Deep in the Herman Hallow Forest, past the Kluen Family Farm and the Galloway Village, sat a little old house on top of a little old hill. Now, in that little old house on that little old hill sat a little old man and his little old wife, Winston and Beatrice McCloy. Little old Winston and little old Beatrice lived very happily in their little old house on their little old hill. They did not have any children in their life together, but that was no problem. They were perfectly content. Winston had worked his young life at his father's mill, and he had spent his adult life running it. Beatrice spent her time mending the villagers' clothing, as well as baking pastries and cooking meals for wives who needed help. There was nothing extraordinary about the couple, and there was nothing extraordinary about their little old house on their little old hill. But one day, when Winston was headed home from bringing Allen Kluen a casserole that Beatrice had made for his family, he stumbled upon a magic flower! It was purple and glowing and had a teeny tiny face on its teeny tiny centre. Winston gasped as he picked up the flower, gently cradling it in his hands. "Don't worry," he said to the flower, "I will take care of you." The flower smiled brightly at him as he gently sprinkled water on its teeny tiny petals. It seemed to bristle in happiness, leaves stretching in the new care it was receiving. "Oh, thank you, mister! I really needed that!" Winston smiled at the flower and cuddled the plant to his face. "Of course! Anything I can do to help!" The flower smiled as it sat up in his palm, saying, "I am not just a flower, sir. I am a magical flower. I can grant you any wish you would like! Just name it!" Winston thought for a moment. He could ask for endless money, and he and Beatrice would never have to work again. But, then again, he liked to work and they made enough money to live comfortably. He could ask for a younger, beautiful wife. But he loved Beatrice with all of his heart. He could ask for a new mansion! But he loved his little old house on his little old hill. He wasn't sure, but he pursed his lips and nodded. "I want to be happy for the rest of my life!" he decided. The flower smiled at him and nodded, saying, "Then all you have to do is kill Beatrice." Winston was horrified! "K-Kill Beatrice? You want me to kill my wife?!" The flower seemed to grow cooler in his hands, its petals darker, yet its smile grew larger. It shrugged. "You said you want to live the rest of your life happily, right? Well, how can you do that with the nagging, free loading, good for nothing wife at your side?" Winston furrowed his eyebrows at the flower. He loved Beatrice! He could never harm a single hair I her head! How dare it speak to him like this! But before he could protest, the flower shrugged again. "But hey, that's up to you. Now that I've told you how to be happy for the rest of your life, I'll go back to being a regular flower until another waters me as you did." Winston was amazed. "If another waters you, they get a wish?" he asked. The flower nodded. "Yes. Until another waters me, I will be a regular flower during the day. At night, I will come to life, but only you will be able to see me move and hear me speak." Winston realised that he could not let this flower fall into the wrong hands. It was an evil flower. But the flower seemed to know what he was thinking and let out a shrill laugh, "You can't kill me, Winston McCloy. I'm magical." "Then I will never let another water you ever again. I will keep you by my side and make sure nobody sees your evil little heart," Winston decided. He tucked the flower in his pocket and headed home." ~ * ~ "Oh! What a lovely little flower!" Beatrice squealed as Winston dropped the flower into a cup of water. So long as the flower was in water, Beatrice would never feel the urge to water it. Winston nodded grimly, wanting to tell his wife to never go near or water the flower. But his little old wife was stubborn and telling her not to do it would only ensure that she did. So he kept quiet. "Where did you find it?" Beatrice asked him. "Just on my way home. What's for dinner?" Winston asked as he started to take his boots and coat off. Beatrice smacked her head in shock. "Oh, I've forgotten to put the ham in the oven! I'm sorry, Winny. It'll be an hour or so before dinner." Winston felt his stomach rumble, and his gaze moved to the flower. He could've sworn it was grinning to at him wickedly. "It's okay, Bea. I can wait." He went to his office, the flower in hand. He set the little cup on the windowsill and sat in his chair, staring at the flower until he was called for dinner. It whispered things to him, things he did not want to think about. He could not live without his wife, even if she was hard headed and stubborn and forgetful. Every morning, Winston changed the water in the cup. Every evening, he listened to its evil little whispers. "She's so annoying. What does she do all day? She's always late on dinner. She has an annoying laugh! Life would be so much better without her. Her head would make a lovely addition to the mantelpiece." Every day, its petals darkened along with his heart. He didn't sit with it at first. Not that it mattered. No matter where he was, he could hear the whisper as if it was directly beside his ear. He started to notice things, as well. Beatrice was clumsy. She was nosy. She made food for everybody and their family, but she never seemed able to have dinner ready on time. She nagged him day in and out about everything, from his shoes in the doorway to being even 5 minutes late. "Winston, you've tracked mud in!" "Winston, you can't be serious about that stench. You need to wash up immediately!" "Winston, why make a pot of coffee if you're just going to drink one cup?" "Must you insist on leaving your hats on the dining table?" "Dinner is running late, Winston, I forgot the marinade in the freezer." "Wash your hands before you eat!" "Did you remember to drop off the casserole at the Kluens'?" "Dinner will be up in a half hour, Winston, the chicken took a while to thaw." "Did you remember to water that flower of yours, Winston?" "Did you buy hand towels like I asked?" "Dinner will be late, Winston. Time just flew by today! Watched my shows, took a nap, and next thing I know, you're home!" "Dinner will be late." "Dinner will be late." "Dinner will be late." ~*~ "Are ready to be happy, Winston?" the flower asked him one night. Hatred had grown and harboured in his heart for the entire fortnight the flower had been with them. But he could not bring himself to murder his own wife. "Please. Please stop. No more," he begged. He was tired. He wanted the whispering to stop. "If you want it to stop, then you know what to do." The flower smiled at him brightly. Winston angrily stormed out and went to sleep, turning his back on Beatrice with her damned cold feet. Icicles seemed to cling to her lower appendages, but his rage kept his body warm as he faded off to a world where he was free from her annoyances. ~*~ The next morning, Winston woke up late. He rushed out of the house to get to his meeting on time. He barely made it with a breath to spare. The time flew by. He kept busy, and he put his all into the presentation. It wasn't until he was headed home afterward that he thought he had forgotten to water the plant. But when he got home, he was happy to see that the water levels were to par. He was pleased that, even in his rush, he remembered to save the world from yet another monster. "Perhaps I just needed a change of perspective. Maybe I was just imagining that stupid little flower due to the stress. That's probably it. There's no such thing as stupid, magic flowers," Winston thought to himself. The meeting had gone well, and he was in a good mood. Beatrice had made dinner early, and he didn't hear the voice at all while he was doting on his wife, happiness flooding his heart once again. He loved her. He could never kill her. He went to bed that night with an empty ear and a full heart. ~*~ "Didja hear about the McCloys?" Allen Kluen asked Boom Trevor at the general store in the village. Boom tilted his head with a half-hearted chuckle. "Did Winston finally get thrown in the pen? Enough bruises and cuts on Beatrice to throw him away for life, but she just had to defend him. Loved him to death." Allen nodded gravely. "To death is right. Winston didn't come to work the last few days. Sheriff went to their house on the hill to look for him." Boom gasped and looked at Allen with wide eyes. He couldn't believe it. His hands shook as he asked, "He did it? He finally killed her?" Allen shook his head. "Actually, they found Winston's head on the kitchen table. Beatrice had cooked his body into a dozen different meals, including casseroles that she had labelled to give to the neighbours. She had been eating him for 3 days. When they found her, she was whispering, 'Happy for the rest of my life.' They say she was putting chunks of his flesh into a little cup with a little purple flower in it." Boom's jaw had dropped. He was astounded. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Allen continued talking, but Boom wasn't really listening anymore. "Yeah, so they took her into custody, and the sheriff gave the flower to his little girl to take care of." Boom still couldn't get over it; little old Beatrice had killed her little old husband in their little old house on their little old hill.


