas. Bjid [17:48]: Which is in a month. Jeppers [17:49]: A Month should be plenty of time, right? KRS [17:50]: Yeah, I’m sure it’ll blow over by then. Jeppers [17:54]: ...I hope. KRS [17:55]: Do you still want to play? You don’t have to. Jeppers [17:56]: No, I do. I really need to get my mind off this anyways. I’ll be on in a minute. 41236Fafnir [20:14]: Sounds like I missed out on a bit. Jep, you don’t really need to force yourself to see family if they’re just going to look down on you for who you are. I’m not saying burn the bridge if things do work out, but don’t try to force yourself to these things if they don’t. If they don’t like you for who you are, then it’s their problem. Not yours. 41236Fafnir [20:15]: Okay. I need to get back to IRL stuff. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.


The first thing you notice is the sun's rays, peeking through the dusty white shutters. They don’t close all the way, and by the time the light rises into the morning, thick bars of brightness shine onto your ceiling. Your eyelids fail to block out the bright colours of the room, and when you’ve tossed and turned for half an hour in bed, you begrudgingly get up. It’s only eight-thirty-one, your clock chimes in. You think with how bright it is it must be closer to ten. The thought of getting up early on a Sunday morning makes your body sag with fatigue, though you are the one who chose to awake. There is no going back to bed once you stand, and traipse across the long browned carpet lining the floor of your bedroom. The rest of the house is already flooded with light, with your forgetting to close the shutters before bed. It highlights the dust floating through the air, though everything was still as water at midnight before you came down. A glass of tap water soothes your dry throat, though you’re concerned about the air bubbles in the glass of water. Your mom used to tell you they were nothing to worry about, but your father's brother Fred would argue the white specks were chemicals used to clean the water. Mother would roll her eyes, and take out a plastic water bottle for him. Your mother’s mother would mutter something unintelligible under her breath, and ranted about Fred and his antics. The kitchen where you stand was once filled with a bickering family, you think as you leave the glass on the counter. You thought it was all in good fun, but now you know the hatred ran deeper than distaste over white dots in a glass of tap water. Yet you learned to swallow the bitterness long ago, embraced the isolation that came with being caught on the wrong side of a pivotal decision. When you lose a member too soon, you’re quick to blame those who had a part to play. Your mother was always the kind one, or she was in your memories. The first to fold in on herself for others, changing her demeanour every which way if only to please others. Like origami, every time she shaped herself it left creases that would fade but never disappear. Every time another demand was made, another weight on her shoulders, an expression of defiance would flicker across her face. Despite your wish for it to remain, for her to say what she felt, her face folded back into one of a smiling, complacent housewife. It was because of her inability to refuse that you took advantage of her. Even now, looking back from the cabin she left to you in her will, you benefit from her docility. Though it has been many years since you spoke, she left you the cabin you once loved. Back when it represented a break from the rush of school, when you were showered with gifts from family not seen since summertime. The cabin was a haven tucked away from the world, but as an adult, it is nothing more than a voluntary prison. Why did you stay? You had a house in the explosion of suburbia exploding in and around Toronto. You had a stable job, made a friendly yet distant neighbour, never rude but not taking the time to learn their names. Yet here you stand in an old, badly insulated house with a putrid-smelling bathroom and barely functioning gas fireplace. Cut off almost entirely from the outside world, the whole premise of a remote cabin smacking you directly in the face. No phone, electricity, internet, or people to talk to. It is as alone as isolation can be, and it’s thrilling. You don’t need to fake smiles or get dressed into clothes that scream careless, unrefined. Two years as an interior designer and you already learned people judge you before you walk through the door. Your jacket, two-year-old somewhat-worn boots, frizzy straight hair that is not blow-dried speak unintentional volumes to them. Why? The world is unforgiving. They don’t care if you struggle to get up in the morning, that your family has universally cut you off and hung you to dry. No, they care about their rooms, and you are nothing more than a servant to them, who doesn’t seem to have the decency to look professional. But those people don’t matter to you anymore. As you step out onto the snowy deck, your boots imprinting marks on the fresh white powder, you aren’t thinking about the people. Or what you left behind. You are not bitter about society’s inflictions, because you have peacefully detached from them and retreated. You won’t stay here forever. You are not so withdrawn as to not need human interaction at all, no, you are just introverted enough to need a break from pretending to be an extrovert. Your mother always allowed you to hide away in your bedroom during family reunions, but you were too kind to want to disappear. Instead, you took the burden off of your mother, listening to Fred but never fully agreeing with what he said. Yet, you reminisce, he was never the one to start the big arguments. Echoes of words yelled long ago play relentlessly in the back of your mind. The cabin was an escape from one thing, but an invitation for another terror to be unearthed. Years of practice burying the bitter resentment from family were brushed away like the layer of dust on the countertops. The small burn on the couch from Fred’s lighter. Small shards of glass still stuck under the baseboard from shattered picture frames, hastily swept up. A long-wilted pot of flowers mother never got to bring home. A reminder around every corner of the pain and ear-splitting screams of memories clawing their way out. You should let them out. Cry, throw something, uncork the glass bottle brimming with acid memories, bubbling up. You feel it, don’t you? If another were there to ask you simply if you were okay, you would likely shake your head no and collapse in a heap of tears. But you refuse, clench your fist and stand up straight, wiping away the water brimming around your eyes. You will not cry, you will not let it out. You think it makes you strong, but you are weak from running from it for so long. You are so close to getting through this phase of your past, why do you now refuse to acknowledge it? Your mother never cried in front of you. Her face would scrunch up ever so slightly, whenever emotions slammed into her at an overwhelming rate. She would just purse her lips, shake her head, and busy herself with a task. You used to admire that aspect of her, but now, as you hang your head between your arms, you wish she was there to tell you how she did it. But she is gone, and you can't help but stop the memory from flooding back, clear as freshly cleaned glass. That day the snow had piled up against the window, and we were debating staying an extra night. Everyone’s vehicles, except for Fred’s truck, were too snowed in and cold to be started. The then-working heater kept you warm inside, but after a week of already being in each other’s company, everybody was on their last leg. “Put that down!” Grandma hissed at Fred, who was jokingly trying to light your clothes on fire, enjoying how you would lurch backwards in the cruel joke of it. He would light it, bring it just close enough to your shirt to discolour it before you would turn around. At grandma’s scolding, his mouth would turn up into a cruel smirk. “I wasn’t doing anything. Y’all shelter her too much.” You moved further away from him, spying your mother leaning on the counter. “Mom?” You asked, immediately knowing something was wrong. She didn’t look up, and you were the fastest to your feet, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?” you asked, already knowing the answer. When she shook her head lightly, a feeling of dread crept up your spine. “Mom!” You turn to your family, who were watching silently, emotionless. “Somebody help her!” You insist, fighting back hysteria. Your mother was not one for theatrics or extra attention. “She’s probably fine, just a little sick of this cabin, like the rest of us.” Fred took a sip of his beer. You stared at him for a moment, in shock at his nonchalance. “No, Em’ is right, Jenn isn’t okay.” Aunt Beatrice stands. “She needs to-” She was cut off by your