He flicked the handlebars to the side to swerve around a pothole, pumping his knees to accelerate once he had straightened out the bicycle. He always liked to ride fast, but tonight Bobby was in a hurry. It probably would have been safer not to go out tonight, he thought. But biking down to the river helped him clear his head, and he was tired of being stuck inside all the time. Tonight, he had seen a turtle near the edge of the water. He had become entranced watching it swim aimlessly in circles for minutes, his eyes going out of focus but not able to look away. It had been a welcome sight, but it kept him there longer than he intended, and now he was in danger of being out after curfew. Living under an authoritarian ruler certainly had its disadvantages. Bobby sped up even faster, the cold wind stinging his throat as he gasped for air. Suddenly a car flying well above the speed limit zoomed past Bobby on his left, the shock almost knocking him over as he swerved again. At this hour, the only cars on the road drove as if they were trying to set the lap record at Daytona. A siren sounded in the distance. As he looked to his left and saw flashing lights, Bobby’s pounding heart skipped a beat. He took a quick right turn and tried to pedal so fast he would be invisible, hoping the cop wasn’t following him. Seconds later, he turned his head back and saw he wasn’t being tailed. But he didn’t slow down. Taking his bicycle to top speed was the only time he ever felt free. The city around him became a blur, the lights blending together like a Van Gogh painting. His hands and his two-wheeled machine were all he could see clearly. He squinted his eyes and a smile crept over his mouth as for a split second he forgot the immense deadline he was racing to beat. The sky was getting darker, close to pitch black, and Bobby remembered he only had a few minutes to get home or his life could be over. A friend of his got stuck out after curfew three weeks ago. Bobby hadn’t seen him since. His headlight began to flicker, and seconds later it was out. He had been meaning to replace it, but he only thought of it at times like this, when he was riding home as the sun went down. Bobby had nothing left to guide him. He was flying blind. The safe thing to do would have been to slow down, he knew, but he didn’t have that kind of time. He would rather crash than risk being caught out after curfew. As if the cruel road had heard his thoughts, suddenly his front tire ran over an unseen object, jerking him forward out of the seat. He was able to land his right foot on the ground to keep himself from falling down, holding the bike by the handlebars as he stumbled forward. He came to a stop, unhurt, but fearful. He looked back and saw he had run over a wooden plank with sharp nails sticking out of it. His thoughts went to the worst, and as he looked back at his bike, they were proven true. He had a flat tire. Luckily for him, he had prepared for a flat, knowing the risk of getting stranded far from home. In his backpack he had a patch kit. Unluckily for him, it would take time. Probably too much time. And this flat was clearly a bad one. The tire already looked visibly deflated just seconds later. He walked his bike into the nearest alley, ducking out of sight and finding a dark spot against the wall. He pulled the kit out of his bag and got to work. He had done this before, but he was still out of breath from the pace he had been pedaling, and his hands shook with the fear that he was too late. He found the leak and rubbed the area around it with a small piece of sandpaper before pulling out the rubber cement. He fumbled with the bottle and the cap fell on the ground, but he didn’t waste the time to grab it. After placing glue around the hole, he put the patch onto it, pressing it down with his two thumbs. He held it there for a few seconds and then pulled his portable pump out of the bag. He placed it around the tire’s air valve and blew into it with his mouth until the tire had inflated back to its normal level. The next part was the worst step, the wait. He would need to make sure he gave the glue enough time to dry so he knew it had worked. He couldn’t risk having to make another pit stop. He tried to take deep breaths to slow his heartbeat, but his nerves overwhelmed him. A light drew his attention back toward the road, but it was just another car speeding home. The seconds felt like hours as he waited for the glue to dry. Eventually, he decided it had been long enough. He squeezed the tire with his hand and it still felt firm. The patch seemed to be working. He got back onto the bike and continued on through the alley to the next side street. He knew a back way that could get him home quicker than his usual route. But the back roads were darker, and he still didn’t have a working headlight. He decided this time he would heed the voice in the back of his head and proceed slowly. It was already past curfew, he knew, so there wasn’t much difference between being out 15 or 20 minutes too late. After gliding around several corners, he was finally back to his neighborhood. Pulling up to his house, he got off his bike and began to walk. But before he could sneak around back, a red-faced woman opened the door in haste. His mother. The tyrant who controlled his life and told him what time he was allowed to stay out. “Bobby! You’re 30 minutes past curfew! I don’t want to hear any excuses. What do you have to say for yourself?” “I’m sorry mom,” he sulked. “Please don’t ground me.


It was his fortieth birthday. There was only one envelope in the mailbox. No cards, no emails, not even a slice of cake by mail. It was the mandatory donation form. Once you reach the age of forty, you are required to identify how your body will be used after death - it’s a sacred condition of citizenship. Two main options were on the form: donate your body to the necrophiles or to the cannibals. They also gave you the option to select both, but then you had to fill the supplemental form where you mark a diagram and give specifics instructions (within 400 characters, max). A recommended configuration is the right side for the cannibals, the left side for the necrophiles, eyes mixed use. Joe shrugged. There was no consistent death date, but one was expected to die within a few years of the their fortieth birthday, if not earlier. There was no clear pattern. Some died at 43, some at 47. A few even lived to fifty. One man lived to sixty. There may have been a few seventies here and there. Eighty? Unlikely, but not impossible. Stranger things have happened. The state was likely behind it somehow. But this was the man, the man named Joe. It was at this point in history he resolved to live to be 100 years old. It was not a decision made on mere whimsy. No, it was a decision that had taken him 40 years to make. The rest of his life started here, so he selected neither necrophiles nor cannibals. He turned to the page containing the diagram and drew a large red ‘X’ on it. Of the 400 characters he only required a few, and on the lines available he wrote the most powerful words he could conjure: "Don't touch.” Joe shoved the form in the envelope and decided to get a Birthday Burrito. While people normally get free bus rides on their birthday, the bus driver chose to avoid eye contact when Joe asked for his free ride. Instead, he paid the requisite 50 millilitres of blood at the needle-till to board, walked past some pale 30-somethings and took a seat. The shuttered windows were covered in faded ads. Prominently displayed was the new teen fad: Die Young, Sexy, and Tasty. It was a euthanasia service targeted at 13 to 17 year olds, which made Joe sad. He thought to himself, how can you enjoy being with the ‘in’ crowd if you are dead? The bus came to an abrupt stop and Joe rolled out of the vehicle. As Joe walked down the sidewalk, he passed a group of 13 to 17 year olds. When he passed them by, he overheard one of them. “I love to die young, sexy, and tasty. Forty? That’s selfish.” As a forty year old, Joe was now officially out of touch. He would never understand why this was cool. He arrived at the burrito joint. It was a small, anonymous shack nestled between two burned-out buildings. Peculiar decorations painted the walls, with vectors and math problems that all had the same solution: binge eating. As Joe gently shut the door, a man pointed a sawed-off shotgun directly at Joe’s face. “It’s 10 o'clock, what are you doing here?” Joe didn’t reply with language, only the ultimate expression of hunger. Joe pointed his finger to meal A, subset of X: Birthday Burrito. The host sighed. “We don’t have anything prepared yet, can you just sit down?” Joe complied, though he didn’t have to. As he sat down next to some corpses, he angrily thought to himself. He would never let himself become a corpse. An awkward silence ensued. “This is our destiny: to be one with flavour. A flavour so intense it can unify the necrophiles and cannibals,” the chef softly spoke. Joe didn’t understand. The chef produced a meat of mysterious origin while Joe sat idly by. He glanced over to the chef as he prepared the Birthday Burrito. He worked vigorously, imbued with an unparalleled passion. His sweat dropped into the sauce and soon he went silent. His eyes glazed over as he continued preparing the meal. Any identity he may have previously had was dead. When the burrito was finished, he handed it over to Joe. He had never tasted anything so good and he doubted he would ever again. When the last of the burrito slinked down his throat, Joe tearfully asked, “Sir, how did you craft such a work of perfection?” The man replied. “I did not craft anything. I simply allowed God to use me as a vessel. It is with his guidance that our work be done.” Joe looked down at his own hands and thought if God ever tries to use him he’ll fucking kill him. He clenched his fists and, without paying, barged through the door into the outside world. The host knew not to interfere - this was a man determined to live 100 years. Further down the street, Joe laid on the damp ground. Exhausted. Humbled. Nothing could bother him, until something bothered him. A small, soft man in a suit prodded him with a cane. He was accompanied by a scantily clad hunk. “Good day, I hope all is well on this beautifully foggy late morning. My name is George Shigu, but you can call me Mr. George Shigu. I am a representative of the Department of Organic Recycling. This is my gorgeous executive assistant, Hans Maffew.” George broke out of his monotone voice with a swoon but quickly regained a boring composure. “At any rate, we know that you recently ordered a Birthday Burrito. This was within 24 hours of receiving the mandatory donation form. Six hours, forty-two minutes according to our analytics.” George knelt down closer, still occasionally prodding Joe. “Joe... Joseph... forty-year-old Joseph. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are...”, George smiled, “trying to live 100 years.” Joe confidently nodded, too exhausted to speak. “Very well. Hans, darling, please escort our special friend to the car.” Joe felt a hypodermic needle in his arm and everything faded to black. Joe awoke in an unfamiliar place. Dim light traced the edges of the walls enclosing him in a cell. He was in a bed. Across from him laid another man in another bed, a very old man. The sound of George’s voice blared from an unknown corner. “So, you want to live to the big 1-0-0! In front of you is a man who is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. If I were you I would listen to what he has to say. I cannot force you to do anything, Joe. But I can warn you: you must not live to be 100 years old, for your own good.” The man across from him sat up and began to speak as if to no one in particular. “Hello again, Daniel. It's Peter. I'm old today.” “Hello sir,” Joe said to the man. “If I had to do it all over again I would've killed myself somewhere between 13 and 17 years of age. Well heck, it ain’t too late!” “Sir, I admire your strength. You are an inspiration.” “I became incontinent on this day 20 years ago. I should've killed myself before then. Well heck, it ain't too late!” “Sir, please don't kill yourself, you're so close!” “It ain't too late Lady D! It ain't too late to die like a little piggy! That's what I like.” Hans entered the room with a handgun placed on an embroidered pillow. He placed it in Peter’s hand, stroking his wisps of hair compassionately. “Fucking kill yourself already you old bitch,” he said to the old man in his Bavarian accent. “I’m the pizza pie,” said Peter before painting the wall with a Rorschach test of blood and brain. George yelled “Next!” A phone rang and Joe picked up. “It’s me, Elie. I served you the Birthday Burrito this morning. Because of this, you consider me to be your closest friend but this feeling is not mutual. Joe, you are being egocentric. An egocentric prick. An egocentric dog, I’d go as far as to say. Think about the society we