She is enthroned on my desk in a photograph where she stands, enthusiastically pointing at a large baobab tree. The center of the tree is hollow, the size of a small bedroom, and the branches spread, short and thin, above the swollen base. If I look closely, I can see the shadow I cast on the ground while I took the picture with a pink disposable camera. *** Neither of us were from Ethiopia, but that is where we met. Our fathers were childhood friends who had not seen one another in longer than either of us had been alive. I remember being unsure about what to expect, thinking naively that it would be hot and dusty, like the Sahara looks in movies. In reality, Lalibela reminded me a lot of home. It was beautiful. The reddish stone and soil of the mountains was spotted with guava and olive trees. I have never been anywhere so inherently joyful and vibrant; every moment, every detail felt consequential and imbued with life. Beth and her father had lived in Ethiopia for several years when we came to visit. They picked us up from the airport; her father greeted me warmly and introduced us. Our parents caught up on nearly fourteen years of history while we sat, silent strangers, in the backseat of the truck. She was thirteen then and I was only eleven. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a loose braid. Her sky-blue skirt brushed her ankles, embroidered at the hem with little pink flowers. A set of bracelets with rainbow-colored plastic beads adorned her wrist and clicked lightly every time she moved her arm. “Look at this,” she said, breaking the silence. She dug something round and reflective from her purse. I thought it was a mirror at first, but she opened it up to reveal a magnetic compass with a bright red needle. “That’s cool,” I said. “Dad gave it to me for my birthday. It always points north.” I nodded. “I have a little one at home for hiking.” She snapped the compass shut and returned it to her bag. We settled back into the safety of silence, a bit more comfortably than before. “This afternoon we can go see the churches,” her father said, smiling at me in the mirror. “They’re incredible, I can’t wait for you to see them.” *** We arrived at her house, which was small and hemmed in by avocado trees and a stone wall. Beth barely gave me time to grab my duffel bag from the bed of the truck before she dragged me inside to show me around. The main room was full of books and trinkets from around the world. “We move a lot,” Beth said. “I’ve been to tons of different countries.” “Cool,” I replied. She was growing more mythical in my mind, this girl who had lived in more places than I’d ever dreamed of visiting. She showed me some of her favorite artifacts: an eight-inch replica of a suit of armor that her father used as a bookend, an antique globe which she said was her grandfather’s, and a small, hand-painted jade egg from Thailand. After the tour, she took me to the room which my father and I were going to share for the duration of our stay. There was a small window, a twin sized bed, and a cot. My father’s suitcase already lay at the foot of the bed, so I dropped my bag onto the cot. Beth stood in the doorway, watching me. “So, Peter, what do you like to do?” I shrugged. “Nothing much. I like video games, hanging out with friends. I like to read sometimes, too.” “Cool,” she replied. “Wanna see my room?” “Sure,” I said, and followed her down the hall. Her room was painted lavender, her favorite color. She had some posters on the walls and an overflowing bookshelf beside her bed. There was a trombone on the dresser beside a small bottle of Victoria’s Secret perfume, which she said her grandmother sent her as a birthday gift. “Dad wants me to play the trombone like he did when he was my age. He’s trying to teach me, but he says my arms might not be long enough,” she explained. She stretched her arms out in front of her to demonstrate. I stared at them silently. They looked long enough to me. “My dad told me what happened with your parents,” Beth said. “Oh,” I replied. “Is it going to be weird, to have two houses and two Christmases and all that?” she asked. “I guess.” I didn’t really want to talk about it. As suddenly as she brought it up, she moved on to a new topic. “Do you want to see our garden?” *** That afternoon, we all piled into the truck to go see the churches. Beth’s mother decided to join us and sat between us in the backseat, smelling of berbere spice and jasmine perfume. She talked loudly over the radio, asking me about life back in the States. I answered her questions politely, wishing that I was sitting beside Beth instead. We arrived at the site of the churches and my father whistled appreciatively, drawing looks from the people nearby. My face flushed with embarrassment and I glanced at Beth, who luckily didn’t seem bothered by him. The scene was breathtaking. Before us, the earth fell away into a large pit. In the center of the hole, which was several stories deep, stood a cross-shaped piece of stone. As we got closer, I could make out windows and doors carved into the reddish monolith, which I realized was the church. I was so engrossed at the sight I didn’t notice Beth come up behind me. “They used hammers and chisels to carve down into the mountain,” she murmured. “And there are tunnels and trenches that connect the some of the churches.” I was shocked. “It must have taken like, a hundred years.” She giggled. “Yeah, something like that.” We traveled down into the trenches and tunnels, led by a guide. Beth and her mother covered their heads with scarves out of respect. The tunnels were short, and my father had to crouch down to fit. As we descended, the air grew cold and I found myself thinking about the weight of the rock that surrounded us. My heart began to pound and my breath came fast, but I did not want to seem afraid. Beth slowed to walk right in front of me. She whispered over her shoulder. “Do you wanna hear a joke?” “Sure,” I replied. “What does a nosy pepper do?” “I dunno, what?” “Gets jalapeño business.” I snorted. “That’s stupid.” “Yeah, but it’s funny,” Beth smirked. We got to the bottom of the tunnel and exited into the sunlight. The stone walls of the church rose up before us, towering towards the sunlight. Everything about the place felt weighted with a sanctity that I couldn’t fully understand. The guide led us inside, through the cold rooms of the church itself. The walls were painted with elaborate designs which were hard to make out in the light coming from the small keyhole-shaped windows. I was overwhelmed by the ancient beauty of it all. Beth walked beside me, pointing out little details in hushed tones. “The first time we came here, I was afraid that there was a trap door under the rugs on the floor. I thought I was going to fall through,” Beth whispered. I smiled at her strange imagination. We exited the church, squinting in the sunlight, and the spell of the building seemed to fade. Beth and I fell into step with one another as we finished the tour. “Have you ever tried injera?” she asked. *** The rest of the trip passed in a blur, and Beth and I quickly became inseparable. She showed me the marketplace and took me to see the baobab trees. She and her mother taught me how to make beef tibs and fatira and homemade croissants, a favorite from their time in France. When it was time for me to leave, Beth made me promise to talk to her every day. I sometimes like to read through our old emails. We talked about everything: politics, movies, school, music. She sent me pictures of her sons when they were born and helped me decide which dog to adopt. I told her about my fiancé and suggested that she paint her home office lavender. We don’t talk every day anymore, but we still try to check in at least once a month. She lives in Spain now, by the beach. In her last email, she made me promise to visit so her sons can meet their Uncle Peter, and to bring my fiancé along so she can approve of him. I bought our tickets yesterday. Beth and I haven’t seen each other in nearly thirty years, but I am confident I’ll recognize the girl under the baobab tree anywhere.


Constable Vic Clarke of the Vancouver Police Department (VPD) looked perplexed. As he filled out the incident report: ______________________________________________________ LOST PROPERTY REPORT The completion of this report will document the loss of Personal Property Vancouver Police Department REPORT NUMBER: 1982-06-011 Call 604 555-1212 and ask for a “Lost Property” report number. If this number is not filled in, your report will not be recorded by the Department. NAME: John Schwartz STREET: 1155 Beach St. Vancouver, BC SUITE/APT: Apt. #1201 CITY/Postal Code: Vancouver, BC V6E 1V2 TELEPHONE (604) 555-9999 Type of Location: Multi story Apartment Date Property Last Seen: 1982 06 10 Time: 08:00am Date Property Discovered Missing: 1982 06 10 Time: 05:10pm PROPERTY QTY: 1 DESCRIPTION - (Serial Numbers if Available) : Rolex - no serial number COST $300.00 EACH TOTAL $300.00 CASH (If any) $150.00 Additional Property Is To Be Entered On A Separate Sheet of Paper Total Loss >>>>> $450.00 NARRATIVE : (Briefly describe what happened.) Owner returned to his apartment at approx. 3:00pm. Noticed watch and cash missing when he was getting ready to go out for dinner. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. Residents of other apartments on this floor were at work. Reporting Officer: Constable Vic Clarke ______________________________________________________ This was the second report he had filled out that week, there were three reports last week. They were all similar, the robberies happened during the day, the amount was under $500 and they were all in apartments above the tenth floor. In all cases, the neighbours were at work during the times of the robberies. ‘ Even if I caught him for this robbery, he would only get a light sentence for theft under $500. The courts wouldn’t count all the other robberies. He only takes cash and items that can be quickly pawned. Still it all adds up to over $1000 a week and no taxes - that’s more than what I make. . . . Breaking this case will look good next time I apply for detective ’ Constable Clarke went and talked to the building manager. The results were always the same. He hadn’t seen anybody other than a few deliver people that had been buzzed in by a resident. There was a video camera in the underground parking area. It covers the front door to the parking area and is monitored by the building manager. Clarke takes the tape even though he knows there probably wouldn’t be anything on it. Clarke goes back to his car and drives around to the back of the property. There is a small outdoor parking lot off Pacific Ave. A set of stairs at the back of the parking lot lead to a door that opens onto a corridor to the lobby. Another staircase, just to the left of the first, leads down to a door marked ‘Equipment Room’. There is a BC Tel repairman standing in front of the door. Clarke goes to talk to him. As he approaches the repairman starts to smile. As he gets nearer the man says: “Twice in one week?” Clarke looks confused. “I saw you last week just down the street. I was delivering a phone.” Clarke smiles in recognition, he had been investigating another breakin at the time. To his embarrassment, there had even been another robbery in that building that day. “In my fifteen years with the company I never ran into a VPD officer before - then twice in one week. It must be some kind of sign.” The repairman sticks out his hand. “Frank Fisher . . . What can I do for you?” Clarke glances at the ID card hanging from a lanyard around the man’s neck then shakes his hand. “Constable Vic Clarke. There have been a series of robberies in high rise apartments in the West End, just investigating one that happened