mother slumping against the counter, and your diving to try and catch her before she hit the floor. Her skin pale and fingers twitching, you finally began to panic. “She needs to get to the hospital!” You cried, struggling to drag her toward the door before Beatrice began to help you. Grandma chimed in. “Fred’s truck is the best chance you got.” “Whatever, I think she’s fine. She’ll wake up in a minute and you will feel stupid for overthinking it.” Ignoring that statement, Beatrice continued your grandmother’s train of thought. “I’ve got the keys, Emily and I will go.” Fred stood, swaying slightly as he did. Pointing his finger at Beatrice, he glared. “You are not driving my truck.” “You’re drunk. You’re more likely to crash into one of the trees on the way than get Jenn help.” “You’re not driving my truck!” Fred walked up to Beatrice, staring her in the eye. “She needs help!” You cry, and Fred turns his glare to you. His breath smells of beer and tobacco. “She’s fine.” Grandma’s voice chimed in from her spot on the couch. “Fred is right, you guys are overthinking this.” You look around at their faces, and Beatrice looks defeated. “No!” you yell, “Fred how goddamn selfish are you to not-” You never get to finish the sentence before the air rushes out of your lungs. A heavy arm shoves you against the wall, and the whole room erupts in protest. The shattering of glass pierces your ears, as Fred stumbles away from you. Beatrice drops an old picture frame, shards of glass sticking out, and rushes over to ensure you are okay. “She’s not breathing.” Your heart stops at the soft sound of your grandmother’s voice, and when you turn around you no longer see the rising and falling of your mother’s chest. “No!!” It is now that you slump against the wood siding of the house, that you sink to your knees, ignoring the wet discomfort of the snow. You cry salty tears and don’t wipe them away. The memories clawed their way out, and now fully consume you. You’re not sure how long you sit there, wallowing in your pain and self-pity, the snow soaking through your sweatpants and tears freezing on your face. The wind whistles past your ears, and eventually self-preservation wins out, and you pick yourself up. Not bothering to dust yourself off, you sprinkle snow on the already water-warped floor. But with the feeble warmth from the gas fireplace, the cold, icy part of you that kept you emotionless and detached slowly melted away. The knot in your chest untangles. Without it, you finally felt like you could breathe. You grab the broom from the closet, the worn handle fitting nicely in your palm. The flooring groans under your feet as you approach the remains of a shattered picture frame. You sweep the glass, the splintered frame, and the faded picture across the living room floor. When it gets outside, the glass falls through the cracks in the deck, leaving only the frame. With one final push off the deck, the wood falls gently down into the snowbank below. The picture is snatched by the wind, and carried off across the yard, still moving when you go back inside. The pot of flowers is heavy in your hands, the soil making your nose wrinkle in disgust. You walk quickly with it, and with great satisfaction, throw it off the side of the deck. Softly landing on the thick layer of snow, the once unwanted life feeding the garden you will eventually grow. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When you are satisfied, you sit down on the weathered sofa and close your eyes. Because it’s over. Not because your family has made-up again, but because you chose it to be. You chose to not care anymore and to acknowledge the past without succumbing to it. Your mother never cared much for family gatherings, and she would prefer your shirts don’t have burn marks. And the cottage, once coffin-like and cold, has the aura of a new beginning.


I saw the whole thing. I work in a cramped gas station kiosk for a department store chain. The wall-to-wall front window overlooks Freddy Gonzalez street. On that street, I shared in Snowden's secret for the first time. Only on this day, there was no elegant prose, no moral learned, no imagination at play. Only grim reality. It was a muggy Saturday evening in Texas not far from the Mexican border. The air was damp and hot, encouraging me to stay within the walls of my air conditioned box with the radio on. My favorite song by Pink Floyd was playing on the radio: "Wish You Were Here". The sky remained grey and heavy between the episodes of violent rain. The blue Nissan Xterra appeared in my left peripheral. It always did. The vehicle crept forward to the stop sign, idled a moment, and turned right onto the street, unaware of the fate to which its harbored passengers would succumb. A beautiful young girl sat in the rear passenger seat. Her dark brown hair went past her shoulders and shined with a vibrancy challenged only by the radiance of her skin. She faced out the passenger side window - her cell phone was in her hands. She sat facing that way for a reason only she and I knew. The vehicle was still moving slowly, the driver taking extra caution on the wet road. The girl looked up and caught me staring. I tried to look away, but I was transfixed. She was my Beatrice; she was my salvation. That's when it happened. In my right peripheral, a second exit opens onto the same street. It is much closer to my kiosk than the exit on my left. I heard later that the driver was drunk; the driver was asleep; the driver had a heart attack. It didn't matter. She was looking at me, and she smiled with those lips that became fuller and more beautiful by the day-much in the same way that Beatrice's beauty increased for Dante as they drew closer and closer to the center of Eden, to the Good itself. My lips began to form a smile back, one that would always pale in comparison to the ones brought forth by those lips that sustained my life. That's when it happened. The truck collided directly into the rear passenger door. I hadn't noticed how fast it was going until I witnessed the magnitude of the impact. I saw the whole thing. When the ambulances and police cars arrived, only two of the occupants were of importance. The young boy in the car was the only one moving. The mother was unconscious at the front wheel. The boy was removed first. He was hysterical. One eye struggled to remain open in a swollen pool of black. From the other sprang tears. As a waterfall crashes into the pool of water below it with a grand and indifferent force, so did his tears cascade onto the puddles of water that littered the road. Blood painted his upper lip a dark crimsom. The heart wrenching sight of him was diminished only by the most painful and broken wailing I have ever heard in my twenty-one years. He didn't want to be pulled from the backseat. Where his strength failed him in the struggle to free himself of the paramedics, his eyes succeeded in maintaining an unbreakable grip on his mother and sister. The mother was removed second. She offered no resistance. Her airbag had been deployed. Her face was red and purple, a swirl of the two colors which appeared so mixed that one could not tell where they separated and joined. But something told me she would live. Before the onlookers had arrived at the scene, the EMTs had covered the girl's body. She was removed last. There was no rush. The crowd that had gathered there did not know what had happened to her. They craned their necks and squinted their eyes in a vain attempt at discovery. But I saw the whole thing. When the truck hit her door, she was still smiling at me, phone in her hands. It was bedazzled or bejeweled or whatever it was she called it. I always teased her that it was childish. But now, the glimmering plastic emeralds and rubies seemed more inappropriate than ever. Her eyes were brown, just like mine. In the next fraction of a second, which is still an inescapable eternity in my heart and mind, her forehead broke the glass. Only half of her phone was still visible. The precious plastic jewels had changed colors. The rubies were no longer shiny, but redder than I had ever seen. The green of the emeralds had morphed into wet peas in marinara sauce. A few glistening strands of cortex added the final ingredient. Her right right eye was shrouded in a gory fortress, taking refuge from the fatal scene. A hint of brown hid near the center of it, all of it's radiance and gleam wrung from it forevermore. The other half of the phone was buried in her left eye socket. Her smile was gone, replaced with lifeless, parted lips. They seemed poised to whisper something; perhaps an unwanted secret she had learned and had hardly the time to process. But her lips didn't have to move for me to hear it. It was the secret that Snowden had spilled while he went cold in the sun. It was a secret that I would never forget - not now. I saw the whole thing.


