“Mostly, it’s just for the head rush.” “Well take care of your body. It's the only one you get.” My mother gives no stock to my excuses anymore. I’ve been dosing nicotine for nine years at this point. “Your aunt tried to call. She’s doing well at the new gig, but I feel so bad for her kids. You should reach out to your cousins ya know...” Our weekly exchanges tend to abbreviate themselves once we get on the topic of family. Still, she fills me in on what I’ve missed between my absent-minded affirmations. I’m hardly listening at this point. Over the years, my eyes grew used to the broken glares from the lights on the highway. Now, they’re just tracing trails left by the light. I like getting work done in the car. These government rentals come with a standard projection interface now. My case files populate four tiles in the center of the cabin. The viewport windows host my own notes, but I leave the back windshield blank. It’s nice to see which cars thread the eight lanes behind me. I lick my gums again, and she pauses mid-sentence. “You know that’s what killed your grandmother.” I let the sting of her chastisement hang in the air. We’ll both suffer the silence. “She used the vapors, but still. It’s your heart that I’m worried about. It’s so special, so don’t go on poisoning yourself. That’s how you break your mama’s.” “She died of lung cancer, mom.” It’s cold, but true. Gen Z had the bright idea to convert their tobacco into metallurgical liquids. Stupid fuckers didn’t stop to think about why our lungs weren’t evolved to handle anything but the air, so then they added metal to the mix. “Besides, I lowered my dosage last Monday.” A lie. I punctuate the trump card with another stroke of my gums. I haven’t felt a head rush in years. She feigned a proud smile. “Ok, I’ll let you go. Get your work done. I love you.” “Love y-” She disconnects the line, and my notes reclaim the front windshield. I expel the puff air that had welled up in my chest. The woman puts me on edge sometimes, but there’s no substitute for authentic love. Painful conversations are part of the contract. My eyes find the horizon and I take in a deeper breath. At this elevation, the pollutants settle into a mosaic of different densities. It’s almost beautiful ...for poison. My tongue finds the patch again. Only thirty more miles before I’m marooned at the deposition table. Better savor these last five minutes. My car strafes into the rightmost lane before driving itself underground to the exit ramp that enters the city. The negotiations for heroin trafficking are the minor leagues for district attorneys. I don’t want to be here. Regardless, schedule three still requires an office investigation. My display minimizes to signal that the car has queued itself to file into downtown traffic. We call these streets “the bog”. Of course, we only recognize the urban topography from global-positioning-fiber displays underground. An air-sealed town car five stories below street-level is the closest I’ve ever come to the real bog. That and the 40cm glass panels that insulate our building. I take one last hit from the patch on my molar before swallowing the thing, and motion my document files to the storage icon on my watch. I touch the vessel to the frames on my face, so I can pull them up later. My car pulls under the trail indicators for the garage-level elevator. Doors close and ventilation units kick on, silently dispelling the toxic air from the elevator. My door lifts open, and I button my suit with my right hand, reserving the left to straighten my glasses. The routine is all too familiar. Most people don’t need glasses nowadays. Ocular surgery is dirt cheap for anyone with a job, and many parents just elect for perfect vision in vitro. We never had the coin for that growing up, so I suffered the stigma and sucked it up. Now, I never leave home without them. The built-in displays are a weapon for research and cross-references in the courtroom. I cross the threshold of the entry port, and my car folds itself into the wall before the personnel elevator door grants access. I’m alone and savor the mindless silence before tracing my pocket. I curse under my breath. My patches. I left them on the seat. They’re gone forever. The odds of getting the same car again are abysmal. Decriminalizing every first-gen substance would have been the cheapest and most effective use of resources, but millennial-era policy built these drug courts. Caked with filth and brilliant graffiti, the windows of the first three floors tell the true story of the bog. As I ascend the transparent chute, I’m reminded of the institution’s vanity. An open atrium borders all three hundred floors of the building boasting two shale-backed waterfalls. Before it reaches the tenth level, one can make out the alien choreography of the streets below: masked vendors pedalling mostly meats carved from the city’s bottom-feeders, unfortunate sex-workers with no hope of meeting clients from the upper-levels, and bands of children likely muling more heroin or the latest versions of relief engineered to survive this hell. In spite of what unfolds below me or the shameless architecture above, the only persistent thought in my mind are those damn patches. The door opens to the floor reserved for schedule three hearings. I pull open the reinforced door with my left hand, and my fingers linger on the handle longer than I intended. Strange. I’m the first to arrive in the conference room. I have time. Six invisible cameras will capture me, but I don’t care. I break for the bathroom. In the mirror, I avoid the glimpse of myself before reaching into my coat. Eye drops infused with nicotine, my first vehicle for the vice, are at home in my pocket. I feel a euphoria just touching the bottle. I slide off my glasses and dose my eyes with the poison. It’s a familiar burn. I missed it, so I take three more. Sliding the lenses back onto my face, I catch my own eyeline in the mirror. This must be the version of her son that broke off my mom’s story. A grown man with a ten thousand dollar suit still desperate for relief, escape in any form. At this point, I need it to regulate. Shame wells and I sideline it with a smirk, assuming the persona I’ll need for the next two hours. I polish my lenses, and cycle through the case filename aliases again just for the motions. I need to focus. My colleague opens the conference room door for me. “Mama made you cry this week, huh?” Nina teases me regularly, but I wipe my eye again anyway. “Can’t put bad guys away with tears in your eyes, honey.” This time her concern bled through the jest. She knows what I’ve been doing. I bet she doesn’t want to be here either. Six attorneys file into the room almost immediately after I sit down. I stand again, buttoning my suit. Nina and I share a confused stare before we begin introductions and handshakes. Six. Too many for a heroin distribution case. I’m the last to reach for the top of my seat, and my left fingers unfurl slowly again. Nina catches me staring at my hand, before the doors break the seal of the room once more. Two guards with automatic rifles file a pair of bodies into the room. Two. The case file only detailed a single offender's deposition today. Both have shaved heads and full face respirators, standard for transport but a shitty protocol for a system bent on facial recognition. I turn to Nina, but she hasn’t even noticed their entry. Her eyes are locked on my hand. I tuck it under the table. We don’t have time for this. First generation drug cases are cannon fodder for the system. Last-minute takedowns are not unheard of for racketeering. Cases are turned over to sentencing in less than 48 hours sometimes. Just a statement from the lawmakers for those in the bog: We own you, and we can own your bodies if we want. I turned my attention to the defense. “We only received documentation for Mr. Morales. What are you trying to pull here?” But Nina pipes up, “Exploratory team found an accessory. Two birds, baby.” I’m puzzled but nod anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. I broke our front. She’s going on her second decade in the office, and I’m still new. Nina soothes my concerns with a nod, and I begin reading the charges from the notes on my glasses. I take my seat while my colleague fields most of the conflict. She doesn’t need my help. I don’t even need to be here. The other lawyers in the room do not notice my absence from the tempo of conversation, and I steal a glance toward the jumpsuits. The first is a hulk of a man covered head to toe in tattoos. Biohazard symbols and animated neon clouds coil around his neck up to a face that I can only assume tells more of the story. He’s a walking billboard for his syndicate. The newest agent in this case doesn’t wait for my measuring. The black circles on the mask are pointed directly at my face. The vents are fuming with breaths, almost animal-like. Chemical formulas for controlled substances decorate a lean left arm, but I only recognize some of the art from my own research. These guys must be deep into next gen production. Their bare right arm mashes against their accomplice. Both can hardly share the end of the enormous glass table. I wade back into the jargon of the deposition, still feeling masked eyes on my face. The obviously exhausted lead counselor fights for the sake of disputing video evidence. Video evidence? That wasn’t in the file. My work absorbs my full focus once again. Nina speaks again, “You know as well as I do that the judge doesn’t waste time on bullshit like heroin. Your boy’s dead-to-rights and won’t live tomorrow. You know that don’t you?” She elevates the projected image remastered in three dimensions like all criminal court evidence. The tattooed silhouettes tell the full story missing from my file. Morales executes a transaction and the accessory defendant stands watch with a handgun. Doors are kicked open from abandoned warehouses across the street, and the leaner of the two shoots one officer before ducking into an alley. “You know how long it takes a quantum computer to cross-reference those tattoos. Two seconds. You signed your own death warrant, and it only took two seconds for delivery.” Nina was a tried and true bulldog. I still don’t know her conviction rate, but she’s kept mine at a thousand. Sometimes it seems like she’s more proud of it than me. I used to be proud of it. It’s not easy making D.A. in a city like this, even after they distributed the role and expanded the office. I used to think I was on the vanguard for justice. Then they put me on the drug team. The projection continues to play, showing the officers kick off Morales’ mask and pin him to the ground. I wretch at the bottom of my throat. The kingpin’s eyes fill with blood immediately as he vomits from the air outside. I lick the tender spot on my gums to find some kind of relief from this torture. Nothing. Then the video cuts to another perspective. A street-level safehouse. Officers tear down the door, and detain the second offender. After controlling the scene, they still rip off the ventilator. Monsters. I look away. The projection traces back to its origin and Nina punishes the room with a familiar silence. It’s broken by the lead defense counselor ceding his position. Worm. He’s valued his own ego over the clients lives, even more, their billable hours. An explosion of gurgled screams is hurled from the titan at the end of the table. Every attorney recoils in absolute terror, even Nina. The gunman doesn’t move at all. Guards rush to flush the barrels of their rifles to Morales’ temples, but there’s no stopping his wailing. He’s already been executed at this point, and he knows it. The armed guards are literally carrying Morales out of the room at this point. A single guard returns from the hallway to collect the accomplice. Nina turns to their legal team, “She’s lucky she didn’t stick around. Cop killers usually don’t make it this far out of the bog before we wipe them off the street, but this one’s lucky. She wouldn’t survive in a prison anyway.” She? I must have missed that in the second feed. I turn to the end of the long glass table matching the gaze of viewports on her gas mask. I know this woman. She hasn’t broken her stare, even as the guard escorts her to rise from her seat. I grab Nina’s left hand and sync my watch to her own, praying for an updated file. I scroll through the interface on my lens searching for a name. Then I see the tattoo on her right shoulder. A lion. I’d seen it before. Almost instantly, reality crushes me as the frame of the door breaks her gaze from mine. I wave a hand over the table sensor to expand the projection once more and lean in for a better look. That’s when I see her face. My aunt’s daughter. My mom’s favorite niece. Cousin Mira. Her mugshot finally lands on my glasses and I wretch again at the sight of her mutilated face. Blood trails from her eyes gored by the fumes outside. Mira’s chemically burned face swells over blackish-red teeth. Is this what my mom was talking about in the car? My head begins to pound. The aperture of the glass table pulsates with my heartbeat. What’s happening? I sprint into the hallway to catch up with Mira. There must be something I can say to the judges. To Nina. No one deserves this. No one deserves to die for this. I know that now. The elevator doors are closing and I reach out fully extending my left arm to stop them from sealing, but my hand convulses. My thumb slips locks into a gnarled palm, and I feel my bicep cinch tightly. Pain shoots down the limb and back up again. The pressure in my chest stabs into my frame now. I collapse, and crush my glasses between the floor and my eyes. How can this be happening, now? How did cousin Mira even get here? Mira! Every sinew of strength left in me floods into my right arm, lifting my chest from the ground. I squint through my hyperventilations and cracked frames toward the elevator. That’s when I see her for the last time. Mira has looked away. She hangs her head toward the ground. The elevator doors close, and total darkness relieves my personal hell.