have created, a world with no borders, no hunger, and ample sex for every man, woman, and corpse. What would cannibals and necrophiles do with a shitty 100 year old corpse? This is the question that none of my students could answer. When one tried, I shot her and am now no longer allowed to teach topology. Goodbye, fucker. Count me out of this entire friendship.” Elie hung up, their friendship apparently over. George opened the cell door with his prodding cane and limped into the room. “Hans, you may leave, but please take that useless corpse out of here, sweetie.” Hans smiled. George grabbed a metal chair, dragged it over to Joe’s bedside with a metallic scrape, and tenderly placed his hand on his chest. “Joe, we cannot legally kill you. Our nation is based on the principles of solidarity, diversity, and accommodation. I swore an oath to uphold those values when I joined the Service. But I wanted to show you something: my pre-clearance mandatory donation form I filled out when I was 33. My body will first go to the cannibals. Then, my bones will go to the necrophiles - they can make use of every part of the body. But my heart...” George stopped and blushed. “My heart will go to Hans.” He held the form close to his chest. “Do you understand?” George asked, some tears gently rolling down his cheeks and onto his medium-priced suit. “Do you see the beauty now?” Joe thought silently for a moment, clearly moved. Touched. Prodded, even. All by a man he just met. He then loudly proclaimed, “The only beauty I see is me living to be 100 years old. Suck it, heart boy.” George immediately revealed a revolver and pointed it at Joe, struggling with his feeble hands to maintain a straight shot. “Get out.” After a small pause, he sighed and continued. “Go through the cell door, head three doors down and take a left turn. The elevator will take you to the atrium and you can’t miss the exit. Remember to rate your client service experience at en-org-rec.worldgov/feedback. Thank you, have a wonderful day!” “Oh. Okay, sorry about that Mr. George Shigu. Maybe I went a bit too far.” “No problem, it happens to the best of us. Bye now.” Joe checked the survey while waiting for the elevator. Extraction quality, 7. Guidance quality (objective), 7. Guidance quality (subjective), 3. Room atmosphere, 8. Agent quality, 8. Peter quality, 5. Perspective on a patriotic 40-50 year old death, 1. In the comment section, he wrote that the experience was good overall, not great, but he still is determined to live to be 100 years old. The elevator arrived as he tapped submit. Five days passed. Joe nursed a normal burrito in his hand before sheathing it within his throat. The static that flared on the TV made way for a special newscast. There was a man who looked like Joe being monitored from outside. “Local man wants to be 100,” the lady began. The newscast turned to citizens on the street. A frumpy woman provided the first comment. “Well I guess that’s why they call him ‘Knuckle-dragging’ Joe!” The crowd around her laughed, but Joe wasn’t laughing. This was his dream. Why would they ever desire to take it from him? Joe slept, woke up, and ate burritos for 59 more years, and for 59 years he was utterly alone. Sometime during the 59th year of his mission he was approached by a man in a medium-priced suit. They shook hands and the stranger spoke. “Hello Joe, my name is Chrint Dringolt, and I'm from the Department of...” “I know where you’re from, and I know why you're here, so let's get this over with.” Chrint seemed surprised. “Very well then.” He produced a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Joe awoke in a room, a room similar to the room from 59 years prior. In front of him was a woman who appeared to be 43 or 44 just beginning to wake up. A voice reached out from the darkness. “So! You want to live to see the big 1-0-0!” The woman became alert. “Across from you is a man. His name is Joe, and he is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. I want you to listen to what he has to say. We cannot harm you and we cannot force you to take your own life, but you need to understand the delicate balance our society has achieved.” Joe looked into her eyes and immediately knew what needed to be said. “Hello lady, I'm fucking old.” He smiled. “I have lived these last 59 years in total solitude. My joints ache, sometimes I pee dust, but mostly I pee blood.” She spoke, her voice cracking. “I'm sorry to hear that Joe.” Joe’s voice became more determined. “If I could do it all again I'd have killed myself between the ages of 13 and 17.” “Don't say that,” she said, “you're so close!” Joe continued. “There is no point in getting old. There’s no need to watch as your body decays. Everyone I might have cared about was donated long ago...” His thoughts turned to Elie. “You have to give up this foolish quest, Samantha.” He paused. “Chrint! It's time.” From a shadow emerged Chrint. In his hands was an embroidered pillow supporting a handgun. Joe picked up the gun and chambered it. Chrint leaned forward, looking directly into Joe’s eyes. “Fucking die already you old cunt.” As Joe lifted the revolver, the woman screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Don't do it Joe, we can both live to be 100! It doesn't have to-” Her sentence was cut short with the crack of the pistol. Chrint collapsed to the floor, blood spilling from his skull. The woman looked at Joe, gun still in hand. “I knew you wouldn't do it! Now we can-” A second shot erupted from the pistol. The woman fell back into the bed, part of her jaw embedded in the wall. Joe casually tossed the gun to the floor. “Fuck all of you, I'm living to be 200.


I’ve always loved older architecture and I loved going to the movies. Through a friend with connections, I managed to procure a job as an apprentice union movie projectionist. In those big old theatres from a bygone era, I was in my glory. Some of the theatres in the seaside town were seasonal, only open during the summer months. Others maintained a normal schedule of evening performances with weekend matinees, and still others operated continuous showings, four or five shows from early afternoon on. My theatre was continuous. It didn’t matter if any patrons were in the house, you ran every show. In the two-hour range, most schedules featured a 2-4-6-8-10 o’clock movie start time, finishing up right around midnight. It made for a long day sometimes, and could be boring. You brought along magazines and the newspaper, along with lunch and supper, and in my case, writing paper, to keep busy. I mean, how many times can you watch a movie? In those days, film reels lasted around twenty minutes, so you couldn’t stray far from the projection booth. Older equipment was still in use, many from before sound, so you had to keep an eye on things, especially those pesky old carbon arc lamps. One night it snowed. By the time the show was over, almost a foot had fallen. It was one of those nights you wondered why we were even open, but it was the policy for continuous shows. Very few people came out to see the movie that night. I wasn’t looking forward to bundling up and walking to my car, parked over a block away. Even in the winter, this was a tourist area and parking could be at a premium, along with residents who could finally park close to their homes. I didn’t want to have to clean off my car, drive three miles home in a foot of snow, find a place to park at home, then come out tomorrow and have to clean off my car again. I figured to stay the night at work. There was a comfortable couch in the office downstairs and I told the manager I was staying. No problem. There was a coffee maker and always a supply of popcorn in case I was hungry. Not being able to leave the booth for any amount of time, I wasn’t able to explore the place. Oldtimers told me of the system of catwalks over the ceiling, utility tunnels under the building, and the massive stage and all that went with it. I wanted to see it all. It wasn’t that I couldn’t check the place out, it was just that I wasn’t able to while I was working. I would catch hell if the screen went black and I wasn’t close by to fix the problem. So now with the place to myself, it was time to explore! Armed with half a knowledge of where the light switches were and a trusty flashlight in hand, off I went. The catwalks over the plaster ceiling were required, as seeing the flimsy structure from above, you could easily fall through. There was a hand-cranked winch, designed to lower the chandelier over the center of the auditorium for maintenance and cleaning. The catwalks zigzagged over the entire ceiling, leading to the fly loft over the stage. Right there was a massive squirrel cage blower, the largest I had ever seen, that was part of the air conditioning system. Although huge, it was curiously quiet in its operation. A little farther along, the walkway led to a hatch over the stage, with a ladder leading below. Easily sixty feet up, it was a long way down to the stage floor. Massive steel girders and trusses held the building up, along with terra cotta brickwork advertised in the old days as fireproof. So many older cinemas built of wood had burned to the ground and new construction made sure to tout its fire-resistant safety factor. I braved the air conditioning’s wind whistling through the hatch and climbed down to the stage. The huge wooden floor was once the home of many a stage show, quite a few that played as early runs before going on to Broadway or other venues. The stage featured sixty rails, the steel rails suspended by ropes from above that could lift any scenery and curtain requirements. Those vertical ropes you see along the backstage wall operated the rails. The movie screen could be flown out of the way for stage shows, and that old asbestos safety curtain was still held aloft, once tested twice a day to make sure it dropped in case of fire. More snooping found access to the orchestra pit from a room under the stage, where musicians could move in and out without the audience noticing them. The sign shop for the theatre chain was also headquartered beneath the stage. A stairway at the rear of the building led to the stage level, and then up to three levels of dressing rooms. One level down led to the utility tunnels. The tunnels were the spooky part of the tour. There were crayon marks along the walls showing where the adjacent ocean’s water level once flooded the place during a hurricane. A pair of old generators sat like old rusted dinosaurs, never to run again. A decayed metal ladder at the end of one long tunnel led to somewhere near the box office, probably unused for decades. Returning through the tunnels, the main route turned a ninety degree corner. Someone had placed a life size cardboard standee of Jack Lemmon from the movie “the Odd Couple”, his face in a wince. It was enough to scare a few meals out of you after you shined your light on him. After I caught my breath, I decided the joke was a good one and kept the standee right there for the next hapless victim to discover. Heading upstairs, it was time to look over the dressing rooms. The first one, closest to the stage, featured a star on the door. I wondered what big names occupied that room over the years. The two stories of dressing rooms were rather drab, four walls with a closet rod and shelf, a sink and a toilet, and not much else. A couple still had a makeup table against one wall. They hadn’t been used in years and the paint was peeling to bare concrete and plaster. Each had a metal grille over a window opening that overlooked the arcade that ran between the theatre and the convention center next door. At the far end of the upper floor of the dressing rooms, evidence of a fire years ago that claimed a couple of lives remained. No one had ever cleaned the rooms up afterward, happening so long ago that any smell of the fires had long dissipated. It seemed to be a memorial to those who perished, untouched since it happened so many years ago. Ghost investigators from a TV show visited the dressing rooms a few years ago, and seemed to find questionable evidence of spirits there. I could feel the presence of something and decided to leave whatever, or whoever it was, alone. All of the old theatres in the area seemed to have some sort of ghostly habitation. Many of the old buildings had succumbed to the wrecking ball for whatever reasons, and the few that remain are now home to those wayward spirits of the theatre who need a place to stay. That night of staying over due to a snowstorm proved invaluable to my curiosity of this old barn. Opening in 1929 and the first motion picture venue in the area to open with sound films, this showplace of the golden era of the movie palaces has always intrigued me. With the names of every projectionist and stagehand who worked here scribbled on various heating ducts in the booth and backstage, one can only wonder of the many films and live shows that graced these four walls over so many years.