Little 9-year-old Lucy Henderson laid awake in her bed for the fourth night in a row. She knew two things: She needed a better nightlight and there was a monster under her bed. Her arm clenched around her stuffed teddy bear, Charles. The tree outside clawed against the glass of her window with every gust of wind. Ghoulish faces formed from the streetlight casting shadows on her ceiling. Lucy’s eyes shut tight. Every time she did, she felt the bed stir - sure that the monster beneath it was reaching up to grab her. “Janice down the street had a break-in last night. They’re happening on our block now. What are we going to do?” She heard her mother say through the crack in her door one evening. “Keep your voice down, we don’t want Lucy to panic.” Her father responded. “You know how she gets. It’ll be alright.” She spent the following two weeks waking her mother up in the middle of the night. A flashlight next to her bed became the agreed-upon solution. Her eyes opened at the sound of a loud thump and she looked around. The dim nightlight made it difficult to make out anything in her little room. She grabbed the flashlight and scanned the darkness. The beam of light brought clarity. She saw that the tree outside was only a tree. Toys she forgot to put away cast the other shadows underneath her crummy nightlight. Lucy knew there was no such thing as monsters. The tension in her muscles eased as the light crossed the foot of the bed. At the edge of the light, she watched a white, boney hand recoil out of sight. Immediately she turned the light to get a better look. It was gone. Lucy protested the flashlight as a reasonable solution. Her father reminded her that she would be 10 years old soon and she needed to be a brave girl. She clasped Charles tight around the neck and crawled to the foot of her bed. She followed the beam and peeked over the edge. To her relief, nothing. She let out a big sigh and laid back in bed. She turned her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. Instead, a white face cloaked in a dark robe stared back at her with large, hollow black eyes. It neared closer to her and she let out a bellowing scream. Moments later her Mom burst through the door. The light from the hallway filled the room and the creature vanished with the darkness. “Oh Lucy, not again.” “It’s under the bed Mom, I promise!” Her mother, frustrated, sank to her knees and checked under the bed. “There’s noth- wait,” she said as Lucy leaned in. “I can’t quite get a grip on it. Here it is.” She pulled a candy wrapper up into view. “What have I told you about candy before bed? It’s driving your imagination wild. There are no monsters under your bed.” “Yes, Mama but what about the break-ins? I heard you and Dad talking and-” Her mother pulled the girl close and held her. “You’re too young to be worrying about that. Me and your dad will protect you. Promise.” Defeated, the little girl put her head down. Her mother laid a soft kiss upon her forehead. “I love you.” She picked up Charles who had fallen on the floor and placed him back into Lucy’s arms. “You’ll get out of this phase. Remember it’s only your imagination.” She got up and clicked the lock of the window shut before exiting the room. A wave of darkness crossed the room as her mother pulled the door shut. As it closed the white face crept from behind it. She gripped the blanket tight and covered her head. Her eyes shut and she covered her ears with her hands. She repeated “It’s only your imagination,” in her head over and over again. A few minutes of silence passed. The pounding in her chest quieted. Charles was in a headlock under her arm, the stitching around his neck close to ripping. Her eyes opened. The flashlight was gone, she felt around but couldn’t find it. She could see through her blanket and scanned the room. It made the shadows from the nightlight even more confusing. She dared not look toward the darkness so she kept her eyes toward the window. The wind calmed down and the branches outside were still. The closet door creaked as it opened. The silhouette of a body appeared in the light of the window. It lunged toward her. Her eyes shut tight. She abandoned Charles and grabbed her pillow, wrapping it around her head. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to hear. She kept repeating “It’s only your imagination.” Tears welled in her eyes waiting for the nightmare to be over. The blanket ripped off and she drowned in the cold of the room. The pillow tore from her face. She turned to look. There was no monster. Only a man in a ski mask. Before she could scream his large hands covered her mouth. He held her to the bed with one hand. His other hand brought a finger to his lips signaling for her to stay quiet. The nine-year-old struggled as the man peered around the room. He stared at the door for an instant making sure there would be no interruptions. She could hear the faint noise of her parents watching TV in the living room. Hand still on her mouth, he swung his backpack around and pulled some duct tape from the open pocket. He leaned down close to her and whispered in her ear. “You make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Tears rained down Lucy’s cheeks. He ripped a strip from the roll and spread it across the little girls quivering lips. As he pulled another strip of tape, Lucy noticed a shadow rising from behind him. Her eyes fixated as it grew. Broad shoulders sat beneath a deep hooded cloak hovered above the man. The creature’s boney arms reached from under its cloak and crept closer. Lucy’s heart stopped. The man pulled Lucy’s arms up in front of her but stopped when he noticed she was no longer resisting. Her eyes were wide and fixed behind him. He turned around, still on top of the girl. Inches in front of his face now stood the white, lanky monster. The man froze as a chill washed over his body. Before he could scream the monster wrapped its bony fingers around the man’s face. In an instant, the monster dragged him under the bed. The legs of the bed slammed and scratched against the hardwood floor. Muffled screams got quieter and more distant. Lucy jumped in fear and landed on Charles. She pulled the teddy bear to her chest and scattered away against the wall. The man lunged out from underneath the bed. His grasp reached inches away from the little girl. Blood covered his hands and face, now exposed between rips in the mask. Startled, she threw Charles toward the man. “Help me, please help me,” he groaned as blood spurted out of his mouth. Lucy looked up and saw the monster hovering over the man. It was waiting. The little girl stood up and looked into the man’s terror-filled eyes. Then shook her head as her monster dragged the man back under the bed. The bed shook until the echo of screams died and the room fell silent. “Lucy! What’s going on in there?” her mother called from the living room. The hollow-eyed face slid out from under the bed. It put one long, boned finger to its mouth. Lucy pulled the tape from her mouth and yelled, “Nothing Mom! I was going to check the lock on my window and I tripped on some toys!” “How many times have I told you to clean up your toys before you go to bed?” Her mother yelled back. “Put them away and get your butt back in bed. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you tonight.” “Yes, Mama.” The traumatized nine-year-old said. The face sunk back into the darkness under the bed and appeared on the other side in one smooth movement. It lifted her blankets and signaled with its demonic finger for her to come closer. Lucy stood and wiped the tears from her eyes. The monster then raised Charles from the floor. Its white hand shook the bear, enticing the child. She made her way onto the bed as the monster pulled the blanket over her.