Adam Carr, a fifty-year-old antique dealer, stood in the middle of his emporium and watched shoppers as they examined his unusual antiques. Collectors from all over the world came to buy his statues, artwork, jewelry, books, and hundreds more antiques that no other antique dealer could offer. Sir Eric Morgan, holding a gold necklace and a dagger, worked his way through the crowd to Adam. “My good man, your catalog shows this necklace to be one worn by Nefertiti of Ancient Egypt, circa 3600 BC,” he said pointing to the picture. “An amazing resemblance, wouldn’t you say, old chap? Was it made for you? If so, shouldn’t you label it a replica?” “Sir Morgan, suppose I told you that it is not a replica. What would you say?” “Well, I would say...I would say, well how could it be? I don’t understand.” “Sir Morgan, my friend, I would never lie to you. Tell you what. Take the necklace to anyone you want to have it examined. I’m sure you have an expert on your payroll who can tell a replica from the authentic piece.” “That is very generous of you. I will take you up on your offer. Now, I would like to know about this dagger.” “My friend, what your holding is an ancient Roman dagger used by Brutus to kill Caesar.” “Come, now, this can’t be the real thing. I mean something like this would surely have been lost. Where did you get it?” “Let me just say I got it. You may take both to your expert if you wish.” “May I keep them for a week? I’ll have to fly my man in from London.” “Of course. Take your time. Sir Morgan, if you will excuse me, I believe I have a customer,” he said and went to a woman who was holding a painting in one hand and her check book in the other.” After everyone had left, Adam locked his emporium door and went to tally his sales. “$100,000 in checks and cash. Not bad. I will have to acquire some more antiques.” He went to his office, pressed some buttons on the lock, and the door opened. He entered and locked the door behind him. After putting the day’s receipts in a safe, he went to a sliding door in the wall and entered a walk-in closet. He removed a black jump suit, a black hood, black gloves, and black, sneaker-like shoes. After he finished dressing, he looked in a full-length mirror to make sure that no skin could be seen. Every inch of him was covered. Next, he took a black back pack that was made out of the same material as his clothes, and slung it on his back. He looked in the mirror, mumbled some words, and a shimmering face appeared. “Now I’m ready for a shopping trip. Mirror, I want to see Nero watching Rome burn.” “Yes, Master. Look.” a voice said and he looked in the mirror and saw a city in flames. The vision showed a man standing on a roof top apparently singing and playing an instrument. “He’s playing a cithara. If I don’t get it, it will be lost in the flames.” He entered the mirror and stepped out a few yards from Nero. He hurried to Nero and pulled the Cithara out of his hands startling him. “Mirror, make a portal for me, and an opening appeared. Nero stared as Adam went through the opening and stepped out of the mirror into his office. “This is a treasure,” he said holding the Cithara up. “Imagine, this was in Nero’s hands. Wait ‘til the collectors see this, especially Sir Morgan.” A week of brisk business went by and Sir Morgan returned. “My good man, my expert said they are authentic. how do you do it? How did you get these?” “Sir Morgan, I can’t tell you.” Alright. You can’t or won’t tell me. Now, how much do you want for them?” “One million for each.” “Sold. Adam, I’ll give you anything you want if you will tell me how you got these.” “I’m sorry, my friend, I can’t tell you.” “Alright. If you won’t tell me how you got these, may I ask you to get something for me?” “Yes. What do you want?” “Nero’s fiddle. The fiddle he played while Rome burned.” “He didn’t play a fiddle. The fiddle or violin wasn’t invented until the 16th century. Nero played an instrument called a cithara, it’s like a lyre. Come with me,” he said and went to the cithara that he had put in a show case. “There it is.” “My God,” Sir Morgan said looking closely at the cithara. “Anyone else would say you’re a charlatan, but I know you are not. I believe you. I must have it. How much?” “Two million. It wasn’t easy getting this.” “Sold. Now, tell me, can you get anything?” “I doubt that I can get anything. Why? What do you want?” “Don’t laugh. I want the forbidden fruit. You know, the Garden of Eden? The serpent and the forbidden fruit? “You’re joking. The Garden of Eden is just a story. Not too many people believe it’s true.” “I know, but if it is true, then you would know.” “Alright. I’ll try.” “Great,” They shook hands and he left. That night, Adam prepared himself and faced the mirror. “Mirror, I want to go to the Garden of Eden when Eve encountered the snake,” he said, and an image of a garden and a woman talking to a snake that was coiled around a tree branch appeared. “Oh, my God, it’s true.” He entered the mirror and then stepped out and stood in the garden. As he did, his clothes disappeared and he stood naked. Eve turned to him. “Adam, come see what the serpent has for us to eat,” she said and reached for the apple. Adam was nowhere to be found. Sir Morgan bought the Emporium thinking that he might find a clue to explain Adam’s disappearance, but he didn’t. Adam’s magic mirror and walk-in closet remained hidden. The mysterious antique dealer was gone and nobody knew where he went.


Here we go, well here I go. Breath? Not bad smelling but I’ll grab a piece of gum just in case. Hair? Sticking up a bit but I want the edgy look. Clothes? Maybe I should have worn the button up... No t-shirt and jeans are fine. I push open the driver door, lock my car and cross the vast parking lot to Dillon’s grocery store. Alright, let’s stride in casually...No...Never mind, just tripped over my own two feet...Did she see-Yup. Quick! Redeem the cool! I quickly straighten up; hook my thumbs casually in my pockets and duck into the pet aisle. I scan the shelves; looking for something cool to buy, but wait...She’s coming down the aisle! No, I can’t see her just yet! I duck into the next aisle over and grab the first item on the shelf, not bothering to look at what it is. This is it! I’ve waited for the past two weeks; coming to Dillon’s every day, to ask this girl out! Cradling the item in my arm, I step into the check-out line and there she is: a 5’5” goddess with warm mocha skin, flowing brown curls that bounce at the shoulders and piercing green eyes. Okay, calm down, you got this. I put the item down, staring at only her, I’m second in line. My palms are starting to sweat. “Paper or plastic?” Her voice is a sweet melody. I stutter out “plastic” right when she gives me an odd look. In her hands is a pack of tampons, I give her a nervous smile, fork over the money for them and take the walk of shame to my car, tampons in hand.


A prince was once auditioning with his subjects when a frail beggar approached his throne. "What do you ask of me, beggar?" the prince asked. "Only a penny for the penniless," the destitute man answered. "A small expense for one such as you." The prince replied, "I will not spend money on you today." "Then you will be set upon by a curse. While now you sit content with your riches, no longer will you feel satisfied. Unease will be your life." And the beggar left the prince's hall. The prince was since becursed. The beggar was truthful; the prince could no longer feel at rest, content. Every moment was spent on the faint sense of wrongness. The prince felt haunted by something he couldn't understand, a strange feeling he never felt before. It felt similar to remorse, but the prince was sure he did nothing wrong. The next day, the prince summoned the beggar. "Lift this foul curse," he demanded. "Only for a penny," the scoundrel replied. The prince granted his wish reluctantly, and felt immense relief. The beggar came again the next morning. "I ask only for a penny," he repeated. "I already granted your wish once, fiend," the prince answered. "I will not again." "Then I curse you l once more. Never shall you have a restful sleep, and your nights will be full of worry." Twice, the beggar was correct. The prince awoke in the night feeling scared, and what sleep he did find granted no rest. He was tired and afraid, and once again haunted by something he couldn't place. In a week, he summoned the beggar. "Lift this curse, please!" he pleaded. "I will give you your penny in return." But the strange mam shook his head. "I have cursed you twice, and I demand two things. One, a single penny, and two, the title of lord." The prince may have refused, but he'd been a week without rest, suspicious and confused. Regretfully, he agreed, and the beggar was now lord. The next morning, the beggar lord came again. "I ask again for a penny. Surely a small price for a prince." "No," the prince said. "You are now lord and two pennies richer. Curse me again, devil, but I will not give in to your pleas." "And indeed, you will be cursed," the beggar lord ensured. "But by what, I will not say." For the next three months, the prince was paranoid. He knew something was wrong, but not what. Every shadow seemed to hold a knife, and he heard whispers when all was silent. Whispers that spoke of his misdeeds, silences that dripped sith regrets. Over three months, the prince was sent into madness. After three months, the beggar, using his lordship, had amassed great wealth and power. He came to the hall of the prince robed and bejeweled, surrounded by guards and courtiers. "I will lift your curse, prince," the now powerful lord said. "But I demand all the gold in your hoard, save for a single penny, for you to keep." The prince saw the guards and jewels and knew the beggar's wealth and influence surpassed his own. He feared for his life, for his sanity, and so, under great duress, he agreed. The prince was left with only a penny. After several years now, the prince has become destitute and beggared and ventures to the hall of the mighty lord who cursed him long ago. "I greet you warmly, sorcerer," he begand. The lord laughed in great delight. "I am no sorcerer, dear prince." "Then how did you curse me and rob me of my wealth?" "The only curse I ever gave you was the remorse of your own actions. You were restless, sleepless, mad, and poor because you were guilty of dismissing a penniless man. I performed no magic, only let you see the fault of your actions." The prince finally realised that the haunting feeling he had was simply that of a guilty man. He swallowed what pride he had left and made one request. "A penny for the penniless, please." The lord laughed again and tossed the empty-pocketed prince his penny without a second thought, a small expense for one such as him. The beggared prince left the lord's hall one penny richer that day, and one lesson wiser.