Threatened by dust fireflies that danced around tired and caramelised bulbs, aged Mr. Silva rummaged around. A face and presence, that for long lived years had shown an adult suave charm, were now forgotten in time, replaced instead by a face and presence of decay and old age. His reflection, an intermittent fear, not knowing the face that looked at him. Sluggishly but determined, he fought against the inability to practice what he would, in times past, do with great ease. Between infinite shelves of books, pages and memories, he did what he could to organise and alphabetise all those tomes, in order to make them make sense. Someone was undoing his life’s work. He would arrange and keep the books in order, only to get this undone just around the corner. But he was never a person to back down from challenges or fights and had already thought of a plan to catch these cretins. In one of the many corridors, he felt his heart and stomach sink. It was one of the library workers. He hated her. Lately no one would let him do nothing around here. And the little he tried to do was all wrong and badly done, according to them. He tried to turn back and go unnoticed, but it was pointless. As pointless as trying to hide from your own hair. There was no escape from them. And this one worker was the worst. She was mean to him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch anything? If you need anything just ask for help and don’t touch anything. Understand?” “But it isn’t me.” - he said, trying to hide the large tears that were forming in his eyes. - “ There is someone around here trying to mess with the books.” She looked at him with no hope in her eyes and went away somewhere else, shaking the shelves with each step she took. “I’m going to catch these people and show all of you.” - he thought to himself, pouting, while he got back to his quest to find those miscreants. But then, a familiar smell caught his attention. He looked back and saw no one. But why would he look back? He was sitting on a big fluffy worn couch. The smell came from someone kneeling in front of him, in a praying pose, holding his hands. “Dad, can you hear me?” - said a face displaying a worried smile. “Hello little lady. Are you new here? Are they already replacing me already?” - he said with noticeable fear. “Oh, dad...Don’t you know who I am?” He didn’t spend a second thinking about that question. The scoundrels had come back. He could see them and the end of the corridor, messing with his books. “I’m sorry little lady, I didn’t even ask you for your name, but I have some pranksters to catch. They are messing up all my books.


“That’s the thing about this city,” I tell the young girl. “You don’t want to go out at night. Monsters lurk in the shadows, and who knows what they will do to you.” She looks up at me with fear in her eyes, and I know she’ll take my words to heart. “I just wish we didn’t have to go out and get her medicine,” I say, nodding toward the bundled up figure on the couch. “Me too,” she whispers, glancing at the motionless figure. “We’ll be back,” I call out to the figure. “We’ll be careful. Take care until we’re back.” The figure doesn’t respond, so I shrug and open the door. “Quiet now,” I tell the girl in a low voice. “Follow close behind me.” She nods, and we head out into the night. The moon gives us enough light to see by in the dark alley, and the streetlights will light the way. We creep down the alley, hugging the walls until we reach the street. I glance out, looking both ways, and see the way is clear. Waving her to follow, I slip out into the street, hurrying across it to the other side, where I dart into the next alley. The girl follows behind me, a little too slow for my taste, but I have no choice but to bring her. I’m too big to fit through the window where we need to get the medicine. I hurry her into the alley, looking up and down the road. I ducked back into the alley as I heard footsteps hurrying our way. I pressed myself against the wall with my arm holding the girl to my side. I closed my eyes. I heard the footsteps slowing as they neared us and stopped breathing for a moment. I let out my breath as I heard the steps go by, then breathed a sigh of relief. Opening my eyes, I look down at her. Her eyes are wide with fear, and I can feel her shaking. “Was that...?” she asked in a shaky voice. I nodded and said, “We need to be more careful. Stay close to me.” She nodded back and swallowed. We moved down the alley to the end. I looked out, then drew my head back in when I saw the figure standing under the streetlight. It had been looking away from me, so it didn’t see me. Kneeling down, I looked the girl in the eye, putting my hands on her shoulders. “There’s one out there, so we need to be extra careful.” She nodded, swallowing again. She looked out of the alley, then back at me. Giving her a smile I hoped would give her some encouragement, I added, “If we can do this, we will be on the backend of the building we need to get the medicine from.” She smiled, but then it disappeared as she looked back out of the alley again. “Focus on me,” I told her, giving her a small shake to turn her attention back to me. Her gaze met mine. I blinked, then smiled again. “We’re going to make it,” I told her. “I can feel it. Then we can get the medicine back to her.” She nodded, then I could feel her straightening her shoulders under my grip. My smile got wider, and I let her go, getting to my feet. Turning, I peeked out once more. The figure was still turned the other way, and nothing else was in the vicinity. “Ready?” I asked her, glancing back. She nodded. “Let’s go,” I said, pushing her out in front of me. She ran across the road, ducking into the shadows of the building on the other side. I followed close behind her. A sound came from up the street. I glanced toward the stoplight, and my heart nearly stopped when I saw the figure hurrying toward me. Crap! We’d been spotted. “Go through the gates!” I hissed at her. She nodded and darted through the gates that were just wide enough for her. I put myself in between her and the figure, waiting. The figure got close, but didn’t enter the darkness of the shadows. I eased back toward the gates, keeping my eye on the figure pacing back and forth but not coming closer. Letting out a sigh of relief when I reached the gates, I pulled them apart so I could go inside them to follow the girl. I knew we’d be safe in here, but we still had to find the medicine and get back. I saw the girl ahead of me, so I hurried toward her. “Do you see the building?” I asked her when I reached her. She pointed toward the structure ahead. “Let’s get what we need and get back as quickly as possible,” I told her, heading toward it. She followed me until we reached the side of the building. Pausing at the open window, she looked up at me and said, “Boost.” I linked my hands together and held them out for her to step into. She put her hands on my shoulders, and I lifted her to the window. She scrambled inside, and I leaned against the wall to wait for her. I looked around and noticed the moon was peeking out from behind the clouds. I shivered as I remembered the stories I’d heard as a child about what happens during full moons. Shaking it off, I listened for the girl’s signal. Hearing her whistle, I looked up at the window. Perched on the ledge, she waited for me to help her down. “Did you get it?” I whispered. She nodded, so I held out my arms for her to jump down. Once on the ground, we headed back to the gates. I peered out to make sure it was safe to leave, then slipped through. She followed me, and we made our way back to the alley. I looked up and down the street, but it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, we hurried across and ducked into the alley on that side of the street. Just as we reached the opening, a figure stepped into the alley. I pushed the girl behind me. “Who’s there?” I called out. The figure crouched down, and I told the girl, “Run as fast as you can while I take care of this.” We both headed toward the figure, but I got there first, leaping at it to distract it from her. She darted past, and I saw her head into the building with the medicine. I turned my attention to the figure who pushed me against the wall and was clawing at my eyes. Snarling, I pushed off the wall, using my weight to push my attacker away from me. It circled around me, trying to find an opening to attack, but I kept it at bay. It lunged toward me, only to pull back. I kept my eyes on it, not realizing another had come up behind me until something jumped on my back, wrapping its arms around my neck. Taken off guard, I fell to my hands and knees, then let out a howl of pain as something sharp went into my side. A blow to the head had me seeing stars, but I tried to shake it off. I let out another howl of pain as what felt like claws raked down my side. Struggling, I swung out my arms, but didn’t connect to anything. The grip on my neck tightened. I gasped for breath as I clawed at the arms, but wasn’t able to break its grip. I could see blackness clouding my vision and knew I would not last much longer. Just before I blacked out, the grip released, and I could take a deep breath. I looked up to see a large wolflike figure attacking one figure and a smaller one snarling at the other. I smiled, glad to see the medicine had worked. The moon overhead came out from behind a cloud, and I lifted my head, filling my eyes with its beauty. I knew the transformation would heal the wounds the humans had inflicted on me. My last thought before the transformation was that it was a shame the humans couldn’t co-exist with us as we just wanted to live in peace, but they had to be greedy and be the only ones at the top of the pyramid.