Edmund was not his real name. The young man was a librarian by trade, although one wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He wore a double-breasted gray suit, his neck swathed in a long black scarf. In his hand he held an elaborate pocket watch, which he was studying closely. He was standing outside a wrought-iron gate in a slum of Paris in the middle of the night. He watched as two drunkards across the street stumbled out of what was casually known as a “night cafe.” He eyed them nervously, gripping his walking stick tightly as they walked away. ‘Edmund’ gulped and wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief before checking his pocketwatch again. ...11:58. The young man was tantalized by the night cafe: the fact that on one side of the street was a deep soul-slavery, while on his side - under a flickering yellow lamp - was freedom... at least for those who could find it. 12 o’clock midnight. Edmund heard the click from the wrought iron gate, and then began to fiddle with a difficult-to-see combination lock. He quickly scrambled with the lock, his fingers sweating, and inputted 6, 15, 24, and pushed. As expediently as he had entered, Edmund closed the gate fast behind him, giving it a few tugs to make sure the lock was engaged. Under the night sky, the garden had both a threatening and romantic feel to it. Several large trees lent their hanging leaves and fruits to the few who could find them as little lightning bugs darted between the tall grasses that lined the slowly churning stream that ran through the secret garden. Edmund bent down to examine the cobblestones in front of him and put on his specially-made spectacles. “Good,” he murmured to himself after an examination. “No sign of them.” He found himself wishing that the gate would allow itself to be opened at twelve-noon instead of midnight as he walked among the lush greenery. How beautiful it would be, Edmund thought before reminding himself why he was there. He stepped over a bridge spanning the little stream and was presented with the shop he had been searching for for years. Amidst the verdant foliage, a quaint and charming shop emerged like a hidden gem. Its façade was adorned with creeping vines and ivy, a sign that it was much, much older than he had been led to believe. A sign above the entrance read, "Exquisitely Rare Books," inviting the curious and the curiouser to step inside and explore the wonders within. Edmund carefully opened the front door of the strange little shop, stopping the bell above from announcing his arrival. In spite of that, he heard an old-sounding voice from deeper within. “Hello! I am so glad someone had found my clues. It has been such a long... long time since I have had any customers.” The interior of the shop was warm, but the little electrical lights were just a little too faint. Edmund looked around for the source of the voice, but could not discover its origin. “Yes, delighted,” Edmund said, glad to hear that no one else had been in the store for ‘a long time.’ “Help yourself, lad,” the voice responded. Edmund looked over the bookshelves to see if he could see where the shopkeep was, but could not. “If you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Edmund put on his spectacles again and lit a match. The voice again pervaded the store. “No flames, please!” The clerk’s voice said calmly yet commandingly. Edmund blew out his match and put it in a convenient ash tray. The book Edmund was looking for was definitely worth all the fuss. He passed by several first editions and original manuscripts of books that lesser librarians could only have dreamed of seeing as he walked further and further into the shelves. There was an original Leonardo diagram of some device that the young man couldn’t reckon, followed by a translation of a chapter of the Codex Seraphim and the Chronicles of the Starless Abyss . Books that lesser book collectors would have leapt at without searching deeper. Farther back, farther back, into the recesses of the place. He found a spiral iron staircase and began to ascend. The Atlas Obscura was there at the landing, along with The Lost Apocrypha and the only known copy of the Crystal Codex , made completely out of diamond. The lights were dimmer back here than on the first floor, and even Edmund’s special glasses were not helping him. “Excuse me?” He called out to the ever-darkening gloom. “Is there any chance of making this place brighter?” The clerk responded with Edmund’s true name and a little speech about the ‘romantic promise of darkness.’ That phrase stuck in Edmund’s mind - part of a poem from the book he was in search of. The young librarian sighed. “Nevermind,” Edmund called out to the gloom. I’ve gotten this far , he thought. Even if I have to camp out here until daybreak to see what I’m doing, it’ll be worth it. He clutched his walking stick. Perhaps I could even stave off the clerk until morning as well. “I think you’ll find that daylight won’t help you here,” the clerk suddenly said, somewhere in the dark. Edmund didn’t respond, but instead intensified his focus in order to read the names on the spines of the ever-twisting rows of books. That’s what struck Edmund the most about the place: it was becoming less and less organized as he went forward with priceless books and tomes spilling onto the floor. Picking one up, he saw that it had a title that shocked him so much that it caused him - a man of many meticulous and despicable crimes - to throw it to the ground in disgust. Another book sent a river of tremulous thoughts through his brain. Yet another title seemed to throw the entire worldview of a major religion into question. Focus, focus , he said to himself as he walked deeper and deeper into the bookstore... or whatever it was. The darkness was now intense, but somehow Edmund could read the titles on the various slumping bookshelves. What Edmund was looking for was far more disturbing than these, however. He stepped over a pile of parchment and squeezed between two bookshelves at the very back of the second floor when he saw it: A knee-high gap in the wall with red light pouring out of it. Getting on his knees and pushing the piles of papers away, he peered into the gap. A few more books fell in his way as he crawled forward - scrolls and even a few pages of forgotten minuets by Mozart began to fall in front of him, but he was not deterred. At the end of the crawlspace, he could see a lone book in the distance. Continually pushing the books and pages that were falling in front of his path away, he crawled forward. The space itself narrowed and narrowed, the source of the red light not able to be determined, the book seemingly retreating. He pulled himself by the carpet of the infernal space along with the forward motion of his knees to finally claw his way to the large, eight-hundred-or-so leatherbound tome and brought it close. Edmund’s black hair was now in complete disarray as he stood, kicking the other things away from his feet. A few were scrolls of ancient papyrus, their pages singed by a great fire from long ago. “Did you find what you were searching for?” The voice of the clerk behind him asked. Edmund continued forward. “Yes I did,” Edmund said carefully. “Thank you v-very much.” Clomp, clomp, shuffle, shuffle. Edmund was still struggling to hold onto the tome as more and more books and parchments fell at his feet from unseen shelves. “Very interesting work,” the voice behind him said, growing fainter. “Yes, yes it is,” Edmund said. “I notice that you were not enticed by the other works you passed by on your way to that one.” Edmund gulped, being careful to be polite and yet not looking behind him. “They are wonderful books as-as well,” he said. Up ahead was the faint orange glow coming from the candles on the first floor. He reached the guard rail of the spiral staircase and gripped it tightly. “You are a special customer, that is for sure,” the voice said again. Edmund made his way to the first floor, still clutching his find in his arms. “You a-are too kind,” he said, calling up the stairs, still not looking behind him. “H-how much?” He asked as he trundled across the much brighter, much more comforting first floor. There was no answer at first. “You know the price,” the voice called down in a sly tone. Edmund pushed the door open, not caring this time if the bell made a noise. After a moment, the forgotten and concealed bookstore returned to its state of hush and silence. Every once in a while there was a shuffling noise upstairs, but otherwise there was no movement. When the sun came up, the trees outside blocked the light from entering fully. The shadows from the branches of the willows outside danced strange dances on the floor within.