here yesterday. . . . Have you seen anything unusual?” “Not really” smiling “Other than the increased number of patrol cars in the area.” Frank takes the building key from the lockbox to the left of the door. “Do all the repairmen have a key to the lockbox?” “No, just the ones assigned to working on apartment buildings.” Showing the key to Clarke - “The company started using these tubular tumbler locks. They are supposed to be harder to pick and there is no place that I know of to get one cut.” Clarke looks at it. He has seen similar keys used on vending machines. Frank opens the door. Using his foot to stop the door from closing he puts the key back in the lockbox. “The door will lock as soon as it closes. . . . Some guys like to take everything inside then put the lock back when they finish. I like to make sure everything is locked up before I start.” Frank holds the door open. “Could someone break into the lockbox to get the building key?” Clarke asks. Frank laughs. “I guess they could smash the box, I don’t think they could open it. . . . The most secure thing here is the lockbox. Any locksmith worth his salt could make a key for the door in the time it takes to cut the key.” “Once inside the equipment room can you get into the rest of the building?” “Sure. C’mon in - I’ll show you.” Pointing to his left Frank says “That’s the Hydro room. You don’t want to go in there.” Pointing to the back of the room. “That’s the door to the underground parking and the elevator.” Clarke goes over to check. ‘ That must be how he is getting in without anyone seeing him. ’ “Is that the way you get into the main part of the building?” “Only if I have to change the wire going to the client's apartment. If I am picking up or delivering a phone I use the main entrance. . . . I want to know the customer is home, so I get buzzed in. No sense in going up to the apartment if there is no one home.” “Don’t you have an appointment?” “Yeh. But sometimes I am late and sometimes the customer had to go out. . . . Best to be buzzed in.” Clarke smiles remembering the times he has waited for a service man that didn’t show. Frank was working while they were talking. He has clipped his orange test phone onto a line, then pulls a black module from a module strip and replaces it with another one from a small cabinet. Still connected to the line he was testing, Frank dials something on the test phone. Then: “Hello, this is the telephone repairman. Your line should be working now. Please call repair service if you have any more problems.” Unclipping his test phone, "Got the answering machine." He takes a red marking pen from his pouch and marks the first module with an ‘X’. “Don’t want it to get mixed up with the good ones. . . . I’m finished. . . Do you want a Cook’s Tour?” Clarke had always felt that you never know when a random bit of knowledge may come in useful. “Sure - I have a bit of time.” Pointing at a large black cable “This cable connects back to the central office down on Seymour St. There are two hundred and fifty pairs of wire in the cable - a little big for this building, but it is always nice to have extra in case something goes wrong..” Pointing at a strip of fifty rows of modules, five modules per row at the end of a small framework. The framework has five short shelves; there are wires running along the shelves. “Each cable pair connects to one side of one of a module which acts like a circuit breaker and high voltage protector. . . . The trouble I had today was with the high voltage protector. It blocks any high voltages, say from a lightning strike, from blowing your phone off the wall. They sometimes go bad - you can’t fix them. . . . You with me so far?” Clarke nods “What are those red modules for?” “Those are for alarm circuits - we never touch them.” Anticipating his next question - “That orange module means the line has been disconnected - probably an empty apartment. . . . . These pins on the right” - pointing to the right side of the strip of modules - “connect to the other side of the module.” “Do you solder the wire to the pin?” “No, we have a tool for wrapping the wire onto the pin. I was skeptical of it at first - but they work great” Going to the side of the frame Frank shows him a series of connector blocks. “Each block connects to a cable going to one of the floors.” Grabbing a wire from the shelf. “This wire running along the shelf connects the cable pair from the office to the cable going to the right floor.” Clarke asks “Why do some blocks have less wires than others?” “The lower floors have smaller apartments, more apartments per floor. From about the fifth floor up, the apartments start getting larger - fewer per floor.” ‘ Bingo ’ Clarke smiles to himself. ‘ That is why the robberies were all above the tenth floor - fewer neighbours. Less likely for there to be someone at home. ’ “You left a message on the answering machine. I didn’t think you could call yourself back like that.” “You noticed that, did you?” Forcing a laugh. “There is a code you can dial that will ring the phone on the line you are on. If I am going to have the line down for any length of time I call before I start, to see if anyone is home. This time I was only going to be a few seconds - so I just left a message once I was finished.” Clarke nods. Frank says “I have to get back to work. . . . So, now you know how this works, if you ever get tired of the VPD you can become a repairman.” Laughing Clarke replies. “I think I will stay where I am.” Both men walk back to their vehicles. After saying goodbye Constable Clarke gets in his cruiser and drives off, excited to report what he has found out about entering the building through the Equipment Room. ‘ I might even make detective out of this. ’ Frank sits in his van pretending to look through a stack of papers - waiting for Clarke to leave. ‘ What a schlemiel! I laid out the whole scam for him and he still didn’t figure out who I was. . . . Still when you have the right look and know the patter people accept you at face value. . . . Maybe it's time to move on. Check out the Calgary Stampede next month. ’ Glancing down at the toolbox behind the passenger seat. ‘ Best investment I ever made - getting a machine to cut keys for tubular locks. ’


I won’t be able to describe to you how painful it is to die. How agonizing a slow death is. One that passively marches toward you and you’re left to sit and watch. Your stomach rises into your throat in a burning fashion. The acid coats your esophagus. Flight or fight? No, you’ve frozen in your tracks as you stare ahead at a crumbling landscape. You were so terrified that you couldn't even shake in fear. You just stood there. The world is tearing itself apart in a menacing manner. The type you’ve seen in action-packed movies or read about in thrilling novels. You couldn’t move so the destruction made its way to your legs and ankles. So, unless you have died, I cannot describe the misery and degradation you feel. “It burns” and “it hurts” doesn’t cut it. Of course, I can tell you about all your teeth smashing together from one side of your face to the other. It is not just about the pain. It is the trauma of being torn apart. The snapping of every tooth from its home, crashing into its neighbor’s neighbor. They created a horrible song as they clashed with the pavement. They ripped up your gums in harmonious tremors. I can describe to you the agony of being cornered. How can you tolerate the immense pounding you feel as your brain throbs against your frontal lobe? It pulses within the pangs of discomfort. Your brain throbs like the mountains that are smashing into one other. There is a chill on your skin. Something wet. The wind causes your skin to erupt in goosebumps. They litter the back of your neck, forcing the hairs to stand up. They tickle you, along with the chill from the various liquids that drip down your face. The sweat- it is sweat! The sweat that drips from your forehead into your gaping mouth repulses you. You can still taste the salt even though your tongue has been ripped to shreds by your vicious teeth. The pain tastes like salt. You keep swallowing the iron and sweat. It is the only thing hydrating your arid tongue. You can really feel the copper now. Maybe it is nickels you taste instead. But the taste is bitter and unbearable. You cannot control your body anymore so the pennies and nickels just keep sliding down your throat. Your throat convulses and contorts in reaction to the blood that continues to slide into your stomach. You can really feel them, huh? Their round and rusted exteriors scrape your throat as they fill your belly. You’d shut your eyes if you could, but your caramel eyes dangle from their sockets. Rhythmically, they swing in iambic euphony. How did your eyes escape their sockets? Something must have hit you with a strong force. From the back! Yes, from the back you were hit with a flying rock that crushed your legs and knocked your eyes out. The bones are shattered now. How did you not notice that aching? You were too focused on the taste of blood in your mouth. Your drying eyes. You're ready to run now. “How did I get here?” You’ll wonder. You’ll ponder the day before when you weren’t doing anything. The lazy napping and binge eating feel remorseful, especially knowing you spent your last day of freedom doing absolutely nothing. The dedication you held to your job or academia squanders under the regime of death. Everything you connected yourself to meant absolutely nothing. Why do we do this to ourselves? Push and push. As the world crumbles around your aching body, the beauty of the sky lights up your eyes. That magnificent blue that has always been too intimidating to gaze at seems inviting now. The clouds have fled the sky, and there are no longer birds fluttering about. “What color will the sunset be tonight?” You’ll wonder. If only you could chase the sunset. Run to the west until the continent meets the sea. Those foamy waves that kiss the sandy shore over and over again. Rhythmically, like your eyes in the wind. What can you see now? Just the sky? What's happening to the right? To the left? It was all trivial. Life was a terrarium you looked at too closely. Will you last long enough to see it? I am rooting for you to see it. If you can't run to it, I hope it runs to you. Can life still be beautiful with the sound of gurgling blood, sweat, and saliva? What happened to the birds in the trees? Where have they gone to? Will you go too? The ground cries in agony as it shakes beneath you, changing once more. Our Earth must go through phases like our Moon. She enters her final chrysalis as the world ends in fire, ice, eruptions, and floods. Let her begin anew. “Will there still be a sunset tonight?” You wonder. Your hands are crushed by the boulder that was sent flying from dancing tectonic plates. They twirled and jumped in synchronized perfection! Sending rocks and gravel into the air like a splatter-painted piece of art. How much would you pay for something that beautiful? The trees uprooted themselves and fell on top of one another, like your teeth. The oceans are starting to swell and there’s a profuse burning smell off in the distance that’s making you nauseous. I am envious of your indomitable spirit. You rise like that far-off smoke into that daunting sky. I've read your story a hundred times. If only I could pacify you now. But we are worlds away and in different realms. You are a faraway fairy tale I’m reading to my daughter. And my mother read this story to me too. I, too, was caught up in the sunset. She begs me to describe the sunset you’re waiting to see. My lips are sealed tight and I smile hauntingly at her. Cheek to cheek, my fangs are revealed. I cannot describe what it feels like to die, but I can tell you this. Again and again.


