With a hoarse grunt, Tom strained against the digging bar. At last, the trunk rolled over. Underneath, the torn limbs of the tree had punctured a pattern in the soil, two holes and a deep slash that leered like a grinning skull. A taste of bile touched the back of his tongue, and he looked away. Clouds as grey and heavy as tombstones stole over the sky, covering the sun. Tom prayed they held a little rain, instead of just thunder. Again and again, he rammed his digging bar under the gnarled trunk of the tree that had busted his fence and let his cows out. Matilda and the kids were out on the range, trying to gather up the herd, while Josie, his eldest, had gone to town for the regular supply run. When the tree refused to budge, Tom threw down the bar in disgust. All around were the paltry spread of his corn fields, reedy green stalks broken only by the long ribbon of dirt that was the path to his homestead. For years he’d been hacking and shifting this hateful spit of land, squeezing out whatever it could yield, which was only enough to break even in the good years, and a money hole in the bad ones. He had to go back to his stash again and again, his heart pounding every time he did. The loot was getting thin. Fourteen years on, and it still made him burn with shame every time he had to touch one of those bills. Maybe when they were all spent he could finally forget the accusing eyes of the body he’d left in the scrub. A skirt of dust rose from the road. It was Josie, running pell-mell. Matilda didn’t like sending the girl into town alone, but she was half tomboy, and she’d inherited Tom’s looks as well as his attitude. So if she wanted to go into town, long as she went with some iron on her hip, he was fine with it. Road agents wouldn’t bother with a single poor farmer, as there was no money in it. Josie ran up like a rabbit being chased by a fox, her pigtails flapping loose from her straw hat. She took such care in keeping them hidden most days. “Pa!” she gasped. “Man in town. Looking for you.” She tried to say more but was too winded for any of it to make sense. He led her over to the trough for a drink. Under her arm was a package, damp with sweat. Wordlessly she thrust it at him. The plain brown paper was sloppily tied with a stained bit of whang leather. Inside was a filthy hat. He thumped it once to dust it, but the dirt clung in the seams. A smell of rot and loam wafted up. Grave dust. A memory sprung to life, hissing and rattling like a snake. He recoiled from the hat, threw it to the ground. The wind blew fiercely, scattering the hat and the package, and the parched stalks of corn shivered. His eyes darted to and fro. The hand at his hip found air instead of leather. It’d been years since he wore his Model 3 daily, but the body never forgets its reaction to danger. He looked at his house, but couldn’t see the familiar beams and windows he himself had set. Instead he saw the empty eyes of a dead man, bled out at the foot of a tree. Those accusing eyes. “What is it, pa?” Josie asked. “Postman said there was a man in town lookin’ for you. Old looking cowboy, done up in Ute leathers.” “Ute?” he gasped. It had been Ute territory, hadn’t it. Right at the edge of Colorado. Sweat poured down his face, cold as the grave. He wiped it off and took his eyes off the horizon long enough to give his daughter a hard stare. “Get the side-by-side.” Josie’s eyes went wide as saucer cups, but she ran to the house to get the big gun. Tom, the wind whispered. There, at the edge of his land. A dark figure. He could imagine a trio of gunshot wounds on its breast. Tom ran inside and slammed the door behind him. The kitchen table was set for dinner - Mathilda must’ve gotten it ready before the fence fiasco. Where the breadbasket should be was the ancient double-barreled shotgun, Josie fumbling shells into the barrels. It was an ornate museum-piece, bought off a German settler headed West who let it go for cheap. Probably forged fifty years ago, to shoot Indians or buffalo. Still shot true, as a coyote discovered last year. Tears left wet trails in the grime on her face. “Pa? What’s going on?” she asked, barely holding down the quaiver in her voice. Tom got his revolver from the tool rack, checked the cylinder. “It’s a bad man I once knew,” Tom said. “But you’re a farmer. You don’t know any bad men,” she said. He wanted to kiss her on the forehead, tell her it was all right. But they’d called him by another name back in his road agent days, that crew of hard-eyed men preying on stagecoaches and passerbys. He’d done things that haunted his thoughts even now, things that filled him with shame. But he’d done it, by god, and taken the whiskey, women and money that had come with a fast life. Their last score had been the stuff of legends: ten-thousand silver dollars off a Wells Fargo wagon, bound for some frontier bank. After Willie Banks and the Dentist had caught their ends, though, it was left to just two men to split the earnings. Just him, and... “Roy Flint,” Tom whispered. The meanest son of a bitch in ten counties. A rattlesnake heart filled with black anger all welled up like crude oil, bursting forth at the slightest tap. Carried a big knife, a machete meant for bushwhacking, and used it to take the limbs off people. Lawmen, whores, bartenders whose tone he didn’t like. Roy had used the knife like some people used conversation. But for whatever reason, Roy’d had a soft spot for Tom. After the Wells Fargo job, when they’d stopped their horses and pulled out the saddle bag full of loot, their gazes had met. Take it all, Tom had thought. Get out. Tom had expected to see the same thought in Roy’s pitiless eyes, but instead there was a hint of surprise. Maybe even the meanest son of a bitch in the world had to feel some shock at betrayal. Those eyes stared after Tom, even after the life left ‘em. Tom couldn’t bear the look, so he covered Roy’s face with his hat, and quit that place, some lonely stand of scrub out on the prairie. A few weeks later he found Matilda, and they found a patch of ex-Indian land open from the Hunter Act, and the rest was a history of toil and frustration. “Roy who?” Josie asked. Snapped back to the present, Tom hushed her and took the side-by-side. Good girl, she’d loaded buckshot in both barrels. He let the shotgun take the lead out the door, his finger shivering on the trigger. At the edge of the packed dirt around the house, right at the footsteps, stood the figure. The wind tore at his rotten clothes, flashes of grey flesh and exposed bone visible. On the face was a rictus smile, straight out of nightmares. Tom yanked the trigger. Two barrels of buckshot cut into the figure, and it slumped over. Tom let out a sharp breath. He lowered the gun as the tension left him, muscle memory popping open the gun and reloading the shells. Then Roy got back up. Reason and pride fled, and Tom ran with them. Slammed the door shut behind him. For a wild moment he considered just bolting out the back. Walsenburg wasn’t far. Josie was there though, hiccuping with terror. She looked at him, sure he could somehow save her, and it felt worse than the flash of cowardice. He remembered Matilda could be back any moment with Anna, Henry and the rest of the little ones in tow. They’d be sheep walking into a wolf’s jaws. “Y-you stay behind me, Josie,” Tom said. He grabbed his buck knife and slipped the Model 3 out of his pocket. “Shoot him if he comes through the back.” There was no sound at the front door, except the howling of the wind and the hiss of parched corn. Tom thought of his family, and mustered up his limp courage. He tore open the front door and threw himself outside, rolling to avoid a shot from the side. The barrels of the shotgun flashed left, right, forward. No Roy. Heart hammering, Tom stood up. A shot rang out from behind. He wheeled. Gray flesh rested over his daughter’s mouth, a rigid hand with black nails digging into her cheek. The Model 3, taken from her, now hung loosely at the intruder’s side. Josie squirmed but that gnarled root of an arm didn’t budge. “Nice place you got here, Tom,” Roy said. Roy’s voice was the sound of rats scrambling against dirt, of wind blowing over a gravestone. “No words for your old pardner?” A dead laugh. “No how’dya do?” Tom forced the words through his clenched throat. “Roy...let her go.” That laugh again. “First tell me something, Tom. Where’s the loot?” Tom took a step forward. Roy squeezed, and Josie shook like a fish on a hook, eyes wide with pain. “No, none of that,” Roy hissed. “Where’s my share, Tom?” “Gone,” he said. “Spent it all.” “Figures. You were shit for brains, Tom Geitz. Never had a head for numbers.” A spider scuttled from the cave of his mouth, disappeared into his empty eye socket. “But I think I’ll take your investment here, Tom.” “No!” he shouted. “Let’s settle it fair. Like the old days.” “With knives? Think you can carve me?” Roy laughed again, and waved Tom outside with the Model 3. “Drop it there.” Tom dropped the shotgun on the porch. The boards creaked as he stepped down into the dirt. Roy put the revolver to Josie’s thigh and fired. Tom moved to rush Roy, but the dead man leveled the pistol at his heart. “Just making sure she doesn’t jackrabbit off while we settle this,” Roy said, over Josie’s cries of pain. His spurs jangled as he descended from the porch. The lamplight of the house was visible through the hole in Roy’s chest. Tom pulled his knife, wondering what in the hell he could do with it. Roy slowly pulled out his machete and tapped his chest. “I’ll let you have the first hit.” An ear-splitting whoop let loose from Tom’s mouth, his heart whipped by fear and anger. He dove at Tom, burying the knife into his skull up to the hilt. Roy laughed and gripped his arm. With a casual swing he sheared through Tom’s left hand, taking it off in a ragged stump. Tom screamed and tried to pull away. The grip of the rotten hand was like iron, biting down so hard blood didn’t flow from the stump. “That’s good. Struggle.” Roy leaned in and put his lips to Tom’s wound. Pain shot up like lightning as rotted teeth chewed on his wounded flesh. “By the devil, you’ll pay me in pain!” Tom wriggled loose and fell to the ground. He tried to crawl away, dirt in his mouth. “I thought we was like brothers, Tom Geitz. Tom Two-Guns. The Terror of Durango.” A bony hand caught his leg. “Feel terrifying now, Tom?” Whack. Tom screamed again. His leg ended at the knee. He pushed feebly against the dirt, trying to gain some futile distance. All he did was churn the bloody mud. Fat drops of rain cut loose from overhead, followed by the peal of thunder. “I hope you enjoyed that ten-thousand dollars. You and me, we’re kin at heart, Tom. I saw it, even if you didn’t. You spit on our friendship for what, for money?” Roy cackled. “Well, it was a lot of money, I’ll grant you. I’m gonna have to take the repayment from your family!” He raised the knife high. The crack of thunder split the air. Roy’s head disappeared in a mist of blood. His body toppled to the earth like a rotted tree, thudded into the dirt next to Tom. Josie sat up from the porch, the barrels of the shotgun still smoking. As the rain poured down, it seeped into Roy’s body. The neck ended in a mess of torn flesh, those accusing eyes finally gone. The grey flesh and tattered clothes dissolved into the mud right before Tom’s eyes. Jodie limped over, her overalls soaked in her own blood. “Pa, I’m sorry pa,” she sobbed. “Good girl,” he said, closing his eyes. “Good girl.” On top of all the bad decisions of his life, he’d made at least one one good one in her. As his vision dimmed, the last thing he saw was her eyes, full of pride and sadness. Written for . Prompt taken from .