My feet met the cold stone floor, sending shivers up my spine. Seemingly I wasn’t the only one, I could hear gasps coming from the crowd that surrounded me. A few murmurs as well, probably comments regarding the unpleasant feeling. To be completely honest, the cold stone was the least of my worries if I could call it that to begin with. I wasn’t concerned, not really. Not about our presence here at least but the anxious aura surrounding the crowd I was part of could barely go unnoticed. I let my eyes wander around, pushing the people around me into the background to fully focus on the walls that surrounded us. They were black with red ruby gems decorating them in various patterns. The symbols they formed were well known to us all, the symbols of our Gods. However, not many of us believe in their existence anymore. Despite this, we still carried out this ‘ceremony’. A ritual, some called it, but that always sounded a bit bizarre to me, way more sinister than it was but the word ‘ceremony’ didn’t seem fitting to me either, therefore me and my friends call it Krvozwem. It means blood pool, bloody pool, or pool of blood, whatever translation you pick really. The language is known only by us though, we made it up when we were little which also explains the simplicity of the name Krvozwem as we were limited by our childhood minds. Despite the simple name we have chosen for this ceremony, the building where it was carried out was far from simple. The pillars were detailed, carvings decorating their surface, and the walls I mentioned earlier held balconies that were filled by people who came to witness Krvozwem. Our parents were in the front row but some of them were on the balconies as well. I noticed a few familiar faces up there, their hands anxiously gripping the railing that prevented them from falling, though some seemed to be uneasy with anticipation that made them fidget with their fingers, clothing, or jewelry. Anything they had in reach. It was pathetic, I never understood why there is so much anxiety when it comes to this. Wasn’t it an honor? To be chosen as the one. To have all the eyes on you. On me . Yes. Me. Of course, they would choose me. Who else is there to choose? The girl who throws up at any minor inconvenience? Or the weakling that dares call himself a man? I glanced their way to check their faces, and as I thought, Rina looked like she would throw up and Hel’s knees were practically shaking despite him trying to put on that ‘confident’ expression of his. Of course, they were my friends. Or rather steps to my victory. I don’t care for them, not really. As soon as this is done, I’ll toss them aside like the pitiful beings they are. Not that I feel pity for them. I don’t feel anything. They are just tools to me, just like my parents are. All the people in my life have one purpose, to serve me to get me to the top. Once their task is over, they are no longer needed. And what better purpose could there be than this? They should be grateful I let them be of use to me. My eyes met the gaze of my parents, their pride shining through to me. They have been speaking of this day ever since I learned to walk. It was my bedtime story, my dreams, my greeting in the morning, and a lecture during lunch. Krvozwem. The highest of honors. You see, our world is dying. Has been for years now. There is no food, not for the Kos’Vies at least. That’s what the lowest of the lowest get called. Poor. Dirty. Disgusting . They survive off of each other now, in the most literal sense you can think of. Cannibalism. They reproduced as fast as rabbits though, or that’s what grandpa said. No idea what a ‘rabbit’ is but it must have been repulsive if Kos’Vies got compared to them. At least they never run out of stuff to eat. And water? Ancient legend at this time. Blood. That is all we can drink now, nothing else will give us enough energy to fully function. Some people resist the customs but they are not seen often. Most of the time, if you would come across one on the street, shouting their chants in protest, they’re gone the next day. A curiosity but a welcomed one. Keep your ‘pure’ thoughts to yourself. As for us, we are the higher-ups, the Sno’Egoï as we like to call ourselves. We are the better ones, the ones who will prevail. Most of us at least. The Elder Kri was the founder of Krvozwem, she believed our world could be saved. That’s why we do this every year, gather here in The Zoufpij where the ‘ceremony’ takes place. I got picked when I was 3 years old, others got picked around the same time and some later but they usually don’t go past 8 years old. The Elder Kri formed a unit called DiVon for this very purpose, they choose the ones who show the most potential to be Lek’Ká, the one who is prophesied to save us all and bring us to a better world. ‘Under their rule, we shall prosper. We shall not know pain. Ascension will be brought by The Mighty and all the Gods will owe us fealty.’ As one of the ones who got chosen, I attended classes that were meant to prepare me for the role of Lek’Ká if it ended up being me. It will . But let others hope, their crushed spirit will make it even sweeter. It felt great already as one by one of my ‘companions’ got called forward, getting soaked in the crimson liquid in the middle of The Zoufpij. A big pool of thick blood. None of them came out as Lek’Ká yet. Nobody has. Ever since The Elder Kri introduced Krvozwem to us, there has been no one who was The Mighty but that’s simply because I wasn’t born yet. In all honesty, nobody knew what would happen when the person who stepped in was Lek’Ká. We’re about to see. They called me, my turn. Finally. After so many years. Started when I was three, and I am 16 now, the little me would be proud. I stopped at the edge of the pool, looking down at my reflection in the liquid. This is it. My foot sank, and the other followed. I walked to the middle of the pool, covered by blood from the waist down as I tilted my head back, my eyes closed. “Bohgen búzu dlusch náon vétro,” I whispered the phrase we get taught as soon as we say our first word. It’s the last phrase of the prophecy. ‘Gods will owe us fealty.’ Some call it the trial of Lek’Ká as it’s supposed to ‘reveal’ them but to me, it feels like more than that. More than just a phrase. It feels, right. Like home. Nothing. Nothing happened. How? How is this possible? It’s me . It has always been me ! I am Lek’Ká. I am . I wouldn’t get out. They can’t make me. I will stay until my true self is proven. Until they see. They will all see. The DiVon grabbed my arms with force, about to drag me away but... they couldn’t. I wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t budge. It was as if I was glued to the bottom of the pool. The crimson liquid began to swirl around me as if someone had begun to drain it. Murmurs and gasps of surprise echoed from the walls, DiVon let go of me and stepped back, rushing to hold back all the others who tried to get to me. I didn’t see them anymore. My eyes were closed, arms spread out as I embraced the thick liquid that crawled up my body. It covered me whole, almost suffocating me before it forced my mouth open. Sharp pain appeared in my throat as it entered my mouth, my eyes shot wide open, tearing up at the sensation. The people who were trying to get to me stopped struggling, watching me instead as I closed my mouth again. I wiped my mouth, trying to catch the breath that was almost taken from me. When I looked down, the blood that surrounded me just seconds ago was gone. The pool was empty. It all went... inside of me. A scoff left my lips before I straightened up, my arms by my sides as I looked over the other-- My subjects . The DiVon yelled my name for the whole Zoufpij to hear. “The Mighty! Lek’Ká!” Then I watched