My husband's name is Clark. When we were in high school, it used to be a pretty popular joke, to call him Superman. After all, he looked the part, with his dark hair and charming smile, not to mention the fact that he was the star of our football team. A perfect boy, my mother used to say. A perfect man, she now whispered to me, whenever we visited her. But, as some of you may know, when a relationship progresses, you start to look past the general, superficial traits that attracted you to a person and you start to learn about all the other little things that make them who they are. After some time, you love them more for those details than for what you first knew them for. Clark has many habits, many little quirks but the one that I enjoy the most, even if he despises it and will always shut me down whenever I mention it, is his sleep talking. Even when we were young, I already loved it, saw it as a way of looking directly into his psyché. Whenever he was stressed, sad or even aroused, I would know it, I would only have to listen as he slept and I would know *everything*. I spent hours upon hours just watching him as he slept and, even if his babbling wasn't always understandable, just the fact that I could know whether he was having a nightmare or not helped me in our relationship. It made me feel so close to him.I've never been annoyed by it, really. At least not until last month. Not until he started whispering other things than incoherent dreams and pieces of conversations that never happened. Not until he started talking about *them*. About the other women. The first time it happened, he had had a busy day at school, having had to organise a Sports day with several other teachers. At dinner, he barely had enough energy left to eat his food and he collapsed into our bed as soon as he reached it, leaving me to deal with the kids. This was no trouble however and, as soon as they were safely tucked into bed, I walked into our bedroom, only to hear him mutter : "Mary..." He said it a few more times, sounding quite stressed out. Already, my mind was whirling. Mary? Who was Mary? A coworker? A friend he didn't tell me about? I spent the next thirty minutes trying to come up with an explanation for this strange bit of sleeptalking and ended up convincing myself that it was nothing more than a strange dream, that nothing was amiss. The next morning, I still asked him if he had any new coworkers. He didn't. Still, it felt good to be sure. The next evening, it happened again. I stayed awake on purpose, my heart beating fast in my chest, waiting for him to say it to say her name again. I waited for a full hour before he spoke. "Janet..." he whispered, and I felt my heart drop. One name was fine but two? Two names of women I didn't know, I had never heard of? I was starting to get suspicious and, from now on, I would stop myself from falling asleep before him, listening with a heavy heart as he listed more names. Mary. Janet. Claire. Alex. When they were apart, those names seemed innofensive enough but, when I finally put them together, a sense of dread immediately fell upon me. It couldn't be... No. No this was just a coïncidence. But still, I couldn't help but wonder, couldn't help but think that... One Saturday, when he left for his usual morning run, I took his phone. It was easy to get in, his password had always been the same : our first daughter's birthdate. Once it was unlocked, I didn't waste any time and quickly went through his messages, noting that he seemed to have a particularly active correspondance with *Sara*, the Spanish teacher at his school, which made me frown. Beyond that, there was no mentions of any of the other women. I opened Safari. As soon as I typed in the first name, Mary, Google gave me an answer. Mary Adams. I shuddered. It was just as I feared. Why would he look her up? Sure, they had been close in high school but why would he search for her right now? Didn't he know that she was-- Biting my lips, I typed in Janet. Janet Clearwater. My former best friend in college. I looked at her, at her smiling face and at her brown, messy curls and, for a second, my heart stung a bit. The day she died had been one of the most difficult of my life. Stabbed to death in a backstreet alley, after partying in a club. It always seemed wrong for her, but-- Claire Sanders. I barely remembered her but, when my eyes landed on her face, blurry, in the old newspaper article, I recognised her as one of his first colleagues. She had been very friendly, always taking us to places. Clark and her used to be so close... Alex. Alexandra Turner. This one, out of all of them, stung the most. She had killed herself three months prior, slitting her wrists in her bathtub, when her husband was away from home. She had been such a good family friend, a friend of Clark ever since he was a little kid...  What were those four dead women doing in my husband's search history? Did he miss them? All of them at the same time? Did he feel bad about their death? Nostalgic maybe? On a whim, I looked up his search history. He had spent hours looking into the women's deaths, into the investigation about them, into conspiracy theories that contradicted the police's version of events. Alex' death was suspect apparently, people were theorizing that she had not killed herself, that someone had actually murdered her. I had no idea theories like that existed and the fact that Clark had read them, according to his history, made me wince. Why would he look at that? I was shaking by now, mostly from shock. Deep inside, I already knew the answer to my question and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. Clark couldn't have-- but if he hadn't, why where those names coming back now? Why had he looked for them? For the first time in my life, I started feeling afraid of my husband, of what he could do to me if he really had... No. No there was no way. It couldn't be that. It couldn't be. I had to focus, let it go. Clark was just feeling nostalgic about his old friends, trying to revive his memories, there was nothing suspicious about this. With a shaky smile, I put the phone back on the kitchen table and went to get a glass of water. I should focus on other things, things that mattered. Sara for example. From their texts, she seemed to be close to Clark. *Too close*. My grip tightened around the glass and, for a moment, I almost thought I was going to break it. Not wanting to deal with the cleaning up and the pain of an injured hand, I slowly relaxed my grip, breathing in and out deeply. Sara. That bitch. I had to deal with her, then I could speak to Clark. Figure out what was wrong with him.  He was always easier to deal with when he was grieving.


So idk if this is really that good or not. I just like stories like this they're so creative and it's interesting seeing a different perspective of humanity from someone else. I wanted to kind of explore what it would really mean to switch species so rapidly especially one so drastic going from a dog to a human. I sort of got inspired by family guy cuz you know talking dog so there might be a few references to it but not anything big. I also used the surgery from flowers for algernon to explain why Brian adjusted to the human world so quickly. But anyway without further ado here's the story if you like please comment or upvote if not tell me what I can do better and I'll do my best to fix it. BRIAN This wasn’t what he imagined when he discovered he had become a human. No this was not at all what he thought being human would be like. He still remembered that day how could he not it was the day he had in essence been born. He used to be a dog before the transformation well not quite a dog yet back then he was around 17 months in dog years but in human years in his late teens. When he stepped out of the small room where he had been transformed in he was surprised to see how young he was. Why in dog years he was just a few months away from becoming a dog and therefore taking over the responsibility of pack leader. It was a great honor to be a pack leader passed down from generation to generation their duty was to protect their family and home guarding it with their life and making sure everything was running smoothly. The closest thing he could compare it to in human terms would be a kind of chief like the ones who in the past before cities and towns developed who would watch over his people making important decisions and keeping his people safe. His father pack leader or rather the formal pack leader he should say was in his opinion terrible at his job and was a disgrace to the position. He wouldn’t help anyone else on the farm preferring to spend his days drinking weird-smelling water that he stole from the farmer and abandoning his duty to at least stay near the farm to hunt in the woods ten miles from any sign of civilization. He clenched his teeth at the memory of his father and wished for the millionth time that he could go back and dethrone him leaving the spot open for one of his brothers to take. He didn’t want to be pack leader at least no anymore. The human world for all it’s faults had opened his eyes and let him discover exactly how beautiful and exciting it really was. It made him smile sometimes at just how far he had come from the small puppy that was blind to anything but the farm and never even thought of leaving it to explore what else was out there to a human that was what many saw as an educated, handsome and polite young man. He had done a great many things in his nine years as a human. The man who invented the machine and in a sense created Brian had after two days to see if any accidental side effects or problems with changing a dog to a human elected to do an experimental surgery on him would increase his intelligence and make it so his brain would pick up on things quickly thereby making it so by the time he was ready to reverse the surgery and put him back to a normal human state he would have already learned enough about being human to function normally in society without anything that would point to him changing species at any time in his life. When he awoke from the second surgery two weeks later it was like he was a whole new person. Well not entirely a new person rather it was like he had suddenly gained a ton of new skills in such a short time that to the untrained eye it would seem like he was a new person. But he wasn’t he still had the same personality and traits he had as a dog just adjusted to fit his new human form. He was still just as loyal and protective as he was before only now it was a little bit dulled and confined to a select few people that he privately thought of as family considering his actual family had probably died off long ago. It wasn’t like he would know he hadn’t been back to the farm since his transformation not really seeing the point if they couldn’t understand him. In the back of his mind however he had a small lingering fear that the farm would be too different now after so much time had past all the animals being traded in for new ones the barn having new hay inside and perhaps a fresh coat of paint if the farmers grandkids decided to once they’ve inherited it after his passing. He was perfectly happy holding on to the memory of his past life not wanting it to be tainted by the new reality of the place. Deciding he was done with reminiscing on his past and that he'd really ought to pay attention to his present after all he had been invited to the opening of this gallery it would be a waste if he didn’t at least observe the pieces and strike up a conversation with some of the other patrons. He looked down at his glass of wine swirling it around in a lazy manner. He hated the stuff too bitter and fruity for his taste but it was served at events like these and he didn’t really care enough to ask for something different. He quickly scanned the room trying to find someone that might not mind his sad attempts at making small talk. That was one thing that he had never gotten rid of. He knew no matter how much he tried no matter how many classes he took and how many books he read he would never fully pass as a human. Even though he tried with educating himself (having to sacrifice his