After years of being single, I was finally talking to somebody. Naturally, I was eager for any opportunity to see her. Chatting via Instant Message for a few days, there was finally an opportunity. She was free one night and wanted to hang. Awesome. But before that, there was just one small thing she needed help with. She had a pet frog. Keyword: HAD. Despite my love interest's tender love and care, the amphibian passed away 3 days prior. Poor little guy. But my love interest -- we'll call her Renee -- never got around to emptying the tank. She just didn't have the guts to reach in and throw it out. That being said, I didn't have to grab it out of the tank and give it a proper frog burial (or whatever), but *it would be nice*. Being the "aim to please" person I was, I accepted the challenge. The frog would be extracted from its home, laid to rest, then we'd continue the date from there. Awesome. I groomed myself, brushed and flossed, climbed into the van and sped off. Upon arriving at her apartment, we exchanged pleasantries, hugs, and all the stuff that young nervous people do when they like each other. But the pleasantries could only last so long. It was now time to head to the scene of the incident. She swung open the basement door and descended down the stairs. I followed, listening to lumber boards creak and squeak below as they bore the weight of my being. Uhh, by the way: if you're eating something, I'd either finish it or put it away. This next part is... unappetizing. The basement's carpet was vacuumed just minutes earlier. It was white with dark blue speckles every couple inches. Her computer desk had only a computer on it, her bookshelves held books and housed glass figurines. The bed was made squarely as an envelope. I was surprised by how meticulous and tidy Renee was about her apartment. Pleased by it, in fact. After taking in the tidy apartment's scenery, I turned my attention to the frog tank. The hard water stains at the top of the tank, the algae-green water, and the deceased frog had festered for three days, creating about six gallons of frog stew. Remember what I said about unappetizing? I approached the tank, staring directly into the cold eyes of our deceased friend. Before going in, protection was desperately needed. I asked Renee. Any rubber gloves? She searched mentally for a second... nope. Alright... vinyl gloves? Not at all. Gloves at all? No. Well, darn. It was starting to look like I'd have to plunge my bare hand into this toxic tank -- a thought that truly horrified me. Wait! Renee found a grocery bag! That'll do. I turned it inside-out, stuck my hand inside, and had a makeshift plastic-bag-glove -- like I was picking up dog poop. Now it was time to dispose of the body. Without hesitation, my hand started downward toward the deceased. Within seconds, the feeling of cold, stale water chilled my fingertips through the plastic bag. During this whole ordeal, my head was turned away from the tank. I couldn't see what was going on below. Feeling my submerged hand around the bottom, the tank's contents were becoming familiar to me. Gravel, corral, more gravel, a fish castle, then a stick. Finally, I felt the unmistakable bumpy, slippery texture of a dead frog. Here he is. My bagged hand immediately clasped itself around him. He immediately slipped out. Clearly, my grocery bag wasn't designed around a dead frog. I maneuvered my hand more carefully around him and lifted him out again, making it out of the water this time. But he slipped once more, did a belly-flop into the putrid water, then sunk back down into the gravel. Catching a dead frog was proving harder than catching a live one. Finally, I made an underhanded reach into the tank and extracted the frog once more. This time, he stayed in the palm of my hand. Frogs are usually green. However, when our amphibian friend passed away, he turned a rancid gray. By the way: know how frog legs taste like chicken? Well the dead frog smelled a lot like a rotten chicken. And felt like it, too. Boy, that little guy was slimy. I had a crushing realization: now what? I had planned (kinda) to extract the dead frog from the tank -- but made NO plans for anything after that. I eyed Renee, hoping she had the answer. Nothing. We began to panic. I proposed flushing him. Nope, that would clog the 'loo. Throw him in the kitchen trash? NO!!! The carcass lay in my hand like a hot potato, except cold and it smelled nowhere near as good as a potato. If we didn't act fast, we were both gonna vomit. Then, in a split-second, Renee rushed over to her sliding door and threw it open. I instantly dashed out with the carcass into the back yard. Luckily, there was an extensive woodsy area behind her apartment. With a deep breath, a crank of the arm, and a "HOOAH!", I sent the frog out a hundred yards or so to its final destination. And off in the distance, I heard an unmistakable *SHPLACK!!!* It sounded like throwing out a carton of curdled milk. Except bonier. And meatier. Rest in piece, little guy. Written by AndreaRCarr and submitted to reddit on 2013-DEC-16 Edit: typos. Misspellings.


What a sucking Tuesday! I began to curse why the New year's eve had to show up the earliest of the week. What if you could come on Thursday? Don't you think you could make everyone a happy panda? Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday; a long relaxing weekend! I talked to myself. Despite the hell of a day I had earlier at work, yet I felt so giant stepping on a new year as a single champ after opting out unhealthy relationship a day before the new year's eve. It rained at noon, and I was so disturbed with the point of fact that roads would be severely devastated. I looked at my watch-that I normally refuse take it off my wrist even when I'm bathing- and it read 7:20 PM. I swashed open the curtains and peeked outside through the window. It was dark and cold ; I could feel the waves of cold air slapping my face mercilessly. My head was dominated by two twin ghosts whom I didn’t have a slightest idea from which caves had they descend from. One whispered to my mind; settle down and have a bottle of wine as you watch your favorite TV program at home. The other one jumped in and said; call your girlfriend and have a funny night-how stupid he already forgot We broke up yesterday. I had no doubt their ideas were so urged with the prevailed arctic climate, but I strongly suspected their discrepancies. I said; this weather is definitely calling for nothing but few pints of the best brandy in town. I convinced myself that this time was surely me, though on the other hand I feared one of the ghosts might have conspired and rigged the game. I put on my sneakers, got in my hoodie-shirt and sneaked out quietly; not wanting to dismay my devils that I probably had a card up my sleeve and disobeyed them. I went to a nearby pub where I used to drink with my friend Rechnold before he relocated to Prague. I pulled up the hoodie collar and covered my head- not to expose my presence to the folks who never aced to mind their own businesses. I picked a small round table in the corner and sat. I revealed my face and immediately a young blonde barmaid whom I assumed to be a fourth grade school dropout appeared to ask me what I would like to have. A half pint of your best bitter, trying to sound like my English friends who came to visit our organization last month, realizing that am once breaking the rule I set myself to never take alcohol on Christmas and New year's eve. I am John Doe; I encouraged myself so that I would not feel guilty. I raised my half-pint glass and took all of it in one sip and asked for another. The young barmaid attended to me again and left. I took the glass and have a sip very gently this minute, and then I put it down diligently. This time I allowed my eyes to gaze over the counter where I initially swore would never look as my neighbors who’re good followers and devoted worshippers of free beers would always seat at the counter. Uncustomary, I bumped into new beer muscle’ faces that I concluded they had run in for a roof when it was raining cats and dogs and dwelled for beers. I turned my head around and my eyes settled to the eyes of a lady from a far end corner table of the pub. A lady in a red-fashioned designer dress with a flawless lip rouge and necklet that exquisitely matched her dress. She was having a glass of red wine. She smiled at me amicably; I couldn’t believe she was actually giving that wide fresh smile for me. I took a sip of a dark-brown liquid and nearly choked. I couldn’t help but grabbing my glass and moved to her table, didn’t have a clue the glass was already empty. Nice dress! I remarked as I lifted up my glass to toast with hers. It’s empty! she said as she indicated with a flick of eyes. Ooh sorry, I said awkwardly. I signaled the barmaid who was hovering to bring a full bottle of red wine. I am not for sale! she enounced, looking straight into my eyes; trying to be solid. My late grandfather once told me; “ Wine makes you wise ” imitating my grandfather’s voice. I hate to be the only wisest in the room, I said as I was lifting up the bottle of wine and pour her glass. She smiled. I filled up her glass then I did mine. A decade in the city yet this is my good pub and look today! it’s written a new record to be my best pub. I insinuated. I am Harry. She laughed; ooh I see, Hurry! I am........ Keep your name for the next time, Red will just be perfect for now. I cut her shortly. You look splendid in that dress. I remarked. You flatter me Harry, thank you. She replied smiling. She then excused and headed to the washrooms. Oh my God, such a perfect body, I exclaimed as she walked off to the washroom. She got back and I pulled a seat for her to sit. I didn’t realize there were any old-fashioned romantics remained in the world, she joked. Any plans for the rest of the evening? Nothing has been planned so far, Red! I confessed, but I think will have to cling on yours.., any? I questioned. She gave me that mesmerizing look that made me pout for a while. By the way, is that your routine to have a wine before a meal? I asked subtly. Thank you Harry, I already had my plate before. She answered gallantly. I remained silent for a time admiring how noble and sexy she looks. I wish it hadn’t rained, I would have asked you out for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Would you mind if we go out for a latte after this? I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into her glass. I would be delighted. She replied merrily The more and more we talked I found myself enchanted with her company. We finished up and strolled out for a latte. She rolled her arm around my neck as we strolled out of the pub. Where would you like to have our latte? I asked If you don’t have a wife, would love to have a latte at your place. I would truly feel privileged. I answered sheepishly. She smiled and pinched me on the ribs. We reached at my place and I opened the door for her. As I closed the door- behind us, Red put her arms around my neck and looked up into my eyes. I leaned down and kissed her for the first time. When she broke out all she said was don’t let’s bother with latte Harry; if you insist, I guess this is the latte you need; she said as she allowed her dress to fall off her body and remained in bra and underwear. I got hypnotized for a minute, and when I recovered I slipped off my clothes and led her into my bedroom. I will just be in a moment; I said and disappeared into the bathroom. As I brushed my teeth I began to wonder if it was all a dream. I came out and found discarded- bra and underwear down the bathroom corridor. I appeared and she was all naked on bed, bent on her knees allowing her bosoms to restful appeal majestically on the pillow. I quickly took off my towel, dropping it where it fell, and switched off the lights; so that the one by the bed remained aglow and romantic. I started relishing her from the comfort of the posture she made. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be that exciting, at the same time so tender. When we finally made love she laid in my arms for some time before any of us spoke, then we rolled over and looked on each other’s eyes, and laughed. I began to confess my experience in making love and confided that was a breath-taking experience I have ever had. She leaned across and began kissing me once again, first on the lips, then neck and chest and ended down on it. I thought I was going to explode. The last thing I remember was shutting off the bed lights as the rays of the sunlight penetrated through the lace curtains of my bedroom. I slowly opened my eyes and realized it was already morning. This time the glorious memory of the night were instantly revived. I turned lazily to take her in my arms but she was no longer there. I perched on the bed and noticed a scribbled note under the pillow. I opened it and it read; "Will forever honor this night, goodbye and Happy New Year, Harry" .