An Ungrateful Disease Flowers sit atop the end table. The vase filled with water has a particularly reddish haze to it that attracts the eye. Yet the senses tingle more than what appears to the gander. Papers rustling, a loud elongated burp, the movement of hastened anxiety pulls the attention of the room. He crashes and turns, pushes, pulls, and tears. What does he seek? No that is not the reason to be heard, why does he seek it? It's the middle of the night and this man is running through the mental state of his mind as if there is marathon training to be had. He pulls paper out of the drawer, tearing more and more pieces with every movement. It doesn't matter though, they are all old, irrelevant to the reality of things. In his reality they symbolize structure, they speak for the ledge that he so dearly grabs for in the same way a falling acrobat looks for the saving hand of their companion before they crash in front of the eyes of their fans. And with the same excitement and anxiety of the acrobat he searches faster and faster. There is no rhyme or reason, only a search for the end. Finally he finds it, a receipt for the television he purchased. He can contact the manufacturer, the shop, the electrician, anyone to help with the warranty he so dearly clutches to. It was a two year warranty, certainly someone will take care of the problem. Day in and out, for weeks he has valued each moment of time in search of this proof so he can finally rectify the situation. No one will help him, not the son he so dearly raised, not the friend that he speaks to on the telephone, even the neighbor that passes by daily with a wave and a nod thought ill of his request. Finally he can take matters into his own hand. As he reaches for the phone, a slight chill caresses his cheek with the burst of wind from the open doorway. He struggles to get up from his bed, papers scattered about and boxes opened affray. With a close of the door he can let the warm air inside cuddle his diminishing figure, in cooperation with the robe and blanket combo that has become his daily wardrobe. He moves towards the door, and back on his seated makeshift office space of his bed the paper falls to the ground with the aftershock of wind. It trickles down, spinning as the leaves do in autumn renditions of nature. With a silent thud it rests where it may stay for months to come, the lettering fondly still legible after all this time. The date on the receipt reads February 16th of the year 1993, a mere 21 years past the warranty date, yet a second cousin to the time he remembers. The moment will be forgotten, the anxiety elongated for years to come, and the television unfortunately never repaired, at least not under warranty. Such is the life of the man, such is the life of many of the misunderstood. (This is my first post here, and i'm not even sure if this would be considered a short story, so be gentle haha. Criticism is greatly appreciated though, I have been writing since a young age and have recently found a new passion for it. The story above is loosely based on experience with my grandfather whom suffers from Alzheimer's. Criticism on punctuation and flow of the language would be great too! Regardless, thanks for the time you spent reading.


Work finally over, Molly scrambled her belongings together, aimed a fleeting goodbye in the direction of her colleagues, and left the office. She’d forgotten her girlfriend Grace’s birthday and though Grace hadn’t said anything that morning, Molly wanted to make it up to her with a special evening. Molly spiralled down the stairs, out of the building and practically tumbled into the street, pulling her tote bag over her right shoulder as she managed to get her left arm into her coat sleeve. She checked her watch, determined to get home before Grace. It was the first warm day of the year and people were pouring out of their places of work onto the bustling high street. Summer had been late in arriving and now everyone had a spring in their step, coats slung over their arms as they made their way home with smiles on their faces, enjoying the warm weather. Molly had things to buy before her bus arrived and she was glad it was Thursday when the shops stayed open later. Tied to a lamppost outside the butcher’s shop sat a small brown dog, panting slightly in the unusual warmth. Molly crouched down and patted the dog, “Well hello there Mr Dog, what are you doing?” The dog did not reply but a stout looking woman in a coat far too warm for the weather blustered her way out of the butcher’s, a hefty shopping bag swinging from her hand. “Come on Buddy, these sausages won’t cook themselves,” her bag thumped against Molly, almost knocking her to the pavement from her crouching position. “I was just talking to your lovely dog,” Molly righted herself with a wobble, brushed down her skirt and pulled her bag back onto her shoulder. The older woman shook her head, “Talking to the dog, would you believe it...” and with that she untied the lead from the lamppost and bustled away. As they headed down the street Buddy the dog turned and looked back at Molly as if to apologise on behalf of his owner. Molly smiled back and then remembered that she had things to do and headed into the butcher’s shop, the brass bell above the door clanging her arrival. The shop had a distinct smell, clean with the metallic tang of meat and a hint of herbs. The butcher smiled, a well built man with big hands and a big face. “I’d like some steak please,” Molly was suddenly unsure of what to ask for. The butcher nodded, “Fillet, ribeye, sirloin? I’ve got some lovely rump too if that would interest you.” “Rump if you think so, thank you, two pieces please.” Molly was glad of the butcher’s advice and watched as he took two large pieces of glistening red meat from the counter, wrapped them in paper and put them in a white plastic bag which he sealed with a piece of red tape. “Thank you,” Molly reached into her bag to find her purse which had made its way to the bottom, “it’s my girlfriend’s birthday, so I’m treating her!” “Isn’t she the lucky one," grinned the butcher, “have you got a good red wine to go with that?” “Oh, that’s what I need to get next, and then a cake, a red one!” Molly took the money from her purse and handed it to the butcher, taking care not to brush her hand against his meaty one. “You’ll think I’m silly, but she’s a huge United fan, the reds, you know, so I’m doing everything in red for her tonight... the meat, wine, cake... everything!” “Red is it? Well, have a lovely evening,” the butcher winked at her, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron, “just three minutes either side for those.” He passed her the steaks, and blushing slightly, Molly took the meat and dropped it into her bag. ‘I do hope it doesn’t leak,’ she thought to herself as she headed for the door, then thanked the butcher again and left, the bell above the door jangling a farewell. Molly chastised herself for her blushes. On her lunch hour, she’d popped to the town’s small department store and bought a bra and panties set from the lingerie department. Bright red to match her special theme for Grace, and she’d reddened then too as the shop assistant wrapped her purchase. When Molly got back to the office she’d quickly changed into the new negligee in the washroom and now her faded black bra and knickers were floating about somewhere in the bottom of her bag alongside the steaks. As a minor irritation to proceedings, the label in her new bra was causing a scratching sensation in the middle of Molly’s back and she stood outside the butcher’s for a moment squeezing her shoulders together, unsuccessfully trying to relieve the itch. Her next stop was the off-licence. Grace enjoyed a bottle of red wine now and again and the off-licence was just a couple of buildings along. Molly checked her watch as she hurried towards the shop where a man in a linen suit was just leaving. He held the door open for Molly and gave her a bemused smile as she rushed in. Molly nodded a thank you and immediately began to scan the shelves for a bottle that looked appealing with an acceptable price tag. She was no wine expert and chose a bottle of red wine with a picture of a castle on the label. Molly took the wine over to the counter where a woman reading a magazine was sitting on a tall buffet, shelves of tobacco and fancy chocolates behind her. The woman took a drag on her cigarette, balanced it on an ashtray at the side of the till, and punched in the price of the wine. Molly rummaged around in her bag amongst underwear, rump steaks and other paraphernalia to find her purse again. She flustered as the woman behind the counter tapped a red chipped fingernail on the top of the till, picking up her cigarette to take another drag. “Sorry,” muttered Molly, eventually locating her purse, “I’m in such a rush, I need to get back for my girlfriend’s birthday.” “Hope she appreciates it,” the woman rasped and coughed slightly, “special birthday is it?” “Oh, no, not really, just the first one she’s had since we moved in together, so I wanted to make it nice, you know.” Molly passed over a note and the woman slotted it into the till, handing over a couple of coins in change. “Well, don’t you let her get used to it!” The woman gave Molly a wry smile, tugged on her cigarette some more and returned to her magazine. Unsure of how to respond, Molly took the bottle and pushed it inside her bag, thanked the woman and hurried out of the door and back into the sunshine. People were still milling backwards and forwards. A young man weighed down with shopping bags was dragging a small, whining boy along the pavement. It was very warm and Molly felt a little damp under her arms. She couldn’t take her coat off because it wouldn’t fit in her bag, and Molly needed her hands free for the cake she was about to buy. There was a queue outside the small bakery and the young man and protesting boy joined the back of it. The boy was kicking his feet at the pavement and the man sighed in dismay at the boy’s scuffed shoes, moving his shopping bags from one hand to the other, craning his neck to see if the queue was moving. Molly felt like stamping her own feet, she really wanted to get back before Grace and the bus was due in ten minutes. The cake she wanted was in the window, a red velvet cake. Molly knew that she should have bought the cake at lunchtime but the lingerie shopping had taken longer than planned. As if to remind her, the label in her bra scratched some more and she wiggled her shoulders in an attempt to stop the itching. The queue moved forwards and eventually Molly was inside the shop. The boy in front of her pointed to a large cream bun with white icing and sprinkles on top and the young man nodded in defeat. Molly checked her watch, there was still enough time. An elderly man was now being served, though he didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He took off his hat and scratched his head, then put his hat back on again. “How about that lovely red velvet cake in the window?” said the woman behind the counter, “I’m sure your granddaughter would love that!” “Well, yes, if you think so,” the man smiled in relief that the decision had been made for him. “No! Oh no, no...” Molly hadn’t realised that she’d spoken aloud. Everyone in the shop turned and looked at her. Molly blushed deeply, “I wanted that cake, that’s all...” her voice trailed off. The small boy with scuffed shoes looked up at her blankly and feeling foolish, Molly turned and bumped her way out of the bakery, the queue impeding her need for a swift exit. Back outside, cheeks blazing, Molly wanted to cry. It was all going wrong. The red birthday surprise was a disaster. A birthday with no cake was unthinkable. The elderly man in the hat came out of the bakery carrying a cake box tied with red ribbon. ‘I bet he drops it,’ thought Molly crossly. Then she checked herself. ‘It’s my own fault for being so disorganised and this damn bra is really getting on my nerves!’ Molly decided there was nothing for it but to make the best of what she’d got and walked dejectedly to her bus stop. A sizeable queue had already formed and Molly took her place at the end. She noticed the overheated woman with sausages and Buddy the dog standing near the front of the queue and Buddy glanced over at Molly. Molly gave Buddy the dog a weak smile. She was far too warm and decided she just had to try and cool down. Molly carefully put her bag on the pavement and peeled off her coat, folded it over the top of her bag, and hitched the bag back onto her shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Molly had no money ready when the bus arrived. Exasperated and annoyed at her continued state of disorganisation, she put her bag down, moved her coat, lifted out the wine, put her coat over the crook of her arm and tried to find her purse. She could feel the bag of steak like a bleeding heart and her old bra half wrapped around it, but no purse. The queue moved on with a gap now growing between the man in front of her and Molly, who was crouched on the pavement, the bottle of wine beside her. The bag of meat, with accompanying bra swiftly joined the bottle of wine, along with her cosmetics purse, diary and hairbrush. The queue behind her, fed up with waiting, shuffled around Molly and it wasn’t until her purse fell out of her coat pocket that was hanging from her arm that she remembered putting it there in the off-licence. Molly stuffed the wine, meat, bra, cosmetics, diary and hairbrush back into her bag and climbed onto the bus as the driver closed the doors. There were no seats left on the sticky, hot bus and Molly wobbled with each bump and turn, not wanting to hold onto the hanging strap due to her damp armpits. She disembarked at her stop and hurried the short distance home. Her heart sank as she saw the lights on and Grace’s bicycle outside. Grace was in the kitchen, finishing off a plate of jam sandwiches. She was wearing her favourite United top. “Hello darling, you okay?” Grace looked up, licking her fingers. Molly put her bag and coat down and went to wash her hands at the sink. “Yes, fine... it’s just so warm...” “I got back early for the match,” Grace brought her plate over to the sink, “got to go in a minute, I said I’d meet Zac down the pub to watch the game.” “But, your birthday...” “Birthday? Not until next month Molly! July fifth! It was still June the last time I looked!” Grace picked up her keys and bag from the table. “July?” Molly slumped into a chair, “No, it’s today, June fifth... it has to be”. “Oh Molly, what are you like!” Grace kissed her on the forehead. “You feel warm, why don’t you take a shower and relax?” The label in Molly’s red bra scratched her again as if to suggest that a shower was a good idea, anything to stop the infernal itching. “Listen,” said Grace, taking Molly’s hands, “I’ve bought a nice bottle of red wine for you to have while I’m watching the football and a lovely piece of steak.” Molly blinked, then stared blankly as Grace continued. “Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s a red velvet cake in the fridge for you too!”