The dark hallway seemed as long as it was eerie. Even though it was a small New York cramped apartment, it seemed like it stretched like a fashion show walkway, but with an audience of old family photos, that only showed a little glimpse of innocence now lost. It shouldn't have been disturbing, it was Luca's childhood home after all, it was the place where he was first taken to from the hospital after his birth and has been his metaphorical nest for his entire life and the way things are going who knows how long he will still be there. The same corridor that a week ago he would have passed without so much as a thought about its composition now felt like an alien environment, to the point that Luca thought he was dreaming. Objects seemed to repeat multiple times, the walls warping with every step, spiraling into the front door. The closer he got the smaller it got, it was as if the mechanics of his depth perception were reversed. The floor moved like a wave making him seasick and the doors felt like they lead to traps. The closer he got to the front door the more leeches made their way on his skin, sucking his blood and making him natious. But soon enough he reached the door handle, as soon as he put his hand on it a cold fog surrounded him, his arm went limp, it was like all of his muscles were taken out, leaving only skin and bone to just sit there barely being able to support itself. A tall shadow came into his vision, tall as a skyscraper but thin as a street lamp, his own mother Vittoria seemed something like a witch in that very moment, leaving him to feel like a disobedient hunchback servant. "Where are you going, Luca, it's the middle of the night, don't you have any sense at all." "I'm going for a walk ma, I can't sleep.", not daring to look at her. Her voice sounded the same as always, but now sure didn’t feel the same. "Stay here alright, I don’t want you causing any trouble." "I won’t mom, I promise, it's okay. The sun will be up soon anyway. So I just thought that I should just take a walk to clear my head a bit, that’s all." every word felt like a pushup leaving him breathless, but as a result even more afraid. He turned back to her with a nervous smile and a breathless laugh. She was way taller than that of her presence. With a slight sigh, she said "Be back at six." "Will do." With the fist of her steps back, the dark aura started to pull itself out of Luca, like a tree being derooted. He quickly got the strength in his appendages back and immediately opened the door.The dim night light felt like a flashlight in comparison with the darkness of the apartment. Walking past the neighbourhood which felt like a dark forest, every place has a totally different feel during the night, even somewhere you’ve been thousands of times can have a totally different atmosphere depending on the lighting, it was a very early morning, so no one was around, Luca was alone, as he passed the streetlights, he noticed how his shadows rotated, one after another the same cycle with every streetlamp, as he was a few street lights away from his destination, he noticed another person's shadow behind him, he needn’t have turned around because he already knew who it was, he did pick up his pace a little, the darkness swept away the shadow only for the next light to reveal only Luca’s shadow, alone like before. He entered the park near his home where he sat on one of the benches. A few moments later an older man sat next to him, signs of dawn began to show as the sky became a lighter shade entering the blue hour. “What’s been bothering you.” “Just this thing with the family business. I don’t know if I want to continue it.” “Well son, I know you have dreams, but you’ve got to think more realistically, life isn’t going to give you everything. You have to just make the most of what you have.” “You always talk about how mom’s parents immigrate here, barely knowing anything and without a dime. You said they made a life here, how is me leaving in any way different.” “It just is. You see, they were lucky that my parents gave them the opportunity to live here, they supplied them with a job and steady income, on certain conditions.” “What conditions?” “Things that should not interest you.” “Well actually, it’s not the only reason why I’m against it.” “Mhm What do you mean.” “Well... Nothing actually I just wasn’t sure what I was feeling.” “Listen, what we do is bigger than you. We have a good relationship with the community. Everybody loves the restaurant. Don’t you want to continue being a part of our lives? We raised you, you can’t just leave us, we’re your parents, family is the most important thing in your life.” “But at what cost, dad.” “And where are you going to go, huh tell me.” “Just leave me alone.” Luca turned his back and just walked away, with no real other option he just went back home. A golden shine had just outlined the horizon. Luca entered the old family restaurant, it still had that special smell he always associated with the place, in an hour or so it would open. But Luca couldn’t shake off what he saw, he just had to confirm that it wasn’t some sort of dream or hallucination. If he was going to spend the rest of his life here he could at least make sure that that one thing wasn't true. Through the door in the kitchen, a short staircase led to the basement, cold and damp. There in front of Luca was the freezer door as soon as he opened it the door behind him closed.


This is part one of a two part short story. Looking for any and all valid critiques about any aspect of the story. **Memories of Darla** Norris Reight’s knee surgery six years ago had converted his enthusiastic morning jogs into spirited walks. At seventy-six, it was a disappointing concession to age, this immobility. As he attempted to stretch he felt a sliver of pain pierce the back of his left knee for a moment, then disappear. He spewed a few mild invectives into the sleepy morning air and set out in search of Darla. He’d first seen her two days ago near the end of his street. She’d been leaning against a telephone pole like the cutout silhouette of a cowboy he saw on front lawns, one leg straight down, one bent at the knee. He’d crossed the street to avoid her. He looked back after he’d gotten past her, but she was gone. Just like that. Poof. Two steps later his head felt like he’d been pummeled by the round end of a ball peen hammer. The next day he saw her again. Her head popped up over a long length of square cut forsythia farther along on his route. He avoided her then too, and was left with another thunderous headache. He thought if he saw her again this morning he would walk right up to her and say, “Are you Darla?” Just like that. Maybe just confronting her would ward off another one of those cranial assaults. He hadn’t actually seen Darla in nearly fifty years. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing here all of a sudden. With the exception of an occasional dream now and then he thought he’d finally expunged her from his life. No such luck, apparently. It seemed like she was back, and inflicting a different kind of pain this time around. He and Darla had been like a chemical compound through two years of high school and four years of college. They were so nearly inseparable that their friends would often refer to Norris as Darla, or Darla as Norris. One time, in college, on the first day of class in the one class they shared, Social Injustice in Medieval Europe, they both responded “Here,” when the professor called Norris’s name. Professor Chavez, tall and thin as a coat hanger looked at them over black, square topped reading glasses. “Will the real Norris Reight please stand up,” he said like a game show host. Norris and Darla looked at each other, each starting to rise before sitting back down, until Norris finally shot up straight and tall. “I’m Norris Reight,” Norris said. He smiled down at Darla. “Are you sure?” the professor said to a smattering of laughs. After college they’d bought a house together. The money came from a trust fund his father had set up for him from a lottery windfall. Norris had gotten a job as an English teacher at the same middle school he was a student at ten years before. Darla continued with her schooling, aiming at a Masters in Engineering, working part time at an electrical supply house two miles away from their home. Norris thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. They were a perfect couple. Every one said so. Darla’s best friend Octavia, a rotund, sweaty woman, once said she would have been willing to go on a diet if it would guarantee her the kind of relationship he and Darla had. “I’d like to see that,” Norris had said. Stupid thing to say. Norris knew that before he’d a chance to slap his hand over his mouth. “Did I say that out loud?” he asked sheepishly. Both Darla and Octavia glared at him. Octavia, finally relenting, said, “Really, you guys make a perfect couple, even if one of you is a jerk.” Then suddenly they were not so perfect a couple. If fact they were not a couple at all. They were nothing. Darla had gone. He remembered he’d left Darla under a mountain of covers that morning before he went out for his morning jog. She’d told him to turn the heat up before he left. He said roger that, and pushed the little metal slide switch on the thermostat outside the bedroom to 68 as he headed for the front door. He’d had exceptional legs that morning. His outward bound route took him to the center of Hazardville by way of a hill that sometimes seemed nearly vertical, but this morning seemed like little more than a gradual incline. He felt like he could’ve pumped his way up a hill twice as high. At the top of the hill he’d stood in the center of the empty road beneath the amber winking of a street light. He’d rose on his toes, stretching his calf muscles. A motorcycle screamed out of the darkness and sped around him, blaring at him in annoyance as it did so. Norris turned, saluted the single red light that blinked off as it veered to the left behind a line of houses, and pounded his way back home. He’d expected Darla to be up, the house warming, the coffee brewing when he got back. When he closed the front door, however, the house was as silent as when he’d left. In the kitchen, a single fluorescent light was on over the sink. Through the kitchen, down the hallway to the bedroom Norris had seen a sliver of light peeking out from a nearly closed door. He’d walked toward the light calling to Darla as he did so. He’d pushed the door open and saw an empty bed, the covers on it made to Darla’s usual anal requirements, so taught they felt like a plank of wood. On the bed, on her pillow, was an envelope so white against the deep red bedspread that it looked like someone had cut a hole in the cloth to expose the white pillowcase beneath. Norris suddenly felt like he was sitting on the sun. He unzipped his sweatshirt and tugged the hood from his head. He pulled a paper towel from a pocket in his sweatpants and wiped it across his forehead. He stared at the envelope, positioned exactly in the center of her pillow. NORRIS in large block letters was printed in the exact center of the envelope. Norris reached a hand out to the envelope. He traced its crisp edges with the tip of an index finger. He picked it up and stared at it for a long, agonizing minute before tearing at the flap and pulling out a single square of paper inside. On the square of paper Darla had printed, in perfect block letters, seven words. Norris looked at the words, mouthed them silently, and finally spoke them aloud. He read, “PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME.” By the time he was done the house they’d lived in together for six years looked like it’d been the victim of a home invasion. In his desperate effort to find some reason for Darla’s disappearance he’d yanked open all the drawers of the bureau they’d shared, his lower drawers, her upper ones. He’d upended their contents on the bed, spilling out everything Darla had left behind. He’d run his hands over her things; panties, bras, sweaters, jewelry, winter gloves, socks, nylons. He’d felt their varied textures, had recognized some as birthday or anniversary gifts he’d given her. He’d strewn the clothes he tore from closets across the floor where they covered the oak hardwood like a madman’s idea of a rug. He’d pulled every book off every shelf, opened them, had fluttered their pages and let the books fly across the room to land where they may. He’d pulled unpacked boxes from the attic and upended them where he stood and watched their contents spill to the floor in small heaps. He’d called their friends, who were as surprised as he was that she’d left. Octavia had said, “No! You two were so perfect together.” “Apparently not,” Norris