I hate the way she's colored her hair red.  She didn't always have this color in her hair. Even back when we were eleven years old, she has always had the most beautiful golden-blonde hair. I was lucky enough to meet her one day as I was riding my bicycle down our road. As I rode by 2nd street, I saw her with her head down. She was in a dirty white shirt setting on the curb with her hair over her face and she appeared to be crying. I stopped. "What's wrong?" I asked her. "Sometimes I just feel like crying." she said. I showed her I could do a wheelie with my bicycle, and for a split moment I saw a smile creep across her face, and we've been inseparable ever since. Caroline was her name. Caroline Marie Jones. Every day after school, I'd make my way to 2nd street to find Caroline and I'd always find her waiting for me. We would play and trade our Pokémon cards, and sometimes go out in the woods behind her house and play. She just made every day after school seem like the first day of summer break. It wasn't until we started going to the same high school together that I started realizing maybe I had feelings for Caroline. She was always just a friend to me, but for some reason I started viewing her and feeling for her differently. I would always be off doing some mischievous act with my friends like setting off smoke bombs in the courtyard or stink bombs in the classrooms while she was hanging out with her friends behind the school smoking cigarettes or drinking some cheap liquor someone brought to school from their parent's liquor cabinet. We would still always make time to find each other throughout the day and just hang out and be in each other's company. Until that one fateful day she dropped out and disappeared. I never stopped thinking about her and that long, beautiful blonde hair of hers that would push into my face whenever I reached in to give her a hug. She just dropped out of school and disappeared. I had a car by this time, so nearly every time after high school, I'd drive by 2nd street to see if I could see her. But she was never there. Fuck, I just needed one more hug or at least a goodbye. Caroline never left my mind. I remember it clearly. It was my fourth or fifth day in community college when I saw her. I was driving home and she was sauntering down the street. I pulled my car over, got out and faced her. "Caroline?" I questioned. She turned around with tears in her eyes and ran to hug me. "I've. I've missed you. You were that person in high school, right?" she said, holding the top of her nose and sucking air through it as if she were trying to clear her nose. That's when I noticed. Under that beautiful blonde hair of hers were sores on her skin. "Yeah, Caroline. I'm that person. Let's get you somewhere. You wanna go hang out at my house and maybe grab a soda?" She just nodded and got in my car. I skipped school that day, but we caught up with each other. Apparently she was caught that day in high school doing methamphetamine behind the school with her friends and was expelled along with being kicked out of her own house and she's been wondering the streets ever since. "Caroline, I care for you and I want to help you. Please let me help you?" I asked her. She just held her head down and started crying. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Sometimes I just feel like crying." she replied. She agreed to let me help her and I dropped out of college to get a job. Someone had to pay her for rehab because here in America, help isn't free. I could've stayed in college and had a 50/50 shot of getting a job paying over twice what I had now, but the problem is that Caroline didn't have four years to waste. After she left rehab, she was back to her beautiful self. I told her that since I already have a job and she's out of rehab, maybe we should find a little house together and we'll both go from there. She smiled and said that would be great. We looked for weeks, and we finally found a house out in the country. It wasn't the best, but it was well within our budget and we both liked it. The only problem I had with a house out in the country was what my Dad always drilled into my head. He would always say, "Living out in the country, you can't be too careful. When you're seconds away from danger, help is just minutes away." So I saved up a little money and purchased a firearm to protect my house. I never wanted to be a victim. So after careful consideration, I found myself a cheap but useable Hi-Point 45mm pistol. It was ugly, but if someone ever broke in, it would be there waiting to help me in my dresser drawer. After coming home with the pistol, Caroline was enthused with it. "You actually expect us to have stuff that robbers would want to break in and get?" She laughed. "How are you going to protect the stuff you don't have?" she said and I just laughed with her. Eventually, we'll make this house a home. Just you wait and see. Living with her and working at my dead-end job, two years just melted off of the calendar and throughout it all, I saw Caroline's smile fade faster and faster. I did everything I knew to make her happy, but some times you just can't win the audience. One day with tears in her eyes she admitted to me, "I think there's just something wrong with me." Throughout these two years, we've had birthdays and holidays together. We've partied hard, and we've worked harder. We turned this old house into a home, and we've made a life for each other. But it's just not enough for Caroline. She just can't get over being sad and I can't understand why. This isn't the $100k job and nice apartment I had planned for my life, but under the circumstances it seems as though we've done everything absolutely right. But she still wants to cry herself to sleep some nights and others, she just watches television and doesn't sleep. Caroline needs help and she gets what she needs. I was so impatient waiting by the door of the psychologist's office. It was only an hour a week, but every time it felt like I was setting in the office for a year straight. Until one day she came out with a very solemn expression on her face. In silence, we got into the car, and I drove her home. As we were pulling into the driveway she looked over at me and said, "I have major depression they said. Or that's what they are thinking." I park the car in our driveway and turn to her. As I move a lock of her hair out of the way I say, "we'll get through this. We've got through so much so far, I don't see how we can't get through this too." Fast forward to now. I guess there were some things we could never get through. I've come home from work to find you laying on the floor with that bloody Hi-Point next to you. I'll see you soon, was the last thing you said to me. I called 911 to report a suicide by gunshot to the head and they said help was just minutes away. I pick you up to hold you one last time and I see your hair is dripping wet with a shade of red. I hate the way you've colored your hair.


Nellie extends her hand toward me, a magazine clipping of Joshua Bassett between her index and middle fingers. She’s making a face-her nose scrunched up over strawberry-glossed lips that purse when she asks, “This is your celebrity husband? The guy you want to bring into the new year with you?” I quickly draw a square around the perimeter of the photo with a glue stick before going back in and filling the middle with more glue. I roll my eyes, unable or unwilling to talk around the bottom of the glue stick between my teeth as I process Nellie’s disdain. With determination and focus, I flatten Bassett’s photo over the thick white poster board my mom brought home from work Friday. She works as an elementary school teacher, and she has a penchant for buying too many supplies. I asked her for the board a few weeks ago, forgetting about winter break. I thought she had forgotten about it, but I should’ve known my mom wouldn’t so easily forget my favorite New Year’s Eve tradition. As I put a little extra glue under the corners for safe measure, I spare Nellie a defensive glance. “Look, okay... You haven’t heard his music.” She shakes her head, and her straight honey-colored hair fans out around her. Last summer, Nellie went to Italy with our dad for his latest travel blog. He and my mom got divorced when Nellie was eleven and I was thirteen-just a few years ago. When she came back, she was like an entirely different person. Gone were her natural, coarse black curls that fell around her face in perfectly coiled ringlets, never stretching past her shoulders. She had acrylic nails that hid the ones she used to bite, hair extensions that made her hair fall past her butt, and she always, always wore sunglasses-even indoors, even if there was no sun outside. She flashes those glasses at me now, heart-shaped and pink in color, while shaking her head decidedly. “I don’t think I need to. I don’t understand why, at the beginning of every year, you decide to idolize someone you have no real chances of meeting. Sounds like a defense mechanism to me, Sis.” The smart mouth and attitude came shortly after her fourteenth birthday. My nostrils flare, and I flip my head around to face her more fully. “It’s none of your business, Nellie. It’s not about idolizing this person. It’s about...it’s about having a reminder of the things you enjoy to make it a little easier to remember who you are when you forget yourself.” “ God ,” she groans. She stretches out over the back of the lavender purple beanbag that has been hers since she was six and started sneaking in my room while I was studying to read, draw, paint her nails, or-later-to scroll through her phone mindlessly. I think she just liked the company. She never said a word, and it wasn’t until my mom opened the door once to get me for dinner that she saw Nellie sitting on the floor, and she silently put a beanbag in my room. I didn’t need to be told that it wasn’t for me. Neither did Nellie, apparently. She’s made herself comfortable with it over the years, enough so that I can probably find nail polish stains and Goldfish crumbs on it right now. “You would think,” she continues, “The way you talk about losing yourself, that you lived this full, interesting life. I mean, what’s there to hide from in your room? The villains you read about in your books?” She laughs cruelly, and I hate that I can’t see her eyes right now. I don’t remember Nellie ever being this mean to me before. “If you don’t want to help me out with this thing that I do literally every year, Nellie, you know where the door is.” I don’t want her to see me cry because I’ve always been the emotional one. Nellie has always been the chill one-the one who wasn’t easily rattled, who smiled and shrugged things off, who the parents favored until her apathy frustrated them. My mom once begged Nellie to show her some sign of emotion when Nellie got in trouble for staying