monthly check from Stewie the man who created him as what he called compensation for the trauma of swapping species without consent he didn’t really understand why he still sent him the money considering the fact that he clearly wasn’t traumatized by the ordeal and had even thanked the man quite a few times for bringing him into this strange new world but regardless he was happy enough with the money it paid for his education and what was left of it was more than enough for rent and basic necessities.) Dressing the part in many different types of clothes something he was still a little confused over (why did humans have to have so many different clothes seriously this one was for fancy events, this one was for dancing, this one was for outside and don’t even get him started on the gender thing. Why did it matter what was in their pants what did that have to do with the drapes of cloth they wore over their strange bipedal frame. It was too much of a headache for him to unravel the mystery of human clothing customs so he pawned off the responsibility to Stewie who luckily had a hobby of designing and shopping for outfits.) He kept his body in good shape as well wanting to make sure this body he had been gifted with would last as long as possible. (He actually didn’t mind this one playing sports was fun and reminded him of running through the forest and hunting a particularly clever squirrel or if he was lucky a rabbit.) He was pulled out of his thoughts by someone calling out his name. “Brian! I didn’t know you were here. I’m so glad you came. Are you enjoying the wine?” Brian smiled politely and felt himself beginning to relax. It was Tony one of the few people he called a friend and the only one he could actually have a conversation with without worrying if they thought him weird. “Hey Tony I just got here an hour ago where’ve you been I was starting to think I'd have to talk to these stuck up blue bloods that wouldn’t know Hemingway from Dickinson.” At this Tony laughed “Ah Brian you haven’t changed a bit. Oh I heard about your play a passing fancy good God man how do you do it I mean a five-star review from the New York theatre league, a sold-out house for weeks, and I heard even Oprah was talking about it on her show.” Brian rolled his eyes. “Oh really Oprah's shilling it now wow what a big accomplishment I’ve really made it now soon the seat'll be packed with wine drunk stay-at-home moms that follow the words of Oprah and Doctor Phil like they were Gospel.” Tony slung his arm around Brian's shoulder “Ah come on don’t be like that. Enjoy your success for once stop being so trapped in that big brain of yours and focus on the good parts of your work. I swear you get so caught up in the details and mistakes that aren’t there you can’t see what’s right in front of you. If I had half your talent I'd be filthy rich living it up in Hollywood going to parties every day of the week.” Brian chuckled softly as to not draw anymore attention to themselves even though Tony had a habit of stealing the show no matter where he went. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to him that tranquil spring day they met in advanced philosophy all those years ago only a year after he had first transformed. “Well some of us are more happy without millions of eyes on us and being surrounded by adoring fans that just want you for the money and your reputation. Besides I have enough money I’m not really inclined to get trapped in the capitalist system of greed and keeping up with the Joneses.” Tony let out a loud hyena sounding laugh clearly not caring if people stared and gossiped about them afterwards. “Oh Brian so shy and noble its one of the things I love about you but seriously man live in the moment for once you don’t have to run everything through an extreme moral and ethical test before you try it. Just have fun for once enjoy what you have and don’t dwell on what could have been. At least let me take you out to lunch and celebrate my treat I’ll even let you pick as long as it’s not that nasty burger place I swear I don’t know why you love that place so much they stuff their burgers to the brim with meat and then drown the thing in their secret sauce which is just cheesy barbecue sauce.” Brian shoved him playfully. “Hey they’re not that bad besides I know you like their fries and they have the best pies.” Tony smiled glad to see his friend finally lighten up a little bit too much time in that head of his would drive anyone crazy. “Ok ok I admit it they do have good fries and those pies are heaven but I still say the burgers are shit. Come on we can go after this boring things over. I thought this place was supposed to have good art and new pieces from talented newbies all I’m seeing is the same old paintings and statues I’ve seen millions of times in every art gallery in history. Seriously would it kill them to do something original for once I thought that was one of the most important parts of art doing something new and unique not just repeat what someone else did.” As Brian stood there listening to his friends mildly drunk rant about the sad state of the art industry and how it was a great injustice that they were removing all creative arts classes in schools replacing them with more test prep lessons and STEM courses he felt relaxed, happy almost. No wait definitely happy he could feel his foot tapping on the tile floor making quick taps that sounded like small pebbles hitting a glass windowpane. Foot tapping had been translated from tail wagging in the shift from dog to human. When he was sitting down his leg would shake instead rocking the whole table if he were sitting at one. Tony teased him saying he felt like an earthquake was happening every time he was happy. But Brian knew he didn’t mind just like he didn’t mind the long tangents he went into sometimes about whatever had caught his eye or more often than not his wrath. He grinned as he listened to Tony making some obviously well rehearsed but no less eloquent and captivating points about how important art was to the world and how more people needed to understand just how valuable it really was. Maybe even though it wasn’t what he expected being human would be like he got the feeling that this was where he was supposed to be.


The restaurant in question rode the line between fast food and a proper sit down experience, but the quality of the food was unquestionably delicious. Ash had decided to stop by Dale's Deal Diner on the way home from work for a change of pace. Rhea normally brought her dinner, but she wanted to spare her "inn mate" (just up the hall) from cooking just once. The Triple D (as it was often called) had advertised a special menu for tonight featuring local produce, including opportunities to buy said produce fresh. The new menu items featured avocados, pickles, sweet potatoes, and some more exotic vegetables that she knew came from far away. It left her questioning if vegetables brought over from a dead world could be considered imports. All the same, she'd included sweet potato fries and avocado burgers in her takeout order, anticipating that those would go over well with her group. She was particularly looking forward to the sweet potatoes, if only to further her running joke of being an egregiously orange person, but she didn't doubt that they'd taste good too. While she was waiting at the counter, she was about to ask about the origin of the produce promotion when a familiar voice called out to her. "Asherah?" She turned around to see a fluffy creature with a green body and a red head festooned with a small chef's hat waddle out of the kitchen doors. "Watenou?" she asked, stuffing down several sources of confusion. "What are you doing here?" The Gremelon leader adjusted his hat. "Supplying the ingredients for a special event," he said. "Yes, before you ask, all of the produce on tonight's menu is Gremelon-grown." "That's not really surprising, but are you cooking the new recipes too?" Ash knew that the Gremelons were avid gardeners and farmers, but she was less certain about their culinary skills. "Cooking some, assisting with others," Watenou said. "Burgers and other meats are still handled by the regular chefs. However, I am seasoning the new vegetarian options and guiding the kitchen with our more... different offerings." A beat passed. "You ordered the sweet potato fries, did you not? I think you'll like the blend I chose for them." "I'm, uh, looking forward to it," Ash replied. "It's not every day you experience food cooked by a fuzzy guy with what would be advanced degree in several natural sciences." Watenou grinned and puffed his chest out, one snaggletooth showing. "I believe there are fewer greater honors in life than escorting the literal fruits and vegetables of one's labor from farm to table." "That sounds very... what do they call it? On brand for you," Ash said, smiling for the first time in the whole exchange and finally shoving aside the thoughts of the planet she once shared with the Gremelon leader. "I take it that's a compliment?" Watenou gave a short chuckle. "And I take it you'll be at next Saturday's farmer's market at Canteloop?" "Of course, of course. Rhea loved the barklogs you sold her at the last one." Ash's gaze averted as she remembered the strange veggie; it looked like a cucumber but it had a woody, almost nutty texture and flavor beyond the skin, which supposedly gave it its name. "Perhaps I ought to give your rabbit-eared friend some recipes from the 'old world' as well," Watenou mused, tapping what would have been his chin. "What better way to keep them alive?" "Oh gosh, you're right!" Ash felt astounded that she hadn't thought about that sooner. "We can post them on the NexusNet too!" "I like the sound of that," Watenou said, nodding. "I am curious to see what twists they would take as they went across the Akatasphere." "Order 21 for Cole!" "That's my cue." Ash scooped up the bag. "I'd better get these back to Rhea and Khiro before they get cold. See you at the farmer's market!" "Khiro? Ah, yes, the cat man. Her significant other. I've never seen someone eat a salad with that sort of gusto." Watenou waved a paw in farewell. "I'll gather my favorite recipes for our next stream on the NexusNet. Until then!" As Ash left the diner, she couldn't help but feel buoyed by the notion of preserving more than just stories from a world long gone. Food and recipes were a part of culture, and those who would enjoy the next postings would understand just a bit more of like was life on Aylith before the end. It made sense that Watenou, devoted to preserving nature, would carry along the lost world's culture as well.