them all bend their knees, bowing to me. To me . Their Mighty . Their savior . I basked in the feeling. Most of them couldn’t even look at me, not feeling good enough to gaze upon me. They weren’t of course but I wanted them to see. To see what I am. It was so much. Everything I deserved. So much. Everything I worked for. So much. Everything I dreamed of. Too much... My head felt like it was about to explode, and my vision got blurry until I could barely see. The ache made me fall to my knees, hitting the stone ground with a groan. DiVon rushed to me but soon retreated. That was the last thing I saw properly before the black blur in the center of my sight began to spread, leaving me in darkness. I wanted to scream out and yell for help but I couldn’t. Every time I opened my mouth blood began to spill out. My arms felt weak as I leaned on them, my palms on the stones beneath me but the weakness soon faded out of my mind. As soon as the blood from my mouth touched my hands it was like acid, eating on my flesh and not stopping until it reached the bone. Screams of terror filled The Zoufpij. I couldn’t see anyone but I could hear their footsteps as they ran towards the exit. Leaving me behind. My subjects. Leaving me . Leaving their Mighty . Lek’Ká . The agony I felt throughout my whole body was indescribable. It was like I was being torn apart just to be put together and then torn apart again before I even got the chance to recover. But the crimson liquid didn’t stop at my hands. It spread. Slowly eating at the flesh of my body. Biting away at my skin. Tearing apart my muscles. Ripping out my nerves. At the end of it all, I was lying in the middle of the pool. My eyes stared at the dark ceiling as I felt my life slipping through my now skeleton fingers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be Lek’Ká. I was supposed to be worshiped. Praised. Looked upon. But instead, I am here, alone. Dying. The prophesied savior. But, perhaps this was what it meant to me Lek’Ká. A sacrifice. For my subjects. A sacrifice that will bring them a better world, with food and water. And perhaps even the repulsive rabbits. A subtle smile appeared on my lips, though I wasn’t sure I had any, my brows furrowed as a tear rolled down my cheek. “ Mighty ...” Was all I managed to hoarsely whisper before it all fell into nothingness. The beginning and the end of The Mighty Lek’Ká. The savior. The believer. The gullible.


9 year old Johnny Jones lived in an old and spacious Victorian home with his grandmother, Nana Jones. It sat on 10 acres of oak trees in the hills overlooking the city. Ever since he could remember the atmosphere in the house and the surrounding grounds was heavy, giving the inhabitants a feeling of dread. It gave off a kind of creepiness that once it stuck to you it was hard to shake off. Even though he brushed off all of the unexplained and mysterious events that would happen to him there, Johnny knew that most of them were beyond rational answers, so he didn’t bother to ask any questions. Even his grandmother couldn’t explain them. It was 3 am that night when Johnny awoke suddenly with the feeling of being on a boat in stormy seas. He was experiencing the ebb and flow of being on a ship sailing on the ocean. He knew that he wasn’t near anything that could float because he was in his own bed and in his own room where he belonged. The reason for thinking he was on a boat was that his bed was actually moving. It was tipping to one side the room then swayed to the other side, then it began shaking violently. The air in the room was unusually cold as his breath was visible. He tried to gather up his blankets to cover himself but they kept on slipping from his grip. While the tremors grew stronger Johnny had to hang on to his mattress so he wouldn’t fall out of bed to the floor. He shouted out to his grandmother who was hard of hearing. But he took the chance that his screams would reach her. Of course, there was no response from Nana. Suddenly he heard a scraping sound as a dark misty shadow began to slowly ooze out from underneath his trundle, growing tall and wide. The dark figure that stood before him had no humanoid characteristics but did appear to be threatening him. He knew that he couldn’t wait for someone to intervene for there was no time. So Johnny decided to do something immediately to save himself. He gathered every Tonka Toy and GI Joe that were nearest to him and began throwing them at the dark intruder, scaring it away. When his grandmother reached him the monster was gone. And when she asked Johnny what was wrong, he responded in a stutter that a monster crawled out from under his bed. Nana Jones began to inspect the room. She searched behind the curtains, inside the closet, behind the dresser and then approached the bed. To look under it, she had to slowly raise the quilt as not to provoke anything that may be hiding there. What she saw was a conglomeration of Johnny’s out-grown toys clustered together displaying the different ways that were used to behead and amputate them. This created an impasse that blocked her view. She came to the conclusion that there was no possibility that anything sizable could ever successfully fit underneath his bed. “It was just a dream, Johnny.” Nana said softly. All of his life Nana over-protected Johnny. His Aunt Ruth used to say, “Johnny was never permitted a self-entertaining belch without being subjected to his pediatrician. " And then everyone would laugh. That being the case, Nana worried that she may have to consult a psychiatrist if Johnny was seeing things that weren’t there. Since she didn’t believe in monsters she feared he was losing the remaining marbles that currently existed (and for which he needed) in his head. She felt it was only a matter of time when Johnny would exhibit symptoms of the hereditary family secret. If that happened she would be forced to disclose that the sap of insanity flowed through the Jones’ bloodline at the volume and velocity of Niagara Falls. And she didn’t want to do that! “That monster, he he had no face.” Stuttered Johnny. “It ca came at me.” ”It wanted to to hurt me.” He stuttered again. The elaborate and often contradictory descriptions of what he saw that night, to him, weren’t stark enough to induce anyone into perceiving the same degree of horror that he was feeling. So he went on and on trying to get it right about how it really happened. He recounted how the bed shook in the darkness of his bedroom, how a scraping sound came before the sight of a dark figure that arose from under his bed. But as the night wore on he grew weary of scaring himself and finally fell asleep on the couch in the living room. The next day Johnny awoke with a sigh of relief. He felt safe in the daylight. After wiping his eyes, he got up and ran into his room. He dived down to the floor landing next to his bed and began clearing out the debris so there would be a clear view to look for clues as to what it was that came to visit him last night. When he was about finished he realized there were still a few remnants of broken plastic leftover. So he peeked further into the space and noticed something that caught his interest. He saw an object that he didn’t recognize. Curious, Johnny stretched out one of his lanky arms to reach for this shiny metal thing-a-ma-jig. As he wrapped his fingers around it to pull it out, it began to tingle in his hand. Johnny stood up staring at his palm where the object was resting. It looked to be about 1 inch x 1 inch in measurement, made of gold or brass and was oval shaped with strange writing carved into it. The top was chiseled in such a way that rendered it into an almost key-like state. He wondered, 'Was it a key?’ ‘But a key to open what?’ Nana called to him from downstairs so he slipped the object into his pajama pocket. “Come and have breakfast, Johnny.” Nana shouted. “Okay, Nana.” Johnny answered. After his morning meal, Johnny got ready for the day. He decided to go into town to show Mr. Hanson the strange thing-a-ma-jig he found. Since Mr. Hanson owned an antique shop Johnny was hoping that he might know what the object was and where it came from. The door chimed upon Johnny’s arrival inside Mr. Hanson’s shop, alerting Mr. Hanson of a customer to help. Johnny looked around and marveled at all of the vintage items and artifacts that were displayed for sale. There were dolls, glassware and collectibles in every category imaginable. He also offered antique furniture. There were desks, tables, cupboards, Hoosiers and French settees to name a few. Johnny noticed some glass cases carrying rare gold and brass artifacts. While in the middle of his wonderment he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps, so Johnny turned toward the sound. It was Mr. Hanson appearing before him. Johnny swiftly produced the strange thing-a-ma-jig from his pocket showing it to Mr. Hanson. “Interesting.” Mr. Hanson stated. “Where did you get this?” He questioned. Johnny explained the events of the night before and detailed just how he came across that thing-a-ma-jig. Mr. Hanson looked puzzled wondering how a rare ancient artifact could have traveled such a long distance only to appear in a 9 year old boys bedroom? Mr. Hanson went on to reveal that the object was certainly old and looked to be Egyptian. He said it was indeed a key, but didn’t know what it opened. Then Mr. Hanson recommended that Johnny leave it with him overnight for research purposes. He said that he needed time to decipher the writing that was carved into the piece. Johnny agreed and made arrangements to come back to the shop the next day. Mr. Hanson took the object and placed it gently into one of the glass cases, locking it up. Johnny then headed for home. On his way he couldn’t help but contemplate what he was about to face when darkness fell tonight. Will it come again? A feeling of dread washed over him. At home, Johnny begins to prepare for a defense in case the monster returned. He smuggled a steak knife and a mallet into his room, placing them close to his bed. After that, he went to his top drawer and retrieved a dog whistle to wear around his neck. Before turning out the light he notated the time to be 10:00 p.m., then he got into bed and waited. It seemed like time had stood still with nothing happening. But Johnny still patiently waited. What was he waiting for? The answer to that question gave Johnny the shivers and a twinge of fright. At 3:00 a.m. a bright light appeared outside of Johnny’s north window. It beamed brightly as it cast an arrow shaped rod into the room pointing toward his south window, the window that faced the oak forest. So it went in one window and out the other, making its way into the oak forest to strike one of the trees. As soon as Johnny saw it he jumped up to follow it. He ran outside to see where it went and observed in the distance smoke billowing up from one of the trees. Johnny ducked back into the house, grabbed a flash light and headed straight for it. Petrified of the foreboding darkness and the scary trees, Johnny was grateful for the light he was holding which helped him see his way through the forest. When Johnny reached the scorched and still-smoking oak tree he was astonished to see that the tree was burnt in such a way that an outline resembling an oval doorway had imprinted itself into the bark of the tree. It looked like a doorway that was sealed. Junior tried to pry the door open, but the tree was too hot to the touch, so he backed away. Suddenly a strange whirring sound surrounded Johnny which caused a strong wind to blow him off his feet. In a daze he got up and ran back to the house, locking the door behind him. The next day Johnny couldn’t wait to see Mr. Hanson to tell him about the events of the night before and to find out what information he had uncovered regarding the thing-a-ma-jig. On his way, Johnny felt uneasy and kept looking over his shoulder as if someone or something was following behind him. Every time he stopped to look nothing was there. But when he passed one of the store fronts that was built with a with a large plate glass window, Johnny decided to use it to his advantage. He looked into the glass to see what was behind him. This was Johnny’s way of checking on what was following him without actually having to physically turn around. The trick worked. This time he caught a glimpse of the shadow monster peeking at him from behind a lamp post. Horrified, Johnny started to run. Out of breath and panting Johnny barged into Mr. Hanson’s antique shop. “Are you alright?” Said Mr. Hanson. Johnny replied, “It followed me, the monster, it followed me here.” Mr. Hanson took Johnny’s hand and led him to a chair and sat him down. “Listen to me.” Mr. Hanson pleaded. He went on, “You must be careful and heed what I have to tell you.” Mr. Hanson explained to Johnny that an Egyptian curse was put upon him by the thing-a-ma-jig’s owner. He went on to say that as far as he could tell the monster wanted it for some reason. But if you give it to him the monster will stay permanently. “So what should I do?” Johnny implored. Mr. Hanson replied, “You must take the key and find out what it opens-then open it.” Mr. Hanson added, “But you must leave the key there.” Mr. Hanson unlocked the glass case and gave the thing-a-ma-jig back to Johnny. “Here, go find the lock.” Mr. Hanson instructed. Johnny went on his way carrying with him a new goal and intention. He must find the lock and banish the monster. Johnny wondered, ‘Did the oak tree’s magical door display a lock?’ ‘Was it put there by the Divine in order to save him from the monster?’ Johnny stepped up his speed to get to the oak forest faster. Night was about to descend and the only light source was the full moon. He wandered among the oaks until he found the one he was looking for. Johnny felt the bark which now had cooled enabling him to reattempt the opening of the magical door. Looking closely, Johnny discovered a hollowed out knot-hole that was similar in shape to the thing-a-ma-jig he had in his pocket. So Johnny pulled it out and stuck it in the knot-hole. Suddenly, the same gust of wind and whirring sound encircled Johnny but this time he held his ground. Hurriedly, he twisted the key halfway in the lock, but was forced to stop. The monster was behind him hovering over his shoulder and breathing upon him a rancid aroma. Growing taller and more menacing the monster tried to grab the key from Johnny’s hand. Shaking and barely keeping the key steady enough to finish the last half of its required revolution to unlock the door, Johnny pushed down on the hand holding the key using his other hand to put pressure on it and CLICK!-it was unlocked. To be successful at opening the door to slide the key inside while a wrestling match was taking place between Johnny and the monster took a lot of strength, determination and of course, performing a Half-Nelson to achieve. But Johnny was clever. He managed to open the door slightly to wedge the key into the crevice between the door jam and the door itself. Then he quickly closed it. Suddenly the whirring sound and strong wind ceased. The stench that was previously languishing around Johnny was replaced by the scent of Honeysuckle. Johnny turned around to see if the monster was anywhere around. Not seeing it, Johnny concluded that it was gone-and hopefully it was gone for good. But who is that standing by the magical door? Why, it looks like Nana! The End