out past curfew. Nellie shrugged and said, “It won’t happen again.” It didn’t, but I think my mom only got so angry because it seemed as if Nellie didn’t care. Even though I knew a little better than most when Nellie actually cared about things, understood that Nellie’s lack of emotion was often part of how she showed that she cared because she didn’t want to think about something that mattered too much and work herself up over it, there were times when Nellie’s apathy struck a chord with me too. Now, for instance, she grabs her phone off the floor and comes to a stand. “Okay. I thought you, like, wanted help. I’m just giving you tough love, sister.” Something about the way she says it makes me stand up, too. “There’s a difference between tough love and cruelty, Nellie.” “Oh, so now I’m being cruel?” She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Why, exactly, do you want to emblemate these people, Sis ? The ones you spend all year judging and determining if they align with your values despite not even knowing them? And yet you think you’re somehow different than me, a person who does the same thing but with actual people?” I feel my brows furrow as blood rushes to my face. “I don’t get it, Nellie. Are you upset about something?” She chuckles a brief, stabbing bark of laughter. “You never do, sis. You never do.” I try not to let her get to me as she walks out, slamming the door shut behind her. I look down at the work that I’ve done so far and struggle to feel as fulfilled as my vision board once made me. There’s a playbill for a play I want to see in New York City next year, a logo for the college I want to apply to, a few outfits that I feel emulate my aesthetic, and several, several book covers of books whose energy I want to take into the new year with me. While I enjoy all of these things, it’s true that there’s no real mark of myself on here. You could put the same board in Nellie’s room and believe, just as easily, that it’s hers. I try to ignore the nagging sense of guilt at the back of my mind. After all, Nellie was being rude to me. The thing about Nellie’s apathy, though, is that it’s never been mean. This is Nellie showing that she cares, and when it’s the thing I’ve spent most of my life begging for, I guess I can’t begrudge her that. I walk into her bedroom without knocking, determined to show her that her anger may be valid, but mine is too. When I walk in, she’s hugging a magazine to her chest, staring up at the ceiling as she lies back on her bed. Nellie’s room has always reminded me of the beach. Her duvet is thick and white, her pillows a deep blue the color of the ocean, her carpet a soft brandy color, and her room minimalistic. There are black-and-white posters on the wall, all of various music artists ranging from Michael Jackson to Rihanna. There’s a chestnut brown dresser against the white wall opposite her queen-sized bed. On it sits a single shelf of books-mostly young adult, some mystery, and a couple self-help. There’s a cylinder of multi-colored paper clips on the surface under the shelf, beside an open journal and several gel pens scattered across the pages. Her matching wooden chair is pulled out as if she just launched herself on the bed from her seat there. There’s a single large window along the wall beside her bed, and in front of it hangs perpetually-closed curtains that are white on top and ocean-blue at the bottom. Above her bed hangs Polaroid photos of the family and her friends, all hung beneath fairy lights that, taken against her white walls, make her room look sunny yellow. All the colors combined feel like stepping on the sand and waiting for the water to greet you. Nellie rolls over on her bed to face me, eyes still imperceptible behind her glasses. “What do you want?” She flattens back against the bed, stretching the magazine cover over her stomach. I climb up onto the bed, sitting beside her as she continues to lie, hardly acknowledging my presence there. I pull the magazine from her abdomen, staring curiously at the page she stopped on. It’s a quiz about how well one knows her best friend. I glance down at Nellie, whose lips remain in a fixed line on her face. “Who is this quiz for? Is this what you’re upset about?” When she doesn’t answer, I lie down on my stomach beside her. “Nellie, if one of your friends performed poorly on this quiz, I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, these quizzes-they don’t really mean much.” She doesn’t respond again, and I’m tempted to dart back into my room never to emerge again...Until Thanksgiving, at least, because I can’t pass up our mother’s sweet potato custard. I blink the thoughts of food from my head as I focus on Nellie, who slowly begins to sit up. I join her, and we sit criss-cross applesauce on the foot of her bed, each of us looking past the other person as our shoulders brush and knees bump. She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Do you remember what you said when I got back from that trip with dad last summer?” My brows furrow, and I shake my head once. She nods. “Figures. I remember I was so excited to see you because that trip was hell for me. Dad kept droning on about Mom and how much he missed her. He said he regretted cheating on her and that he had just been overworked. I don’t know if you forget this little detail sometimes, Rochelle, but our father is white. It was his idea to get my hair straightened. Do you know what I wanted that summer-why I went with Dad in the first place?” I shake my head again, and she nods once. “I thought that maybe...like, maybe if I could just give both of them what they wanted...I mean, maybe if I was a better daughter, it would convince them, somehow, to get back together.” I lean into her, bumping her tricep with my elbow. “Nellie, that doesn’t make any sense.” “I know that now, Rochelle. I’m not totally dense, I just...I was desperate. I wanted so badly to be perfect because I thought, if I was perfect, maybe they’d have no reason to fight. Maybe I could be good enough to save their marriage or something.” She laughs bitterly. “I know. I’m so stupid, but in my head, at the time, it made sense...” She pauses, but I don’t fill in the silence. I don’t think I can. She chews her lip nervously. “Dad thought this hairstyle looked pretty, and so I just went with it. But then, I actually started to like it. And...Do you know, Rochelle, that the only thing Dad gave me the entirety of our trip was a pair of sunglasses? It was like, Mom sent me with all this money to pay for souvenirs and meals, and when I sat in the car with Dad at the airport, it was just silent. And then he looked like he had just remembered something. He pointed to the dash and said, ‘I have something for you in there,’ and I scrambled through this stack of disorganized papers and food wrappers to find a single pair of black sunglasses. And it didn’t look like he even recognized it... It was like he was just hoping I’d find something in there that would satisfy me. It was like I wasn’t even there for the entire trip. I was just a stand-in for Mom.” “Oh, Nellie.” I squeeze her arm, and she falls into my lap, twisting around to rest her head there and look up at me. I brush her hair behind her ears and capture the tears streaming beneath her sunglasses with the top of my thumbs. She laughs again. “Do you know how confusing that was for me? I went out and gave my best and it still wasn’t enough for him. He wanted me to be Mom...But Mom wasn’t enough for him either.” She scratches her head like this is a puzzle she’s been working on for years, and she still can’t figure it out. “Why wasn’t I enough, Nellie?” “Nellie, you are enough.” I squeeze her shoulders, and they shake in my lap. “Then why didn’t you include me in your vision board the following New Year’s Eve?” She sniffs, and I feel my eyes widen in shock. She shakes her head suddenly. “Forget it. This is stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.” “No, Nellie, what are you talking about?” I wait for her to answer, but she just keeps shaking her head. Finally, I grab the sides of her glasses and slowly remove them from her face. Her eyes are large and espresso-colored, fueled by emotion as she looks up at me. “Nellie?” I ask again. She sighs, a fresh sheen of tears still falling from her eyes. “You make your vision board every year, Rochelle. And I’m not saying you can’t love Harry Styles and Conan Gray and Joshua Bassett, but you didn’t used to need them, Rochelle.” She sniffs. “You used to always have a picture of the two of us together, and that was the first year you didn’t.” I gasp, nudging Nellie up by her shoulders and pulling her into my embrace. “Nellie, no. I...That had nothing to do with you. The truth is, I struggled with Mom and Dad’s divorce too. I also grappled with feelings like I wasn’t good enough. I...I sort of fell into this world of escapism. I watched so much TV the summer you were gone, Nellie.” We both laugh, and I feel a tear escape my eyes suddenly. “I didn’t want to think about their divorce or what caused it because I didn’t want to feel any pain. And I guess I sort of...shut you out as part of that? Like, I couldn’t think about any aspect of our family without thinking of their divorce. And I guess it just looked so easy to you...and maybe I begrudged you of that.” She hits my chest, and I wince, jaw dropping in astonishment. “Ow! What was that for?” She giggles. “You’re such a loser, Rochelle. You were like...the one stable thing in all of this for me.” She rolls her eyes, and I pull her once more into my chest. She laughs against me, “I’m so sorry I didn’t just tell you how I was feeling. I didn’t even think about how things might be hard for you too. You’ve always been invincible to me, sis.” I laugh at that, pulling her face away from mine so I can wipe the last of the tears from it. My phone buzzes on the table, reminding me that the New Year comes in in exactly two minutes. We usually wake our mom up to join us in counting down, but I don’t think she’ll be upset when she finds out why we didn’t. I grab my phone off the table and wipe the tears off my face. Then, I motion Nellie to scoot over. “Why don’t we make a new New Year’s Eve tradition?” She smiles, and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in a long time. “What did you have in mind?” I grin. “Just trust me on this.” I fluff her pillows and busy myself with miscellaneous tasks for a few more seconds. “Seriously, Rochelle,” she laughs, “What are you doing?” And when the clock strikes midnight that morning, I snap a selfie of me kissing Nellie’s cheek. She swats me away from her, but her delighted giggles betray her true feelings. I smile at her. “I’ll print this off tomorrow. For my vision board.” She throws her arms around me, whispering in my ear, “Happy new year, Rochelle.” I pat her back gingerly. “Happy new year, Nellie.”