I come to a stop in front of a large wide building. This was it, this is what we had been working toward for months. I get out of my car and almost trip over myself with excitement and nervousness. I head up the path to the building were I will see if our hard work would pay off. I open the door to the building and head to the front desk. A women looks up from her computer. "How can I help you sir?" "I am here for the baking championship." The woman nods and looks at her computer. "What is your name?" "Leandor Running's." I say nervously. The woman, still looking at her computer nods. "And I see you already filled out the information online?" "Yes." "Go down the hall and to the right, there is going to be a person waiting there. Tell them your name and they will give you your ID for the day." "Thank you." I say awkwardly and shuffle down the hall. When I get to the door the lady was telling me about a tall, lanky man was waiting for me. "Leandor Running's I am assuming." "Yes." I answer still nervous. He hands me an ID that has my name, age and date and pushes me through the door. When I get to the other side I see the rest of my team there with worried looks. "Where have you been?" Hisses Lorie. I look down at the time, "I still have ten minutes." "We wanted you here 30 minutes early to discuss tactics and our plan of action." Interjects Caroline, in her stern voice that always seemed to frighten me. "But no matter that, we can start now." So for the next ten minutes we went over and recited different ingredients and techniques that we might need to win. Then the door at the back of the room slide open. "It must be time." Whispers Lorie as she squares her shoulders. "We've got this guys." I say firmly, even though I felt like I was about to throw up. We walk out into a large space, the other team coming out a door on the other side. The room is large with high arched ceilings. There are two working stations for the teams and large ovens and mounds of ingredients lining the walls. We walk over to the station with our names and put on the aprons assigned to us. A moment later four people step into the room. A dark and muscular man who looked like a frown was engraved onto his face, a smiling and slightly overweight woman. Another women with cat like eyes and a white haired, wrinkled man. The smiling woman stepped forward and began to talk. "Welcome, to the final challenge, you have fought long and hard to get here now it is time to determine which team is the ultimate winner. As you know we started out with ten teams and after each challenge a team was eliminated. After this challenges it will be up to me and the judges to determine which team deserves the full scholar ship to 'The Culinary Institute of America." She paused a minute letting us take it in. "This challenge is simple you will have two hours to create the largest and tastiest cookie you can. It can be any flavor or design, it just has to be larger than the other teams. And your time starts now!" My stomach flipped over. I raced over to our cooking station with Caroline and Lorie. "We should make simple chocolate chip cookies, that way we can expand it if we need to." I suggest quickly. "No they will be expecting that." Says Lorie, "We should do lemon meringue cookies." "That will take to long. I think Leandor is right we need to do something simple so we can make it as big as possible." Caroline says, glancing at the other team. Lorie give a slight frown. "How about we do double chocolate chip." I said, thinking quickly. Lorie still looked skeptical but agreed. Lorie and I raced off to get the ingredients while Caroline got out the supplies. We quickly made three batches of dough. I could have also sworn the clock was moving on double time. We knew other team was good, we had faced them in out previous competitions. And from our point of view it looked like they had made a very extensive cookie. Thirty minutes to go and heart rates were beating fast. We were on our tenth batch when the real problem began. The judges got out of their seats and began walking over to us. "Could we please have your attention." This time it was the wrinkled man talking. I look over at the clock which had stopped. "I see you have thirty minutes left." He said his voice projecting off the high arched sealing. "Which is enough time for you to make a batch of twelve cookies completely different to the giant cookie you are currently making." He finished and the clock began to move again. "I'll do it." Exclaimed Lorie with a flustered expression. "You guys keep making the cookie." She then raced off to go get more ingredients. Caroline and I ran back toward the cookie. Bigger and Bigger we made it and pushed it into the oven. The minutes ticked by like seconds. Twenty minutes, Ten minutes, Five minutes, Lorie's batch of cookies were being pulled out of the oven. Three minutes, One minute, our big cookie was pulled out of the oven. Time. "Hands up!" Shouted the judges all together. I look over at Lorie who seemed close to tears and Caroline who wore a stone expression. "Please take off your aprons and go back to the room in which you came. From there please wait to be called." Explained the smiling judge. We went back to out room and sat down in the cushioned seat with a sigh. Nobody said anything. Just a few minutes ago every minute seemed like a second, now every minute seemed like an hour. Then finally we got called. I took a deep breath and walked out the door to the judges. They all looked at us, each pare of eyes boring into my skull. "What did you make for us today?" Asked the dark judge who was gesturing to the batch of cookies, plus the large cookie. "We-" I began but Caroline cut me off. "We made a large double chip cookie, with a batch of twelve lemon cookies." She said with an extremely clear voice. "And do you know how large it is." Asked the cat eyed judge. "No ma'am." I said before Caroline could cut me off. The cat eyed woman took out a tape measure and measured the cookie. She then wrote something down in a notebook. "Well should we give it a try." Asked the smiling judge. Lorie then wen up and served them all a piece of the large cookie and a lemon cookie. I held my breath. The wrinkled man was the first to speak. "It is a very well crafted cookie, however it is doughy on the inside as if it did not cook long enough." "I agree." Said the dark man, his dark eyes studying the cookie. "It is very doughy but the double chocolate gives it just the right flavor." They discussed the cookie for a few more minutes before moving on to the lemon cookie. The judges brought it to their mouths and tasted, they then all made a similar face with their mouths all screwed up. "It is very sour, I think perhaps there was a mistake in the measuring." Said the cat eyes woman. The other judges murmured their agreement and talked a few moments more on the cookie before sending us back to our waiting room. As I walked back I felt my heart drop and could do nothing more than wait for them to tell us who won. We sat there for what seemed like an eternity, then finally they called us all back out. I looked at the other group walking out and noticed they did not seem very confidant either. The smiling judge stepped up. "Good job today all of you, you fought really hard and amazed us with your talents in baking." She turned to the other team. "You guys did really well, your cookie was three feet long and had a height of one inch, however when plating your cookies one fell onto the ground and you could no longer use it, leaving you with only eleven cookies." She then turned to us. "You guys preformed today just as well, your cookie was three feet, 6 inches long and it had had a height of one inch. You had all twelve cookies but they were extremely sour." She paused and looked around at all of us. I felt so nervous I could barely feel anything at all. "The winning team who will be winning a four year scholar ship to 'The Culinary Institute of America ' is...Leandor Running, Caroline Rawlings and Lorie Collins." She finished with a great big smile on her face. My heart soard, my mind flew. We had won, I was going to culinary school, I was going to make something of myself. I looked at my team and smiled, after all the stress we went through in the last month, we had finally won it, evrything we had gone through was worth it and I could have not been more grateful.


It was a dreary day in North Toowoomba, it had rained all through the night and fog was hanging thick across the city. This wasn’t going to stop Kyle though, not today, nothing was going to stop him. Kyle took his time getting dressed, deliberately choosing out his outfit. A tight set of underwear to prevent chaffing, loose fitting shorts and an over-sized shirt to hide his body. He had to sit to be able to get his brand new bright red Nike runners on. Kyle wasn’t sure he’d ever worn runners before, he thought that he probably had at some point when he was a child, but he couldn’t pinpoint ever having worn a pair. Kyle had spent the best part of two weeks preparing for this day. He had read thousands of fitness articles online pouring over the seemingly limitless weight loss advice. He’d read about the importance of a good pair of running shoes, how a fitness routine should ramp up slowly to allow the body to adjust, he’d even spent time learning the science behind how fat actually leaves the body. He’d gone out and bought his outfit especially, knowing that he would be donning this outfit three times a week for the rest of the year. It was two weeks ago that Kyle had made the decision that he was going to do this. He’d already begun adjusting his eating habits, cutting out soda and starting to cook his own meals even if they were only simple and nowhere as delicious as KFC or McDonalds. Kyle had always struggled with his weight, even as a child. Back at school he’d been teased over it with kids calling him things like man-tits and lard-ass. At the time he’d acted as if he didn’t mind, like it was all water off a ducks back. Truth was though that it had destroyed him inside and every day after school he would turn to the only thing he knew to make him feel better: Fast Food. He’d loved fast food his whole life, KFC, McDonalds, Burger King... These foods had been both his best friends and his worst enemies. They had brought him comfort when he was depressed and offered him a small sparkle of light in an otherwise dark lonely existence. At the same time these foods had fueled his weight gain and helped him to balloon out to over 200 Kgs. It was time for a change, time for Kyle to start living. “Well this is it” Kyle muttered to himself as he stepped out the front door. Quickly he tried to visualise his goal, what would it look like for him to be thin, to be normal, to be healthy. Slowly Kyle made his way down his front stairs, out the front gate and turned to look down his street. “Only 2 Kms” he said to himself “Only 2”. With a sense of fear and apprehension Kyle started, forcing one foot in front of the other he began to move off. “Concentrate on breathing, take it slow, it’s not a sprint its a marathon” the advice from the thousands of articles starting to roll through Kyle’s head as he went. He wondered if anyone was watching him, if any one was laughing at this whale of a human attempting to run. Logically he knew that it was unlikely, the fog made it impossible for him to see more than ten feet in front of him so how would anyone else be able to see him. But still his emotional side started to drop insidious ideas into his head “They are all laughing at you” “You look ridiculous”. Kyle knew this would happen and he was prepared. Just as the articles had taught him he began to focus. “Breath in for 2 paces, breath out for 2 paces.” slowly Kyle continued concentrating on each step and each breath, not allowing his mind to wander. As Kyle reached toward the end of his block he could feel his legs starting to protest, an unfamiliar burn taking hold of his thighs and calves. But still Kyle kept at it pace after pace, meter after meter. A huge smile shot across Kyle’s face as he turned around at the corner of Isaac St and Marmont Dr. He knew that he had reached the halfway point. He just needed to make it back home now. The turn around slowed Kyle, and he could now feel his face flush with heat. The weight of his body made running harder for him, each pace he took there was nearly a quarter tonne being moved. Kyle began to wheeze as he passed the Bourne Family house. This was it he thought, only 300 meters to go. Just as he started to mentally celebrate Kyle’s body went in to full protest, his heart rate spiked, he could no longer control his breathing. With legs that felt as though they were made of concrete, Kyle began to slow. Huffing and puffing and feeling a previously unknown pain Kyle’s brain went into over-drive to convince him to stop. To give up. To walk. But there it was, his fence line, only 50 meters left now. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when he was this close, he’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again. No Kyle would not slow, Kyle would not walk. Today was his day. With a near herculean effort Kyle forced himself to pick up pace. And finally, with his heart beating like a Viking war drum and an unbearable acid burn in his legs Kyle reached the small white gate that marked the end of his track. As he hitched over vomiting into his front garden Kyle felt it. For the first time in as long as he could remember Kyle felt proud. Not of someone else, not of a friend achieving a goal, or of his Mum winning another sewing competition. No for the first time in his life Kyle felt proud of himself. Kyle would run again. But first, it was time for some water and a long sit down.