had said. The police were no help. They couldn’t do anything unless Norris suspected some kind of foul play. Did he expect foul play? No, he didn’t. “Well,” a woman’s lazy voice had said, “since you two weren’t married, she’s really free to do what she wants.” “I understand,” Norris said. “I guess I’ll have to wait until she turns up dead.” The private detective he’d hired was no better. After taking Norris’ money for three years all he could offer him was a reluctant admiration for her talents. “She obviously knows what she’s doing,” he’d said shrugging. “Where do you suppose she learned that?” Norris had glared at him. “You’re the detective!” he’d snapped. “You tell me!” In the end, after all the time, money, and effort Norris had spent to find Darla, he’d discovered only one thing for sure. There was not a trace of her anywhere. Darla was truly gone. For the next three years Norris tried to get his life back. His obsession with finding Darla had cost him his position at Hazardville Elementary. They were indulgent there for a time, sympathetic even. But he wasn’t being paid to hunt down an ex-girlfriend. Norris began accepting various substitute teaching positions. He gradually began jogging again and quickly lost the ugly fat he’d gained since Darla’s disappearance. He dusted off a cellar full of woodworking tools and lost himself in a swirl of dust long into an endless stretch of nights. He re-filled the five handcrafted bird feeders he’d made to Darla’s meticulous specifications and watched as the poor neglected darlings came back to feed once again. Still, Norris found that he couldn’t stay in his house. He tried. Even though there wasn’t the faintest hint of Darla to be found anywhere in the house, she still seemed to be everywhere. It was like she’d become a ghost, a haunting presence that the floors, walls, and ceilings absorbed and exuded, a breathing essence that infiltrated his dreams and shocked him awake each morning asking the same maddening question. Where was Darla? He didn’t know. It looked like he would never know. And staying here would only constantly remind him of that. So he decided it was time to go. He didn’t know where. He didn’t think he really cared. Anyplace that wasn’t here would be fine. In the end he’d simply opened up an Atlas of the United States, had covered his eyes with one hand and had stuck a pin in the map with the other. When he’d removed his hand from his eyes and had seen where the pin had landed, he’d smiled for the first time in what had seemed like a very long time. He’d stuck a pin in Dacula, Georgia and could not help but imagine the delightful possibilities of a misplaced ‘r’. **Starting Over** He met Sylvia while jogging, a little over two years after moving to Dacula. He hadn’t actually been jogging when they *met*. He’d been jogging, but had twisted his ankle in a dip in the road he’d navigated successfully hundreds of times since moving there. Sylvia jogged slowly past him, She looked like a spilled bag of M&M’s; red sneakers, blue shorts, green top, and gray blond hair clipped just past delicate ears and secured with a yellow sweatband. She stopped just past him and turned and waited as Norris limped toward her. “Are you hurt?” she asked. She looked down at Norris’s ankle. “You’re limping.” Norris shifted a little of his weight onto his ankle, testing it. “Not really,” he said. “I twisted the ankle a bit, I think, but I don’t think there’s any real damage.” He gave her a weak smile and noticed that her left eye seemed to shift in color from gray, to almost blue, then back to gray. It was disconcerting, hypnotic, and he found he was staring at her. She butted the side of her head with the heel of her hand. She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Her left eye was now as gray as the right eye. “It does that sometimes,” she said, smiling. “Don’t know why. I have to reset my head to bring everything back into sync.” Norris felt an overwhelming desire to smile stupidly, and did so for just a moment before he could stop himself. Sylvia smiled back at him. “I have that effect on people,” she said. “I don’t doubt that for an instant,” Norris said. A car rolled by just then, a tap of the horn, the spell broken. The two of them moved closer to the curb, Norris carefully steering Sylvia to safety, the tips of his fingers pressing lightly into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “My name is Norris,” Norris said. “Sylvia,” Sylvia said. She added, “Do you live around here?” Norris looked at her. “I do,” he said. Sylvia smiled. “Maybe we’re neighbors,” she said. “Maybe we are,” Norris said. **Ravaging Sylvia** Two months later Norris met Sylvia’s family. At a party Sylvia held every 4th of July he shook the slender hands of her twin daughters who wore matching blue jumpsuits, each with long, luxuriant tresses of shimmering hair, Dana’s white, Diana’s red. He said, “Nice to meet you Darla,” when he shook Dana’s hand. “Dana,” Dana said. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry,” Norris said. “I’ll get over it,” Dana said. Norris wasn’t so sure he would. He worried the way Darla just popped up sometimes - like a wack-a-mole. Daniel, Sylvia’s doctor son, eyed Norris from beneath the lone spot of shade in Sylvia’s barren back yard. He plucked him with vampiric swiftness from the searing sun where he stood with Sylvia to the relative cool beneath the withering canopy of a dying sycamore tree. Norris could have hugged him. He was beginning to melt. Daniel stared at Norris and took a long swig of dark beer. He swallowed the bitter brew, and leaned unsteadily forward until his lips brushed Norris’s left ear. “What are your intentions toward my mother?” he whispered. Norris peered into dark eyes hidden beneath a ridge of bone so pronounced it looked like the brim of a baseball cap. He wasn’t sure he’d any intentions toward Sylvia, if he was ready for that sort of thing yet. “I plan to ravage her on the kitchen table as soon as everyone leaves,” Norris said. The beer Daniel had just swallowed erupted in a brown, frothy geyser from his nose and mouth. Norris caught Sylvia giving him a worried look. He shook his head. *It’s O.K*. Norris leaned in as Daniel was bent over, sputtering and coughing. “Calm down, Daniel,” he said. He tapped him lightly on the back until the coughing subsided. “We’re just friends, nothing more.” Daniel straightened. “You couldn’t just say that?” he said, still coughing, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Norris smiled. “What fun would that be?” he said. **Is That What You Kids Are Calling It These Days** One morning, six months later, Dana and Diana were startled to find Norris, barefoot, in a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweat shorts, heading toward their mother’s front porch, a newspaper tucked under his arm. They looked at each other across the front seat of Dana’s car. Norris heard the car. When he turned and saw Dana and Diana he gave them a short wave, pulling the folded paper from under his arm and holding it modestly in front of him. “Tell me you’re delivering that paper,” Dana said as she got out of the car. She was bundled in a thick sweater, puffy mittens and a stretchy yellow cap tugged down past her ears. White hair, cut short now, poked out of the cap like sparks of lightning. “Would you believe I was out for a jog,” Norris asked. “Is that what you kids are calling it nowadays,” Diana snorted over the car’s roof. She rubbed her nylon gloved hands on the nylon fabric of her short, puffy coat until the two squeaked. Norris smiled. “Good morning to you too,” he said. “Mom about ready?” Diana asked. “Atlanta awaits.” It was a shopping, dining excursion that Sylvia referred to as their January jaunt. “Pretty much,” Norris said. She’d actually been ready for over an hour and had quickly been losing patience at her daughters’ tardiness. Dana walked up the driveway to the porch. “Maybe we should go inside so the neighbors don’t see you standing around half naked in my mother’s driveway, in the middle of winter,” she suggested. She edged around Norris and started toward the front door. “Good idea,” Norris agreed. He waited for Diana who sprinted across the driveway and scurried into the house behind her sister, giving Norris an exaggerated wink as she did so. **Norris Steps In** That summer, Norris gave Diana away. Dan, who was scheduled to escort her down the aisle, got an emergency call from the hospital an hour before the wedding was to start. A woman had sped her car into a bridge abutment doing sixty. “Can’t someone else do *that*?” Diana whimpered. “You have to do *this*.” She looked up at her intended, Greg, a tall, square, implacable man who smiled and shrugged. “I’m on call,” Dan explained, holding his hands out, palms up, like a penitent. “But what about *me*?” Diana moaned. “This is my *wedding*.” Norris, who was standing behind Sylvia with his hands on her shoulders, bent forward and whispered something into her ear. Sylvia nodded. He detached himself from Sylvia and walked over to stand beside Dan. “I know I’m not your father, Diana,” Norris said, “But I would consider it an honor if you would let *me* give you away.” Diana looked at him. Her eyes began to glisten with tears. She stepped forward and buried her face in Norris’s chest, mumbling something and nodding her head. Raising her head she dabbed at her eyes with the back of a finger. “If you make my mascara run, Norris,” she said. “Your mother already told me I’d better not screw this up,” Norris said. “Do you need a minute?” Diana barked a laugh. She looked at Greg. “Do *you* need a minute?” she asked. “No, I’m good,” Greg said. Dan gave Diana a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry Di,” he said. “It’s not your fault,” Diana said. She hugged her little brother. “Go. Go save a life. ” Dan hugged Diana again. He gave Greg a fist bump. To Norris he said, “If it can’t be me, Norris, I’m glad it’s you giving my sister away.” “Thank you,” Norris said. “Now go.” “Going,” Dan said. He kissed his mother and threw an unseen wave to Dana who was whispering into the ear of her latest concubine on the other side of the room. After the wedding Sylvia sighed into Norris’s shoulder. They were resting on a cozy loveseat that faced a large bay window, “It was a lovely wedding,” she said. “It was that,” Norris agreed. They were silent a moment. Sylvia finally said, “I’ve only got one more wedding in me, Norris.” “Dana?” Norris asked. Sylvia pulled away from Norris’s shoulder, turning to look at him. “No, not Dana,” she frowned. “Dana will never get married.” Norris thought for a long second. Finally understanding she meant she planned to get *married* only one more time, he said. “I see.” He suddenly imagined himself standing at the end of a long isle, Darla slowly gliding toward him in a long flowing white gown. He turned to Sylvia. “Well, maybe one more is all you’ll need,” he offered, coaxing her back into his shoulder. Sylvia let herself be drawn back in. “One more is all I’ll be able to handle,” she said. “And keep in mind, I’m not a woman of infinite patience.” **The Muse** Two years after Norris and Sylvia consolidated residences (she hated the way Norris referred to their arrangement as shacking up) Dana decided to move to Arizona. Her seniority with the Post Office allowed her to bid on a letter carrier position in Flagstaff. Grace, her friend, companion, lover, would be coming along to paint in the desert. “Paint. In the desert?” Sylvia said, when Dana called. “Isn’t that...interesting.” “She’s following her passion,” Dana explained. “I admire that.” “But you’re paying her way,” Sylvia observed. “That’s not the way I see it.” “Oh? And how do you see it?” Sylvia asked. “Think of me as her Muse,” Dana said. She could feel Sylvia’s eyes rolling. “Don’t say it mom,” Dana said. “Far be it from me to say a thing,” Sylvia said. “That would be a first,” Dana said. When Sylvia and Norris came to visit for the first time, a little over a year after Dana had moved to Arizona, they discovered that her role as Muse had been transferred to a local businessman. He spent most of his time with his business, giving Dana’s ex even more of the time, and money, apparently, she needed to pursue her passion. “She said I was getting too clingy,” Dana told her mother. “Clingy,right!” Sylvia said to Norris that night. They were in a small bedroom the size of their bathroom at home. They could hear the faint mumbling of a TV from Dana’s room next door. It was a little after one in the morning. “She could have been as clingy as she’d wanted if she’s had a little more of this,” Sylvia said, rubbing her middle finger and thumb together, indicating cash. “You can be so jaded sometimes, Syl” Norris said. “Am I wrong?” Sylvia