Golden Springs, another backwood village that doesn’t make the requirements to be worth a spot on a map, Vania thought as her blue Citroen reached the first sign of civilisation, saying ‘Welcome to Golden Springs’. The GPS had left her in the middle of nowhere about twenty minutes ago, unable to find a signal. The moment Chief Richards stood in front of her desk and announced the news of her temporary assignment to the police force, Vania thought that it was probably one of his usual pranks. Driving blind, Vania was almost certain she got lost in the vast green of the suburbs. All she could see since she made that left turn on the split was a line of tar road slowly fading to a raw, bumpy brown. A huge veil of trees so high, that they could easily reach the clouds, the scenery was outstandingly intimidating. This cocoon of green was welcoming and threatening at the same time. Not quite persuaded that she was going in the right direction, Vania kept going straight. The route seemed endless. A time loop where she passed from the same spot again and again. The icon at the top left corner of the dashboard screen was showing a line crossing out the signal bars of her phone. Perfect. Something appears between the dense plantation. Vania thought she saw something red. As the road was turning to a sharp left, Vania sighed in relief. A red pickup truck was parked further down on the side. A man, wearing a dark pair of trousers and a light blue shirt was standing outside the vehicle. The moment he saw her car he raised his left arm, signaling her. Stopping before the red pickup truck, Vania turns off the engine and discreetly retrieves her gun, putting it behind her waistband before she opens the car’s door and steps outside. Meeting a total stranger in the middle of nowhere was always creeping her out. “Good morning” the man through her a bright welcoming smile, taking a few steps towards her. Vania responded to the greeting with a nod and a reserved smile. “You must be Vania. I’m Rob Carson, chief of Golden Springs police station” the man adds extending his hand to her. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Vania grabs his hand in a firm handshake. Something in the man’s face was saying that he was expecting her to say something more but Vania was not a very talkative person. “Under normal circumstances, we should prepare a proper welcome but I’m afraid time is a luxury we don’t have at the moment.” Chief Carson’s face lost some of its former brightness. The chief turns his right wrist, looking at his watch. “We should head to the station. The rest I’ll tell you once we’re there.” Vania returns to her car and turns on the engine, following the red truck to the police station. Passing the natural wall of high trees, Vania nearly gasped upon the view that lay behind them. The place looked like a small paradise. Picturesque houses were spread on both sides of the main road, with a sea of flowers in all colours and shapes spread, resting in pots hanging from the terraces’ ceilings. Little shops, lodged between the houses, with colourful signs and eye-catching fronts. Blocks of green grass were scattered in various spots - hosting swings and seesaws or little slides - as the car went straight ahead. Vania looked in question when she saw the red truck's brake lights on. But how could she have missed that? A massive fountain structure was thrown right in the middle of the road, forming a large roundabout. The water sound was loud enough not to pay attention to, but just enough to add a calming tone to the whole atmosphere. Chief Carson’s red truck preceded, taking the second exit that came to a dead end outside a small sand-coloured brick building. Vania stopped next to Chief Carson, following him in tow as he entered the building. Inside, the building was as plain as the exterior. A large open space welcomed Vania the moment she stepped into the police station. Four cubicle desks were spread in each corner. By the level of dust the two of them were having, Vania assumed that they’d never been used. Two blurred glass walls formed a smaller room in the open space, where the Chief’s desk must be. The seemingly empty building was filled with light chatting, echoing on the sand brick walls. Vania could see the face of a woman but the other two tall figures were standing with their backs to Vania. “No more bets, please! Your new colleague has arrived!” Chief Carson shouts clapping his hands one time and all whispers cease at once. The three figures stand straight as spears, turning to face their boss. “Everyone, this is Vania Conti. She’ll be with us for a while.” Vania stared as the three of them turned. The two towering men were almost blocking the petite woman from view. She has a bright smile on her face, but something about it tells Vania it must be pretending. Her chin was way too clenched to be genuinely happy. The men, however, don’t care so much to pretend. Taking a better look at the two of them Vania found a clear connection between them. They must be siblings. The one standing on the right had auburn hair lightly tanned skin and emerald green eyes. A warm smile was resting on his full lips. The uniform seemed to have a tough time under all this bulgy muscle. “I’m Eithan Woods” he nods. “Welcome to our team.” The woman next to him had vibrant red hair, fair skin and amber eyes full of suspicion. Her sight followed Vania all the time, smiling whenever they crossed looks. “Natalie, nice to meet you.” she chimed joyfully, waving her hand. Leaving Natalie, Vania’s eyes landed on the tall and lean physique of the man standing on the other side of her. Dark brown eyes, pale skin and a cloudy sky for eyes. The man looked distanced from the other two. A permanent frown on his brows made him look always angry. “Stephen” he nods. “Well,” Chief Carson begins, “as Richards already told you, we need your aid with the recent missing persons’ reports. The frequency of these disappearances has increased exponentially. If this continues, the situation will be out of control sooner than we can handle it.” The group fell silent. An invisible shadow cast above them, losing the joyful aura of some. Nataly’s smile drew back to a thin line. Eithan’s shoulders fell in disappointment. Stephen remained rigid. Vania immediately felt the weight of this assignment crushing her shoulders. That case was terrorising them for more time than they wanted to admit. “All I can say is that I’ll do my best and I hope my contribution is enough to assist you.” Chief Carson turns to Vania and the group, a soft smile on his face. “We all count on that. Richards told me you have the highest rate of solved cases in the records of the force. If there’s anyone who can help Stephen with this, it’s you.” Vania blushed at the chief’s words. She knew her results, but having someone praising her was always something she wasn’t very comfortable with. “Well, let’s get to work then.” Carson addresses the group before he turns and vanishes behind the blurred glass walls. Nataly turns to Eithan. Folding her arm around his thick bicep, she dragged him behind one of the desks. Stephen moved closer to Vania. “Please follow me.” With a stern nod, Vania follows Stephen as he makes his way past the open area, heading to a door that didn’t notice was there before. Bright white lights blinded her as she stepped in. Vania blinked a few times, before she found herself in a room with a large round table in the middle, three chairs and giant floor-to-ceiling boards on each wall with various diagrams, tables and X marks on a map of Golden Springs. Vania looked around nodding in agreement. She had to give it to him, the guy knew his job. A plethora of different photographs of various people was scattered on the walls. “Oh god,” Vania breathed out. Stephen briefly paused upon her comment. “These are the disappearances of the last two weeks.” he points to the wall behind him. At least a dozen people. The night seemed endless. Vania pushed her chair back as far as her arms could stretch. Her temples were banging to a constant beat. The missing persons’ list was far bigger than Chief Carson had initially informed her superior. Stephen was scrutinising her. Every time Vania lifted her head from the piles of files, she was meeting his examining look. “Ok, now that I have a clearer image of the case, what are your thoughts on this?” Vania leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Stephen took a moment longer to respond. “At first I thought that the culprit was one, but this seems not to be the case. Twelve disappearances in two weeks are in no way a one-man show.” Vania shook her head slightly, giving him a motion to continue. “It may sound weird, but maybe it’s a family thing?” Stephen’s brows shot up in confusion. “I noticed that the mass disappearances happen every twelve years.” “True” Stephen agreed. “There’s more though.” Reaching forward, he retrieved a green folder from one of the piles of files on the table. “At first, I was watching no resemblance between them all. Then I did some digging. Even though they all have different surnames, changed through court orders. Tracing back to their true ones, they all relate to twelve families, that were particularly prominent in medieval times and all were native-born of Golden Springs. “So, we are talking about a vendetta that goes back to medieval times?” Vania dared to ask, although this idea seemed quite absurd. Stephen remained silent. Looking around, he seemed to be searching for the right words. “I was wondering... what if we have to deal with the supernatural?” “Supernatural?” she laughed. “Do you think that an evil spirit or an immortal creature kidnapped all those people? What I see here so far is a serial killer family that has a huge grudge for those families.” “But they all disappeared in the Willow Forest at the north outskirts. And the reports don’t refer to two sets of footprints.” Although Vania thought she hit a nerve when she mocked his assumptions, Stephen retained his former expression. ** One week already in Golden Springs and Vania was feeling more tired than her routine in the city. She was leaving the small apartment above the bookshop - owned by Carla, the chief’s wife - at dawn and was not going back until past midnight. In the police station, things were pretty stable. She had spent a lot of time to be up to date with the case. Apart from that, the progress was little to none. Stephen had agreed to leave aside his assumptions that the solution to those disappearances was far beyond the sphere of reason but Vania could see that he was burning inside him for this to be true. Vania on the other hand, could not believe for a moment those allegations. Being a fond supporter of logic, there was no way to believe Stephen's nonsense. As for the latter, he was on edge as the days were passing. According to his information, there was one more person to be reported missing. He had informed Eithan and Natalie to keep their eyes and ears open in case something occurred but nothing was happening. Like hunting in a barren field. Until a call, sets everything in motion. Eithan run into the back room, stating that a person is missing. Stephen jolted up from his seat, grabbing his coat. “Let’s go.” he turns to Vania. Natalie was already in contact with the registry, only to validate a few moments later that the person missing had connections with one of the twelve families Stephen had located. Stephen and Vania first went to the person who reported the disappearance, Gina Green, the school teacher. Poor her, she started crying the moment she saw the duet standing by her door. From what Vania deciphered between the sobs, Gina had a day and a half to speak with her mother, which was something impossible for a person who was calling her three times a day. Getting back to the police station, Vania had enough of Stephen’s supernatural assertions. “You need proof? I’m going to the Willow Forest and get them for you.” Stephen spitted before banging the door behind him. The night came and still no sign of Stephen. Vania paced back and forth in the room, looking at the charts, tables and maps. All the trails were leading to the Willow Forest. But that couldn’t mean that the place is the centre of supernatural powers. It could be the killer’s location. Getting into her car, she decided to follow her stubborn colleague’s words and headed to the Willow Forest. A sudden chill brushed through the leaves as the car reached the end of the road leading there. Getting out, Vania retrieved a flashlight she grabbed at the station. Carefully, she let the ray of light scan the entry of the forest. Her hand moved left and right until the sign of a footprint came into view. Getting a closer look, the prints were matching Stephen’s boots. She kept walking deeper into the forest. The willow trees surrounding her were making her skin crawl. Never before she had seen so many willow trees assembled. Everything was very silent. Nothing except her footsteps on the crisp grass were breaking it. “Stephen, I’m warning you. If this is a prank I’m going to kick your ass!” Vania shouted but received nothing in reply. The footprints led her to a giant Willow tree. Vania went around the massive trunk, searching for the direction the prints took, but to no avail. The footprints stopped right there. No sign of another set of footprints. Stephen stopped right there. An unprecedented urge flew into her system. The more she looked at the tree, the more she wanted to go near and touch it. As Vania’s hand touches the tree’s surface, everything vanishes from view, leaving her in the middle of a dark void. Whispers surround her. Voices that speak a language she cannot understand. Until the eerie voice of a woman silences all. “Do you want to save them? After everything they’ve done to us? You have the blood of druids. How can you care for paladins?” “Who are you?” Vania shouts. “What do you want?” “I’m the one who saw the world crushing upon our heads. I’m the last who followed our people to the spirit realm. I’m the one who swore justice. The debt is paid. Let them go.” Vania opened her mouth to protest but a loud vibration threw her off her feet. The darkness started to take form, revealing a different place. The air smells of blood. The sky has turned red, mirroring the monstrosity spread on the barren lands. Once a piece of paradise on Earth, with an admirable variety of flora and fauna. Now the land is sick of drinking the blood of innocent people losing their lives in this massacre. The Druids, caretakers of the Golden Spring of Zetar and gatekeepers of the spirit portal were facing the verge of extinction. Silence floats over the village. Those who managed to escape the first attack, seek refuge in the Forest of the Sacred Willows. The paladins of Vodaan would not be stupid to bring a curse above their heads. Korakia, the great priestess of Zetar was under the giant Willow - at the centre, with a circle of druids around her - chanting protection prayers, calling the gods and deities of nature, sky and earth to protect those who survive and perish the intruders. A flock of crows launches up to the sky. Shortly after, the rhythmic stomp of the paladins resonates in the distance. They cannot hurt them while they’re in the holy forest. Or so they thought. Screams tear up the skies. Metal pierces the flesh. People are crying for help. But those near them have only one goal. To kill. Soon they reach the giant Willow. From the shadows of the trees, the paladins emerge. The moonlight casts demonic shadows on their faces. They no longer plead to the old faith. Korakia fell on her knees before the paladin that stepped into the circle. She placed one hand on the moist soil beneath her and the other on the paladin’s right knee. She begged to spare them when she saw the sanctity of this place violated. “By the order of the King, the druids are accused of blasphemy by using blood magic against the King and the throne. Therefore, you shall immediately be executed.” Eleven paladins step into the moonlight, catching and forcing each druid around Korakia to fall on their knees. The moonlight reflects on the paladins’ blades, set before the druids’ throats. Korakia looks around. There are no more screams in the distance. The rest of the druids sit still. Some have already closed their eyes, accepting the inevitable. The sky, sea and earth, all have abandoned them. The paladin standing before her slaps Korakia hard, making her fall to the cold soil. Before she can move, the paladin falls above her, placing her hands behind her back and immobilising them with his knee, while he retrieves his blade, setting it right above her neck. Korakia screams. “I will take revenge for everyone. A thousand and thirty souls. My soul, my energy, my core. I give everything to destroy you! The blood of those killed will fall upon you and your children! Cursed be all!”