Ieder looked up at his mother, a massive 15-foot dragon that towered over him. As much as he hated it, she was leaving him behind. “Now remember what me and Baba taught you.” Ieder looked up and nodded silently. “Be nice to the others. It’s best not to grieve their mothers” Nod. “Don’t bare your claws or teeth, for danger it brings.” Nod. “Never swing your tail or open your wings.” Nod. “And finally, don’t...” Ieder sighed, “Point my horns at anyone.” “Very good.” Ieder’s mother smirked before taking a step back as she opened her wings and checked around her to ensure no one would get struck by her flaps. Then, she lifted off. Ieder, a child baby-blue dragon, was left alone. Along with other children. Some the same, some different. As he turned and looked behind him, he saw multitudes of children. Some dragon, like him, some human, some elf, some centaur. He wondered how he was going to fit in. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ All the children were being gathered up, and Ieder thought- hoped they would be split into their species groups for classes. He always heard about the other species, and was taught to be nice and helpful. At the same time, he felt that since dragons grew to be the biggest-est. He sat on his haunches at a desk, told to do so by a teacher. Somehow, they were having a lot a lot of trouble with other teachers, and were all told to sit, be still, and make friends. Ieder only saw one other dragon in the room and she was sitting on the other side, already chatting up with a girl centaur. Ew, Ieder thought. He continued to look around at the walls, covered in bright paper. They all hadmarks on them that Ieder thought was writing that they would read. In front of him was a human child, blond hair pulled up into two trees on both sides of her head. A white shirt with rainbow striped on the sleeves sat on her shoulders. They were the only two sitting at a group of bright white desks with thick round legs. At the other desks though were also groups of two, three, or four kids. “What’s that on your head?” The human looked up, and saw Ieder staring straight at her. She didn’t seem scared. Her eyes seemed huge through the thick glass frames sitting on her nose. Ieder’s dad told him about theses. Sometimes, centaurs and humans had trouble seeing, so these magical tiny windows helped them see, but that never made sense to Ieder. “Um, my head?” Ieder, the proud dragon repeated. “Yes. What’s those two ‘horns’?” The human reached up and felt her hair sprouts. “Ponytails, I think.” “Huh,” a centaur child said from a nearby table. The human pointed to her hair sprouts again, “These are ponytails.” The centaur huffed, “You can’t say that; you’re not a pony!” The human kid blurted out, “Neither are you!” The centaur started, but then grew quiet, and continued talking with the other students. The human continued with what she was doing. In front of her were colored sticks, paper, and something Ieder hought looked like a pink water bottle. The dragon looked down and saw her leaving coloured marks on the paper. As he looked harder, all he saw was bright blue smudges. “So you’re a human.” The human looked at herself, then her arms, then back at Ieder, “No, I’m a kid.” Wow, she’s dumb, this is gonna be easy. Ieder looked at the teachers in the room, still talking with each other. He got up onto all fours, then walked over to the human’s side of the desks. “Can you fly? Like super high?” The girl replied, “No,” she continued making marks on the paper with the colored rods. “Can you?” Ieder didn’t want to say he wasn’t allowed to fly. Not yet. “Yea, I flew a million feet high once.” The kid only said, “I once flew on a place once. I got to be above the clouds too. But I got sick easy. It wasn’t fun.” Ieder realized flying wasn’t amazing her. “I have scales. If something hits me, I don’t get hurt.” The kid looked over, and said, “Doesn’t that make it hard for you to put on clothes?” Ieder sat on his haunches, “Why would I do that?” The human kid said, “I mean, what if you get cold? What happens?” Ieder remembered the time he was standing too close to a cold section at the meat market. His mom and dad had to breathe fire on him to let him move. He felt so scared being stuck, and unable to move. Normally, grown-up dragons can handle cold better, dragons his age weren’t able to, and it can get dangerous. Something about warm versus cold-blooded things. “I have horns. I can hurt anyone.” Ieder quickly quieted down as he saw an elf teacher look over, probably hearing what he said. Ieder smiled, and quickly played innocent. The teacher continued talking with the other teachers. The girl spoke again. “They don’t look sharp.” It was true. Ieder and his mother had to file down their horns and claws. Mother had to do it for work, and Ieder had to start getting used to it two months before school started. The first time hurt in a funny way, like hound spiders crawling up his back. Ieder was about to ask another question, when he saw the paper again. It looked familiar. Like... “Who’s that?” The human held up the paper, with the blue blob, the black strokes coming out the top, and the light brown dots near the top. “It’s you.” Ieder couldn’t talk. He saw how the human tried to draw his blue body, his black horns, and his brown eyes. He took a deep breath, then jumped when the girl swung the paper away. “Don’t burn it!” Ieder felt bad for trying to show the human up, “I wasn’t. I wanted to say... it looks cool.” The human girl got out another piece of paper, “Want to try? Here’s your crayons.” Ieder did want to try, but he looked at the humans hands. They looked like thin twigs on a rock, moving away from each other like swaying trees. He looked at his own hand, and saw what looked pudgy and short compared to the human’s. He tried to open them and close them, and spread them, but he could barely spread them. And he couldn’t control them one-by-one like the human could. They looked like bear paws. They were paws. Not hands. In front of him was a chair, and on the desk was some paper and colored rods, er. crayons. He moved the chair and got up on his haunches and placed his front paws on the desk. He saw a red colored crayon on the table and reached out his right hand to pick it up. No matter how much he pushed his hands into the desk, the crayon would rise up a bit, then fall. He tried both hands, using the dull, filed claws to pick it up. He got the crayon cradled in his claws, but when he moved one hand to grip it, it fell to the desk again. “Need help?” the human asked. “No.” Ieder was getting frustrated with the stick, until the human grabbed his hand. “Does it hurt if I do this?” She slid her fingers between his, and spread them slightly. “No.” he watched as she took the crayon and slid it between the spread fingers. She let the fingers on his paw slide shut around the crayon, then Ieder took over and tightened his grip. “I’m Heather.” With one hand with the crayon, and another on the paper, he began marking on the paper. “I’m Ieder,” he said One lines became two became four, which became a rough mess on the paper. Ieder dropped the crayon on the desk, “I can’t do this!” Heather looked over, gazing at his mess. “Oh, wow... that’s- a byootiful- thiiiiing.” It took some strength in him to not start to cry. Dragons don’t cry. Remember what Baba said. “Practice, practice, practice.” Huh? “Practice helped me get to the drawings I have.” Ieder looked at the drawing Heather already seemed to be wrapping up. Heather reached out to the pink water bottle sitting on her desk and put it in front of Ieder, past the paper. “Use the red crayon. Draw that.” Ieder got to work. He saw the rectangular shape of the bottle, and made an outline. Then with less care than he had for the outline, he drew in the shape of the bottle. Somehow, he was pressing down so hard, the crayon broke. Heather looked up again through her thick glasses. “Yea, I broke them too.” She was about to start again, then she gazed at the dragon. “What was your name again?” “Ieder.” “Nice to meet you, Ieder.