asked. “Probably not,” Norris admitted. “So?” Sylvia said. “So nothing,” Norris said. “It’s just that you seem to think she invited this upon herself.” “Do I need to remind you of the number of failed relationships she’s had?” Sylvia said. “We all make mistakes in love, Sylvia,” Norris said. He turned his head on his pillow and ran his eyes along the lines of her profile, from her squarish chin, to the flattened tip of her nose, to the small red mark the size of a dull pencil tip just below her right eye that he’d once tried to remove with a tongue moistened napkin. Sylvia could feel him looking at her. “Have you?” she asked. “Have I...?” “Made mistakes in love,” she said. “I’m sure I have,” Norris said. Turning on her side Sylvia said, “Give me an example.” She raised her head, supporting it with the palm of her hand, her upper arm wedged into her pillow. “I can’t give you any specifics,” Norris said. “I just know you can’t get to the age we are without having made some mistakes, somewhere along the line.” Sylvia looked at Norris a moment longer before settling back into her pillow. “If you say so,” she said to the ceiling. “But she makes more than her fair share of these alleged mistakes.” “All the more reason to give her the occasional benefit of the doubt,” Norris said. “I suppose,” Sylvia said. “Really, you just need to give her a break,” Norris said. **The Ultimatum** Dan didn’t even have a chance to have a drink on the plane. From the time he took his seat in Flagstaff after visiting his sister, until his plane landed in Los Angeles three hours later, all he did was sleep. He was picked up at the airport by a hospital shuttle and was in an operating room twenty minutes later. When the operation was over, he rushed through the gleaming tiled hallways on the second floor of Mercy hospital to his office on the fourth floor clasping his hands together as he did so to stop them from shaking. Once in his office he wasted no time in pulling a very expensive bottle of British whiskey from the sliding doors of a credenza behind his desk. He managed to get two quick shots down and put the bottle away before nurse Wilson opened his door unannounced. She stood in the doorway like a Viking wench, pointing a thick index finger with a cobalt blue nail at him. She told him that would be the last time he ever, ever! performed a surgery in that condition. What condition would that be, he wanted to know? She gave him a tired smirk. Do I really have to say it? she asked him. I wish you would, he said. O.K. then. Drunk, she said. Satisfied? Not really, Dan said. Dan thought it ironic that he should be called to task for being drunk during a surgical procedure when, for the first time in he couldn’t really say how long, he’d actually been sober. If only the patient had lived. He looked at the nurse. She *was* like a Viking. Her thick hands were planted on her narrow, boyish hips. A wild electrified mane of strawberry blond corkscrews that seemed to sputter with untamed energy framed her long bony face. “No one could have saved him,” he said. “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “We’ll never know. I just know that was your last surgery. I’ve been keeping records. If you’re not out of here in a week I’ll give them to HR.” Dan didn’t know what kind of records she might have. She was a bit of a techy. He imagined a miniature camera clipped to her lapel or secured to the inner sleeves of her scrubs, recording his every unsteady move since who knows when. He wanted to argue with her, but he knew she was right. The chorus of disparaging voices he heard, or maybe only imagined he heard, in his operating room would probably back her up. The nurse pointed her finger at him again. “I mean it,” she said. “Records.” Dan watched as she did a crisp military about face and squeaked down the hallway to some Viking retreat in the bowels of the building somewhere. He pulled the expensive bottle of British whiskey back out of the credenza and did two more quick shots before getting up and slamming his office door shut. **A Rainbow of Possibilities** Norris took Dan to a woodworking show in Atlanta a month after Dan left Mercy Hospital. He told Dan it might give him a different perspective on things. He took him down cluttered aisles full of woodworking tools, jigs and bewhiskered hawkers. “This is my version of your medical convention,” Norris explained. “Minus the sex,” Dan said. “Minus the booze. Minus the blow.” “That’s tomorrow,” Norris said. “Make sure you get your hand stamped before we leave.” At dinner that night, at a karaoke club in the Sweet Auburn Historic District of Atlanta, Norris watched as Dan finished two thirds of a bottle of wine. He played more with his food than he ate it, going so far as to construct a fairly precise replica of the Arc de Triomphe with his stiff mashed potatoes. As he carefully sculpted that edifice Dan confessed that he felt like an imposter. “An imposter?” Norris had asked. “An imposter,” Dan had confirmed. For eleven years, he said, he’d been pretending to be a doctor. Norris had told him he hadn’t been pretending anything. He’d been a doctor, and a good one at that. Dan shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. He told Norris about the voices he heard in his operating room, his nurses snickering at him, second guessing his every decision. Did he really want to make that incision there? Shouldn’t it be six inches lower? Does he even know where the abdomen was? He said he even half expected his patients to sit up on the operating table to plead that he not work on them. ‘He’s not a real doctor,’ he would imagine them crying. ‘Can’t anybody see that!?’ He said he started drinking to shut them up. Norris asked Dan why he’d bothered becoming a doctor at all, or why he hadn’t tried some other profession, if he felt that way. Dan had shrugged. “I don’t know, Norris,” he’d said. “I really don’t. I guess I always thought it would get better. It never did.” He said being confronted by Nurse Wilson would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Now he could stop pretending. He said he could have fought the accusations. The hospital would have sided with him he was sure, but then what? More voices, more lies, more pretension? No, this was an opportunity, one he didn’t see how he could refuse. “An opportunity for what?” Norris had asked. Dan stared down at his plate. Norris wondered if he’d heard him. Just then, on an isolated stage on the far side of the dining room, a small, blond woman tapped the perforated surface of a silver microphone. She adjusted a long silver stand to accommodate her height and said softly, “This is for August.” Then, in a voice so clear and pure it could have broken the hearts of angels she sang a plaintive song of a land she once knew in a lullaby. Norris and Dan watched her as her face contorted around the lyrics and she softly swayed to the flight of bluebirds and the images of rainbows. When she was done Dan rose from his seat and gave her a thunderous applause. “You go girl!” he yelled. The girl turned and smiled at him. “Thank you, thank you very much,” she intoned, like Elvis. Dan sat back down. “I don’t know what’s next Norris,” he said. He poured enough wine into his round bottomed goblet for a toast and held it aloft. “Here’s to whatever that might be,” he offered. “Roger that,” Norris said. He lifted his glass of dark beer. Clinking it against Dan’s goblet, he added, “To a rainbow of possibilities.


There’s a weed growing in the crack in the pavement outside my office building. It shouldn’t be causing me as much anxiety as it is. My coworkers are laughing at me because I’m insisting that we call the maintenance man and have him pull it. Just do it yourself, they laugh like crows at a funeral. Scared of a little dirt? They don’t get it. How could they? They don’t breathe the smog of the city and wield it like a weapon against the call of roaring nature. They don’t feel the heartbeat of the earth thrumming up through the heels of their too-expensive shoes as they walk down the streets. They don’t hear the whistles of the wind through the glass and steel giants singing like siren’s song in their bones. They don’t understand the sweet-dark petrichor scent that accompanies fresh rain on old concrete and know that it’s a promise, a pledge, a threat. They don’t look at the old trees in the park and see ancient warriors come to linger through the ages, trapped by steel jungles and buildings that grasp at the clouds. They don’t know what it means to have magic coursing through your blood, and have that magic be made of rampant root and raging river and star-spangled sky. It’s why I came to the city, the biggest human-carved place I could find. It was easy to get mystified in the magic of the mountains, to get swept up by the song of the sky. So I came here after I nearly got lost in the forest three years ago at a frat party, and I’ve tried to give everything I am to the city ever since. To just be a normal human. Not someone who listens to the tangle of roots underneath and how they're raging, desperate to be free. So instead of kicking up more of a fuss about the weed in the sidewalk crack, I go to find the maintenance man’s number instead. When he shows up, he’s giving me that look that all my coworkers have been giving me for the last three days. Like I’m just some prissy princess who can’t stand to get her hands dirty. “Where’s the plant?” He asks me. He’s gruff, with a rough beard and grimy hands, dirt shoved under his fingernails like he put it there on purpose. He’s got green eyes that are burnished bright against the darkness of his skin. But he doesn’t look at me directly, probably too disgusted in my perceived weakness to bother with politeness. I feel power surge in my chest and belly and I tamp it down with years of practice, telling myself that it’s not worth proving him wrong. I point and he can’t stifle a sigh. He kneels down and tugs the weed gently. It’s just a little try-hard dandelion. It shouldn’t put up a fight. It’s only got just a carrot-like tubular root, and once you’ve pulled it out, it’s gone and done. But it doesn’t budge when he pulls at it. I edge away from the weed. Sometimes they get ideas when I’m close to them, ideas about strengthening and deepening and growing... Oops. The weed trembles just a little bit, and then explodes in his hands. It reaches up, roots growing massive and buckling the concrete, cracking it with huge groans that remind me of the cranes building skyscrapers. That gentles its growth and I cling to my thought of metal and glass and concrete, standing up straight and tall and perfectly balanced, resting my weight on the balls of my feet and letting the plastic and synthetic of them hold me steady against the tides of the ground hungering deep beneath the city. Down, dying, dead, I think hard, focusing everything I am on the dandelion. It fights me but then gentles slowly, giant leaves browning and crumpling and falling off, slinking back down into the ground where it came from. When it’s gone I am terrified to look at the maintenance man. The drama only happened over the course of a few moments, and there’s not too many terrified bystanders, but he’s the one who had his hand around the thing. I distract myself for a moment by issuing a general memory spell. It was one of the first things I learned to do, and it’s easy even when I’m shaking and my heart is racing. Take a little oblivion from the universe - it has plenty to spare - and push it out along the air, using the currents that twist among the skyscrapers to touch everyone. But then I have to look at the maintenance man. I force myself to, cringing. I’m expecting him to be a bloody, plant-devoured mess. Because the green things are hungry. They’re always so hungry to take back their city and make the breakers of their land into nothing more than wretched pulp. But he’s not. He’s got his hand out. He holds two dandelions in it. They’re twin normal-sized spots of butter-yellow perfection against the grey of the steel and glass world. A grin flashes across his face and he takes one of the dandelions, tucking it behind his ear. A little shiver of power passes between us. “You ever get tired of the smog in your lungs?” He asks me. And it’s the wildness in his leaf-green eyes that catch me, hold me, take me with my blessing. “With every breath I take.” A grin breaks over his face as wild as the white-water rivers of the north. He offers me the second dandelion again and I take it with sure fingers, feeling the power surge again. It’s never so bad if there’s someone to share the burden. “Then I want to show you something,” he says, and this time he offers his bare, dirty hand. I take it, and our power sings in my bones and blood.