Tanya was the kind of girl who almost made you fathom a Republican. Her blue hair that had faded back into a mess of shit algae green and platinum split ends. She probably had nine black hoodies, but that was only for an excuse to lie and say she wasn’t always wearing the same one. That would be *so* gross. Though the bong was always in the right belly pocket of the hoodie where she tucked it in the night before as she hopped into bed. I won’t even talk about the bed. The hoodies were a good investment of the state’s money because she hated showering and changing and moving. There’s piss all over the carpet. You would assume from the dog, but the cat’s litterbox might be so overflowed that they got sick of the smell and journeyed west to the living room. “Why can’t they just piss and shit for days in advance when I let them out for five minutes” she thought. When she remembers to let them out, that is. What tattoo she should get next is the biggest priority on her mind as she watches cartoons in bed at noon. Her day is just getting started, though it may as well be the middle and the end now, too. She would apply to jobs once she was feeling better. There was a good chance she just felt sick because Aries don’t do well in the winter. She ate brain food all day: Cheetos, frozen pizza, and Oreos. She lived in section 8 just like her mother. The alcoholic mother who taught her the tricks on how to play the system. The mother whose location she never knew unless it was the impromptu drop-in to ask for some cash. The shelves were sticky even though to her knowledge nothing had ever spilled there. The dust coated so much it could nearly be confused for a bad paint job. “Why clean when it will just get that way again?” The pets got let out today, right after they were fed. She was up anyways, so she may as well do everything she needed to do for the day. Back to the bed. The bed that’s too gross to talk about. The bed in the apartment covered in piss and shit that the state pays for. The apartment the state moved her to, once her dad died. The dad whose previous residence before the ground was prison. The dad who gave Tanya the 8inch scar across her head, hidden under the ugly blue green and platinum hair. The dad that cartoons help her to forget. Tanya forgets the time her skull got cracked. The lucky time. The time unlike all the many times before where nobody called the police. If all the junk food damaged her brainpower it wouldn’t be so bad. She didn’t need much of her brain power to remember where the bed was. She only needed a little to remember that her medication was on the nightstand next to the bed. And a little more to remember that the number carved into the nightstand was for the doctor, in case she had thoughts of trying it again. She should probably change her sweatshirt. She should probably shower. The thought of it all brought on a little blip of anxiety. She would do it tomorrow. Tanya ought to get a job.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion This week, let’s take a look back at some of our earlier writing. - How do you feel when you look back at your earlier work? - Would you say it has improved since this time last year? How? - What actions do you take to improve your writing? - What motivates you to continue to improve? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


The two men walked briskly side by side through the busy grocery store, while one gave instructions to the other. “So, you see Declan, here at O’Malley’s, we value customer satisfaction over anything else. That’s why our motto is, ‘Have a perfect day!’ We may not have the lowest prices in town or the widest selection of name-brands; we may have what food critics call a subpar bakery, and our deli department may have received a D from the health department, because we may have a slight roach infestation, but what we lack in those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.” Declan listened intently to the manager, Brent’s, detailed analysis of the store's history and core values. “Always remember to C.H.E.E.S.E,” Brent explained. “C.H.E.E.S.E stands for Calmness, Honor, Empathy, Encouragement, and Smile Entirely.” Declan was noticeably confused. “Listen,” Brent continued. “We may not have the most creative marketing team, and we may center our business around nonsensical acronyms; we may be hemorrhaging money internally and we may be moments away from bankruptcy, but what we lack in all those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.” Declan nodded his head in agreement. “What’s our motto?” Brent asked quizzically. “Have a perfect day!” Declan proudly answered. “That’s correct,” Brent said. “And that’s not only our motto, but it’s also store policy.” The two stopped near the cash registers. “Here’s your post,” Brent said. Declan was eager to get started. He was in desperate need of a job and was grateful for any opportunity thrown his way. “Watch how it’s done,” Brent said with the confidence of Evil Knievel jumping a single semi-truck. A middle-aged lady approached the register with a cart full of groceries. Brent greeted her with an enthusiastic, “How’s it going?” “Pretty good,” the lady answered. Declan watched in awe as Brett scanned all 37 times with the charisma of a Broadway actor and the pizzazz of a flair bartender. He was fast but considerate. Efficient yet attentive. “Someone’s ready to party!” He said while holding up a bottle of wine. The lady laughed. “Oh, you know it!” “How do you like them apples?” He joked while pointing to a package of Granny Smiths. The lady laughed flirtatiously. “You sure are good at this,” She said with a smile. Brent picked up a block of Brie, “Oh, this. It’s a bries!” He said. She laughed again, even louder this time. “Nuttin to it,” he said while holding up a can of Planters peanuts this time. “I’ll have you out of here in a Jiff, he added while scanning peanut butter. ‘Man, he’s killing it,’ Declan thought to himself hoping he could be just as witty when it was his turn. Brent finished up ringing out the lady, handed her the receipt, and said, “Have a perfect day!” “Oh, I am!” The lady responded while giving him bedroom eyes. A voice boomed over the intercom, Brent, we need you in the bakery. There’s another raccoon in the pan washer! Brent turned to Declan, “I’ve gotta go take care of something,” he said. “Do you think you can handle the register?” Declan wasn’t sure that the 90 seconds of training he had just received was an adequate amount of experience, but he didn’t want his apprehensiveness to be viewed as weakness. “Sure thing,” he said with equal parts false confidence and trepidation. “It’s easy,” Brent reassured him before walking to the back of the store.“Just make sure anyone who comes through this line is having a perfect day.” Declan manned the register and was approached within seconds by a man with a few things in a grocery basket. “Hi, how are you!” Declan asked. “Eh,” the man somberly answered. “I’ve been better.” “Oh, it looks like someone’s ready to party!” Declan declared while drawing attention to a handle of Jack Daniels. “Party?” The man asked with a puzzled look on his face. “Not quite. I just got laid off from my job.” Declan was not prepared for that answer and had no idea how to proceed, but he decided that emulating Brent was the only solution. After all, things worked out fine for Brent. “How do you like them apples?” Declan asked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The man sternly replied. “How do I like losing my job? Is that really what you’re asking me?” Declan appeared confused. Even more noticeably than before. He picked up a block of cheese. “Well, that’s not Gouda.” “Are you really making cheese puns right now?” Declan began to sweat. This isn’t working out at all, he thought to himself. In a panic, he picked up the next item, held it up high, turned it towards him, and read the label, “Its all about the-- Preparation--H.” “Could you put that down,” the man said, embarrassed. “What is wrong with you?” Declan wasn’t the most self-aware, but even he could tell that this customer wasn’t having a perfect day. All he knew was that it was up to him to fix it. He wasn’t about to lose another job. After getting fired from Chic-Fil-A for forgetting to say, ‘My pleasure!’ Declan learned that policies were a big deal. He looked the customer directly in the eye and said as sincerely as possible, “Have a perfect day!” The customer was aghast. “A perfect day! A perfect day! Are you kidding me right now!” He yelled. “I’m very sorry, sir. But, it’s store policy.” “What is store policy?” “For you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.” “You can’t be serious.” “I’m as Sirius as satellite radio,” Declan replied, proud of himself for making a pun. “I need you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.” “Are you Fucking kidding me!” The customer screamed. A group of teenagers nearby whipped out their phones and began recording. “World Star!” One of them obnoxiously shouted. “What seems to be the problem here, Declan?” Brent asked after reappearing from the bakery with what appeared to be animal scratches all over his neck and face. “This man won’t have a perfect day,” Declan nervously answered, sure that he’d likely be fired over this confrontation. “This is so unprofessional,” the customer told Brent. “What kind of shit show are you running..” Brent interrupted, “I’m sorry, sir, but is this true? Are you not having a perfect day?” “What do you even care!” “It’s our policy.” The customer balled his fists up and began punching the air. Brent whispered into his walkie-talkie, “We need security at register 5.” “Sir,” Brent implored. “This is your last chance. You need to have a perfect day!” The customer erupted into laughter. Not cute or funny or infectious laughter, but sinister laughter. The type of laugh Jafar had after he turned Apu into an elephant just to fuck with Aladdin. “Let me tell you something, bud,” The customer started out. “Yesterday, my girlfriend dumped me, today I lost my job, and to top it all off I have a hemorrhoid on my ass the size of a golf ball. So, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not gonna have a perfect day. In fact, I’m having one of the worst days of my...“ “What’s the matter, Karen? You’re too good to have a perfect day?” An onlooker taunted. All the bystanders laughed. The customer took a step back and realized there was now a crowd of about fifty people witnessing his meltdown. “Do any of you see what’s happening here?” He pleaded. “I just want to buy my groceries and get the hell out of here. Can’t a man just have a bad day?” “Hey man, your bad day is your bad day. Don’t take it out on anyone else,” one onlooker shouted. “Not cool, man, another one added. “How about you quit being such a dick and have a perfect day already,” one of the meaner ones suggested. The customer broke down in tears. Brent gave Declan a concerned look. “What should we do now?” He asked. “How should I know,” Declan answered. “I’ve only worked here for twelve minutes.” Security arrived and ordered the customer to have a perfect day. “No!” The customer shouted. “No, absolutely, no!” Voices in the viewing pit became louder and more annoyed. Declan froze in fear. Brent did the same. As confident as he seemed 15 minutes ago, he sure seemed unsure of himself now. “I’ve had enough of this shit!” The customer proclaimed while smashing the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and flipping over the candy bar and gum display rack. “Fuck this shit!” He continued while slinging packs of mints at people's throats like they were ninja stars. Finally, in a blaze of glory, he ripped the cash register off the counter and slammed it into the ground. Cash flew everywhere. The crowd went into a frenzy and police ransacked the place at that very moment. The customer was arrested and placed in police custody. You probably already read about that. You’ve probably watched the video too. It only happened a few hours ago, but since then, the video has been viewed a million times. People are saying he should serve life in prison. Some are even calling for the death penalty. Others say that’s too harsh of a sentence. One thing everyone agrees on is, that man was NOT having a perfect day.