It’s been four years since I found the dog on our doorstep, licking its cute little paws, and he hasn’t changed a bit since. Mum says it’s strange; dogs don’t live as long as humans do. And they grow old much more quickly. I’ve grown so much since the dog arrived on our porch - I come up to Mum’s elbows now - but the dog looks the same as ever. The shiny black coat, not a hint of greying. Always active and willing to run with me. Mum sometimes worries about him - looks at him strangely. It’s fine, though. I love him and I hope he lives forever. His name is Peaches. Well, that’s usually what I call him. He has two other names - Apricot and Mango. I lie in bed waiting for Peaches to arrive. He disappears sometimes. Runs off after lunch and doesn’t appear until late. Sometimes he doesn’t show up for a whole day. I used to get worried, but now I don’t mind him disappearing every now and then. He’s not a regular dog, I know that. Sometimes I feel like he came just to look after me. After all, he appeared on our doorstep the same day I was diagnosed. Maybe he has other little girls to look after too. So of course I don’t mind him going away for a while. He appears soon, bounding happily and leaping onto my bed. I let him curl up over my chest, and he starts slobbering all over me. I laugh because it tickles. When Peaches settles down, I hold his muzzle and peer at his face. There - his birthmark is just below his left ear. So this is Apricot. Peaches’ birthmark is at the corner of his left eye, and Mango’s over his nose. I give him a kiss on the tip of his snout. “Hello, Apricot,” I whisper. He looks at me like he understands. “Remember when I told you about my bad kidney? Well, I think I’m not going to last very long. Mum says I’ll get better, but I heard her crying last night.” Apricot whimpers and I feel bad. I pull him under my blanket and close my eyes. When I wake up, I’m alone. I’m not in bed, not even in my house. I’m standing, even though I am sure I had been in bed. I’m somewhere dark and shadowy. Miserable. In front of me is a river, its water still and dark like glass. There’s a boat and it carries passengers. They all look so sad. Somehow, I know I’m never going back home. I start shaking. “It’s okay, little girl,” someone says beside me. A man with a gentle smile. He holds a stick with two snakes crawling along it. “Get on the boat and you’ll meet your friend on the other side.” “My friend?” He smiles. “You’ll see. Just give the boatman your coin and he’ll take you.” I’m about to say I have no coin, but the man disappears. I feel something heavy drop inside my fist. I open it; there’s a coin lying on my palm. I do as he said. I can’t stop shaking. I want to go home, but I knew this would happen, didn’t I? Mum has told me, with tears in her eyes, what happens when people die. The boat hits the opposite bank and very familiar faces greet me. Three dogs - no, one dog with three heads! I run to him and hug the head in the middle. He has the birthmark at the corner of his left eye - he must be Peaches. I knew Peaches and Apricot and Mango were one dog! Mum and Dad never believed me; they thought I was making up stories about their birthmarks changing places. Peaches speaks to me. “Hello, little friend.” I laugh. “We wanted to be sure that you didn’t feel lonely. So we went to you when you fell sick and kept you company. Now you have friends here.” I laugh and hug each of them. I’m not shaking anymore.


Hi, all this is my first time posting. I hope you like my story and I welcome any feedback. The rough sand beneath my cheek was the first feeling that came back to me. Slowly I pulled open my eyes. Where was I? All around was sand as black a coal. It was coarse and the putrid smell of rotting fish clung to the air. Turning I saw the coastline of the island I now found myself on. What happened? I searched for someone else, anyone else but I found no one. For over an hour I screamed my throat raw hoping someone would hear me but I was alone. The sun began to drop below the horizon and I knew I had to find shelter before it was too dark. I made my way inland hoping to find a cave or something in which I could wait till morning. As I made my way to the tree line, something was wrong. I couldn’t explain it but I felt a dread form in my stomach. There was something wrong with this place. For two hours I wondered threw the trees and bushes when I finally found something. It was a cave. I almost ran to the opening on the side of the hill. It was almost ten foot high and twice as wide and as I entered a warm air breezed passed over my weary body. The cave was darker than anything I had seen before. I fumbled in my pockets and pulled out the zippo I always carried. My mother told me that smoking would kill me but right now I thanked the lord I had never gotten around to quitting. The light from the flame was not much but it was enough to make my way deeper into the cave. I had to make a plan. I had to find out where I was and find a way to get home. I managed to get a small fire going using some dry wood I had found at the mouth of the cave. The dancing light warmed me and comforted me as I sat in my shelter trying to understand what had happened. The last thing I could remember was the plane me and Cassidy had gotten into, she had booked me some flying lessons and we were going up on our second lesson when a storm came in. It had hit us fast and hard and then lightning had struck the plane and the instruments died. I remembered to instructor trying to get the plane to start again then nothing. That was all I could remember until I woke up on the beach. Had the plane crashed? Where was Cassidy? I was so deep in thought that at first, I hadn’t noticed the noise. A rhythmic beating. Slowly it got louder and It drew my attention. The thumping sounded almost like drums but the rhythm was erratic and unearthly. I sat listening for a few minutes until I realised it was getting louder as if moving closer to me. Panic filled me and I was not sure as to why. I moved to the cave entrance and looked out to the moonlight night. There in the distance was a group of figures moving towards me. I was just about to shout out when something stopped me. There was something off about this group. Their movements were jerky and unnatural. I hurried back into the cave and stamped out my fire. Then I moved as fast as I could out of the cave and into a small gathering of bushes. I leapt into the bushes and pulled as many of the adjacent branches over me and covering my body. I had just gotten myself covered when the first of the group came into the opening where the cave lay. There were three of them, I could not make out their features as they wore a cloak-like garment with a hood covering their faces. I did notice the last one was carrying something over its shoulder. I moved slightly to get a better look when I saw the beautiful face of Cassidy. She was unconsciously bound with rope and slung over the shoulder of one of these people. They had found her and brought her here but why? The three took Cassidy into the cave. I sat in my hiding spot for longer than I am proud to admit but then I managed to pull myself together and I followed them into the cave. They had gone further into the cave than I had originally. I had to move pretty fast to try to catch up with them lest I lose them. We moved deeper and deeper into the cave. I always stayed just close enough that I could see where they went but not to close that I might be spotted. Finally, they came to a cavern almost fifty-foot wide, three times as long and almost thirty foot high. They took Cassidy to a stone tablet next to an underground lake and lay her unconscious body atop it. I frantically looked for a place to hide where I could see what they were doing. I managed to climb up to a ledge to the left of the entrance we had come from. The figures looked to be discussing something when one turned and moved over to an unusual looking stone. It then lifted a thick stick and began to beat the stone. A drumming noise like I had heard began to echo around the cave. The from the shadows grotesque figures began to emerge. Beings made from an amalgamation of hideous creatures from my worst nightmares. Slime covered tentacle-like limbs writhed around each one. Claws and bone protruded from their bodies in unimaginable ways. My mind felt like it was fraying at the mere sight of these damnable creatures. More and more of the horrific things pulled themselves from the darkest reaches of the cavern. They moved around Cassidy forming a circle around her. Cassidy slowly opened her eyes at this point and the scream she let off chilled my blood. The creatures lashed out tentacles wrapping around her arms and legs and holding her dow. Slowly one of the monstrosities moved up and slid a black pseudopod over her pale face down her neck and across her body. She thrashed at the things touch and in her wild movement her eyes locked onto mine. I could see the terror in her eyes as well as the pleading as treats ran down her face. I will never forget the look of betrayal as she watched me turn and run. Her screams followed me as I ran for the surface. I could not bring myself to look back as the screams finally stopped, I just kept running. Before I knew it I found myself at the beach once more. I ran for the water and swam out as fast as I could. I had no idea where I was but I knew I had to get out of here. I swam and swam until I found a bit of floating wood. I clung to the wood and slowly I fell unconscious. I awoke to the feel of rough sand beneath my face. Slowly I opened my eyes. Black sand surrounded me. I wept as I heard the rhythmic beating.