“Great!” the wife exclaimed, shaking her head with her hand to her forehead. “You missed the damn ramp!” “If you were better at giving me a heads up, this wouldn’t happen!” the husband threw his hand up at the windshield. “I’ll just take the road straight in, maybe the scenic route will help loosen you up.” “Oh, I’m uptight? Here we go again!” she attempted to quiet her voice halfway through. “I’m just saying, you are always stressing over every little thing,” he uttered with a low breath. “If I didn’t worry about everything nothing would get done,” she mumbled watching the trees pass. That’ll change tonight, she proudly thought. “There it is. You always make me feel like I’m useless,” his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Well, then you need to start being more useful,” she glared back at him. “Everything I do is never good enough. I gave up trying because I was ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t,’ so why waste my time?” his eyes jetted off the road to her for a moment, feeling the water build up in the corner of his eye. “Well, you could at least try. I’m tired of taking the lead and having to control everything. If I wasn’t around this family would fall apart,” her voice stretched and enveloped the entire car. That’s why this is happening. Not me, them, she thought. “Mommy, are you okay?” A tiny voice came from the backseat. “Yes, baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so loud,” she grinned reaching back to touch his leg. She turned to look behind her. Well at least the teenager is in her own world, she rolled her eyes facing forward again. “How much longer, Mommy?” the tiny voice let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know, baby. We went a different way,” her shoulders shrugged then a heavy sigh came with it. The way we needed to go at least, she smirked slightly. The husband glared over the steering wheel. “Of course, it’s my fault,” he placed an arm on the door window and rested his hand on his forehead. “Don’t start,” she snapped her head to face him again. “Hope there’s a gas station soon,” he expression stoic. “There is,” she stated, her voice taking on an unsettling tone. And I hope we get this over with quickly, she thought to herself, her body shivering at the thought. ---------------------------- Here they go again, the teen pulled her headphones tighter. Every trip it’s the same argument. I rather just stayed at home. She slumped further into the seat crossing her arms. Why did I get stuck with this family? Why did they even have kids if all they were going to do is fight? The perfect influence and example they are of why not to have kids. She rolled onto her shoulder, eyes staring into the forest as it passed by. Mesmerizing as it was she continued to lose focus on the outside world. Her eyes and ears were drawn back to the stimulation within the car. “Mommy, are you okay?” her brother called out. Great, now Mom’s attention is on us. She fixed her eyes on the outside world. A sensation tingled across her then disappeared. Great, she didn’t try to get my attention. Win for me. She glared through the window at the passing world. The leaves scattered across the ground fluttered in the wind. The darkness encroached on the road as they went further into the forest. She wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her knees up into her hoodie. She let out a deep breath, it condensed into a white fog as it drifted to the ceiling. “Mom, Dad? Can you turn on the heat?” she asked, rubbing her hands on her arms for warmth. “Why? It’s 90 degrees out,” the dad raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “It’s freezing in here,” her teeth chattered as the cold air inside the car nipped at her skin. “We’re looking for a place to stop for gas soon,” he gestured to the road. “I’ll cut off the AC until we get to a gas station.” She rolled her eyes and uncrossed her arms. “I guess that’s good enough,” she cracked the window. The warm breeze caught her hair, it whipped wildly catching her off guard. Her headphones slid back and down her hair. The seat cushion sent them flying forward as they bounced into the floor. She leaned down reaching into the dark floor. A rough scrape nudged her fingertips, she gritted her teeth at the feel. What is that? she thought. With a raised eyebrow, she pulled the object out from the dark. A thick, leather-bound notebook - it was scratched and dent all over, a sign of its frequent usage and age. She ran her fingers over the corner edge, pulling but the cover didn’t budge. She placed the notebook on her lap the spine down. Over the fore-edge was a four-digit combination lock. Why is this locked? She contemplated caressing the lock. This must be Mom’s journal, a smirk rose on her face. She began ticking the numbers with her finger. First, her mother’s birthday. Nothing. S he continued with her father’s and brother’s, then her parent’s anniversary. Nothing. There’s no way she used my birthday. I’m nowhere close to her favorite. Her fingers began to tumble the numbers, and a grin popped up as she tumbled the last number. Nothing. Of course. The grin faded quickly, her pride had built up only to be shut down in an instant. “Hey, Mom?” she smirked a little. “What’s your favorite day of the year? Not including all of our birthdays or your anniversary,” she added quickly. “Well, honestly birthdays are my least favorite anyway. It’s so much hassle,” the mom waved her hand to the side. “I guess May 9th.” “Why May 9th?” the dad chimed in. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday. Rest her soul,” the mom placed a hand on her chest. “No, it isn’t. We did a memorial for her birthday this year. It was May 12th,” the dad furrowed an eyebrow. “Whatever,” the mom gritted her teeth and turned to face the window. It’s okay I’ll try both, her fingers itched to get into the journal. She remembered her great-grandmother’s memorial and it was on the 12th, but nothing. She tumbled 0-5-0-9. Bingo! ------------------------------ The book opened its heavy, leather-bound cover. The inside was filled cover to cover with writings. Dates were scattered throughout with various lengths of writing following them. Yep, definitely her journal, the teen thought. August 2, 1999 "Finally on my own. Well close enough. I got all my stuff into my dorm room. My roommate doesn’t seem so bad. She’s very peppy, quite the contrast between us. I am so ready to get this chapter in my life started!" Wow, Mom has really been writing in this thing since college!, the teen smiled and nodded. Curiosity burning inside her, the teen turned to her mother. “Mom, can you tell me how you and Dad first met?” she asked, her gaze filled with interest. A smile tugged at the mother’s lips as she took her husband’s hand. “It was sophomore year,” she replied, nostalgia evident in her voice. “November 4th.” She continued to talk about it but the teen quickly tuned her out, flipping through the pages to find the entry. November 4, 2000 "It was an amazing day! I met a guy at the quad! He knows one of the people in our study group. He came over and introduced himself and we could not take our eyes off each other. I giggled so much I feel so embarrassed. He probably won’t even remember me. But WOW the feeling I got!" Eww. Enough to make me barf, the teen held a hand over her mouth. Definitely skipping on the Mom and Dad early years. She skimmed through the section until she got to important dates that she could recall herself. Dad proposing, their wedding day - skipped a large chunk until after the honeymoon, her birthday, her brother’s birth, job changes, moving days, and deaths in the family. My Mom’s really an emotional person , she thought to herself. Everything she does to just be strong for us. The teen was curious if Mom was still as emotional as the younger version. May 12, 2023 "The weight of the day’s events presses heavily on me. Grandmother’s memorial went well, but the emptiness in my heart persists. I wish Dylan could have been there to comfort me. He’s been my rock lately. Stephen, on the other hand, remains distant and emotionless. I fear he’s becoming aware of my feelings for Dylan, or maybe it’s just his normal mood swings. I can’t continue deceiving myself or my husband any longer. What happened the other day has left me torn, and I must make a decision before the stress consumes me entirely." Wait, what? Who is Dylan?! The teen felt her heart race, grabbing at her own chest, ‘The other day’? What day? She began to flip back and skim the passages of the last few entries. May 9, 2023 "My head is spinning. It actually happened. Me & Dylan! I don’t know what to do! Is this my fault? I mean I did come on to him. I mean how could I not, he was just so hot without his shirt. His chest, his abs. The way he picked me up and tossed me on the bed..." She quickly closed the cover before seeing another word on the page. What the hell, Mom!? She felt the heat in her cheeks. She cheated on Dad! Is she still cheating on Dad?! Her fingernails dug into her palms. She swiped open the book, eyes darting across the page, and skimming the entries for any mention of Dylan. May 27, 2023 "Lately, I find myself growing increasingly restless within the confines of my own life. The weight of responsibilities as a wife and mother feel suffocating. Stephen is always distant, and I yearn for the passion we once had. Perhaps it’s just a phase, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing. It makes Dylan come to mind." June 10, 2023 "The distance between Stephen and me continues to grow. I try to reach out, but he seems disinterested. The kids provide some comfort, but even they feel like a reminder of the life I’m trapped in. I crave excitement, something beyond this mundane routine. Dylan helps lift me up, I’ve been seeing more of him lately just to feel alive again." July 4, 2023 "The 4th of July celebrations were supposed to be joyful, but I felt hollow inside. The fireworks illuminated the sky, yet I couldn’t help but feel like my life lacks any spark. There’s a part of me that longs for adventure, for someone who can ignite a flame within me again. Stephen and I have become more like roommates than partners. The more I am around Dylan the more alive I feel, he really helps me escape all the stress." August 1, 2023 "My heart races as I write these words. Tomorrow, I take a step towards a new life. I’ve met someone who makes me feel alive again - Dylan. He’s shown me a world of possibilities beyond my current reality. He doesn’t want to be a father, and I no longer wish to be a mother burdened by responsibilities. Together, we can start afresh, free from the constraints of our past. Tomorrow, I will burn this journal, symbolizing the end of one life and the beginning of another with Dylan. My heart aches for the fate of my family, but I must follow my heart’s true desire. Farewell, dear journal, and farewell to the life that was once mine." “Dad!” The teen shrieked trying to keep her tone calm. Quickly shutting the book and placing it back on the floor. “Dad, Mom’s going to do something to us,” she began hysterically crying. “Honey, what are you talking about?” the dad tried to console her reaching back to put a hand on her knee. “Ask Mom about Dylan!” She demanded, “And their plan!” ----------------------------- A few more miles and we’re exactly where we need to be, the wife felt her chest beating as she held on to her necklace. “We really need to stop for gas soon” she motioned to the gas indicator on the dash lights for her husband. “I see it. I think the gas station is coming up soon,” he gestured out the windshield. “This road has nothing on it. Hard to believe there is an open gas station way out here.” “Well, a good thing since we missed the on-ramp.” Just like I hoped , she added thinking with a small smile. “I wanted to stop before that but you insisted we make it a little further first. And then we missed the ramp.” “Again. I shouldn’t have to baby you and tell you everything,” she poked and antagonized him. “You’re giving the directions. I assumed there was another ramp coming if you didn’t say ‘This is the ramp’,” he scowled hitting the steering wheel. “Well, sorry for not being able to do everything and be everything for you!” she gripped the door handle trying to control her outburst. “Oh, come one. This again!” he shook his head and leaned on the door rest. “Dad!” came a shriek from the backseat. “Dad, Mom’s going to do something to us,” the teen continued. What is this little brat doing? The wife felt sweat building up on her face. She watched him try to console the daughter, everything around her was muted and numb. Her chest was bursting open she swore. “Dad, what’s wrong?” a tiny voice cried from the backseat. “Nothing, son. Everything is okay,” he reached back behind himself trying to console their son. “Give him your headphones,” he stated to their daughter. “He doesn’t need to hear this.” Great. Now I’m about to get a thousand questions while stuck in this car. One more mile I’m sure of it. She felt a bit of hope build. “I know,” he spoke with a stoic voice and expression. “I’ve known for a while.” I knew he had suspicions. “Knew what honey?” she tried to be as sincere as she could but hate for them all was strong inside her. “Dylan, he’s just a coworker.” “Stop lying to me and yourself!” he raised his voice and hand to his wife. “Oh, you try it! Put a hand on me and it’ll be the last thing you do,” she sat firmly in her seat. No matter what it’s about to be the last thing you do anyway , she screamed in her mind. “Well, that’s the plan. Isn’t it?” he looked her firmly in the eye, emotionless. ----------------------------- The teen sat with her knees to her chest, her shirt was soaked from constantly flowing tears. Why can’t everything just go back to the way they were? S he placed her head down on her knees and looked out the window watching the darkness swallow the trees and roadside. It was hard to tune out the ongoing argument between her parents now that she was without her headphones. She gathered Dad knew some about what was happening with Mom and Dylan. Maybe she took the journal too literally thinking that Mom would consider harming any of them. Dad doesn’t seem that concerned or upset about it. She caught sight of the gas station sign. Great, I need to get out of this car, fast. “Dad, Mom. The gas station. Can I get out, please?” “No,” they said simultaneously. “Sorry, I asked.” She mumbled. They pulled into the gas station. “Full-service. Great, I don’t even have to get out,” Dad said sarcastically. “It looks abandoned,” Mom added. A few moments passed and no one came out. “There’s a car here. Someone must be in there.” “I guess I’ll go check since I don’t do anything,” he muttered to her. “Shut up and stay here. I need to get out of this car anyway. You start pumping the gas,” she replied swinging the door open. “Yes, ma’am. Anything you wish.” He stated slamming the door as he got out. He started to pump the gas until she was in the building. As he opened the driver's door he looked into both children. “Hey, you too.” He pilfered in the door while he spoke. “I love you both. You know I’d never let anything happen to you.” Why is he saying this now? Is it because of how freaked I was a moment ago? “I just want to get out of this car, Dad” she stated shakily. “It’s best you stay in here, okay.” He started to have a tear run down his face. “As I said, I’ll protect you from anyone.” He closed the door and started to walk toward the building. Where is he going? “Dad!” She called hurriedly. What is he doing? A few moments passed, What is taking them so long? When are we going to get out of here? This place is creepy. Thoughts continued to swirl adding the tension to her body. She looked over at the car sitting at the station alone. Its personalized license plate on the front was slightly covered by darkness. Squinting she started to make out the plate, D-Y-L-A-N. Panic set in and she leaned forward looking around to get her bearings. She looked down into the front seat. Did Dad leave his phone? She reached to grab the dark object in Dad’s seat. It was leather, oddly shaped. She sat back in her seat to examine it. Finally, in clear she recognized it - a pistol holster. She looked up and out the window. BANG! BANG!, was a short pause. BANG! Dad? She quickly rolled down the window. “ Dad! Dad!” she yelled frantically. Then she heard it one last time, BANG!