One afternoon in September, I was fixing lunch for my children. I call them in for lunch,I have two children a 9 year old daughter, and a 7 year old son. As they were eating lunch,my daughter talked about playing with her dolls. She loves her doll's,I said that is wonderful baby girl,in which sometimes I call my daughter this. My son look to be talking to someone next to him,in a empty chair at kitchen table. I ask Chase,who was he talking to, "I am talking to my friend. His friend whom died two years ago. My son lost one of his best Playmate's when he was five years old. His little friend got killed in a boat ride, while on a camping and fishing vacation with his parents one summer. Chase, tells me sometimes that Payton which is friend that passed. Come and play with him while in his room, I listen to him to make him feel good,although he was very young at the time of his friend death. I guess Payton want Chase to remembered him also, cause he visit all the time. Payton was very nice handsome little guy,he had a beautiful smile that all the other children liked him. Payton loved to play with Chase,which he called his best friend. Chase loved Payton as his best buddie. The two loved to go everywhere together,the park,lunch play date's, and just playing with each other in the backyard at each others house. So when this happened to Payton, Chase was devastated,he cried for weeks, he didn't want to eat, play or go outside. People really doesn't know how bad death effect children until it happen to one of their closest friend. And Payton's ghost help Chase cope with the lost, by seeing him, in which they play and talk,and Payton pretend to eat lunch with Chase sometimes. In time I will explain too Chase, that what he see's is Payton ghost. I will always make sure Chase never forget his friend Payton. Sometimes,Payton parents comes to visit Chase, give him love, hugs and kisses. They bring some of Payton favorite toys over for Chase. They said Payton would have loved for Chase to have them and so do they. I know you're wondering how is Payton parents a live if Payton died from a boat ride. That's because Payton fell from the boat and no one was able too save Payton. His body washed up couple of day's later. The parents was so devastated they could not except their loss of their son. It's 2 years later and it still hard for them. Payton parents feels this would make Payton happy too see them taking interest in his bestfriend Chase. Sometimes his sister step in and play's with him to make him happy, when he's feeling sad over the loss of his best buddie Chase called Payton. Oh how I wish Payton was here when Chase is sad and feeling bad so they could just have fun talking about school,the teacher's and the little girls. I know Chase love talking about girls,because I hear him and his sister talking about the girls he likes. It one little girl in his class that he really likes, Sometime when he get home,he has the biggest smile on his face, Chase runs to his room,and close his door and he telling his friend Payton all about his day at school and the pretty little girl he like. I know because I'm listing at Chase door. I don't let Chase know that I listen sometimes,he would not like that at all if I spy on him especially when talking about a little girl he likes. Sometimes his sis make fun of him,of the little girl he likes, and that makes Chase very anger and he runs to his room crying and in anger. Then I hear him laughing and having fun, I go to his room to check on him too see if he okay. I response by saying I am just checking to see if you're ok, cause I heard you crying early. He told me his sister was making fun of him because he like a little girl at school. But when he got back to his room, Payton was there to cheer him up. Payton made him laugh, and told him to make fun of his sister,if she like a boy at school. Chase really though that was funny. That Payton said to make fun of sister if she liked a boy at school. One day when Chase is a teenager,I will tell him about his Best buddie Payton when they were 5 years old. What happened too Payton,that why he is know longer with us. How kindhearted, sweet, loving and how all the children love Payton at school. And how you and Payton loved being together and going on play dates to the park and how you guys loved the zoo and eating out. Don't forget the ice cream. Chase liked chocolate and Payton like cookies and cream. I remembered all the time I took Chase and Payton to see soccer games,football and basketball games. Then we would go get hot dogs, chips,and soda or juice and go too the park too have lunch. This was such a devastated loss too all who Payton. Its always a sad loss when some you loved is lost. Payton was part of our family as Chase was part of their family. Sometimes it might help a person if they encountered a ghost,who might looks like a love one you lost. I really doesn't know how in the future Chase will handle what happened to Payton. He will probably take it sadly but understand what happened. I know Chase will have lot's of friends but nothing like your first bestfriend. Lots of girlfriend his sister might tease him about at first,but then become his best supporter. It might turn out that Chase and his sister become best of friend. Maybe nothing wrong with having a ghost friend whom you can talk to,tell them about your ups and downs, about your day if there no one else you have too talk to. But not too go crazy,just to talk too sometimes.


Neil fired the rifle. He hated killing things, but wanted to protect his son from the act. He limped towards the dead rabbit, wincing with every step he took on his bad leg. From the long grass behind him, Henry stood up. Henry was twelve-years-old. Tall and lanky, his body was a far cry from what it would have been had he grown up with the abundance of food that was available before The Fall. A storm arrived as they ate. They huddled together under a tree. Neil put the rifle down in the wet grass and reminded himself why they were out there. The house. Julia’s journals. He closed his eyes. Somehow, he drifted off. When he opened his eyes, the world was a pre-dawn grey. And Henry was gone. Panicked, Neil searched the area. This world was too dangerous for Henry to be out on his own. He wouldn’t know how to protect himself. Anything could happen. “Henry!” Neil called. “Dad?” Henry’s voice called back. Neil took off towards it, moving as fast as his lame leg would allow him. He found Henry at the edge of the tree line. “What are you doing?” “I had to pee and I guess I wandered too far. Look!” Henry pointed to the highway down the hill in front of them. It was clogged with dead and rusted cars. Beyond it, rows of houses sprawled into suburbia. The neighbourhood was almost exactly as Neil remembered it, except that the streets and sidewalks were cracked and covered with shrubbery. He stopped in front of their old house, where they had intended to raise their family. This was supposed to be where Henry grew up. “This is it?” Henry asked as he approached the front door. He was just a baby when they left. Neil winced as he followed Henry. Inside, the house was ransacked. Neil stopped just in front of the staircase. A picture lay broken at his feet. He picked it up.Julia smiled back at him. She was holding baby Henry. “Is that her?” Neil turned around to see Henry looking at him. “Yeah.” Henry walked over and took the picture from his Dad. “Can I keep it?” Before Neil could answer, loud yelling outside echoed through the empty neighbourhood. “Upstairs,” Neil whispered. “Hurry!” At the top of the stairs, Neil darted into the master bedroom. He ripped old items off the closet shelves and found the shoebox tucked against the wall. He took it out and opened it. All of Julia’s journals were there. They detailed every aspect of her life, including their marriage and their early days with Henry. Julia died so early into The Fall that Henry never knew her. It was the one thing Neil wanted to give him. Now he could. Suddenly, the voices from outside were much closer. Downstairs, the front door was kicked in. Neil froze and listened to the muffled voices. The first one swore that he saw the people come into the house. The other replied that they’d better search the place. As they moved around downstairs, Neil very quietly crawled down the front hall. His leg dragged along behind him, a nasty reminder that he couldn’t run away. He found Henry in the nursery. The voices were at the bottom of the stairs now and making their way up. Neil went into the nursery with Henry and waited just to the side of the open doorway. He held the rifle up. The footsteps made their way down the hall towards them and stopped just outside of the door. Neil held his breath, praying the man would just go away. But nobody just goes away. Not in this world. Everyone in the house was startled when the bird hit the window, but Neil was the first to act. He jumped out and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. It was jammed. Before Neil could try again, the man swiped the rifle out of his hands. It landed in the centre of the room. Neil blocked his son from the man in front of him. “We don’t want any trouble,” Neil said. “Please.” The man grabbed Neil by the back of the neck and dragged him to the hallway. “Hey Jack!” he shouted. “I got him! He’s got a little kid with--” The gunshot was deafening. The man’s grip around Neil’s neck loosened as he fell to the ground. Henry stood in the open doorway of the nursery, still pointing the rifle at the now dead man. Jack ran out of the master bedroom at the sound of the gunshot. He made for Henry, but Neil stood in front of him. He easily shoved Neil out of the way. Henry pulled the trigger again, but again it didn’t fire. The man charged towards Henry, but Henry pushed the nozzle of the gun into the man’s belly. Then, he ran forward with all of his strength. They both stumbled backwards, towards the stairs, and went over the top step. “No!” Neil pulled himself onto his hands and knees and dragged himself to the top of the stairs. Two motionless bodies lay at the bottom. “Henry!” The little body at the bottom of the stairs rolled over. Henry smiled at his father. As they packed their bags to get back onto the road, Neil gave the journals to Henry. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “But you know, I don’t need a bunch of books to tell me that Mom loved me. I know she did. And I know you do too.” Neil smiled. This kid was wise beyond his age. Then again, he had to be to survive in this world. Neil knew then that Henry would be a survivor. He winced as Henry helped him to his feet. Henry put his father’s arm around his neck and supported some of his weight. “Ready?” Henry asked. His father hung off of one arm, the rifle off of the other. Henry led them forward into the Apocalypse.