have you ever seen the death of stars? they say a star only dies when it has finally given up on all beings living off of its substantial light. but that was only a fairy tale after all, how would we truly know? we make up these silly stories to distract ourselves from the neverending abyss of darkness, so cold, so empty. but if this were to be true, then there was still something out there that our star had been waiting for, something it hadn't given up hope on. could this really be? could there really be someone out there that had the power to change everything, could there really be someone else out there. i tell myself these things to try and keep myself from going crazy but i've been alone for 8 years now, eventually my hopeless feelings were going to catch up to me, everyday i go out into the barren wilderness, ever since the war, the whole planet has been desolate. I find solace in knowing that my star is still there. the island i live on was once a mountain range that overlooked our great town, i often sit at the edge of the sea and peer into the waves wanting to catch a glimpse of what was. but its been too long, what i see now are just figments of my imagination, maybe some part of me deep down inside wants to see my family again, to hold my baby brother in my arms, to see his joyous smile on christmas day, spending the days with him when i didn't have work. dear god why did this damned planet ever go to war, it destroyed everything in an attempt to seek out peace. i wander night and day across the vast island hoping to find someone else, travel is slowed in the winter because of the shorter days and snowfall i get, but my tent has been with me this whole time, i put it up with muscle memory, setting up camp before dusk and leaving at dawn. i've circled this island 3 times now in the past eight years but i have never found anyone. what's the point anymore? the truth is that there isn't one, the hopelessness of humanity has almost drove ourselves to extinction, i look up at the stars at night and i whisper to them "why are you still here...


If I could give it zero stars I would. The funny thing is the name of the restaurant should have been a warning in itself. It was called the Michelin Star Inn. It didn’t really have a Michelin star; that false claim was just a cheap marketing ploy. I wonder on reflection if any inns have Michelin stars. They’re too homey for fine dining, but still, I fell for it. That makes me feel idiotic, knowing that their laughable promotional idea worked on me. I thought I was reasonably intelligent, but I’ve questioned my own brain power since that day. I walked inside and there was nothing immediately alarming in the surroundings. First impressions can be misleading. They’d hidden a lot of dirt in the dark corners, pretty lights distracting your eyes, so you didn’t get acquainted with them until you were already sitting down - and you’d committed yourself to seeing the meal through. I was seated at a table beside the toilets. No one hopes to eat in a location where urinary and faecal movements are audible through the neighbouring door. My stomach isn’t easily turned, so I didn’t bother asking to be relocated. I thought if I overlooked it, the meal would make up it. Their menu was overloaded with options. They used print so small you would have required an eyeglass to see it. I wondered how one kitchen could possibly produce such an array of different meals. Had I given it more thought, I might have walked out then and there, but sadly, I sat on. My posterior was offended by the uncovered seats. They were made of hard wood, like bar barrels: somewhere designed for perching rather than getting comfortable for the duration of a meal. Still, I didn’t complain. I knew they were trying to create a certain “feel” to the place. It was convincing as an 1800’s era inn. I noticed there were a dangerous number of candles close to the exposed wood. I didn’t know if they were there to create ambience or to keep the electric bill down. In hindsight, I think it must have been the latter. They might have been an unsuitable replacement for heating too. The waitress approached us, with a worried look, like she was holding her hand out to a rabid dog. She hoped we’d give her a friendly lick rather than tearing off a limb. Maybe she was used to that. Maybe she had good reason to be used to it. She didn’t greet us or ask if we’d had time to look at the menu. She rattled off the specials like she was a child, unwillingly reciting her spellings to her mother. It didn’t inspire me to try any of the daily offers. There was monkfish on the menu, but I knew it would be tough. Never get seafood when you’re too far away from the sea. My stomach was complaining by then. I’d already been there for the length of a slowly eaten meal and I hadn’t even ordered yet, nor did I feel compelled to order anything in particular. So, I went for the mixed grill. It is hard to get wrong and you are guaranteed a good-sized portion, in my experience. By the time the meal finally appeared, I was considering what I was going to do with my pension, and I’m only thirty-five years old. I expected it to be piping hot, at least. I could almost forgive a poorly cooked meal if it arrived at a hot temperature, but it was lukewarm. I didn’t bother to alert the waitress to the fact because she had such a bored expression, I knew that sharing anything resembling a complaint would be met with nothing but lethargy. I knew she’d just remove the plate and I mightn’t see another one, if I was lucky. I don’t know which is worse: a bad meal or no meal at all. I prodded the mushroom with my fork. It looked like it was sweating butter all over the plate, and not in a good way. There was a grey juice coating everything else on the plate. The meat was overcooked. I had a steak knife, but I needed a hacksaw. No, scratch that - a chainsaw. My side of chips was substandard too. They were so pale I wondered if they’d even been introduced to the oil that night. It was all extremely disappointing; so disappointing, in fact, that I didn’t order dessert. To a glutton like me, that’s like refusing cake on your own wedding day. I deserved it, but I didn’t think my belly deserved to suffer any further. You know a meal has been bad when you find yourself fantasising about your own home cooking instead, and I’m no chef. I wasn’t asked if I enjoyed my meal when the waitress removed my plate. It was probably a question the staff had been advised to stop asking. My full plate adequately answered the question anyway. It looked much the same as it had when they’d brought it from the kitchen, but rearranged into a new, but no more unappetising formation. I knew I wouldn’t be leaving a tip. The service was sullen, and that’s a kind description of it. The entire meal was interrupted by draughts of air that came from the bang of the bathroom door as people went in and out in a continuous flow. I’d never realised how often people needed to use the bathroom before. I’d never had a reason to take it under my notice, especially not in a restaurant. You don’t want to be reminded of your baser bodily functions while your palate is doing its refined job. As I said, I have a stomach of steel and I’m not easily turned off, but this was an experience I have no desire to repeat. I wonder if there are any real chefs employed in the kitchen, or if it’s just a team composed of several stragglers they found on the street. To add insult to injury, they close at nine PM and if you’ve failed to vacate your table at that hour, they upturn unused chairs onto your table. Has there ever been a clearer way of telling someone to get out? What more can I say. I won’t be hurrying back, but if you decide to proceed (at your own risk) after reading this review, remember to bring your own bottle, own food and own plate. Hell, bring your own pots and pans and offer to make it yourself.


Trigger warning: suicide missions I first saw someone get killed when I was six. I was young enough to not know the reason why, but old enough to know that I shouldn’t ask. When the Japanese soldier burst into our straw-roofed cottage, I felt fear that I had never experienced before, of being killed - or worse, taken alive - by this stone-faced man in his khaki uniform with hands that belonged to a giant. I didn’t see the beating - I hid in a small wooden cabinet - but I could hear the lashing of the whip and the scream that ensued, over and over again, penetrating into my blocked ears. I crawled out gingerly when the sound abruptly ended, but then I was met with the sight of the soldier dragging a limp and bloody man out of the cottage. I caught sight of the soldier’s face for a second and was bristled to the bones by the grim ecstasy in his eyes. And yet the horror ensued - the man was tied up to the great apple tree that shaded our cottage, and the soldier stood ground about twenty metres away. The soldier raised the rifle and aimed. The shot rang out throughout the entire village, and the crows on the apple tree shrieked and glided upwards. The soldier aimed again. I finally looked away, and shook when the second shot pierced the air. This man, whose blood stained the apple tree and cursed it from bearing any more fruit, was my father, and the sole reason behind every bullet I shot, and the reason why I accepted this task - which I knew would be the last thing I do for the country, and its people, and my father. The task was simple and fatal. Go in, kill as many Japanese as you can, and blow yourself up. Even as a freedom worker, there were better and nobler ways to go. Death - I had come dangerously close to it many times in my years in the Independence Movement. Yet when I barely made it out alive, I was never as shocked or shaken as the others. And yet, as my cold and clammy hands held tight onto the steering wheel, I could feel my legs visibly shaking. A novel feeling of a constricting pressure rose up my chest and tightened my throat. Maybe it was the fact that it was voluntary - that I was willingly laying my life down. Our car stumbled along the crudely-paved dirt road that rose and fell with the curve of the hills. The biting wind rattled the flimsy window and sliced painfully through my double-layered clothing. The sky was bleached into a kind of sickly grey, like a dreary blanket weighing down onto the barren landscape that seemed to stretch forever. Only the setting sun broke this monotonous sight, dyeing the western horizon red. Next to me was Ji, a light-hearted yet painfully blunt man who was lost in an uncharacteristic silence. His roughly-cut shoulder length hair whipped against his dark skin that stretched over his bones, showing every mark of poverty and deprivation. His eyes had a glint of sorrowful madness to them, evoking a sense of both fear and pity. I didn’t know him very well, and I wasn’t trying to know him better - I saw no need, as we were going to die today anyway. Our destination shimmered into view like a mirage, a military factory that supplied the guns that were used to shoot us and tanks that were used to trample over our homes. The building itself was largely obscured by birch trees of deathly pallor, and the only thing that signified its existence was the thick, steady column of smoke that rose and dispersed into the sky. “Stop here,” Ji said. “They can’t see us from here.” I turned the car into the obscurity of the forest and slowed it to a stop. “How many’ve you got left?” Ji said tiredly. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I counted, and said, “Two.” Ji chuckled. “Yeah?” I slid one between my lips and gave him the other. Ji pulled out his lighter and cupped his hands around his mouth. When his was lit, Ji handed me the lighter and said, “Check the back.” I sighed, then got out and around to the trunk. As I lit the cigarette, I opened the rusty trunk with my other hand. It was empty except for a brown suitcase, with peeling leather covering. I gently took it out and brought it back into the car. Ji held out his hands, and I gave him the suitcase. He laid it on his lap and clicked it open, revealing three round objects with irregular grooves on its sides. I eyed the factory out in the distance. It was basically a set of large warehouses, which the Imperial Army had claimed for themselves after driving out its inhabitants. Tiny worker ants crawled around the buildings, working in a predetermined pattern, silently, thoughtlessly, but effectively. The graffiti and filth that had dirtied the walls had been wiped clean and replaced by a huge flag of the rising sun. “Should we go?” Ji said. “Wait,” I said. “Let me enjoy my last minutes a little longer.” “Mm.” A cold silence passed over us, until Ji seemed to revert to his normal ebullient manner. “How did you end up here, anyway? You know, in all this. The Independence Movement.” The lump in my throat seemed to snake further upwards. I composed myself, and said, “It’s the usual story. My father was killed.” “Oh, by your father, you mean Tae? I’ve heard of him. Most men in the Movement have. Well, most men have heard of you as well. I heard all about you at Kimhae. Everyone talks about you. Not in a bad way, of course. They’re always praising you, for how you fought out of that dreadful place all by yourself. Really, I always wanted a chance to meet you. It’s an honour, to be able to meet you.” “Most of the things they say aren’t true,” I said coldly. “It’s all propaganda. I only survived at Kimhae because of the men who gave their lives for me. I had to step over the corpses of my comrades to get out alive. Don’t believe everything they tell you. I’m not the hero they say I am.” “But surely you have enormous courage just to lay down your life like this?” “Aren’t you doing the same?” I asked. “Well, I have no choice, really. I’m going to die anyway.” “Why’s that?” “You haven’t heard?” Ji asked. “About me? They made quite a fuss about it. Well, I guess I deserve it. I, well, they took my sister and mother. The soldiers, I mean. And you know what they’ll do with them. I couldn’t bear it. My sister had just gotten married. I just couldn’t let that happen. So I gave them what they wanted - the document the Movement entrusted me with. I don’t know what’s inside, never opened it, was told not to. But in any case, it wasn’t as important as saving my family, you know? But then turns out it was really important to the Movement. They told me that if I don’t take part in this, they’ll have my head.” He then seemed to survey my expression. “You’re not angry, right?” “No, I’m not,” I said truthfully. Somehow, seeing the flaws in others filled me with some kind of guilty pleasure, as if the imperfection of another could somehow exalt me. And once again, silence, as we sat, lost in thought. The uneasiness grew until I couldn’t stand it anymore. My hand reached into my pocket and found the cool comfort of the revolver. It travelled further and found the grip of a knife. When I pulled it out, Ji turned, transfixed by the sharp glint of the blade in the setting sun. He watched in silence as I held it to the ring finger of my left hand. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, I sliced downwards. I let out a stifled cry. When I opened my eyes again, my hand was a bloody mess with crimson streams running down my palm. Ji coughed uncomfortably as I examined the remaining half of my finger. “Damn it, then.” Ji said, and took the knife from him. With a sharp intake of breath, he cut off the top of his finger. Steadying my heavy breathing, I closed my eyes and said, “Let’s go.” Ji nodded. I started the car again and manoeuvred expertly through the densely-spaced trees. Soon we broke into a clearing, and the factory loomed high over us. As we grew closer, I could hear the workers shout and form a crowd. I gritted my teeth and pushed hard down the accelerator. Soon we were in shooting range. I could hear a warning shot from my left, but I didn’t turn to look. The crowd sensed the danger now and dispersed hastily, yelling and shouting. Ji shouted something, but I couldn’t hear him from the blood thudding in my ears. I swerved the car away dangerously close to one of the buildings. A sharp shot pierced my concentration, and I saw that Ji had already pulled out his gun. “Get off!” Ji yelled. I opened the door and rolled off the car. I stood up and briefly surveyed the chaos we had caused. As I raised my arm, my fingers found the comfortable groove of the trigger, and I began firing with hysteric fervour. Each shot rocked my shoulders, and was met with a scream. I saw Ji darting into one of the buildings, using the suitcase as a shield and shooting manically. But in that momentary distraction, a shot rang out from behind and pain erupted from my shoulders. I screamed and turned with my gun raised, and fired. The bullet found its mark, and a young officer crumpled onto the pavement. I stepped closer, and to my dull shock, I saw that the officer was barely of age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The passion of his youth was still bright in his eyes, but fading. He weakly raised his revolver but I kicked it away from his hand. My eyes locked onto his, both burning with ineffable hatred. Then, the boy’s eyes gave away to a meek despair, disgusting me. As I raised my gun again, I remembered the soldier aiming at my father tied on the apple tree. Had he hesitated? No. He was used to killing. Every murder was forgotten and buried into a deep, apathetic part of his brain. Wasn’t I the same? I fired again, and my heart fluttered with an unspeakable euphoria. The power of hurting and destroying the powerless filled me with a kind of dreadful exuberance that was utterly inhuman. As if the last strand of my humanity had disappeared with my ring finger. As if this lifelong struggle for this country, which was neither moral nor wicked, had only left me with days drowning with guilt and nights thieved of sleep, and now it would end with a final gift, the awakening of a horrid monster within me. As I watched the boy writhe in pain and finally succumb to the darkness, the sincerest part of my soul was glad that this was my final day. I heard the distant thudding of footsteps, and turned. The gun dropped from my hand, and I faced the incoming group of soldiers. They stopped, and raised their rifles. The soldier in front shouted, and the first volley was fired. As I fell, I saw the hideous grin of the officer that killed my father, the monster that haunted my dreams from the age of six. My own mouth contorted into that same grin, and I fell to the ground next to the corpse of the boy. And in that last moment, all I saw was the flag of the rising sun looming before me. Then, suddenly, it burst into a maelstrom of fire. I embraced death with open arms.


A shadow of a figure was running in the dark. All around were tall trees, and only a small fraction of the moon’s rays got through the canopy. The ground was a black void with no difference between the dirt and the tree roots. A pack of wolves howled in the distance. With every gust of wind, the tree branches and leaves banged and rustled like a toddler playing with pots and pans. Under all of that was a low mumble, rhythmic like a drum cadence but ghostly in origin. The figure trips. "Eli?" The scene quakes. “Eli!” The moon disappeared. “Elijah!” Blinding fluorescent light replaced the woods. 13-year-olds Eli and Tyler were sitting in the mall food court, eating dinner across from each other. Eli's heart was pounding in his ears, and his hands trembled. Tyler put her hands on his. "Eli, what did you see?" Eli repeatedly blinked back at her as the fog lifted from his head. "I don't really know." "Come on, " she said, slinging on a side bag as she raised from her chair, "you can think about it on our way home. I don't want to miss the bus." Without a word, Eli cleaned up their table and carried the tray away. As soon as his hand was free, he reached for her hand. They walked away from the tables with Tyler locking her arm from Eli’s swinging. Not too many people were left in the mall. There were a few stragglers around the pop-up stands, but most were lacing their arms through jacket sleeves by the exits. However, two men - a twig-like one with close to the head African curls and a log-like one with slicked hair mostly to one side - didn't fit in either group. They stood off the side, away from everyone else, surveilling, looking for something. Their cookies and cream vibe didn’t make Tyler divert their path. She was right until they stepped in their way. “Excuse us. Tyler Woodlock and Elijah Krieger?” the twig one asked through a British accent. Tyler pulled Eli closer. “No. Sorry,” she answered, starting to walk around them with her and Eli’s fingers turning red. “Government agents,” the other man stopped them, flipping open his budget case, “Miss Woodlock.” The brit slid closer as Tyler gave out a nervous laugh. She pulled it together with a devious smirk. “Alright, agents,” she stepped closer, “but one thing first.” “Yes,” the man said, putting his budget back. Tyler gave the brit - the fitter one - a stiff kick in the shin. With him on the floor and his partner stunned, she yelled, “Run Eli,” giving Eli a push start. Eli sprinted off, getting a head start as Tyler toppled over a supply case. He headed for the loading docks, a path Tyler forced him to memorize for an emergency like this. As ordered, he ran without looking back. He nearly ran off the truck port in his mindset. He jumped down. Falling on his hands, he looked like a frog. He couldn’t find the strength to stand, but he walked - half crawled - to the rear of the building. Collapsing against the brick, he took his chance to look back. She wasn’t there. He stayed twisted around the corner, waiting for Tyler. All of a sudden, bright light beamed onto him. Drawing Eli’s attention, the voice called out. “Stay there!” they boomed like a drill sergeant. He clambered to his feet and did the total opposite as the voice commanded. A stampede of boots followed Eli as he jotted into the wooded area on the other side of the loading lane. The fall night grew darker as he was chased farther in the woods. With every gust of wind, the tree branches and leaves banged and rustled. Their movement shifted and blocked the moon as if in a game of peekaboo. This and the uneven ground made Eli bobble like a pinball. The voice rang out again. "Get him! Don't let him get away." It allured him to look back. A light show of flashlights was going on behind. Even with all the light, however, the people remained shadows. A gopher tunnel tripped Eli up a bit. As he looked up, a pair of amber eyes low to the ground, stared at him from a few yards away. The progression of howls following the encounter made Eli run fast. He couldn’t hear the boots anymore. He would turn his head a few degrees before forcing it straight. The last one sent him flying into the ground. Tyler peered over a row of bushes. Eli laid on the ground, with only his chest moving up and down. As soon as she raised from her position, two men came into view. One went to Eli’s side, and the other pulled out a radio. “Asset found. About four clicks due east of the loading dock.” The radio guy looked around the perimeter as the second man searched Eli’s pocket. Tyler fished around in her bag. In the dark, the inside of her bag was a void. She felt cold metal as more men appeared. The one left Eli’s side. “The cards aren’t here, sir.” Eli let out a moan as he began to stir. “Bring him. We’ll find out soon enough where they are.” He turned and started the procession away. Radio and Pocket man gave each other a glance before Pockets threw Eli over his shoulder. The remaining men followed. Tyler took her hand out of her back. She fell to her knees, with her hands on her face. As the first tears started falling, she wiped them away with her fists clenched. She ran back to the mall, heading towards the parking lot. Her head bubbled back and forth, looking at the cars and people. Losing her structure, she fell back on her knees. She started crying again right before her ears perked up. Snapping her head around, she saw the two agents from inside. “We lost, Ma’am,” she heard the agent who threw his badge in her face, “they were ready to run.” A grin grew across her face. She spined back, with her attention being grabbed by the rear of the car she fell in front of. The license read CA EXEMPT 387690. She had seen enough of those when the police raided their Romani dwellings. The odds of that being their car, she didn't know. Not did she know the odds of them automatically unlocking it far enough away that she could climb into the trunk before they were close enough to see. The two agents and their unknown guest arrived at their motel