By the time I realized a storm was coming in, it was already too late to make it to the shelter. It had come on fast, faster than I had ever seen, and I had lived out here over ten years. I thought I knew the weather patterns but apparently I did not. An hour ago the sky was clear, with not a cloud in sight. Now the wind whipped my hair around my head and half the dome overhead was filled with the towering shape of a massive cumulonimbus, lightning jigging and jagging within it. Pieces of plants and trees flew in the wind that buffeted me as I ran toward home and my scalp prickled with fear as I sensed a tornado behind me. I ran faster, my feet barely touching the ground as I nearly flew over it, but it wasn’t fast enough. The twister picked me up as easily as if I weighed nothing at all, holding me in its grip and flinging me around in a crazy, uncontrollable spiral. I saw the pig coming, kicking and squealing and heading right for me in the chaos of the swirling vortex, but there was no time, let alone any means to avoid him. I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed right before the solid bulk of him slammed into me and the darkness rose up and snatched me away. I had been out in the orchard, picking apples. We only had a few trees and I cherished the job as my own, enjoying the solitude of the upper field. Lately the accusing eyes of my husband were too much for me to bear and I had to admit I’d been finding more reasons to stay away from the house. Buying this farm had been Gavin’s idea, but I was the one who was finding myself in this land. He had hurt himself more than a year ago and as limited as he was in his wheelchair, he couldn’t follow me to the upper field. Gavin had become a different person after his accident and now he wanted to sell the farm and move back to the city to be closer to his doctors. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. I loved this place, it was my home. I wasn’t so sure about Gavin anymore but the land, yeah, I was sure about that. It’s not a huge place, only twenty five acres, but it’s sweetly situated in the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, perfectly nestled in a valley between two minor ridges. Our fields are mostly wheat and alfalfa, but back behind the house and barn, a virgin tangle of tall pines mixed with Aspen and Cottonwood march along our border almost all the way across, cradling its cluster of structures like a jewel. The barn stands just behind the house with only a breezeway between them. Before his accident, Gavin had liked that he could get there quickly if he had to check out a downed fence, missing livestock, or anything else on their acreage that needed his attention. With the barn right there he could saddle a horse and be anywhere on their property in minutes. Now he rarely leaves the house, preferring to wait for me if he needs anything. He has refused my every suggestion to hire help of any kind and relies solely on me for everything. It’s getting old. I can't take care of him and the farm. There’s just too much to do. I woke up just in time to witness my landing. The tornado swung me by a tall cedar tree, sticking me into a nook between branches as gently as a mother setting down her newborn baby. It continued on down tornado alley without so much as a by-your-leave , leaving me staring down one hundred and fifty feet of trunk at the forest floor beneath me. My hair raising trip to the ground was a nightmare I will never forget, taking me the better part of an hour, and I blew a sigh of relief when my feet finally hit the ground. My adventure inside the whirlwind had stripped me of both my shoes and my socks, leaving me in only my shorts and tank top. It was almost dark and not knowing where I was, I decided to hunker down for the night. I would find my way home in the morning. After spending a sleepless night shivering, huddled beneath the branches of my cedar, I was stiff as I made my way up to higher ground to try and figure out where I was. I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth, my clothing damp with dew, as I stumbled over the uneven ground. Morning sunbeams began peeking between the trees I was walking through, and I lingered in the patches I came across, trying to warm up enough to stop the shivering. It was hurting my teeth and clenching my jaw was only making it sore. When I came to the clearing at the top of the ridge and the sun shone full in my face, bathing me with its rays, I stopped and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. When I opened them a few moments later, I knew exactly where I was. Directly in front of me on top of the next crest was a rock formation I recognized. I had been there before. The real estate agent had brought me and Gavin here before taking us to tour the ranch thirteen years ago. It was apparently some kind of historic spot where the Native American chiefs from the local tribes were said to have had some kind of confrontation with some of the pioneers in the early eighteen hundreds. Their agent had told them the story mysteriously, in hushed tones, like teenagers around a campfire. The story went that when white men initially came to this area, there were only a few of them at first. The local villages tried to incorporate the new families into their territory, tolerating them as long as they stayed to themselves and committed no major faux pas, even trading with them and treating them like guests. It was said that one brave fell in love with Rosemary Williams, the daughter of one of the settlers, carrying her away with him, as was their custom. The Williams men hunted them down and brought the couple up onto the highest ridge, calling out the chiefs of the tribe to come attend the impromptu trial. The matter could not be resolved and the two parties fell upon each other, resulting in the slaughter of all the natives and most of the colonists as well. They say Rose could not be consoled at the death of her brave and was overcome with grief. Evading her father, she flung herself from the pinnacle. When the surviving Williams’s went to retrieve her body, it could not be found. Afterwards, many people claimed to see a ghostly, hysterical woman throwing herself off of the precipice. At some point a monument had been erected naming it Weeping Maiden Rock. As such places often end up, it became a popular, if dangerous local teen hangout. The Rock was deserted at the moment but I was relieved to see it because it meant home was only a few hour's walk away. I started out, warm after standing in the sun, and picked my way down the hill carefully in my bare feet. By the time I got to the top of Maiden Rock, they were stinging and sore. Stopping to rest was not an option, though. I knew I had been gone long enough to make Gavin worry, and there were probably numerous police and helpful neighbors combing the hills looking for me, as well. Following a smooth vein of rock, I got too close to the edge, my weight causing it to crumble beneath me, and before I even had time to be afraid, I landed with a jolt in the scree at the bottom of the cliff. Looking up in surprise, I could barely see the top of the rock far above my head. I couldn’t understand what had just happened to me. I was completely unhurt! How was that possible? I was thinking I should be dead and wondered if I was for a few minutes before I got up and dusted myself off. I continued limping toward home, so focused on picking my way through the rocks and thorns, I only dimly noticed the impossibility of the landscape I was walking through. With the tenderness of my feet increasing, it was late afternoon before I topped the hill above my farm. As I descended the upper field, I began noticing changes. Little things at first, then as I rounded the corner of the barn what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. The yard was completely different! The corrals we kept our horses in had vanished and the barn and house looked brand new, each with what looked like a fresh coat of paint. I experienced a fleeting surge of hope that Gavin had people rounding up our horses, but I had no idea where we would put them when they brought them back. When I stepped around to the front of the house I stopped again as I saw the lush new lawn and flower beds in front of the house. What had Gavin done and how had he done it so quickly? Setting my jaw, I resolutely stomped toward the house to have it out with him. If he thought he was going to sell this place out from under me, he had another thing coming. The house was cool and dim when I opened the door and I stopped just inside to let my eyes adjust and to listen for a clue to where Gavin was. He usually spent most of his days in the den, watching TV, but I didn't hear it on. I stepped into the hallway, feeling the cool wood soothe my poor battered feet as I padded into the kitchen, stopping as the sight of neat black and white décor met my eyes instead of the bright yellows and greens I had decorated with. I backed out the doorway, my eyes wide, and turned and sprinted to my bedroom. I stopped just inside the chamber, shock rendering me breathless. All my things were gone! All of Gavin's equipment and most of the furniture was gone as well. Around the mostly empty room, hanging on the walls at eye level, were several ornate frames but I couldn't tell what they contained from the doorway where I stood. Intrigued, I moved toward the one closest to me and stared at the words shouting at me from the page. It was a yellowing newspaper article, the headline catching my interest immediately. " Unusual Tornado Activity Reported in Red Lodge ." Boy, I’ll say. I was thinking that was an understatement while I stepped over to the next one which read, " The Search for Cassie Thatcher Extended, " making my heart leap in my chest, and next to that, " Missing Colorado Woman Feared Dead ." I went mechanically around the room to the other frames, standing before each one only a moment before moving on. The last one made my hair stand up. " Gavin Thatcher calls off search for missing wife ." My scalp was tingling and I couldn't see through the spots in front of my eyes as I fought not to lose consciousness. They couldn't be talking about me, could they? I’d been gone less than twenty-four hours! These articles spoke of a timeline that was measured in months, years even. A sound behind me had me spinning in place, and as I spun I saw someone standing in the doorway. It was some old guy. He was shrunken and wrinkled and his thinning hair was snow white. I squinted at him, thinking he looked familiar, when