A hissing voice. Rustling in the bushes. Something that seemed to slide into the tent. "HELP!" I woke up with a start and immediately sat up. There was water everywhere. The tent was open, probably because of the strong wind, a parrot sat on my stomach. Sanne's scream still echoed in my ears. "What? You said you knew what you were getting into?" I glared at her as I chased the bird away from my stomach and crawled out of my sleeping bag. The air mattress creaked under my weight. "That doesn't mean I expected this!" Sanne looked around with wide eyes. When I followed her gaze I saw that there was more in the tent than just the parrot. I just saw a tail disappear from probably a snake. That explained the hissing. "What scared you again?" I stretched, unzipped the tent and looked out. It was indeed a snake. "That sound, didn't you hear that? It looked like a huge snake!" Sanne pulled her legs in, the sleeping bag was tight around her. When I saw her start to shake, I turned to her and sat on the edge of her air mattress. I had to reassure her. I needed her a little longer. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Believe me." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Otherwise I would never have taken you." She sighed deeply and looked at me. I saw deep in her eyes that she wanted to believe me, but that she was still too shocked. "Wasn't it a snake then?" "Yes, that was a snake. But it is already gone." I took the map to distract her. "Since we are already awake, shall we clean up and move on? With any luck we will make it to the temple today." Sanne took the card from me. I rummaged in my backpack and passed her a sandwich. "Here, eat and drink something and then get dressed. Okay?" She paused, put the card on her knees and took the sandwich. The leaves still felt moist under my feet as we continued our route. It had been ten years since I had been here, but it still felt like coming home. I did not expect that I could have gotten Sanne with me. We had trained a lot to prepare ourselves, or especially Sanne. It just started with a walk from home, three kilometers, five kilometers, then eight kilometers on a Sunday morning. Until a month ago we made it forty kilometers in the countryside. Both with a large backpack, with about the weight that we now also carried with us. After half a day of walking we found a good place to rest. Sanne brushed some leaves off a rock and then plopped down on the rock. "Where are we now?" Her backpack ended up in an anthill in front of the boulder. The ants immediately crawled in all directions and I got distracted for a moment by the movements they made. When Sanne motioned to see if I had heard her, I looked up quickly. "I'll have a look. Don't forget to have a drink. I'll walk a little further, then I'll see where we are and where we have to go." I kept looking at the ground when I said that, put my backpack down next to a tree and walked through the trees with the map. The chirping of the many birds would never bore me. In the distance I saw a snake moving slowly between the leaves of a huge tree. I heard a small stream flowing and decided to walk there first. The map was already wrinkled, making it more and more difficult to see exactly where we were. Was the left line a path or did it just look that way? Where was the stream? My despair seemed to grow. The ten years would end today, we had to find the temple. Today. "Martin? MARTIN!" Another scream from Sanne. I turned quickly to see her running through the bushes. "Where are you?" Without a bag, she ran straight past me. "By the stream to your right!" I called after her. She came to a stop and I saw her looking to the right. "Wait, I'll come your way." As I walked up to Sanne, I folded the map. What if I got lost? How long would we search without clue? It is almost impossible that we have not yet seen the temple. As soon as Sanne saw me, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me along. "What are you doing? Let me go!" "Come on, quickly!" Surprised, I hobbled behind her, first towards the backpacks, but then a little further on. "I thought I heard something behind me and went to have a look..." she begins, "and then suddenly I saw this!" She lets go of me and points towards a point in the distance. "What are you talking about? I don't see anything." "Wait, then we'll change places." As soon as I got to her spot, she pointed in the same direction again. There in the distance stood the temple. The temple I had visited with a friend ten years before. At least, back then I thought it was a friend. Sanne had found the temple. And without knowing it, she had taken over the curse. In ten years time she would have to make the same trip again, with a new person. So that at all times someone was under the influence of the curse. I relaxed my shoulders and looked carefully to the right. Sanne had turned white. Her eyes were red. "What have you done?" She had fear in her eyes. "Sorry," I whispered as I slowly walked back, "I had no choice." But she was already gone.


The tinkerer's daughter had once been burnished bronze, her parts oiled daily to ensure they were in working order. Her father received good work on the daily from those who would visit him. Those who came from afar would bring him small gifts of rare metals and gems that he kept in various drawers and cabinets. There was one day the girl couldn't help but be stuck out in the rain, the pitter patter of the drops on her exterior lulling her into a deep slumber she wished not to wake easy. When she did wake, finally, she found herself somewhere unfamiliar. The back of a cricket crackety cart that juttered her around making her loose limbs clank against each other. She went to stretch and felt herself strain as her rusted limbs creaked against each other. She wanted to cry for being a fool, falling asleep in the rain and allowing herself to be taken so far from her father, but what good would tears do her but rust her further? Hearing her creaky stretches, the owner of the cart soon made himself known at the back entrance, pulling wide the heavy curtains that had darkened the interior and revealing a gruff, weathered face of an old man. The tinkerer's daughter went absolutely still. Unmoving, like a doll, she pretended to be one of his knickknacks. The man entered the back of the cart, leaving the curtain up to light the back. First, he inspected a shelf full of metal rings, raising a bushy gray brow at the collection of varied metals. He moved on. Next, were chimes hanging high near the very back of the cart but tied tightly together so not a single chime clang against each other. Lastly, he approached the tinkerer's girl where she sat amongst a row of dolls sitting primly, properly stacked against each other. Here, he lingered, examining each and every doll closely before finally coming to stand before the tinkerer's girl. With him fully before her, she was freely able to observe his face, wrinkled, kindly, old. His eyes were deepset, one blue as the sky she was unsure she'd see again, the other as brown as the soil the farmers back home tilled for their crops. He seemed to linger on her, and, unwillingly, the girl shuddered. He seemed not to notice for a moment, then in one smooth move, she was in his arms. "Are you alive, girl?" he muttered, seeming almost insulted. "Y-yes, I am," the tinkered girl muttered. The man, now seeming gruff, sighed, big and heavy. "That won't do." Both eyebrows moved to meet at the middle of his face. Fearfully, the girl responded. "S-sir?" He sighed again, placing her on her feet. "The back here ain't exactly meant for a thing alive. It won’t do to have you back here alone." At the word "alone," she suddenly felt anything but. He looked away "I suppose, if it’s okay with you, you can ride up front with me." Tentatively, the girl nodded and joined him.