Jessie walked into the restaurant, anxious but excited to meet her blind date. Her friend, Peggy, had set it up. Telling her that the man was handsome and charming who had a good job and had been single so quiet a bit of time. Looking at her text messages she went back to check the information, “He’s wearing a dark blue shirt, hmm... okay.” Checking out the fancy restaurant, she made her way to the cocktail bar, sitting at one of the high tables. She felt slightly overdressed with her form fitting pale blue dress -- at least she thought ahead and wore smaller heels than she originally planned. She waited a couple more minutes, looking around to see if she could find her mystery date. “Ma’am, this came from the gentleman over there.” The bartender interrupted, sliding a red dirty martini her way as he pointed to the man in question. Jessie was pleasantly surprised, “Oh... thank you.” she turned and smiled at the man, who waved and was wearing a dark blue shirt. He made his way over and took a seat next to her, “Hi, I’m Mark.” “Jessie. It’s nice to meet you.” She could see why Peggy told her he was handsome and charming, his smile alone was dashin, and his blue eyes were sparkling. The next few minutes they spent introducing one another and lightly flirting. Jessie was having much more fun than she had expected to have with a blind date. Mark ordered them an appetizer from the menu which they shared as they continued talking. “So here’s a weird question,” Jessie started, her tone teasing. “What’s your best pick up line?” Mark thought for a moment, “Your hand sure looks heavy, do you mind if I hold it for you?” He said as he picked up Jessie’s hand. She laughed loudly at the cheesiness of such a line. “Very nice, very nice.” Mark smiled, “Thank you, it’s not too shabby.” “Oh it’s terrible, but yes, not too shabby.” Jessie joked. “Well, let’s see you do better,” Mark challenged with a smirk as he took a sip of his drink. Jessie tapped her chin, before shyly putting her brown hair behind one ear. “You’re so handsome that you made me forget my pick up line.” Mark hung his head as he chuckled. “That is much better than mine.” Jessie grinned. She and Mark continued their delightful date until Mark’s watch beeped. “Ah, dang, my shift’s. I’m sorry.” Mark explained. “I would love to call you.” Jessie wrote her number on a cocktail napkin and signed her name with it. “Here’s my number. Oh and I expect a call.” She raised an eyebrow and smiled. Mark kissed the back of her hand. “Yes ma’am.” He said his goodbyes and left. Jessie stayed, getting another drink as she thought about the best two hours she had in weeks. “Excuse me, is your name Jessie?” A man's voice asked. Jessie turned and saw a man with thick black glasses and curly auburn hair -- plus a dark blue shirt. “Yes?” “I’m Ian, Peggy set us up.” Ian said, giving a small shy grin. Jessie’s eyes widened. “Oh...” “Sorry I’m late, I got stuck in traffic.” He explained. Jessie’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at her phone. If Ian was telling the truth, he was an hour and a half late for their date. She tried to put on a smile and waved her hand to the seat next to her. “Are you hungry?” Ian took a seat and picked up the menu, “I’m vegan actually, so I’ll see what they have.” “Oh...” Jessie said somewhat stupidly. Ian gave her a delighted smile, Jessie was beautiful. Peggy was right, she seemed fun and carefree. “So, what do you do for a living?” He asked, his questions straightforward and a little rusty from disuse. Jessie laughed a little sarcastically, having explained all of this to Mark, who was apparently not her blind date. She repeated a lot of what she told Mark telling it now to Ian who showed little interest in what she did for work -- Jessie worked proudly as a phlebotomist at the local ER. Ian explained about his job and life as he ordered something to eat, not leaving any room for Jessie to ask questions or interrupt. It left Jessie feeling very much like there was going to be a test at the end of the night with a questionnaire included. Ian smiled as he took a drink of his club soda, continuing his talk about why his last girlfriend had left. He thought Jessie seemed very entertained. Jessie tapped her fingers on the table, her chin in her hand as she listened to Ian continue his monologue about his last relationship. She could see why the last poor girl had left. Time wasn’t moving nearly fast enough. At the end of the night Ian walked Jessie out of the restaurant, almost letting the door close on her as she exited. “Sorry about that.” Ian apologize. He held his hand out to shake. “It was so nice to meet you.” Jessie had been irked for the last hour and a half of her night, with a tight lipped smile she took his hand and shook it firmly. “Oh please, the pleasure was all mine.” She said, a little miffed. She was tired, irritated, and most of all her feet hurt even in her low heels. Ian handed her his phone number. “Here’s my cell.” He said, putting it into her hand. Jessie opened her mouth to protest but by then the valet had brought Ian’s car around and he left without so much as a goodbye. Jessie rolled her eyes as she turned and threw his number into the trash, pulling up Mark’s contact information she sent him a text that she was free next Wednesday. He replied quickly and they set a date for the movies. There was no way Ian was getting a second date -- that she was sure of. Ian drove home, calling Peggy to give her an update. “Hey! I think it went really well, Pegs. I’m looking forward to the next date.” Jessie called Peggy as she waited for a taxi, “Yeah, sorry Peggy, but Ian’s not the one for me.” Peggy laughed at the contradicting reactions to the blind dates. “That’s not what he said.” “Oh...I’m sure he didn’t.” Jessie said sarcastically.


"Can I go to Amanda’s party tonight?" I asked my dad. "Not tonight sweetie, plus you have school in the morning," said my dad. I sighed. "Your mother is coming home late tonight and it would ease her mind to know you were here safe," stated my dad. My mom is a nurse at the hospital and last week a girl came in injured from an attempted kidnapping by a man in a red pickup truck. Today, my mom comes home late because it is her last day before she goes on maternity leave. An hour later, I grab a snack from the kitchen and I overhear my dad on the phone with my mom. "I will probably still be up at 12 when you get here," I overheard my dad say. I tell my dad that I am going to bed early, so he will not bother me. I sneak out. At the party, I only had a couple of drinks but I made sure to stop myself. Older guys were there and I paid them no mind. One of the guys in particular kept eyeing me down and he was a total smoke show. He walked over to me and offered me a drink. I informed him that I had to drive back home and he insisted that "one more drink will not hurt." I drank half of it and it was very bitter tasting. I looked down at my phone and I saw that it was 11:47pm. I panicked. The guy walked me out and we both got into our vehicles. He drove a red pickup truck. I began to SPEED home because the party was about 10 minutes away from my house. I look in my rearview and I notice the red truck behind me. I am 7 minutes into my drive. I approach the last traffic light before I get to my house and the truck is still behind me. No cars are in front of me and the light is green, I accelerate. I glue my eyes back on the truck. He suddenly makes a turn down a street and I exhale in relief. I focus back on the road and I see that the traffic light is now red. I hit the brakes as fast as I could but it was too late. I crashed into another vehicle. The airbags burst out immediately. I was in shock, but I quickly remembered that I t-boned another person. I got out of the car crying from glass cuts and thinking about how I was going to tell my parents that I caused a wreck 2 minutes away from home. I get my phone out of my back pocket to get ready to call emergency services. It is 11:58pm. I finally get a better look into the car and I can not see the person’s face because it is covered with blood. There was no response. This person had on scrubs and was pregnant.


The world of Nuoath is no stranger to the conquerors upon its surface, from the current great three of Arkos, Dhaast, and Lady Parine to the previous legends of Benrun the Brutal, the Mad Queen Sadaar, and Gianla of Goch. Amongst the most notorious of these names, the bloodthirsty and seemingly untouchable Ulynder Vadastim is one that will never be forgotten. With each conqueror, though, is their second-in-command that barely receives the same notoriety. Midaul Kannad was such a person, yet his notoriety was nowhere near the infamy of his king, even after breaking faith with him. The trial was recorded in the Cycle of the Prince Two-Thousand and Forty-Seven, on the final day of the Summer Season in the city of Garstread, centered in the nation of Drebort. King Dorrack of Drebort, King Pilna of Sennidth, and King Helaak ka-Nashid from Galeen-ba-Teba had gathered with many of their countrymen, with the plant-like Crehlitt and many a Bestial member to witness the execution of former emperor Ulynder and his top officers, with Midaul kept at the very back. Midaul looked up to see the method of execution commonly called a "jolt-puller". By a series of ropes and pulleys, the large plank where the subject stood would fall open, dropping the person. At the same time, a heavy metal "stone" would slide down a slope to a drop chute. One end of a fiber cord would be looped thrice around the subject's neck with the other end being buried deep inside the weight, with the middle looped through another pulley system. The length of the fiber allowed a temporary drop for both person and stone until it went taunt; the heavier metal weight would fall while the subject would be yanked upward, the neck broken by the sudden shift from falling to hoisting. The result was the neck being snapped from the sudden shift, or "jolt"; thus, the machine was immortalized as the jolt-puller. This contraption and its first victim received their introductions from the arriving herald: "Behold, the tool of justice! By the decree of the three kings, by the verdict of our esteemed Sworn, and by the witness of you the people, the tyrant known as Ulynder Vadastim, better known as The Razer, will be dropped, jolted, and raised for proof of death. Any final statements, Sir 'Untouchable'?" The guards brought the tyrant forward, growling like a wild animal. Not one person didn't express their disapproval to this monster; he responded with his own roars of rage and self-mirth from a lack of remorse or even fear. Amongst his babble were these haunting words that the herald clearly heard despite the noise: "Not even the land will fully heal from the scars I inflicted upon it!" The herald turned to face the three monarchs, all nodding their heads. The herald signaled for two more guards to wrap the cord around Ulynder's hostile throat. Surprisingly, the Razer didn't fight against the incoming execution. He did try to bite the guards, desperate to spill blood one last time. Restraining him, the guards got the fiber tied and then cleared the plank. The head guard, wearing a helmet to obscure his face, grabbed the lever and pulled. All eyes beheld the smiling face of Emperor Ulynder before the sudden jolt had the smirk wiped off of his face. The deafening cries of both approval and rage hit almost as hard as the great stone now indenting the ground, the counterweight of the Emperor's corpse floating above and swinging in its death circle. The only ones not making any sound, aside from the dead body, were the three kings and the Sworn as they looked upon this work of theirs and agreed simultaneously that the deed was nearly done. From there, officer after officer loyal to Ulynder was led to the jolt-puller, joining their leader to oblivion. Though not quite reaching the malice of Ulynder, each one was still met with the same disdain and abhorrence for their part in their brutal partaking of his conquest. As the sun started its setting period, the herald pointed to the guards; "Bring up the Supreme Commander of Ulynder's forces!" Midaul was summoned by guards onto the stage. The echos of cheers and jeers died down to barely a whisper passing from one person to another. Even the Crehlitt murmured, which is an unusual sight given their more stoic approach as "observing plant people". The roars from a few Bestial tribes quieted down, with nary a growl