he spoke. "Cassie?!" His pinched mouth was drawn down in deep lines around a permanent frown. "How?" he asked, his eyes dominating his face. I wasn't listening. I was staring at him, my face drained of color. "Gavin?" My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "What’s happened to you?" " Me ?! What happened to you ?!" He demanded, gesturing to the walls around me. But my blood was roaring in my ears and I couldn't hear him. I covered them with my hands and pushing past him, I ran, not noticing where I was going. I needed to think. My head was still spinning, making it hard for any firing neurons to land anywhere productive. I thought this probably had something to do with my tumble off Maiden Rock, earlier. That was decidedly strange and I was starting to feel like a character in a twilight zone episode. I skirted the house and barn and headed back the way I had come, my feet complaining every time they hit the ground, but I didn’t stop. I was afraid if I did, I would turn around to see Gavin encased in some kind of exoskeleton, jerking along back there trying to catch up. The idea took shape behind me, giving me the incentive I needed to put a comfortable distance between me and the one place on earth where I felt at home. I ran on while the day faded around me, ignoring my pain and fatigue and reached the escarpment just as the last of the sun’s light gave way to stars. I stood at the bottom and looked up. Was there a slight disturbance up there? I did see an area where my view of the stars was obscured, but from here and in the dark, I couldn’t tell how high up it was or any other details about it. It was there, though, I was sure of that and the knowledge comforted me. I would figure it out. But as shattered as I was, I still understood I would have to get help. If it was even possible, I knew getting back up through that thing wasn’t going to be easy. Exhausted, I eased myself down with my back against the warmth of the rock and examined my soles with cautious fingers. They were a mass of cuts, thankfully none were serious, but I must have pulled out a hundred stickers before my eyes closed of their own accord and my chin dropped to my chest as I fell headlong into the gaping maw of slumber, supported by the embrace of the outcropping I leaned against. I woke to someone stroking my forehead with a tender hand. Startled, I sat up quickly, my heart hammering away inside my chest. Gavin lowered his hand and watched me without speaking while I gathered my bearings. I was in an unfamiliar bed but I recognized our guest room. Gavin sat in a chair beside the bed, a book upside down in his lap. He smiled and standing up slowly, grabbed a cane from the back of the chair and made his way to the door. “I’ll have Rose make you something to eat if you want to get dressed and come to the kitchen.” He nodded his head at a neatly folded stack of clothing on a nearby bureau and went out, closing the door behind him. I hoped I hadn’t offended him but I couldn’t help staring at him. He had to be at least ninety years old. The implications were staggering. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It would explain the changes in the property, though. I took my time getting dressed, noticing that someone had cleaned and dressed my feet while I was sleeping. I froze, seeing my shoes beneath the dresser the clothes had been sitting on and picked them up to get a closer look. Where had he found them? They really did look like I had taken them off yesterday. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t tie them. After several tries, I gave up and tucked the laces in instead, then taking a deep breath, I opened the door. Gavin explained, while I wolfed a delicious omelet made for me by a melancholy young woman he called Rose, that he had come after me in his TF-X, whatever that was, and unable to wake me, had trapped me with his Bessel Beams, whatever those were, and brought me back here. I looked up from my plate to see him smiling his cat that caught the canary smile and narrowed my eyes at him. Same old Gavin. “Spill,” I told him. Instead he turned to Rose, who was washing dishes in the sink despite the very obvious space age machine next to her emblazoned with the words, Bosch DishMaster . “Rose, honey, will you tell Cassie what year you were born?” Without stopping or turning around, she answered in a clear voice. “1803.” Goosebumps began chasing each other up and down my spine. Then she did turn around to look at me, her hands dripping suds on the floor at her feet. Her face spoke volumes about how this had previously been received. I could almost feel the heat of the lightbulb over my head as it dawned on me who she was. Rose mary Williams. The Weeping Maiden of the Rock has just made me breakfast. I don’t think I’m going to get home.


The Snort After attending churches, synagogues, temples, prayer meetings, healing sessions, and gala gatherings at stadiums and in megachurches, Charlotte called it quits. What she meant by “it” was the search for God/gods/higher power/supreme being/true god from true god/the Trinity/Allah and so many other names she lost her common sense when she tried to remember them all. Quits had the same meaning for Charlotte as The End. She’d completed her search, there was nothing left to search for - End/curtainsclosed/donedeal/nomore/fini/over/collapsed/finished/kaput. Her epiphany occurred one Good Friday at 3 p.m. in an Episcopal church/aka Anglican church, in the South End of Boston. It was raining. The Cardinal had come, given the sign of the cross to the damp people gathered in pews as rain thump, thumped on the roof and trickled like a tear down a wall behind a twelve-foot-high crucifix. Women in plastic kerchiefs wept into Kleenex and paper towels. Men snuffed and wiped their noses with their fists. No children were present. They were in schools where they should have been. The place smelled like wet wool. Rather it smelled of wet wool, because everyone was wearing something woolen. Late March in Boston was full of puddles which ricocheted their contents onto unsuspecting winter jackets, scarfs and caps. The protocol was to not say a word, phrase, sentence, to not mutter and try not to cough or sneeze or clear your throat. It was three, as silent as possible, hours, in which to ponder on the crucifixion of a man named Jesus who lived 2000 (or so) years ago. The ah ha moment for Charlotte came at exactly 2:30 when, at first, she thought she could no longer stay stuck to the now sweating wood beneath her bottom, and then she involuntarily snorted like a hippopotamus emerging from a clear pond from which it had quenched its thirst and was having a moment of sheer relief. The woman in the plastic thing around her head in front of Charlotte turned, frowned and put an index finger to her lips. Charlotte nodded that she understood. She shrugged as if she wanted the woman to understand she had no idea where the snort came from, that it was completely beyond her control but that she thought it an innocent snort and should not be construed as being rude. Charlotte was wearing a cloche kind of a hat, white. She pulled at it because it had begun to itch her head. Whether it was that small gesture combined with the snort and the woman in plastic, she didn’t know. What she did know is that all the searching came tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty, but instead of falling, she felt she was uplifted in a spiritual kind of way. The searching hadn’t been in vain, but now it was done. She felt decades of guilt fall from her shoulders and the back of her neck. She pictured herself sliding down a waterfall, encompassed by water that rocked her and caressed her. It was the best, this waterfall, even if was only in her brain that was clearing itself of superstition, nonsense and belief in baloney. To further confirm her unbelief burden, she tiptoed from the church to see a slice of sun trying to make its way from the back of a coal-colored cloud. She stood on the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue while schoolchildren hopped and skipped around her. Gentrification was happening all around. Old, battered walk-ups were turning into trendy condos and apartments. The gutters no longer contained nip bottles and candy wrappers and beer cans. A florist on the corner displayed bunches of daffodils and tulips in green cellophane. No one sat on curbs with signs written on cardboard that said they were hungry and had lost their jobs and their children. Then church bells rang, slow and sad, then louder and gleeful. She knew this meant Jesus had completed his agony, had died and that he would be resurrected somehow and go up there somewhere and sit at the right hand of The Father. She wondered how she thought, when she was 21, that this made any sense at all. At 22, she’d moved on to Judaism which believed none of this but did think there was a Messiah but that it hadn’t come yet but would. By 23, she’d come to believe this wasn’t going to happen. Jewish people, she’d thought and still thought, could use a Messiah after all their ancestors had endured. She’d dabbled with Islam and read about Hinduism. More mystical stuff. Yet millions of souls on this earth believed what was taught by the men, and it seemed they were all men, of these two religions. Hadn’t they dabbled like she had? Why hadn’t they asked questions when some of the beliefs were contrary to reason? Maybe, they had, and they’d chosen belief over reason. Charlotte was glad for caffeine in the morning and wine in the evening. She was thankful to herself when she’d abandoned confessions and prayers to something unknown. She didn’t feel ashamed at lust and, on special occasions, gluttony. She didn’t covet anyone’s husband, nor did she steal or (knowingly) get led into temptation to do stupid things like skydiving, not at her age of 60. Recently she’d almost been led into the temptation of riding on the back of a motorcycle across the Zachem Bridge on a Sunday afternoon, the cyclist being a man who was not good for her mental health. Now she was glad to have worn boots even though this morning’s report hadn’t mentioned rain. But she never did trust those Doppler graphs. She bought a bouquet of daffodils for herself, ambled along to her office building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor where her cubicle was. “Were you into Good Friday,” Meredith in the next cubicle asked? I should have, but this report can’t wait. I’ll make up for it tomorrow somehow. Charlotte shook her hat, took off her coat and said she’d done Good Friday.