Note: The story is about high school bullying and makes references to suicide attempts, but no details. It is also is about spells and revenge. Oreo I was one of the unfortunate students bullied in junior high and high school. Known as the black-white girl, and the ugly duckling who never had a date, boyfriend, or a sexual experience, not even a kiss. So I was thrilled to be going to my 10-year high school reunion. Because the never been kissed ugly duckling virgin black-white girl whose classmates made me feel like a loser were in for a surprise. You see, I overcame the cruelness they inflicted on me; grew up, flourished and am now a sought-after bachelorette. I’m also a popular Tik-Tok beauty, fashion, and lifestyle influencer, so the high school reunion committee hired me to do the tablescaping for the event because I am known as the Princess of Fab Tables, and the school and reunion committee like to celebrate the successes of alumni . I could not wait to have my “how do you like me now” moment and watch my former tormentors pick their jaws up off the floor. As I was basking in my fantasy, I was interrupted by a ring from my doorbell. My ring cam reveals that it is a FedEx delivery driver holding a package. I open the door and the driver hands me his electronic pad to sign so I can receive the package. Wondering as I cursive my name onto the pad, what could be so important it required a signature. My overactive imagination took over and I started thinking, this could be a bomb. I laugh to myself, take the package, close the door, walk into my living room, and sit down on the floor to open the box. I pull out a colorful and nicely wrapped package with fancy ribbons attached. As I rip the wrapping, I can see a decorative round tin and I pull it through the ripped paper. The tin is labeled with a script font that reads Tessa’s Custom-made Deliciously Awesome Creations . I loosen the seal from the tin and lift up the lid, there are cookies and a card inside. I remove the card from its place on top of the cookies and what I see makes my heart race and my hands tremble. There are an assortment of white powdered cookies and chocolate-coated cookies but in the center, there is a cookie that stood out from all the rest, it is a cookie that looked like a fancy Oreo. So, my shaking hands slowly opened up the card. Written inside in a very slobby fashion were the words, “See You at the Reunion Miss Oreo” and it was signed Jackson. Jackson tormented me throughout high school and was the first fool to label me an Oreo Cookie (you know black on the outside white on the inside), the Oreo label and other teasing by him and my classmates caused me extreme anguish that resulted in three suicide attempts. If my mom had not pulled me out of school and enrolled me in the homeschool option the school district offered, I would be dead. As I stared at that one odd cookie in the tin, I felt those old feelings consuming me, I wanted to die. I put the lid back on the cookie tin, opened my front door, walked down my driveway, and deposited the wretched gift into my trash receptacle on the curb. I could hear Jackson’s voice saying Oreo over and over again in the breeze that permeated the air; it was like his voice was chasing me, so I raced back into my house, slammed my door to stop his intruding voice, but it was too late, the thoughts of suicide flooded my mind. I was frightened. As a teenager my suicide attempts were impulsive and triggered by the constant bullying I endured while attending public school. But the safe space homeschooling provided and having a therapist eventually gave me the power and confidence I needed to archive those memories. However, Jackson’s malicious gift brought the cruelness I endured in the past out of the archives. My mind was reeling, as adult me tried to use the techniques my therapist had taught teenage me when faced with remnants of the past. Nothing was working. So, I ran from room to room in my house trying to silence the suicidal thoughts. Then I heard the doorbell, three quick rings in a row, a pause and then one ring, it was the ring sequence Pebbles, my bestie, used to let me know it was her at the door. Her custom ring saved my life. I rush to open the door. Pebbles immediately looks into my red swollen eyes which feel as if they are about to pop out of their sockets and says, “what is wrong Chiquita?” Yes, Chiquita is my name, and no I wasn’t named after the banana. I was the youngest of seven children and the only girl, so my parents named me Chiquita, “little girl.” Pebbles never knew about my past, so she made us ice cream sundaes, which we devour as we sit on the couch in my bedroom, and I tell her the story of my tormented school days and Jackson. She asked what triggered me, so I told her about the package I received and what was in it. Pebbles called Jackson a name so vile, I quivered. She then asked me what I did with the cookies. When she learned I had trashed them, she said I needed to go retrieve them, so I did but not without incident. There is a homeless couple who frequents the neighborhood rummaging through trash receptacles looking for discarded trash they see as treasure. I always leave them a recyclable bag next to my trash bin with water, gift cards, and new clothes. But they still go through my receptacle. This evening was no exception, and they found the discarded cookies. I ran up to them and asked them politely to return them to me. I told them I was angry at my boyfriend and threw the cookies away in haste. Yuck, that lie made me vomit in my throat. They still didn’t want to return the cookies, but. luckily for me I was having Popeyes delivered by a food delivery service and the driver drove up during my negotiations with the couple and they happily traded the cookies for two hot meals. As I walk back into the house with the tin of cookies, Pebbles grabs the tin from my hands, retreats to my kitchen, and remains there for ten minutes before returning to the living room where she had left me. Oh, did I forget to mention that Pebbles dabbles in spells and in our circle of friends is known as the “Sweet Witch.” She once performed a spell that permanently relieved my migraines and a spell that convinced a stalker stalking a friend to turn himself into the police. However, on this night the Sweet Witch was a bit less sweet. When Pebbles returned from the kitchen, her voice is icy cold when she speaks to me and says, “Take these cookies to the reunion on Friday and when Jackson approaches you, place the villainous cookie in your mouth, chew, and swallow. He will disappear from the reunion and will never bother you again.” I ask her, “um, what if he is married and has children?” She responded, “believe me when I tell you those custom-made cookies gave off some unbelievably bad vibes. Jackson is an abusive man physically and mentally to many people and his infidelity has caused many tears.” She smiles at me, and her voice returns to its soft lyrical tone, as she says, “trust me.” I ordered more Popeyes and Pebbles spent the night, and we watched 1980s teen flicks into the early morning before drifting off to sleep. Friday finally arrived and while I could have had a date, I chose to go solo to make a statement. I wore a backless, high neck, shimmery purple, midi dress with a mermaid hem that a friend designed. My shoes were clear high-heeled pumps with rhinestone accents, my makeup was minimal. I wore my light brown pressed hair in a bubble braid that cascaded down my back, and I adorned my ears with large rhinestone hoop earrings. I walk into the hotel where the reunion was being held. I could feel the spirit of karma as I enter the ballroom and admire my incredible tablescaping, and I made sure I was fashionably late to get the pick your jaws up off the floor moment I craved. Yes, I was ego driven at first, but I realized when I entered the ballroom, I felt self-validated and that was all I needed. As if by magic or more likely divine intervention, joy and self-love warmed every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, the feeling was interrupted when Jackson walks up to me, says hello, smirks, and says, “did you receive my gift?” He also smirks when informing me that someone on the reunion planning committee gave him my address. I forgot I was holding the tin of cookies, so I thanked him as I opened the tin, took out the designated cookie, popped it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed it with delight. I turned and walked away from Jackson who was the Master of Ceremonies for the reunion. Ten minutes after my encounter with him, Jackson could not be found to perform his duties. But it was not unusual for Jackson not to follow through on his promises, It was something he was guilty of doing numerous times in high school, especially if something he thought better presented itself. So the reunion went on without him. A few days after the reunion his family reported him missing. That was two years ago, and Jackson has never been found. -----I guess that’s how the cookie crumbles.


Deep in the northern forests of a land that may or may not be mythical, there exists a tribe that has forgotten the art of dying. Occasionally, one of the more foolish or unfortunate of their number would fall out of a tree, drown, or even get themselves eaten by wolves or bears. But, apart from these rare instances, death eluded them. The climate was temperate, never too hot or cold. Rainfall kept the streams full and the trees plump and green, yet the sun still shone on most days. They were a happy people, a simple people with a simple God. Early each morning, before the day’s business began, they would gather and offer their one prayer- That today, of all days, would not be the day that they rediscovered death. Not even the elders could recall when they’d forgotten how to die, it just slowly grew out of fashion. They’d learned to be sensible though, the forest provided their every need, and they in return, were careful not to ask too much of it. To keep the forest happy, they kept their population stable, always careful not to outgrow their resources. To achieve this, each year they had the breeding festival. They had many other festivals as well. They had a Sunhigh and a Sunlow festival. They had two Midsun festivals. They had a festival to thank the creatures of the forest for providing them with meat, and they had another festival to thank other creatures for not using them as meat. They had a single festival in honour of their low-maintenance God - to thank him for his continuing gift of not dying. And they had an Old Moon festival, once each lunar cycle. These were the main ones. Naturally, because life was good, and food and drink were in abundance, spontaneous festivals could and would break out on any given evening. But the festival to end all festivals was the breeding festival. For it was here that each year the tribe would gather and in a sequence of rituals and challenges, the tribesmen and women would choose those who would breed that particular year. It was part ballet, part bordello and part rutting season. Preparations would begin months before the festival. Men and women of an age neither too young, nor too old would make their intentions known. The women would prove their fertility by creating huge shows of the flowers of the forest. Stunning blooms of orchids and heathers, bluebells and daffodils would adorn the village, each woman usually guided and chaperoned by a grandmother or a great-grandmother. The men would grow the fruits and roots of the forest. In the weeks running up to the festival, the villagers would feast on rich soups made from sumptuous smoothroot, and stews of venison and bitter-sweet anisroot. The children would grow fat from the abundance of bramble and redberry pies, all sweetened with heather honey straight from the villager’s beehives. During those weeks, the villagers partied nightly, enjoying gallon upon gallon of the sweet, seductive mead. For the contestants, the competition was already intense. Games of Machiavellian politics were played behind the scenes, alliances were formed and broken daily. Gifts were showered on anyone who could have even the slightest influence. For the hopefuls it was a deadly serious game, for the rest of the villagers, it was the annual soap opera. Each year the numbers to be chosen would vary. The figure was dependent on how many of the villagers had managed, in some unfortunate way, to defy what their God had granted them. It was also determined by how successful the previous winners had been at fulfilling their responsibilities. For a native, failure to breed was the biggest burden to live with, a humiliation that would lurk for decades, well past the age of fertility. This morning, the morning of the breeding festival, the God of eternal life had been kind to them. The rains that had been plentiful throughout the night, had ceased as the sun rose. In the bright morning light, the villagers gathered for the morning prayer. There was excitement in the air and the promise of the day to come filled everyone’s thoughts. Perhaps it was this excitement that took the potency from their prayers. Perhaps, God looked at them and thought, ‘you know what, that’s a half-hearted affair of a prayer. I need to remind them what’s what.’ Or perhaps he was just having a bad day and thought to himself, ‘fuck them!’ Or perhaps there was no God, they were merely flukes of nature. And nature, that blind goddess, can take as well as give. The villagers remained blissfully unaware of this, the prayer was hurriedly ended and almost seamlessly the procession began. A dozen naked women led the way. The chosen ones, to be whittled down to three, they gyrated and danced as they went. All bosom and buttock, swinging provocatively. The drummers followed behind, playing the march of the maidens. A seductive rhythm beat out on the stretched deerskin drums that were ceremoniously used on this day only. The men followed, fifteen of them. There were always more men, the mark was set higher. The demands of the day were harsh and unforgiving. They danced too, encased in their suits of thorns. They reached the centre of the village. Scaffolding, towering higher than the canopy of the forest, ringed the central area. It shone and glistened in the morning sun. The blooms the maidens had nurtured for months decorated the entire structure. The sun blazed through them, bathing the arena in glorious shades that flickered and danced in the gentle breeze. The maidens danced their way to a small dais of raised ground that stood in the centre. The elders of the village sat in a circle around the makeshift stage. They were unknown centuries old but still wiry and strong, they held aloft the torches of wisdom. The hopeful men formed a ring behind them and behind them were the women of the village. The women watched with great interest, approving, or disapproving of the dancers as personal loyalties dictated. Finally, the remaining men of the village lined up behind them, facing outwards, away from the stage. A tradition born of common sense ensured the still hot-blooded males were barred from watching this most enticing of displays. A steady supply of mead fed to them by the women unfortunate enough to have missed out as this year’s chosen helped temper their disappointment. The chosen women danced, the elders watched in silent appraisal, the chosen men stood in their suits of thorns, praying for arousal, and the women folk cheered and cajoled. And the men drank their mead and joked about frustration. The day was just beginning. Sir Barney Wormpole had never seen such a thing in his life, and he’d seen a lot of things. He was a native of a small group of islands that sat nestled along the coast of a northern continent. He was their foremost explorer and the clumsiest. Sir Barney’s homeland was small, yet despite its diminutive size, it was powerful. Its influence webbed out across the globe, it ruled whole continents, raping them of their natural resources. It was a nation that could, and often did, fight a dozen wars simultaneously and win them all, such was its power. Sir Barney was not a soldier. He thought of himself as an enlightened soul, he was born to explore. He had no interest in what natural resources could be pilfered from the lands he discovered. He had no interest in raping the native women and enslaving the men. He was merely curious; it was a trait that had always been there, within him. From his earliest memories, all he had ever wanted to do was to see what lay over the horizon. His parents were wealthy plantation owners. Although they’d never seen the thousands of acres they owned or cared about the slaves that laboured on the fields. They preferred to stay on the temperate island on which they’d been born and lead the carefree existence of the aristocracy. Even from an early age, the young Sir Barney had been different. Taking advantage of his parent’s massive estate, he’d taken to disappearing for days on end. He would wander off into the hills with their rolling acres of dense forestry and foliage. He learned to live off the land and be at one with the nature that surrounded it. And in a lot of instances, obliterate it. His clumsiness was as inherent in him as was his need to explore. He never set out with the intention of destroying large amounts of wherever he went. He certainly would never intentionally condemn a species to extinction, but that’s what normally happened. It was on one of his first forays into the forest that surrounded his parent’s mansion that this unfortunate tendency manifested itself. Barney was delighted to have discovered how to make fire from just some dried moss and a couple of sticks. For a week he stayed in the forest, each night lighting a new fire from the moss that he kept smouldering, wrapped in waxy leaves and tucked away safely in his knapsack. It had been a long hot summer and the ground was dry, Barney had taken every precaution, aware of the danger. When he decided that he’d better return home, he’d meticulously dampened the moss and the firepit. The moss was resilient stuff, a spark was left. A spark that defied the dampness and bided its time. It took a week, but after it was finished, ten thousand acres of forest were a smouldering wasteland. And the last breeding pair of a falcon hunted to the edge of extinction was accounted for. And, so it went. On a fruitless journey to a distant mountain range, he spent weeks searching for a herd of cattle-like creatures that rumours said existed in the vicinity. He never did find them, but he did wipe them out in an avalanche he caused by dislodging a boulder on a remote ridge. On an island in a distant ocean, he came across a colony of flightless seagulls. They were a friendly species, they had no natural predators and the forest flourished with bugs and grubs to feast on. Flight had become unnecessary, their wings were an evolutionary dead end, mere stumps. They almost rushed to greet Barney and his men as they disembarked to explore the island. They left the birds in peace and taking a breeding pair with them, they left the island paradise. A pregnant cat had jumped ship and a year later there was barely a feather left. The two birds he’d taken with him had died of seasickness and terror. A flower he’d picked on one side of an arid mountain range and carried with him to the other side had grown with such ferocity that within a year it had throttled the crops of the natives. All but starving a nation. The tool he’d left with a small, isolated population living on an island paradise of lush forests and azure seas in a southern ocean, had given them the ability to chop down trees. An ability they took to with relish. Less than ten years later the island was a barren rock and the islanders were nowhere to be seen. Wars, famines and extinctions followed in his path, facts that he mostly was blissfully unaware of. He was older now, his joints creaked and his back ached. The expeditions he undertook were now more modest. He stayed closer to home and never more than a few days away from civilisation. He’d thought his days of discovery were long gone, for despite its size, the forest of the northern land was too well known to harbour any great secrets, or so he’d always believed. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We’ve never seen the likes of this before, Smithers.” “No, sir,” agreed Smithers, long-suffering Smithers. Smithers who would really prefer to be sitting at home in his modest cottage drinking a cup of tea by the fire. Sitting at peace while his missus whistled to herself as she prepared the evening meal. He’d spent a lifetime as an unsung hero, trailing in his master’s footsteps. Always looking over his shoulder at the events that seemed to follow them and wondering to himself. “They look a friendly enough lot,” said Sir Barney. “I think it’s time to introduce ourselves.” Before Smithers could open his mouth to object Sir Barney had stood up and with his cane swinging by his side was striding off towards the village. The natives weren’t sure whether they, themselves, were friendly or not. In their remembered history they hadn’t really had an instance to find out, due to never having met anyone from outside of the tribe before. They had a word for friend but not for enemy, within the tribe everyone was a friend or ‘blesme.’ The men of the village noticed them first. Wooden pitchers of mead were forgotten about as the strange-looking pair in even stranger-looking clothes emerged from the forest. Some had their pitchers held as if glued to their mouths, some dropped them in astonishment. A woman stopped serving the men and turned to look at what had grabbed their attention. She squealed in astonishment, others followed, the men stood up, women stopped watching. The chosen men forgot all about thoughts of arousal. The drummers stopped beating. The maidens stopped dancing. The elders were the last to notice, they were angry at first, nothing like this had ever happened at the breeding festival before, it was sacrilege! But the anger subsided, morphing into confusion and bewilderment as the villagers parted to allow them to see the figures striding towards them. The tribe were about to discover whether they were a friendly people or not. There was no stopping Sir Barney. He was an explorer, discovering things was what he did. Recently, he’d come to accept that all his great discoveries were behind him, this was too good a chance to miss. Sir Barney strode straight up to the villagers, a silent avenue had opened allowing the elders and Sir Barney to consider each other. The whole village was in silence, you could hear a pine needle drop. Sir Barney broke the silence, he put his hand to his mouth. “Ahh... Ahh... Ahh... Choo!” The sneeze exploded out of him. As one, the villagers jumped back in astonishment. Never had they seen a human do such a thing. “Bless me,” said Sir Barney. The elders looked at each other uncertainly. Then Oldoak the eldest of them all smiled. “Blesme,” he said. The other elders joined in, they all smiled at Sir Barney. “Blesme,” they said in unison. “Ahh!... Ahh!... Choo!” Sir Barney sneezed again. “Bless me,” he exclaimed again. The villagers had just discovered that they were indeed, a friendly tribe. Spontaneously the whole village responded, “Ahh.. Ahh... Choo! Blesme,” they shouted as one. It was a cry that filled the forest for the rest of the day and throughout the night. Sir Barney and Smithers were welcomed with open arms. The celebrations went on long into the night, flaming pine torches lit the scaffolding, the colours reflecting upon the dancers and the thorn-suited men. Never had there been a breeding festival like it before. Gallons of mead were dispatched, great platters of venison and sweetroot and huge berry pies were devoured. And each time Sir Barney sneezed the whole village responded. The next morning the sun rose too early for the villagers. They had no word for illness, no means of communicating the fact that a lot of them were beginning to feel quite strange, their throats tickled, and their noses itched, they felt dizzy and somehow dissociated from everything. Some didn’t turn up for prayer. Sir Barney had come to a decision, this was one discovery he would keep to himself. It was much to Smithers relief when Sir Barney told him that they were going to leave that morning and say nothing to anyone about what they’d discovered. He did take an orchid of such beauty, the likes of which had never been seen in his homeland. It would give him something to present to his queen. The villagers watched in silence as they left, there was a different feel to the day, like nothing they’d experienced before, they watched the men leave, exchanging nervous glances with their neighbours and friends. Ten minutes after they left, Oldoak put his hand to his mouth. “Ahh... Ahh... Choo!” He looked surprised, “bless me,” he said quietly. It only took a week for the virus to obliterate the population. Sir Barney returned home, and on a bended knee, he presented the rare bloom to his queen. The elderly head of state smiled at Sir Barney, accepted the flower and took a sniff at the exotic scent. She suffered a massive allergic reaction and was dead within a minute. Sir Barney was beheaded the next day. Smithers went home and had a cup of tea.