from these fine warriors. The three kings spoke amongst themselves as the herald called out publicly, "Midaul Kannad, Supreme Commander of the former Emperor Ulynder, the first and only head of the established Estate of Kannad, which included this very place and you very witnesses. He was practically given this portion of your great land, mighty King Dorrack!" He turned and bowed to the mentioned monarch, who inclined his head in turn. The herald then looked at Midaul. "There were many witnesses upon your trial, almost all of them asking for your life to be spared from the clutches of the jolt-puller. There are members of the Crehlitt stating that you did what you could to heal their forests when Ulynder tried to burn their people down. There are Bestials who swear that, though you had killed many of their warriors, it was in battle or in honorable duel; they hold neither grudge nor slander to your name even after you returned the weapons back to their families. There were people here who gave account of your good works for them and their city." The herald smiled at the accused and whittled it down to a blunt line. "But we all know that it will take more than good deeds to save a man from justice. We have come to the verdicts, which I shall read out loud." The herald cleared his throat and prepared himself. "On the charges of conspiring with a tyrant as well as willful aiding and abetting officers of disgraceful content, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is guilty." The crowd gave their response in dissatisfaction, yet the herald continued; "On the charge of mass murder, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is innocent." With this, the crowd now showed favor, yet the herald proceeded with his hands raised to signal a need for quelling the noise. "On the charge of mass enslavement, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is guilty via association." At this, people started yelling out loud: "He released those slaves! We were never bound or forced! Spare him! Release him! Let him go!" The herald practically screamed his throat hoarse; "Hold, hold, good people! The Sworn, and the three kings, do agree that those under Midaul were eventually freed of being fettered and taxed. However, they remained as his servants, which has been taken into account. Let us not forget those who were still enslaved by his Emperor and the other officers thanks to his actions." Once the crowd was silent, the herald looked to Midaul. "On the charge of war crimes committed against the forces of King ka-Nashid, ranging from savage torture to cruel and unusual executions, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is innocent." What sounded like a wave of relief emanating from the crowd passed forth, and Midaul closed his eyes as if relieved. "Finally!" the herald cried out, causing a few of the audience to jump. "On the charges of espionage and sedition, as such to ease the steps of conquest of his king, the Sworn find Midaul innocent on the latter, yet guilty on the former." The multitude spoke, but more to each other rather than at the herald or even Midaul. The large Supreme Commander then stepped forward and said, "Good people, hear my confession!" Once the crowd was quiet, he started: "It is true that neither I nor any under my personal command spread any sort of information, be it propaganda or vile rumor, amongst the populace to sew discord and distrust amongst you. It is also true that I and my personal soldiers did place ourselves amongst you, watching the patterns of guards and nobles, looking upon your armies from afar, and noting your resources. However, for my part, I sought to minimize the damage so that you would not suffer exponentially. Several of my confidants, unfortunately, were killed off by Ulynder's own assassins in an attempt to hide the information. I have given every single written note and illustration to your respected kings and chieftains that they and all here will know that I speak the truth. I don't do so for myself, but on behalf of many a good man that once answered only to me." Though disappointment was upon many a face in the crowd, it was soon given to understanding; Midaul never lied to the people. This time, King Dorrack stepped forward, turning to the members of the Sworn; "You have this late confession. I and my cohorts are convinced, so what say you?" One of the hooded Sworn stepped forward. "Dear King, we the Sworn acknowledge the confession of the accused. Therefore, our verdict still stands." The member stepped back with the rest, and King Pilna now approached the people. "The discussion between the kings has been concluded. On such verdicts of willful actions to conquer as well as spy upon our nations, we would have passed the punishment of death." He raised his right arm as everyone started their uproar. "Not this time!" Peace followed the echo of anger, and King Pilna finished, "Not this time, for the actions of Midaul may have spared more than what Ulynder would have willingly fed to the fowls. He spoke the truth, we do have his research, and we would not be here if it wasn't for his betrayal of Ulynder, leading us to capture that beast." At this, King ka-Nashid came forward. "Ulynder has destroyed much of my home as he has to yours, Kings Dorrack and King Pilna. By our oath, we swore to see Ulynder jolted, and so we have. Our nation shall do what it can for each of yours until the damage is repaired. As for my say about Midaul, I have agreed with the kings and your Sworn about him being spared." Relief swept unto every face, but King ka-Nashid wasn't done. "But your laws are specific, and our treaty of alliance must be honored under such. The punishment has been agreed by we three and by your Sworn. Midaul's estates and assets are forfeit amongst our three kingdoms as reparations and his soldiers are to be sent home, never to pick up another weapon again. Midaul, himself, has no home." With this, the herald unlocked Midaul's ring-binds. A temporary cry of joy came from the crowd, but remembrance of ka-Nashid's words had them asking questions. The herald gave just one answer: "It is the judgement of our Sworn, supported by the allied monarchs gathered before you, that the former Supreme Commander known as Midaul Kannad is hereby banished and barred from the kingdoms of Drebort, Sennidth, and Galeen-ba-Teba." With that, he procured a red rag from his right pocket and a small flask of water from his left. Pouring the water upon the rag, he turned back to Midaul and firmly seized his right hand, tying the red rag around the wrist. Hearing and seeing all of this left the crowd more dead than a cemetery. They got what they wanted, but now they were going to lose this man of good action and fulfilled promises who once lorded over them with a fair hand that was now tied with a marker cloth, which will stain his wrist with a red ring that proved his banishment. King Dorrack concluded the spectacle: "Look up him, any and all! You have asked for mercy. He is given mercy, for he had given mercy! Let him pass through you and through the gates, unimpeded. Let him go to the boundary outside of our nations, to the jungles or mountains. Let him travel the great oceans to nations unknown, by his coin or by his merit, but let him never return. The day he is found in the nations of Drebort, Sennidth, or Galeen-ba-Teba is the day he will be killed on sight. Such is the law! Such is the fate of those who serve tyrants even with the best intentions!" This account was found in the storeroom of Drebort. One would have missed it as it was only one-and-a-half pages. The only other record of Midaul was in the testimony of the guards of that time, mentioning his removal from the execution stage to the border of Drebort. There was one sidenote from a guard named Lisk: "I walked behind the prisoner known as Midaul Kannad. The crowd parted for our company. A few faces turned away, but so many cried out in tears and voices for this prisoner. I didn't understand in that moment; he was a free man now, he was given life by His Majesty, King Dorrack, and by the verdict of the Sworn and the will of even these people. Why do they weep? What was his reign over them like that they would want him to stay?" "As we neared the gate, a little girl ran up and hugged his leg. 'Please, sir, don't go!' she sobbed as her mother and father came forward to take her back. 'You made our home good again, you pardoned my brother and returned him, please don't go!' Our captain demanded the girl release the prisoner, but then stopped when Midaul glared at him. The prisoner took the little girl's arms and knelt in front of her. 'Child,' he cooed, 'go back to your mother and father and brother. My heart is broken, but you will always have a piece in your home.' He then let her go and faced the gate, resuming his march to parts far away." A tyrant was given his due diligence, yet a spared man was still punished. Much is spoken about Ulynder, so famous for seeming untouchable as he slaughtered and plundered his enemies while destroying their cities that he earned the name, "The Razer". Stories and songs came forth of his acts, despite his reputation as a callous and ferocious tyrant. Yet, amongst the records, so little is said about his Supreme Commander. Perhaps it was due to what little knowledge is actually written about him, as all who knew him only saw the man and his actions and none asked him about his time before, or it might have been a way to distance this person from the literal incarnation of evil. Though a mighty warrior in his own right, this enigmatic individual spared the innocent from his blade and actually worked to improve the living conditions of his conquered quarry. May the King of the All and Ever never let us forget Midaul the Merciful.


It was late afternoon, a young boy in shabby clothes, of around 12 to 13 years of age, was about to finish his last errands. He was a local delivery boy who worked for an old baker; whose shop resided right across a maternity hospital. The old baker's shop was unusual and famous for its insipid architecture; as old as it looked, it was astoundingly creepy, just like its owner. He was at least 6 feet tall; he had a pale complexion; and as the neighboring shopkeepers would complain, smelled like a corpse. Hassan, the old baker, had a taste for traditional settings; for example, his shoes were very un-modern; his attire very Kashmiri like; and to say the least, his beliefs, very anti-modern. The young would call him a "piece of antique" that no longer needed to be in the modern space but kept in a museum, locked in a coffin, as if he'd come alive from the dead. Museum, like an aesthetic jail for people like him; the crowd creeping inside the museum with little tip-tap steps, and awing at the plight of these people. They were called "The olds" because of their horrifying appearance, and not to mention their wild and angry disposition for the modern tastes, and of course, the fanatic abhorrence for the young. Hassan's delivery boy, Yousuf, was a unique case, however. He was a charming little child, unsuited for work, for his age. Nobody works at that young age. Yousuf was a slum child, and he knew three things: hunger, family, and work. Outside this sphere, the world did not exist, and this old master, would not let him free. He was, in fact, a slave boy, a modern-day slave boy. Yousuf was his leverage, his support; people would laud this kid for his compassion, for his master, but at the same time, were jealous of his existence. They perceived him a threat, for two reasons: the baker was doing fine, financially; his business was blooming. And the kid received many praises from him. It was late afternoon, Yousuf was returning to his master's shop, and in the midst of the snowy road, he had an epiphany that his master had died. He could not bear it, things around him went black all of sudden, eyes rose up over the horizon like the sun; his master's eyes. Stars gave up their radiance and morphed into little chunks of bread. In trepidation, he ran for the bridge, that hanging bridge that connected the heavens, near the hospital and said, "All is over, master" and jumped into the black river. The hospital windows were open and all the pregnant wives sang in harmony: "My child, death is only sweet when the blackness comes. My child, death is only sweet when the old man comes". The olds came and paid their homage to the child and wept; their tears froze in the snowy winter. Yousuf, my only child, was dead.