Link to part 1 in the comments! Promises made, promises kept! Enjoy part 2! More coming your way in the span of several days! You probably want to know how it started. Why do three Americans have to escape from a train filled with Russian soldiers headed to Houston? Alright, I’m gonna tell you the whole deal. It all started somewhere in the mid 2030s... A certain "space travel pioneer" company had spent a massive amount of resources in research and development of efficient means energy storage. Finally, they have reached a certain point where a personal exoskeleton could be efficiently powered by a battery weighing a measly 5 kilograms! That’s not the way down which the militaries of the world headed, though... Such concentrated power gave rise to a new class of weapons- the Megawatt laser. The idea of shooting down ICBMs with giant space guns dated back to the 1960s, but now the world had a way to power this idea. A new arms race began, and soon- the long range nuclear missiles became obsolete. The nations of the world bit into each other’s throats, forming not blocks like during the Cold War, but rather small regional coalitions. Everybody invaded everybody- it was a true clusterfuck. Some nations played it wiser, though, like the Russian federation. They saw that the world would grow weaker and weaker with every day of war, and that everything around them would be easier to take over if they preserved their current strength. So they doubled down on homeland security and started mass-producing weapons of war. And, when the time came - they struck. Amidst all this- the USA depleted most of its resources on waging war in oil-rich countries, making it an easy target to invade- homeland security crumbled in months. Years of propaganda turned a once great nation into an invader-filled cesspool! All of the world’s nations- for that matter... even the Russian invaders were struggling, with their bureaucratic lines now being stretched over twenty different time zones. In all of this, Johnathan Hall and his two humble comrades are what’s left of the American special forces group called “The Rattlesnakes”- a nickname given to them by the Russians during the battle of California, where the specialists used decoys and guerrilla tactics to demoralize and wear out the enemy, making them appear as though they were a larger force. There are now only three original Rattlesnakes left, and most people on their secret base in New Mexico are civilians, barely capable of producing enough food, let alone fight. So they scavenge for Russian equipment and desperately search for good fighters, that may one day drive away the invaders and restore America! *flash of headlights* The three motorcycles drove into the Aztec ruins on low beams, trying to make as little noise as possible. Burns got off the bike and ran towards a little ruined house in the outskirts of the site, while Hall and the Colonel waited. There- he pulled a little crank out of his pocket and inserted it into the ground a few inches away from the house’s walls. When he turned the crank, a sizable trapdoor opened on the floor, revealing an ancient crumbling tunnel, lit up by butane torches: “Welcome home, soldiers!”- the colonel pronounced, as they started towing the trophy bikes into the improvised driveway of the tunnel. Hall parked his Ural near the entrance to the catacombs and took his AK from the sling. He hadn’t been here for several weeks since his capture during a scavenging operation, and he was suspicious, since, by the worlds of the colonel, neither was he. A suspicion of some extent was needed, since the tunnel might have gotten captured by the Russians who were just waiting for the team to walk in without any caution. When Burns and Reeves parked their bikes- the group headed towards the entrance to the hideout. “Awfully quiet in here... don’t you think?”- said Burns. “It’s early morning, everyone short of the guards is probably asleep.”- Reeves replied. They walked up to the metal door with a Rattlesnake painted on it and, one by one, got in. “Stop right there!” A bright searchlight lit up the darkness of the catacombs, blinding the trio: “Code! What’s the bloody code?!”- a man spoke from behind the searchlight with a thick British accent. “Susie, fetch the straw hat!”- the colonel barked. The searchlight dimmed. A silhouette of a 12.7mm DSHK turret could be made out from behind the light. A man in a British paratrooper’s uniform jumped down from the pulpit of the gate that led to the underground base: “Colonel! We were waiting for you... I mean, Leo was. I’m new here, but I’ve been informed of your arrival. Things have changed for good down here, you’ll be surprised once you enter the base!” “What’s your rank, soldier?”- Reeves said, now calmly, while his two squad mates holstered their guns. “Sergeant first class of the national liberation front paratroopers brigade, sir!”- The man saluted the colonel. “Good god, all the way from Britain?!” “Derry, sir! Our base there got barbecued a week ago, I’m afraid. Russians... Russians everywhere! My humble group of 22 men are stationed here now. Thank god your recruiter talked us into this!” “We don’t have a rec- wait. Since when do we have a recruiter?” “A kid showed up just when you left. Started gathering men from the whole world via encrypted messages. That’s how we got word of this place.” “A kid? Oh boy, do I have some questions!”- the colonel murmured: “Alright, it’s getting chilly out here! Lead us inside, Sarge-“ “Wilson”- the paratrooper fired.


A millennium seems like an immense span of time, especially to someone who only experiences a small fraction of one. But in the wider scope of history, beyond our lifetimes, its only a small sliver of time and experience. Time keeps moving forward like a mighty river, with nothing, or none, of significance able to stop its immortal flow. Experiences and ideas accumulate and assemble like the rocks of a riverbed, before withering away as the endless rush of water erodes them into smitherines riding the current downstream. I have had the so-called 'gift' of learning this first-hand. Time isn't a component of reality, or some sort of mystical force that can't be understood. It is a machination of our perceptions. In order for reality to be perceived, it must be taken in through the stimulation of our senses in a continuous stream, and thus, it seems to move forward in a continuous line. This is a terrible part of reality. It speeds by, faster and faster, ignorantly racing past every cherished moment and experience. And I'm trapped by my perceptions in this damned immortal place. For eternity. Before I begin my story, I must acknowledge that my memory has become a bit hazy over the generations. But, I will do my best to try to recall as much as possible. A long time ago, a sceptre was growing over Europe. An Empire of incomparable size was engulfing everything in its path, growing stronger and stronger by each day. It seemed like nothing could stop the vastness and strength of this Empire. Horsemen from far-Eastern Steppes had grown from equestrians, to become what was called the 'scourge of God,' and the survivors of this scourge spread tales of death and destruction left in their wake. But, in the midsts of this paranoia and fear, the curiosity of many was piqued by the foreign nature of this Empire. Tales of incomparable wealth, marvelling treasures and rich wisdom abounded from those who had travelled to the Eastern lands that formed the core of this Empire. But, after many insurrections and battles, this Empire shattered. The great conduits of trade it had established throughout the continent sputtered and fell apart, disconnected and disorganized. The flow of supplies was no longer carried by merchants who trekked over the continent, and this only feuled the imaginations of those who did not have the opportunity to witness what truly lay inside that great Empire. I seemed stupid at the time to many, and to be quite frank, I was. But I had no livelihood, and the town was fluttering in stagnation and disease. I realized there was no life in the musty and mildewy fisheries that I came from, so I took a clue from an ancient book, and left - to never turn back. I spent what little wealth I had on gathering supplies and a horse for travel, and I set off from the village. I didn't leave anyone special behind, nor did I leave many memories. My life truly began at that moment, or so I thought. I set forth to find the lost city of 'Xanadu,' once the former capital of the Great Khanate, and the centre of the worlds richest riches. On the first part of the journey, I passed through the strange lands of what was once the farthest borderlands of the Great Khanate. Much like my homeland, it was ridden with disease, and destroyed by war. The people here were strange. They still looked European, they still sounded somewhat European, they still were professed followers of Christ, but they didn't seem so European. Many of the traditions and mannerisms they carried were radically different, and sometimes even nonsensical. I figured that it was probably the influences of the fabled Great Khanate and whatever culture this place used to have. I skirted down a river to avoid what was described to me as a Kingdom of bandits and barbarians, before passing through the great 'Bashkir' protecting Europe. This mountain pass unfortunately protected whatever lay on the other side from Europeans, too. As I passed through, I ran low on my rations. To make ends meet, I had to begin hunting the surrounding wildlife for meals with a bow. This worked for some time, but as the path became more jagged and barren, it became harder to scavenge for firewood. My horse became more weary and tired, and the journey slowed. I had heard stories of bandits preying on the weak and isolated in these mountains, and I made sure to keep a knife sheathed on my waist at all times. To ensure that I didn't fall victim to an attack, I tried moving through this mountain chain as fast as possible, only taking breaks for gathering food or sleep. But this didn't suffice. As I was guiding my horse around the chasm of a gorge, a whizzing arrow pierced my shoulder. Another struck the icy-rock behind me, pinging off and falling into the vast and deep gorge below. Warm blood rushed down my chest, soaking my clothes and dripping from my shoulder. If they weren't already near me, they would be able to follow my path thanks to this wound. I fastened the reigns of my horse, and clutched my blade as I waited for - whoever these people were - to approach me. I heard voices in the distance. Three men emerged from the cliffs shadow, clad in foreign silk, leather, and weaponry. At first I mistook their tongue for Turkish, but as they approached closer, I knew it was something distinct that I had never heard before. Is this all that was left from the once great Khanate? Or were these people of a different descent, who helped tear down the horde? This thought passed, because it didn't matter, they were approaching me now with weapons drawn. *"Keri bolıñız!"* I clenched my fist around my blade, and unsheathed it, revealing it to the men approaching me. They tried speaking to me, but I didn't understand. I took a few steps back, taking stance for a fight. "I-I'm just a traveller," I stammered out. "I bring no harm to you, please, just don't hurt me..." They furrowed their brows, confused by my language. Still, undeterred, they continued their approach. *"Artqa! Ustañız, al jaqında biz ketemiz."* They commanded as they apprehensively stepped closer. I stood back, not knowing what they were saying. But I could presume the routine of a bandit. Injure or kill the victim, take their belongings, and scatter away before any consequences could catch up with them. So, I stayed out of their way. They rummaged through the bags on my horse, looking for anything of value. They began taking food, clothes, whatever they could find. They then took the reigns of my horse, and left me, blood dripping out of my shoulder, on the cliff-side. I made no objections. I stood there in dead silence while they walked into the hazy distance. What would I say? 'Please stop?' I was stuck in these God-forbidden mountains with no food or means of travel. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked. My first instinct was to build a fire, before figuring out what to do next. I tore off a piece of clothing, and fastened it around my shoulder. Every move came with writhing and gruesome pain. I gnashed my teeth to try and ignore the pain, until my jaw became sore. I walked down the path with what little I had on my shoulders, still seeking the great city foretold in legends and prophecies. This was for more than just greed or fame, but for adventure, and discovery. This path was long, and winding, and seemed to never end. The sun was setting behind the great peaks in the distance, covering the gorge with a resoundingly dark shadow. Finally, after what seemed like hours, I emerged from the gorge to a valley, lush with vegetation and tree's. Pain shooting through my arm, I tore away brush and twigs, and began to collect fuel for a fire. The tree's of this land were thin and tall, sprouting narrow branches in every direction, flooding my nostrils with the scent of pine-cones and needles bristled with frost. As if God himself had granted me a miracle, this was exactly what I needed, with my shoulder disabled. I collected what I needed from the dense strip of tender's, and created a fire, at last. Finally, I could warm myself, sleep, and tend to my wound. I sat by the flickering fire, warming my body temperature, and preparing myself mentally. Gritting my teeth, I slowly pulled the arrow out of my flesh, gouging my wound with more blood. I let out a gasp of pain as it finally came out. I bandaged my wound, and lay back, exhaling a sigh of relief. Looking at the arrow, I became intrigued. It was strange. It had markings and patterns I had never seen before, with Greek and Turkish looking characters written on its metal edge. I tossed it aside, disinterested. I looked up to the sky and rested my eyelids, trying to get some rest, so I could heal my wounds. As I sat there alone staring at the night sky, full of stars and wonder, I thought about why I had even come this far for this. I thought about the mundane life at home, choked to death by greed and misfortune. My mind wandered to the legends I had been told by old travellers, to the stories that abounded old forsaken books... > 'To walk the sacred river Alph, to scale the great walls, to wander the infinite caves of Ice. A pleasure-dome, decreed by Kublah Khan, possessing the answers to the greatest wonders of human kind. A place of immortality, with prophecies of war foretold in the whispering distance.