“I love the night, the night sky. It soothes the pain in my heart and the consternation in my mind.” Joe, a, mild mannered, ordinary looking man of average height and build was in anguish. He was imprisoned in a small cell; it was smaller than the bathroom in his small flat. There was a window with bars above his head. He couldn’t see out to anything below. But he could see up to the stars and the moon. So he gazed upon the night sky and prayed. He marvelled at the magnificence of the Milky Way peeking down at him, with light streaming through the small window allowing only a shaft to illuminate a portion of the floor, and its deflection to beam upon his face. He thanked God for the window, and the night sky. How long he would remain incarcerated in the cell, he had no idea. They had dragged him from his one room flat at three one misty morning. They interrogated him for two hours. He knew nothing. He lost consciousness. When he woke up he saw only grey walls etched with graffiti, a grey ceiling, grey, cold floor and a window. The heavy iron door was locked. A hatch opened in the middle for victuals to be passed through. Porridge and weak, sweet tea in the morning. Thin soup, a slice of bread and weak, sweet tea at midday, and a portion of chicken or meat bones, with potatoes and carrots at night. It was what might have been mistaken for food. Joe ate his evening meal at sunset, rinsed his plate and mug under cold water at the chipped and cracked wash basin, and settled back on his bunk to gaze up through the window at the starry sky. He knew a bit about astronomy and was excited to recognize a constellation. As he scanned the squared area visible through the window, his thoughts wondered. Why was he in prison? What exactly was the charge against him? What was going to happen to him? Several weeks, maybe months had passed. He was losing track of time. Despair welled up. He trembled with anxiety until the moon winked at him and caught his eye. How bright it was tonight! He longed to be outside. He felt claustrophobic. Was that a shooting star? The sight calmed him and he relaxed. That group of stars looked familiar, and turning his head to observe it from different angles he prompted his brain to remember. “Looks like Leo”, he murmured as he counted the stars in the constellation, and curled his hands into a telescope”. “That’s Meg’s voice.” In his mind he heard her say: “What’s that one called Joe? The one up there over to the left. Do you see it?” He glanced at her pretty face, eyes wide with attention, head back as she pointed skyward and bobbed excitedly. He fell in love with her at that moment. It was a beautiful night in May, a long time ago. “That’s Leo, the lion. Do you see those stars forming a shape, right there?” He drew his finger against the dark sky, “that’s his head, and there, under his head, that’s his body you see...” No, she did not see and did not mind. Her eyes were full of stars and she saw only her hero. She fell in love with her Joe at that moment. With a smile on his lips, he fell peacefully asleep. The door clanged open, they marched him to the interrogation Room. He was blinded by the spotlights. “We will keep you here until you confess. Tell us the truth and sign your confession, and you will be free to go.” The Officer beat his fist on the desk. The more Joe pleaded he had no idea what they were talking about, the angrier they got. The Officer struck the desk again. “You’ve got 24 hours and then we will take stronger measures to make you talk.“ He had nothing to eat or drink that night. The window let the moonlight sneak in. Joe turned on to his back and stared at it. It was big and round and glorious, up above the world so high. Like a diamond in the sky. He recited something aloud... “Wait, no! That’s wrong. It’s twinkle, twinkle little star... up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky... wasn’t it? “ He couldn’t remember. It seemed so long ago. He was five or six years old; first year at school maybe. Teacher taught the class the recitation. His first introduction to rhyme. He did well at school, went to college and graduated with a distinction in mechanical engineering. Joe blinked at the brilliance of the moon. He turned on to his side, face toward the wall. Biting his lower lip helped him to suppress his sobs. What was happening to him? Why was he being held and interrogated? He knew nothing of importance that could be of use to the police. He prayed, looked over his shoulder through the square on the wall, at the vast expanse of indigo scattered with luminous heavenly bodies and drifted off to sleep. His twenty four hours of grace were up. They slammed him into a chair opposite the interrogating Officer. Joe gulped, chin on his chest. He was afraid, but determined not to show it. “Did you sleep well? Would you like coffee?” The interrogator nodded to one of his men. The man returned with hot coffee, the aroma of which enticed Joe to lurch forward eagerly and grasp the mug. He sipped the coffee, watching the Officer apprehensively over the rim of the mug. They watched him in silence while he finished his stimulating drink. He slowly placed the empty mug on the table, watching the Officer’s face. Picking up the pen next to the writing pad placed in front of him, afraid that his shaking hand would give him away, he tried to write. “Take your time. Relax. You will be out of here in a few hours”, the Officer smiled slyly at him. Joe scrawled, paused, pondered, wrote a few more lines, paused, prayed silently, read what he’d written, signed it and got up to leave. One of the men pushed him back. Slamming the pad angrily on to the desk, the Officer glared at Joe. “This is not a confession! It is a refusal to say anything at all. You are obstructing justice. Take him away! “ Joe got up from the cold, concrete cell floor and went over toward the window. He looked up at the grey sky and begged for help. “Father in heaven, please hear my prayer. What have I done to be treated like this? Please take this away from me! Let the truth be known that I am innocent. I beg you Father, please help me! “ No food and drink. His blanket and pillow were removed from him. Joe lay on the bare mattress, curled up, shivering, trying to warm up. Lying on his back, his eyes widened. The light shining through the window was blinding. He squinted at it and thought he saw the form of a man, and he thought he heard the sound of wings flapping. He thought he was losing his mind. He felt warm and comfortable and at peace. Meg’s precious face appeared fleetingly before him. She smiled the beautiful smile he cherished. She had been so brave. She died giving birth to their only child. Their little girl died a few days later. Sleep swept him away from heartache. He dreamed of Meg that night. They were picnicking in a golden field on a sunny spring day. She teased him and ran away. He ran after her, caught her skirt and they tumbled down together, laughing happily. He picked a blossom in the meadow and fixed it behind her ear. She stroked his cheek tenderly with the back of her hand. He took her’s in his and kissed it warmly while gazing into her deep blue eyes. Why did the night sky remind him so vividly of his darling Meg? “Must be its magnificence”, he mused. The clanging of the door woke him up once again. He was marched along the long, dreary passage to the Room. He could find his way to it in his sleep, he thought wryly. Something was different today. No blinding lights. A pot of hot coffee, two mugs and a plate of donuts waited on the desk. No writing pad and no pen. Curious. “They’re trying to entice me, trap me again”, Joe thought to himself as he sat cautiously, filled with suspicion. A uniformed man entered and sat opposite him at the desk. It was a different Officer. He smiled at Joe and told him to go ahead with coffee and a donut. Joe shrank back hesitantly. “Please, help yourself. Feel comfortable. We are going to talk about your situation reasonably and fairly. There has been a dreadful mistake. Let me explain... “ A mechanical engineer fitting Joe’s description had been accused of stealing valuable blueprints for a super powered racing car. He sold them to an Italian company for a large sum of money. Before the owner could confront the engineer he had disappeared. An important international road race was coming up with the highest stakes ever. The super car was set to win, awarding the owner a sizeable fortune. The original owner of the blueprints reported everything to the police. Scotland Yard was alerted and included in bringing the thief to justice. They uncovered the involvement of Joe’s prior investigating Officer in the affair. He was in collaboration with the thief who happened to be a relative of his. He cunningly derived a plan to arrest someone with the same qualifications, and resembling the thief. He would wear him down in jail and coerce him into signing a confession, thereby giving his cousin time to assume a new identity and skip the country. It happened to be poor, slow Joe who fitted the part perfectly. A few nights earlier, before the present Officer took over, Scotland Yard had apprehended the thief. He signed his confession and was confined to prison awaiting trial. They needed Joe to testify against the corrupt police Officer who, with three accomplices, illegally held Joe in an abandoned prison in a remote part of the country. Joe accepted and agreed to assist with the proceedings. He breathed deeply with satisfaction as he stood proudly on the High Court steps. Sentence had been passed and Justice had been served. Reporters crowded him, eager to record his comments. One of them threw a question at him: “Hey Joe, describe please for the viewers, what kept you going for those months in that horrible little cell? “ Joe didn’t hesitate, “It was the one and only window above me in one wall of the cell. I could see nothing but the sky through it. I gazed at the moon and the stars each night. I recognized a few constellations. My dear wife Meg and I used to talk about them when we were young. Each night when I looked up to the heavens I thought about those times with my beloved wife. It calmed me and gave me hope. I prayed to our Father, confident that he would hear me and help me as my words floated up to him through the window. One night the moon and stars were so bright I couldn’t see because they blinded me. I thought I heard wings flapping at the window. There was no sign of a large bird. I pretended it was an angel. Why not? I didn’t believe in that sort of thing before. But I do now. Where would I be this day if it had not been for the window and the night sky? What I saw made me think about God. So I spoke to him. I believe he listened and answered me. He watched me through that window. “ There was a hush... Then the crowd started clapping. Joe looked up at the sky and said softly, “Thank you Father for the window. “