I lay on my back on my bed, my quilt pulled up to my chin, and closed my eyes. I visualized a door in the dark, just like Dr. Green had told me to do. Mentally, I took a step towards it. Two steps. My bare feet landing on cold, flat stone. Beneath the nearing door, I could see the bar of light, faintly yellow and bright in the dark. A breath of warm air emanated from the crack, stirring the cuffs of my pajama bottoms around my ankles. I placed my hand on the door handle. It felt sun warm. I opened it. I was blinded a bit at first, as I always was. The westward sun entered the door unshaded. But my eyes adjusted as I stepped out into the long grass and onto the green hill that sloped down to the white beach. I was looking down on the cove. A sheer rise of rock towered on either side. I turned to look at the door, as I did every time. It was an uncanny frame standing in the grass. The sun cast a long rectangle of light on the gray stone in the darkness. Beyond the door, the hill rose to a dense forest of tropical trees. The warm wind brushed past me, carrying the scent of the sea and flowers and tobacco smoke. I turned back and started to descend the hill, very conscious of how the sun and the wind felt on my thin pajamas. They felt good. On the white stretch of beach was a shack. It was a wooden fixture that fit the quiet, untamed terrain, made of knotted limbs and shady palms. That is where I knew Jack would be. This is where he lived. Down the hill I stepped, heedless of stone or thorn or stinger. Tall flowers with heads that shimmered like purple carnival glass bobbed as I passed. I crossed the beach, the sand just as soft as the grass. As I approached the shack, I saw his burly figure sitting on a sun bleached piece of driftwood, his back to me and a long bamboo fishing rod between his legs. His red hair was hidden by a straw hat, and puffs of smoke rose above his head as he tugged absently at the fishing pole. I came up beside him and sat in the sand next to the driftwood. “Hey there, boyo,” said Jack, his black pipe shifted to the side of his mouth. He kept his eyes on water. The water was the almost unnaturally clear blue I had seen pictures of in brochures for Caribbean vacations. Schools of silver fish were visible as they swirled and spiraled as one beneath the surface of the shallow water. “Anything biting?” I asked, but I knew that there was. The fish would always bite. “You bet.” He glanced down and gave a wink. “We’ll be having calico fish tonight.” I don’t know if calico fish are a real creature, but here they were brilliant, fat things that Jack hauled out of the water every evening in the cove. They were enormous, gold and black, and whiskered like a catfish. Their underbellies reminded me of pearl, and their meat was tender and rich. Jack leaned forward as the end of his bamboo rod dipped in his hands. “Think I got one now,” he said. Later, when the sun was a dark red suggestion on the horizon, Jack handed me a thick green leaf with a cut of calico steaming up from it on a bed of rice. The smell of spices and sweet fish rose with the heat of it. I held it in my lap and took the wooden fork that he offered as well. Jack sat in the sand across the fire from me. He didn’t bother with his fork, preferring instead to tear thick chunks off his cut and pop the white meat into his mouth. His great beard worked up and down as he chewed. I began to cut mine and chew as well. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said with his mouth full. “I know.” My mouth was also full. “Thought maybe I wouldn’t see you again.” “I know.” He was looking at me over the fire, bushy eyebrows arched. But I said nothing more. The first time I had eaten that fish, I was maybe eight. I might have been ten. I had been here before. I had been here lots of times. The therapist had said that I should close my eyes and picture a door. Picture a door that opens up to the happiest place you can think of. When I had laid in bed that night and pictured that door, this cove was what I found on the other side. I had rolled down the hill. I had ran and tumbled through the waves. I had wandered through the tropical trees and sunbeams, looking for strange fruit and watching the unlikely pair of a bear and a tiger chasing each other in play. It was a happy, safe place, if a bit lonely. Jack had not been there in the early days. One day Terry threw Jack away. He cinched him up in a garbage bag with several other toys of mine along with the kitchen trash. He said later that he was sorry, that he didn’t think that I still played with dolls. That night I had opened the door to the cove with swollen eyes, a salty mouth, and sobs still hitching in my chest. That was the first time I saw the shack on the beach. It was the day Jack arrived. I found him sitting on a piece of driftwood, his fishing line cast impossibly far out into the deep blue. It’s how I would usually find him. He had turned to me and winked. “Alright, boyo?” he’d said. “Alright, boyo?” he said to me now. Our fish was gone, eaten in silence. Only now the stillness was broken by the soft calls of birds I couldn’t name from back in the trees. Jack knew the names of all the birds. The rouge backlight on the horizon was gone, and in its absence, every one of the billion stars stood clear in the sky, and every one of the billion stars were reflected in the wavering mirror of the ocean. “No,” I said. He nodded thoughtfully, then spit in the sand. “Why don’t we go inside? I’ll get us some tea.” He raised himself with a grunt and brushed at the sand on his overalls. He grabbed the cool end of one of the sticks in the flames and carried the fire into the shack. I stood, also dusting myself, but kept my eyes on the ocean. I turned and followed him inside. “You have that look you get,” he said as he lit the wood beneath an enormous black cauldron that hung in the corner of the shack. It was three quarters filled with water. I seated myself at the rough wooden table, the wooden fork still in my fist. The flames were making the room flicker a warm orange. I looked out the open window to watch the stars undulate on the small waves. “I’m sorry,” I said. He laughed. “Ain’t nothing to be sorry for. It’s what I expect.” He was taking items off the nearby shelf and dropping them with a splash into the cauldron. “This place isn’t very useful if you’re happy, is it?” “That’s not entirely true,” I said. “I’ve come here happy. Lots of times.” Jack gave the cauldron a perfunctory stir then turned back to the table. He pulled back a chair and settled into it, his arm resting on the table. “That’s right. Because that’s when you’ve got questions.” I had sought Jack’s advice more than once. More than many times. It was over a meal of fruit and calico fish that he counseled me through my first real childhood crush. He had nodded and sliced a pear and something he called a camaberry while I confessed endlessly the strange new feelings and emotions that I was experiencing. It might have been the first time I had admitted that I even liked girls. The teasing from my friends had, up to that point, caused me to refuse even acknowledging their existence. Jack had listened and gently prodded until I had said everything I had to say about the subject. Then he had handed me my fruit and fish and said, “And how d’ya feel?” “Good and weird,” I had said. In high school, Jack and I had once spent an afternoon building the stone lighthouse that topped the south bluff of the cove. It was a lighthouse that stood only three feet, and served only as something for us to look at in the dark from the beach. While we worked, I had talked about the future. I talked about college and careers and friends. He had puffed on his pipe between grunts as he placed massive stones in a small, rising circle. I really only talked. Every now and then he’d pause and sit on his handiwork and ask questions. “Is that really what you think? Are you sure that is what you want? Is she the only reason? Does that make you happy?” Each of his questions grinded at my certainty like a whetstone until it was sharp edged and useful. I looked up at the south bluff and noticed for the first time that the lighthouse was lit. It shone bright yellow over the waters. Jack had not left me to light it. It must have never gone out since the first day Jack and struck flint and steel to the pool of oil he had poured into its bronze basin. Jack dipped a mug into the bubbling cauldron, then set it steaming in front of me. There were three tiny leaves floating on the surface of the murky water. “So which is it?” he asked as he took his seat again. “Are ya sad, or do ya have questions?” “Both. Neither.” “Is it about Mel-” “You know what it’s about.” Jack, who had been raising his own mug to his lips, paused. “Yes. I do.” He took a long gulp, which should have burned his throat. I watched the leaves in my cup float around each other. “Are you going to?” he asked. “I think so.” Jack had urged me to propose to Melly. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with her?” he’d asked. We had been wandering through the trees, looking for fruit. Jack had told me the name of each one I did not recognize. Camaberries. Golden Nestberries. Poppoes. He would laugh loud and rough every time the tiger and the bear tore past us, one chasing the other. I had answered yes. “Then try to spend the rest of your life with her.” Jack had held me the next year when she broke off the engagement. My head on his chest and fingers in his wool sweater. His heavy hand had patted my head while I sobbed through my account of what it was like the first time she did not say “I love you” back. “I’m always a child here,” I said after I finally took a sip of tea. “I just realized that.” “What do you mean?” “That night Melly left.” I put my hands around the mug, feeling the warmth. “I sat on your lap. I’ve known you since I was ten. I’ve never grown to your height. You’ve always been so much bigger.” Jack had always been big enough to carry me. Once we had constructed an impossible flying contraption out of sticks and palm leaves. It worked like a hang-glider. Jack had strapped it to his back and leapt off the north bluff, pulling me with him by my arms. We had soared over the crystal blue ocean, past sea gulls and blue jays and bright pink watermoths. His enormous fists were closed around my wrists, and I had dangled in the sea salty air, the wind whipping my pajamas around my body. “You’ll always be a little one to me,” Jack grinned. “What do you think is wrong with me, Jack?” Jack leaned forward, his forearm resting on the table. “Boy, there ain’t nothing wrong with you. Even Dr. Green said there ain’t nothing wrong with you.” “I haven’t seen Dr. Green since I was a child,” I said, pulling my mug closer. “Don’t make it any less true.” “Jack.” I stood up and began to pace. “That was said to an irrational child with irrational fears. I’m a man. And I still always fail.” Jack grumbled, deep in his chest. “Then this is about Melly.” “No. No it isn’t.” I first saw Dr. Green when I was seven. I do not remember all of my childhood, and I do not remember understanding why I had to see her. I only remember my school drawing of me and mommy smiling outside our house and Terry frowning inside the dog kennel. My teacher was concerned by it. I had drawn it after mom had died. “I mean, sort of it is.” I was really pacing now. I paced right out the door. Jack followed me. “It was hard. The