on the outskirts of town almost an hour after Eli was taken. The building wasn't too big: just two rows with eight or so doors each. Behind each were a single room and a bath. The agents went first. Tyler waited until she couldn’t hear them anymore before pushing out the back row cushion. Sitting on the floor of the car, she watched as they entered a room, with the number six on the door. She opened the door carefully so she wouldn’t hit the next car. In the same manner, she closed it without a sound. She strategically stepped as she reached back into her bag. After peering into the room’s window, she saw the two agents with their backs to the door. There seemed to be nothing but a wall in front of them, but that didn’t bother Tyler. She walked right in and pulled her hand out of her bag before slamming the door shut. The agents jumped if shots had been fired. They found that they weren’t too far off. Dropping their phone, they were face to face with a gun barrel. “Hello, again, Miss. Woodlock,” one agent said, through his British accent, as they snuck for their weapons. “Don’t patronize me,” she said, cocking her gun. “Do you think you can pull yours before I shoot the both of you? I’ve already proved I have grace under pressure.” They both bring their hands forward. “What do you want?” the other one asked. “Well, Agent Vincent Petrov, I’m thinking about a trade.” Flaunting his arrogant British accent, he asked, “What would you have that we would~.” Cutting him off, Tyler pulled out a deck of tarot cards. “Really. I might be a child, but I’m not an idiot.” “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Vincent said. “I want Eli back.” “Excuse me.” “Even if I believe for a second, you’re not with the men who took him. You bring him back to me, and you get these no-so-meaningless cards, and we all live happily ever after.” The agents gave each a glance. “Let me make this easier. You do this, or I shoot you and go on my merry way.” Eli was groggy, teetering between awake and asleep, for the car ride. Though, no one could tell through the blindfold. Nor from his position in the trunk. They had tried his wrists and ankles to stop the little fight he had in him. No kicking. No hitting. No running. More helpless than he was without Tyler. He was asleep when the car stopped but was jarred awake when one of the men yanked him out. Being bobbled around, his face was red, and breathed deeply, trying to keep dinner in. The only relief came when he was dropped to the floor. After the bang of the door, Eli was left to wait once more in the dark. He pulled at his ropes, only stopping when the burning turned into papercut sensations. No closer to freedom, he crumbled. Stopped straining. Stopped fighting. Stopped holding it together. Back at the motel, Tyler sat crisscrossed on the first bed from the door, yanking her locket back and forth on its chain. She stared at the agents that sat on the other side of the room. She tried to hear what they were saying, but they put the same effort into the opposite. “What are we going to do, Miles?” Vincent asked. “Play the game.” “Easier said than done.” “We know when, where, and a fair idea of by who.” “The who is what scares me.” “I would be more scared of the lass if we don’t.” “I agree with Agent Walker,” a woman, dressed in a white skirt suit with her dark hair in a spiral braid, said just inside the room. “Ms. Isles?” Vincent jumped out of his seat. Tyler did the same. She stared at the woman, jotting a glance at the door then back. No one heard the door open or closed. “Hello, Miss. Woodlock,” Ms. Isles said, raising her hand. “Hi,” Tyler said, more like a question than snipe, without shaking her hand. “Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?” “Good would be best,” Vincent toddled. Isles looked at Tyler. “Find the boy. Bring him back. Finish your original mission,” she said through a smile. She began to walk away. She already had her hand on the doorknob before any of them stopped her. “What about the bad news?!” Miles shouted. “Work with her, Walker, work with her,” she said, leaving before and without argument. Eli had no idea how long he was asleep for but when he opened his eyes he was met with a blinding light. He stretched out to find his legs and arms unbound. Panicked and joyed, he shuddered and jostled. He missed the hand on the wrist. A shadow eclipsed the bright light. “Do you mind not moving?” The voice sounded familiar. With the light masked, Eli could start to see the room. First, the man kneeling in front of him: greying hair, flannel button-up shirt, and placid blue eyes. Then small red spots on the grey cement floor. And last, white bandage roll, some on his right wrist and the man wrapping more onto his left. “I think you’ve bled enough on my floor for today,” the man said, finishing his work. “Your floor?” “Don’t be put off by the casual dress, I’m the boss here, and that’s why I can offer you this: You answer all my questions and you can go home to your gypsy family, to your sweet wife Tyler without any more harm.” “What do you want to know?” Eli asked as he sat up. “Why don’t we start with something simple. Why did you run away from me at the loading docks?” said the man who blared a flashlight in Eli’s eyes earlier that night. Vincent sat at the small two-person table, glaring at a street map and a calculator. “How is it going, Vince?” Miles asked, leaning over Vincent's shoulder. “Not great. Knowing that they took Elijah 75 minutes ago and assuming they stayed within 5 miles per hour of the speed limit, they can be anywhere within and around 50 miles away from the mall.” “That’s a big area.” “You don’t know the half of it.” “Miss. Woodlock~.” “Tyler!” she yelled at him. “My name's Tyler.” “Tyler,” he put his hands up halfway, “can you give us anything? Car model? Direction? Anything?” “I was a little busy trying not to get caught myself. Trying to find you fools.” “If we try to search all of this,” Vincent pulled Miles closer and lowered his voice, “we won’t get to him in time.” “Don’t talk like that!” Tyler yelled, with a little cry behind it. “You start talking like that and things will end that way.” She fell back onto the bed, with her hands on her face. Miles glared down at Vincent, with his arms crossed. He kept that position as he walked over to the bed. Sitting next to her, he put his arm around her with an air bubble between them. “Thanks,” she said, whipping her hands out from her face. “It’s getting late, why don’t you rest for a bit. We don’t want our sharpshooter’s eyes heavy.” “I’ve been one for the last ten years, but,” she paused, bringing up her watch on her right wrist. “Watch!” she continued, jumped off the bed. “What?!” Miles followed her towards Vincent. “Watch,” she started searching her bag, “I got Eli a watch for our first anniversary. He never takes it off.” She presented the watch’s instructions. “And it has GPS.” “Anniversary?” they asked During their time together, the man asked Eli an array of questions. Most about trivial personal things to get Eli relaxed and uncoil from his balled-up position. It was working too. He was as relaxed as if he was home. His eyes glassed over, as the questions droned on. The room faded away, a dark place appeared. A spotlight shines on the center. A glint of metal moved in from the bottom. A gun; revolver. A white hand. A flannel sleeve. The hand snapped the bullet holder back into the gun. It aimed. Destroying the image, the shot fired caused Eli to scream and hold his ear. His ears were still ringing, when the man tried to calm him down. Eli saw what he expected was on his own face, on the man’s. The man removed Eli’s hands. His mouth moved but Eli couldn’t hear it. He yanked himself away “Why are you asking me all these questions? What do you want?” The man had a blank face. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. After straightening his shirt, he said, “You have something that belongs to me.” “I don’t have anything!” Eli shuddered. “Not now but...,” he exhaled heavily through his nose, “Tyler gave you something. A set of Tarot cards.” “I don’t know where they are?” he stuttered. “Well, it's the last question you have to answer, so give it a good thought.” “They could be anywhere. In the woods where you chased. Back in the mall where the other two did. With~,” he said, trying to put the brakes in his mouth. “You know where they are!” “No! No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do,” he pulled a gun from his back waistband, “Tell me.” Eli’s mouth opened, but the only crashing noises came. The sound made both of them jot their attention towards the door. The man gritted his teeth: the other two. Staring down at his gun, he weighed it in his hand before bringing it down on Eli’s head. Eli fell to the floor again. The last thing he saw before the backs of his eyelids was the man’s black shoes walking out the door. The black gave away to whisps at first merging into cacti and sand. They whirled by through the view from a car window. Tyler sat on the opposite side, smiling back. In the front seat sat Miles and Vincent. The whole picture felt loving and had a dream-like glow. It faded into a face-full of fabric. Before he could freak out like his earlier ones, a hand touched his shoulder. “You’re alright now, you’re safe,” Tyler cooed. In a quick movement, Eli raised to hug her, nearly bringing them to the floor. Regaining her structure, she hugged back. In their embrace, Eli missed Miles and Vincent standing off to the side, smiling down at them.


I was there when you drew your first breath. I was standing quietly in the corner dressed in my solemn attire, feeling incredibly joyous, and yet I knew that you would curse me. It's my destiny to be a villain, to be rejected and abhorred. It is my burden and I have to bear it. I have to be stoic in the face of hatred thrown at me. I am the tragic muse of the great painters. I am the gloomy inspiration of the hopelessly romantic poets. Compared to my grandiose, flamboyant, and effervescent counterparts, I am dull, small, and pitiful. I watched you grow, I was this omnipresent entity, an uninvited guest. I held your hand when you were crying in your room, suffering from a broken heart. I wiped your tears with the corner of my long, black veil. Although you couldn't see me, you could feel my presence. I manifested myself as a dull chest ache, tightness in the throat, and long, laboured breaths. I never missed one of your solitary night walks. I was always there, like a silent spectator and an undercover angel. When you lost your mother, you were inconsolable. I was sitting on your bed every night, gently caressing your hair and doing my best to help you move on. Throughout your existence, I never left your side and yet you hated me with every fiber of your being. I don't blame you. Everyone hates me. It is my burden and I have to bear it. You wished I would disappear forever. I stood there silently as you screamed at me to leave you alone. But I couldn't leave you, not until you move on from this earthly realm. You never understood my importance, for you I was a nuisance at best and atrocity at worst. My child, the time is coming. I am standing next to your hospital bed, draped in dark cloth, waiting to see you draw your last breath. Before I leave, I need to teach you something. You see, it is my fate to be detested almost until the very last moment. Most people only start to appreciate me when their hair goes gray and their vision slowly starts to fade. There is no light without darkness and there is no happiness without grief. Being human is incredibly difficult. You have to survive the deaths of your loved ones, sickness, and aging, you have to watch your own body fail you. Without me, you would never appreciate the beauty of life. Without me, you would always live in the shadow, forgetting that there is a source of light. You would be drowned in sadness, surrendering to the cruel and unforgiving world. You thought I made you feeble, and yet, I made you cherish the good moments and come out stronger. My sweet child, I will soon leave you. I have one last gift. People say that before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes. They don't know that it is my last gift to humanity. My final attempt to renounce the role of villain, to ease the burden which I have to bear. Sincerely, the unsung hero, Melancholy.