breakup was hard, but Jack.” I turned and looked at him now. He was standing in the doorway. His body took up the entire frame. A black silhouette in orange. “It was what the breakup meant.” “What do you think it meant?” I was standing on the edge of the grass now. One foot on the soft green blades and the other half buried in sand. I was looking up at the sky, my hands on top of my head. “My mom loved me,” I began. My memories of her were a handful of brilliant moments that stand out of the hazy memory of childhood. I could remember her smiling face and curly brown hair as she showed me how to roll socks together. I could remember her asking me what Santa got me that Christmas. I could remember her concerned face as she turned up the radio in the car to listen to some upsetting news story. I remember her telling me to eat at least three more bites of the green beans before I could go play. I could just remember a few things, but I could remember that she loved me. “And Terry loved my mom,” I continued. “He loved her and because he loved her, he was more than willing to take care of me. We were...” I paused and looked back at Jack, searching for the words. “A package deal.” Jack stepped out of the doorway and took a couple steps toward the water. He took a deep breath of the sea air and waited, listening. “Anyway.” I dropped my hands and walked toward him. I stood beside him on the sand. “When Mom died, he was stuck with me.” I could remember the first time he drove me to school after Mom had died. When he picked me up later, he had asked me how my day was. I didn’t answer, and he didn’t say anything else on the drive back. “He wasn’t bad, I guess. He just didn’t want me. He wished that he didn’t have to take care of me.” Terry had taken me to Disney World twice. He had attended all of my school plays and spelling bees. He had been there in the hospital when my appendix ruptured. But he had never asked how my day had been again after that first day. He had never read the short story that I got published in the school paper. He had never called after I had moved out. “I didn’t like that feeling. I felt unwanted.” “I know,” Jack said. Out in the water, a blue whale leaped out above the surface, rising to full height and above, glistening with the starlight. He arced over the water and fell back in with a splash that reverberated like thunder. After a few moments, the lapping waves at our feet pulsed stronger and louder as the whale’s impact reached the shore. “Are you saying Melly brought those feelings back?” he said. “She loved me.” I shifted in the sand, digging my toes into the dense, wet grains as the newly energized waves splashed at my feet. “I know that she did. I know that she loved me as much as I know Mom loved me.” I could remember waking up from a nap with her. Our noses almost touching and her eyes already open and smiling and out of focus just inches from my own. “And then she stopped.” Jack placed his large, rough hand on my shoulder. “You know that that happens, son. You’ve seen it happen to so many people you know.” “I know. I know that. But,” I looked up at him. “You know that her parents never liked me either, right?” Jack nodded. Of course he knew. “I know that her breaking off the engagement was a relief for them. People were relieved that someone was not going to have to be stuck with me. That she was someone who deserved better.” I was surprised to feel a lump starting to grow in my throat again. “I can understand that people change. But knowing that I was simply not good enough to be wanted hurts more than...” I trailed off. Abruptly, I let myself fall backward onto the sand. My fall was slow, and the landing was not jarring. The sand conformed to my body, and I could feel the warm ocean begin to soak the bottoms of my pajama pants. I stared up at the sky as Jack hunkered down to join me. He settled his enormous frame into the sand beside me and placed an already lit pipe in his teeth. At the angle that he held it, the glowing ashes should have tumbled out into his face. But they did not. In that position, I was aware of both the sand and the bed beneath my body. I was aware of the of the starlight on my face and the quilt that was pulled up to my chin. I was aware of the great bearded man beside me, and I was aware of the new bottle of sleeping pills and tall glass of water that waited for me on my nightstand. “There’s nothing good enough in me, Jack.” “I’m in you,” Jack said. Three billowing puffs of smoke rose like signals with each word. “Don’t you think I’m good?” “Of course I do. Of course I do, Jack. That is why I want to be here instead. That’s why I want to live here with you. I want to live in this world and go beyond the cove. I want to ride out on the ocean with you.” As I spoke, my body began to rise off the ground. I felt the sand and grass fall away from me as I drifted upward, toward the billion gleaming stars. “I want to go out there, Jack.” I reached my hand outward toward the endless glittering sky. “I want to explore new worlds and meet new people and eat new fruit and find new animals.” I felt Jack’s hand gently take my bare foot and pull me back to the earth. I landed where I had originally lain. Jack was sitting up now, looking down at me. “Boyo. This place, these worlds,” he swept his arm out, gesturing at the sea and sky, “they will be destroyed with you. When your life ends, so does mine. So does all of this.” For a moment I continued to stare up at the sky before turning to Jack. “It does?” “Yes, of course it does. This world is you. This goodness is you.” I turned my head from the sky and looked at Jack. “I thought that if I weren’t there, I would be here. I thought that I would just be here forever.” “Why would you think that? This is your creation. It dies with you.” My eyes widened as I considered that. “Are you sure?” Jack stood and twisted. The bones in his back cracked loudly. “How could it be any other way? You don’t leave that world and enter this one. You exist in both. You can feel your bed now. You can feel your quilt. I know this because I am you, boyo. This world is you.” I thought of the pills by my bed. I thought of how close I was to swallowing this world whole. “What would you say to a man who thought this world was rubbish?” Jack asked. The question caught me off guard. “I would think he were stupid,” I said honestly. “What would you say to Melly if she saw this world and found it lacking?” “I would say she doesn’t know what she is talking about. This place is wonderful.” Jack took in a deep breath. “It is, isn’t it?” The waves were still lapping at my feet. The birds were still calling in the starlight. The calico fish were still swirling in schools. “Yeah.” “Have you seen my new boat?” I sat up and saw for the first time a small raft rocking gently in cove, a thick rope strung between it and a jutting rock. I shook my head. “Nuh-uh.” “You said you wanted to see new people and new places.” He reached down and grabbed my outstretched hand, hauling me to my feet. “Well, I’m not doing anything at the moment, are you?” As Jack launched us away from the shore, his tree trunk arms rowing with incredible speed and strength, I sat on the bough of the raft and watched the endless stream of waves come toward us. “Jack?” I said as we picked up speed. The nose of the boat raised and I could feel cool water droplets hit my face. “I don’t feel fixed.” “Do you feel better?” Jack said over the sound of the splashing waves, his arms moving rhythmically. “Yeah. I do.” “Good.


Death Chronicles #1 The Revelation I party. A lot. And I am good at it. If you would look at me at the nightclub, I would be surrounded by groups of friends, many who came there for my enthusiasm, my social skills, my endless river of Joy. My job as a DJ further supports my position as a cool and friendly social butterfly who can command a crowd to party like it's 99’. This ability to persuade a group has much to do with the details of my death, but more on that later. However, despite the happy appearance, I was miserable. No, not miserable, I was simply void of life, already dead, long before the events of that night. Endless beers every night, cocaine to speed up, weed to chill out, girls to forget, I became a machine, a party animal, and nothing else. In my despair I decided to take a vacation to SE to discover something else about myself, find even a small fraction of a man. I chose Laos, for it's the lack of connections I had in it. It was foreign, as foreign as it can get. Yet to no surprise, the party animal within me adapted extraordinary well in here, as it would anywhere else. The alcohol quantity doubled, western drugs, were replaced with eastern ones. The fake friends came like mosquitoes to a sleeping drunk. After all, this is what I was; a mosquito leeching of society, a fake friend/lover/ human, and a sleeping addict oblivious to the world around him. You could say it was the E Coli bacteria from a small scratch that killed a compromised immune system, but that's a pure lie. I could have prevented it, treated it, called for help, but I didn't want. As soon as I felt sick and weak, I knew it was over. I felt thankful for the disease, finally giving me an option out. I did not care about myself, nor did I care about others. And that made me free, completely free to do anything, ANYTHING! Even if it's for a day or two until the E Coli finally put me down. But not before I go out with a bang. The Judgement Who or what it did really not matter, I was ready to leap at anything. Unleash my fury onto anything. I was pissed at the wars, pollution, corruption, alcohol and drugs. I was pissed at the world itself. Here in Loas there was loads of trash everywhere so I made that my target, but it could have just as easily been a parking officer. I though of a Coca-Cola factory or a McDonalds, but after a quick chat with mister Google I was satisfied with a nearby factory producing packaged snacks for locals and shipping. I actually recognized the packaging of that brand littering the waterfall where I was too drunk to go rappelling down with the other tourists a few weeks ago. That was good enough of evidence to me. To top it all of, the “Tanner” natural snacks and chips factory was conveniently located nearby a tourist attraction. I rented a portable speaker and some basic DJ equipment, some LED lights, and even a huge disco ball, I could have outright bought it with my life savings at my disposal, but renting was just more simple. Next was the transport, I got a minibus Van including a driver, that could fit the equipment and at least 15 people, if you shove them in party style. The driver did look at me weird, considering that I was dripping in sweat from the fever, but since I agreed to his ridiculous proposed price, he convinced himself that it was just the tropical heat. Finally, I needed party animals like me. In the beginning it was hard, because I tried using new friends, but they all had forgotten, or simply not cared much about me. But, after a round though the local drinking holes, I had plenty of volunteers willing to have a blasting party at the jungle waterfalls. They even created a Facebook group and did the invitations themselves, saving me time for preparing the cocktails. The cocktails were of all types, some just good drinks, some really strong to make sure all reason is abandoned, and of course, at least 50 bottles filled with gasoline and a handy wick.