“Surge of unknown virus with flu-like symptoms flood America.” Gregory Peterson, whose attention was so fixated onto the TV, failed to acknowledge that Doug was trying to get his attention. Doug cupped his mouth and leaned in Gregory’s ear. “Houston to Gregory, do you copy?” Greg jumped in his seat, and aggressively shoved Greg. “What is it?” “You really think it’s this shit?” Doug motioned towards the coffee table besides them, where a stack of comic books laid in disarray. One of the comic book covers featured a woman grabbing at her gas mask, which in itself seems to be cracking and melting, with the title saying “PROJECT DOOMSDAY”. “It’s almost too accurate...” “Please Greg, it’s a damn comic book. This thing will blow over in a few days anyway.” Doug tore open the comic, and pointed at a man tearing at his face, which appeared to be boiling and flaking. Everyone else stared in horror as this horrific scene took place, questioning what was happening. “I mean, this shit can’t happen to people. Trust me dude, it’s just another flu. Some sniffles, a bad headache, and it’s over.” Greg grabbed the comic book and flipped back a few pages, where the man is shown coughing and complaining about a fever. “That’s why no one suspected a thing. It seemed like a normal cold, and then it builds and builds until-” Greg flipped back to the page of the boiling skin. Doug threw the comic back on the table. “You’ve got to get yourself together dude. Promise me you’ll stop overthinking this and be normal again for God’s sake. I mean, Ted’s coming over with pizza, and-” Greg got off the couch and made his way to his bedroom nearby. Doug sighed and shook his head. “What are you doing dude?” “Ted who went to fucking UCLA? Do you know how many cases there probably are over there? Jesus Christ dude, at least give me a fucking heads up!” Greg pulled out a homemade hazmat suit made up of aluminum foil and plastic and started to dress himself up in it. “You’re not wearing that.” “The virus can’t penetrate aluminum foil or plastic, so I had to combine the two for maximum-” “Take it off dude. Don’t be fucking weird.” Greg finished up and put his finger on Doug’s chest. “I’m not taking any chances with this thing.” “You’re making me want to take this meet-up somewhere else.” “Good. Then when people start to fucking burn up from the inside-out you’ll see how serious this thing really is.” “It’s a comic book!” “It’s been right so far!” There is a knock on the door. “Did somebody order pizza?” It was Ted. Greg and Doug look at each other for a moment, a moment of tense silence passes. “Take off that damn thing or so help me God-” “You were a good friend to me Doug. I want to let you know that.” And with that, Doug left the room, and Greg soon followed. “Hey spaceman. You want to take off the suit so we can see you?” Greg shook his head. The news quietly played in the background as they ate their pizza in uncomfortable silence. “So Ted, how’s California?” “Oh dude, it’s awesome. I think it’s safe to say my acting career is starting to look-” Ted violently coughs. Greg tenses up. “Still got that cough, huh?” “Yeah. I don’t know dude, I woke up today with a horrible headache and shit to. I think I might be coming down with something.” “But hey, respect for you coming over here dude.” “Hell yeah dude. I wouldn’t miss this for the-” Ted coughs again, and this time blood and mucus spurt out. “That’s new.” “Jeez dude, do you need anything or-” Ted coughs again, coughs which then turn into vomit. Doug gets up from the couch and motions to Greg. “Greg, do something!” Greg does nothing, but watch in horror as Ted collapses to the ground as the vomit turns more dark red with each second. Then, and Greg goes into his room to pack up some things in a backpack, he hears Ted start to scream. Ted claws at his face as if he is trying to get something out of him. His skin starts to boil, and blood oozes from his lips. “Help me!” Doug pulls out his phone and calls for help. Greg grabs his comics, and makes his way out of the living room. “What do I do?” “I’m sorry dude. I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.” Greg turns and leaves. The news covers someone burning in the streets as everyone around him screams in terror and calls for help. “9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” Doug hangs up, and sits on the couch. He watches Ted slowly die in front of him. “Please Doug. Do something!” Tears well up in Doug’s eyes, and Ted screams bloody murder as he writhes in pain, accompanied with an unpleasant projectile of vomit every few seconds. Then soon enough, he stops moving, laying in a pile in blood, vomit, and melted skin. That’s when Doug starts to cough. Greg gets in his car and reads the end of a comic book. The final panel shows the name of a town, and a “To Be Continued” over a black background. After some Googling, Greg finds that this is halfway across the country. Greg thinks about the journey ahead of him, and what he will have to do to survive. He looks at his house one more time. “Goodbye Doug.” He turns on the radio, and tunes it to a talk show where the people give updates on the virus that has swept the country. How it has spread across the world at an alarming rate. How no one knows where it came from. Or how much time we have left. And with a somber sigh, Greg puts the car in drive and prepares himself for the journey ahead.


This bar is seedy and disgusting. Not the kind of place I like to frequent. But I needed somewhere off the radar. A place where no one pays attention to you or remembers a face or name. Even the bar's name, ‘Hot Bird’, bespoke the kind of venue it was. I had sussed out the joint earlier and knew it was perfect for what I needed tonight. I am a closet artisan so one of the things I love the most about my job is the opportunity to transform my appearance. My current persona calls for a chic peroxide blonde bob, green contacts, long false eyelashes, thigh-high suede stiletto boots, and a tight-fitting little black dress. A Triple Boost Ultimate Cleavage bra that promises to increase the bust by up to three cup sizes and my Giorgio Armani Beauty Rouge lipstick complete the outfit. I arrive a few minutes after midnight. Strategically late for my sordid tryst. I always love to keep them waiting, it makes my arrival so much more theatrical. Especially in this case when I can see John at the far corner table. He already has five empty glasses in front of him and one on the go. I strut over to him, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head, ogling me as if I’m dinner. Think he might even be drooling. Looks like I chose the right outfit for tonight’s assignment. He sways as he tries to stand, I make it easier for him and lean inwards. He slurs loudly in my ear. “Candy Cane.” I nod and slide into the booth with him. He places his large, hairy hand on my thigh and attempts to kiss me. Pushing him away and batting my eyelids like an insipid barbie doll, I giggle. “You need to buy me a drink first darling, I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea, actually make that two,” I simper at him, winking suggestively. He makes his way clumsily towards the bar. As soon as he’s out of sight, I locate the tiny vial in my purse. Getting the minute dropper out I do a quick scan to make sure no one is around. One drop is all I need, any more than that could kill him. By the time he returns I’m ready. “Babe let’s take our drinks outside to the courtyard. It's private out there and I want you all to myself,” I purred, licking my lips suggestively. Outside it’s spookily quiet, there’s not a soul in sight. I lead John over to the softly lit couch where plush cushions are scattered haphazardly. Placing my drinks on the small glass table I sit gingerly in the far corner. I try not to think of what some of the stains might be from. John sits near me, and his stale breath nearly makes me gag. I place one hand on his thigh as I reach for his drink. “Here babe, drink this first, then we can get to business.” I start to inch my hand higher up his pants winking and licking my lips. I watch as he gulps his drink down with gusto, his eyes slit and hooded with lust. Two minutes later John slumps on my shoulder. He’s out cold. I tap my watch to send the message. Placing his head strategically in my cleavage and his arms around me I wait for the reporter. He’s here now, snapping the incriminating shots. Photos complete, he leaves as quickly as he arrived. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe out of my purse, I clean any surface I’ve touched. I use a special spray that destroys DNA in any place I’ve touched John. I take his glass with me, that way there’s no way anyone can find remnants of the drug I used. Wrapping it in the antiseptic wipe I place it delicately into my purse. Draping John over the cushions on the couch makes it look like he's having a nice snooze. This drug is amazing, he should wake up in about 2 hours with a headache and no idea what’s happened to him. Leaving quietly through the side entrance that the reporter used earlier, I check if no one's around. Darting across the road, I duck through a dusky alley and jump into my silver Sports Subaru. As I speed home, music blaring, the adrenaline pumps through my veins. What a buzz. This is the part I love the most about my job. Tomorrow Senator John Spilling will be splashed all over the New York Times. His political career will be shredded and his marriage in tatters. His sweet, naive wife will not put up with his public indiscretion. Part of my background research was on Lady Penelope Spilling. She might project a cool, refined manor in public, but behind that smile is a possessive, jealous streak. All of it lies, Senator Spilling is truly evil. He has side deals going with the Mob that has our streets laced with drugs. So many young people have lost their lives due to the abundance of Ice and Speed available to them. Senator Spilling has been using drugs as a platform for his political campaign. Waffling on about how he was going to rid our streets of the drug barons, runners, and dealers. Meanwhile, he was in cahoots with the biggest and most dangerous organization in the city of New York. Letting them run their business without any interference from law enforcement officers. And for this, he was getting large donations to his political election campaign fund. This ‘black money’ is tax-free and a way for the Mob to money launder. Win-win for them and the corrupt and disgusting Senator. Obviously, I was not the high-class tart he thought he was meeting tonight. One should never underestimate a pretty face. I was now $10,000 richer, thank you very much indeed. But I didn’t do it for the money. My social conscience stems from being raised by a single mother. My dad left when I was about five, I don’t remember much about him, except him being an angry, abusive drunk. We lived on the poorer side of town, in a housing estate. Growing up I lost many a friend to drug overdoses or prostitution. I saw young guys shot for getting on the wrong side of drug dealers or barons. And witnessed many homeless people spending the night in sleeping bags in Time Square; having to rely on the kindness of strangers to donate clothing, bedding, food, or money to help them survive. The world was a rotten place at times, and I had seen far too much of it. I decided to join the Police Force hoping I could make a difference. During my second year of working for the NYPD, I was offered this job. It required six months of specialist training and was a top-secret division. The pre-requisites were a high IQ, a high level of fitness, and dare I say it, hotness. Luckily for me, I ticked the boxes on all three. Now I’m helping rid New York City of some of the most corrupt and evil men. So far, I’ve taken four down, well five, if you count John. This is only my first year on the job. A lot of research is required for each target. Working out their weaknesses, and the kind of lady that would attract them to stray. Each time I take a target down I receive a bonus payment, on top of my normal salary. The extra money I make is donated to homeless shelters and residential inpatient treatment centers. It’s not much, but I like to think it might make a difference. Time to start research for target number six. Opening the dossier, a prominent movie star stared back at me. Captured in a photo with his gorgeous model wife, and two young children. This could be interesting...


The year is 1983 and Adam Nussbaum sits inside of his Abrams M1. And 20 yards in front of him was a Russian tank full of Soviet soldiers in the same situation. The tension in Berlin is tense Adam knows this, the Soviets know this and Dave Hillman; Adam’s fellow soldier knew this as well. “I can’t take this anymore” says Adam, thinking out loud. “We’re all just staring at each other with our fingers on the triggers waiting to get the order to shoot. If the Russians decide that they want war, we won’t even know. Bam. Gone, just a mark on some Ruskie tank.” Adam says this time more directed at Dave. “I woke up today and remembered that I haven’t jerked off anywhere besides a room full of dudes for the past year, since we’re both going to be depressed today.” Says Dave, Adam rolls his eyes. “Just calm down man the Ruskies know better than to do anything stupid like that, besides there’s an equal chance that we want war and we’ll get to shoot those guys before they even know what happened.” Dave says in an attempt to ease Adam’s nerves. A few hours go by and as he did everyday Adam stared down the barrel of the Russian T-80. When something that hasn’t happened before piqued Adam’s interest. “Hey, Dave, HEY!” Adam yelled as he shook Dave awake. “fuck dude I was in math class” says Dave “there’s a person running up to the Soviets!” exclaimed Adam. “He has a bag and he looks like he’s in a hurry do you think today’s the day?” Adam says as he retightens his grip on the controls. Trying to convince his friend of the severity Adam says “Dave, man if that’s news of war we’re dead.” Dave comes back with “If you pull that trigger we’re going to be responsible for starting World War 3 man!” Adam does not move his eyes are locked on the T-80 which now had a parlay with the messenger. “Adam, Adam, look at me.” says Dave. Adam does not acknowledge this and continues to stare. “I don’t wanna die man” says Adam. “Well if you pull that trigger, us and a lot of the world are going to be worse than dead. Don’t do anything stupid man please get away from that trigger.” Dave pleads. Adam is locked in “they’re staring at us” he says under his breath, as his body begins to tremble. “Come on, you’re going crazy.” says Dave. Dave is panicked, his friend is in a trance. The Soviet parlay ends and the Russian man begins to walk back to the T-80. The time that it takes for him to get in, is the longest moment in Adam’s life. If he pulls the trigger he will start a war, but if the war has already started and Adam just hasn’t received the news yet, then he will be blown to pieces in the blink of an eye. Adam stares at the T-80, waiting for a shot that doesn’t ever come.


The house was exactly as he left it. When Uncle Steven moved to hospice last spring, he had already transferred all the rights to his books and published articles to his nonprofit foundation, the Lamont Library. After he died in August, he left his house to me, his only niece, since he never married and had no children of his own. Months had passed, but nothing had been touched. Even his last two case studies he had planned to archive for the library were scattered in boxes stacked to the ceiling in the study. No one had shown much interest, until now. I got the call the day after Thanksgiving. Dr. Thomas Li, an award-winning neurologist, formerly with MIT, asked to meet with me to discuss an important study. And if I would be willing to transfer the remaining files to the university to continue Dr. Lamont’s work. “I know it’s a lot of trouble to find those materials.” Dr. Li apologized over the phone. “I’m happy to come by, at your convenience. The grant includes a small budget for research assistance. I can pay for your help.” I agreed to meet Dr. Li at my uncle’s old house. I told him I had already located several boxes of videotapes, marked “Confidential.” I wondered how these outdated, dusty tapes could be so important. “I know exactly where those tapes are,” I assured Dr. Li. “Any materials you want, you are welcome to borrow and make copies.” “This isn’t just for my research,” Dr. Li insisted. “Dr. Lamont’s work will change the lives of so many people, including his own patients still struggling to this day to remain anonymous until this field is better understood and fully accepted. “Your uncle captured footage of his team treating patients while channeling dark energy forces. The phenomena manifested on videotape prove these episodes were not hallucinations.” I didn’t believe anyone could take his experimental therapy that seriously. As if it would change the face of medicine, and the world? But his former patient, Jackie, now a graduate student interning with Dr. Li’s research group, had convinced him this work was groundbreaking. Dr. Li arrived before I did. He called me to check if I was on my way. “Sorry, my car died in the driveway. Very odd, it wouldn't even start." It was my turn to apologize. "I’m getting a Lift driver to take me over there. If you want to go inside, there’s an extra key by the side of the mailbox. The boxes you want are down the hallway, to the right. The study is full of them, but I moved the videotapes outside the door.” Dr. Li found the collection of videos that I had set aside. Inside the box, he found the personal instructions my uncle had left for me. “Dear Frances: If I don’t live long enough to tell you in person, please make sure nobody touches these materials unless they agree to three rules, for safety, which I failed to follow: 1. Anyone who is told about or has any knowledge of these studies must seek the help and support of a deliverance ministry to pray for their protection. This energy is very dangerous and infiltrates the human network through our conscious and unconscious thoughts. Nobody can even know about this, unless they are fully protected. Or they will find themselves attacked as I have been. Please, this is very important! 2. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to replicate the exorcism rites I studied that require an individual, even a priest, to step in on behalf of God’s authority and make direct contact with any such energy or entity of demonic nature. This was a mistake, and I should never have studied this by direct contact. I hope that when my brain and body are donated to science, the mysterious growth of cancer can be studied to prevent the same deadly exposure that I believe is responsible. 3. The minute you experience any signs of negative energy forces causing disruptions around you, please seek the prayer support of a deliverance ministry to remove the causes and protect you. IMMEDIATELY. Please share the knowledge of spiritual healing that doesn’t require anyone to step in and do what I did. This research is important, but it must be done safely and consistently with the right approach and methods. What I did wasn’t safe. I regret not being able to warn you and others in time. I’m going into hospice care soon, and may not have time to explain in person. Please WARN everyone who hears of this research to AVOID any contact, whatsoever, with the occult, with dark forces of witchcraft, sorcery, spells or curses. If I contribute nothing else to science, I want to leave this knowledge in the right hands. But everyone must be fully informed and protected." The note ended there. Dr. Li was more curious than alarmed. He opened the door to the study to look for more boxes. Without warning, the door slammed shut in his face. He opened it again, holding the knob which started turning by itself. As if someone was on the other side fighting with him to keep him out. “Who’s there?” the doctor shouted. But there was nobody else in the house but him. Suddenly the sound of a dozen phones rang out in the hallway. Old-fashioned phones, the type that nobody makes or has anymore. Dr. Li spun around, but there were no telephones, and no visible source of the ringing anywhere in the hall or in the house. He called me on his cell phone, frantically yelling. “Frances! I’m inside the house, in the hallway. What is going on here? Is this a prank? How do I turn off these alarms, these phones ringing?” “What?” I was equally shocked, and felt a surge of pure terror spill into my soul from the panic in Dr. Li’s voice. “Are you sure that isn’t your phone picking up signals?” “No! It’s ringing behind my head. In the room around me. But when I turn around, there’s nothing here. Where are the phones in this house?” “There are no phones in the house! What are you talking about? Of course I can hear it. Where are you--” “Never mind, Frances. I’m hanging up. I’m going to record this nonsense.” He hung up on me. I felt a strange dark energy fill me with anxiety, as if pure evil had entered my world and was riding next to me in the car. I handed all my cash to the driver, begging him to rush me to the house. By the time I got there, the chaotic ringing had stopped. But the clock hanging in the hallway, without any batteries or power source, start chiming. As if to announce the time of my arrival. Dr. Li was recording the study door slamming open and shut by itself. “Frances, do you see this? This isn’t my imagination. It’s not a delusion if we're both seeing this! Quick, use your phone.” Together we recorded as much footage as we could, trembling with both terror and excitement. With two of us as witnesses to the same phenomena, we had a better chance of capturing clear proof and convincing others this was real. I spotted the opened box on the floor, with the note on top. I had forgotten the instructions my uncle had left me. No wonder he tried to warn me! “Dr. Li, we need to get prayer help. Now! This is exactly what he meant!” “In the name of Jesus Christ. I command you to leave!” My uncle’s voice came out of nowhere, and boomed through the hallway. I didn’t know if that command was for the demons or Satan, himself. Me or Dr. Li. But we obeyed, grabbed the box of tapes, and fled. Whatever was the next step of this research project, I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to hand the research to Jackie and Dr. Li, and disappear. Pretend I never heard or saw anything. And pray the demons would leave me alone.