Silence is deadly. Asmund puffed his smoking pipe as he marched through the snowbound forest, his eyes darting to and fro as they scanned the pristine taiga around him. Several men had gone missing in these parts several days ago - a normal facet of life here in the monster-infested Northern Province, but because they were members of the Ecclesiarchy he was ‘volunteered’ to find the clergymen. Or what was left of them at least, as his friends at the tavern had jested. The chirping symphony of birds danced across the frigid winter air as Asmund trekked onwards, mulling over what manner of beast might have done the priests in. Perhaps a particularly large Snowsnapper, tunneling beneath the snow with its serpentine body and striking from below with a powerful pair of extending jaws? Or maybe an imposing Northpaw did them in? Those urcine wolverines were preparing for hibernation around this time of year, and a group of lost priests from out-of-town would have been quite the preparatory feast. Asmund stopped for a minute to stuff more dried smokeleaf into his pipe, taking note of the slowly lowering sun barely peeking out from between the trees. He’d have to set up camp soon, get a fire going. Smoke repelled all manner of awful night terrors, but even then he wouldn’t sleep easy. Not here. Small beasts don’t make carriages go missing, after all. After a solid half-hour of making sure the local area was devoid of tree-dwelling Pine Vipers, Asmund decided on a small clearing that offered him a solid twenty feet of open space in most directions. It was the best he had found so far, and he wasn’t going to find a better location before the creatures of the night began prowling about. The chirping of insects buzzed just beyond the treeline, a comforting ambience alongside the crackling of firewood. Asmund sat next to the fire, pouring a little water and scooping some snow into a small metal pot and hanging it over the flames. Fishing around amongst the many pockets adorning his winter coat, the hunter retrieved a rune-marked thermal stone and set it down beside him. Reaching down into his collar, Asmund pulled out a shimmering blue crystal connected to a chain necklace via metal wiring. Tapping the thermal stone with the glowing crystal, Asmund watched as magic flowed into the etched runes and filled the rock with purpose. Returning the crystal to its place around his neck, Asmund picked up the now-humming thermal stone and felt a wave of heat wash across his hands. Although his was rather rudimentary, the otherworldly energy of a glimmerkey was important for those who couldn’t manipulate mana by themselves. Like himself. Asmund watched the embers drift upwards, wafting above the looming pine trees and disappearing into the pristine night sky. This place had a haunting beauty to it, marvelous at a distance but teeming with death up close. A log split open, sending a host of embers flying out and renewing the crackles of the flame. Asmund jumped, caught off guard by the sudden noise. Shaking his head, the hunter grumbled to himself. It had been practically deafening in the silence of the night that had settled in. His hand hovered over the thermal stone he had dropped when the realization hit him. It was quiet. No insects chirping, no birds hooting. Nothing. Pure, unadulterated silence. And silence is deadly. Asmund gulped, his eyes shifting around the treeline to see what had caused the forest to fall so silent. His hands shifted as well, reaching to the rifle laying at his side with an expedient yet gentle grasp. It was a rugged implement, the furniture crafted from the same stern wood that surrounded him. But whereas a mage had a wand and a priest had a staff, he had this. It lacked the theatrical finesse of those more natural magical implements, breech-loading and then firing pre-packaged spells wrapped in enchanted paper as opposed to simply channeling raw mana, but it got the job done and packed quite a punch. Aethercasters like the one he was loading were notoriously expensive - Asmund only had his as a souvenir from his time in the military - but their effectiveness was what allowed him to hunt the otherworldly beasts like the one skulking around the edges of his camp. Asmund’s heart began to pick up its pace, and the hunter sprung up to a kneel as he looked about with an increasing unease. Flicking the lever around the rifle’s trigger forward, Asmund reached a hand into the hardleather pouch on his waist containing the spellfire charges and slid one of the paper packages into the open breech as a small cloud left his lips. The lever slid back and the breech closed, a satisfying metal click telling him it was ready to cast. Each thumping heartbeat, each bated breath, each snow-crunching step - all were deafening in the silence of the forest. Asmund turned around once more, and his figure froze as he finally saw what it was that had drawn so near to him. A great white stag was standing at the edge of the clearing, a pair of large and ornately-curling antlers hanging above its head. Asmund tightened his grip on the caster, an icy dread seizing the back of his neck. The animal stood several heads above him, larger than any other stag he’d seen. Its thick white fur was matted in places and stained in others, and a set of strong pillar-like legs supported its massive frame. But what made Asmund the most uneasy were its eyes. They were human. And they were staring back at him. The two stood there, flame-licked shadows dancing around them as they looked at one another. Asmund’s finger inched towards the trigger, his breaths slow and anxious. The beast watched, unblinking and unmoving save for the occassional snorting from its nostrils. If he pulled the trigger, in an instant the glimmercrystal in the rifle would slide forward and tap the spellfire cartridge, bringing it to life and sending a burst of arcane hatred flashing out of the barrel. But he only had one shot. And at this distance, it’d be his only shot. The stag’s gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if sizing up the hunter standing in the clearing. Asmund shouldered the rifle and leaned forward, preparing to raise the caster to bear if the beast decided to step out beyond the treeline. No words were exchanged between them, a tensely quiet conversation not breaking the tense silence of the night. A hoof raised somewhat, ploughing the snow-covered dirt beneath it. The campfire continued its crackling, unperturbed by the standoff occuring only several feet away. The snow was steaming now, slowly sinking into a rising tide of freshwater bubbling with excitement. With a loud and final huff, the stag turned its head and vanished back into the darkness of the trees. Asmund let out a huff as well, lowering his rifle and taking several deep breaths as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins. Looking around, Asmund kept the caster in one hand he wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead. Slowly, the sounds of life trickled back into the air as the night progressed, heralding the departure of his midnight visitor. Whatever it was. Asmund sat by the fire, gnawing on a jerky stick as he ruminesced about the encounter. He hadn’t seen such a creature before - was it responsible for the missing clergymen? Asmund shook his head. The carriage was a much larger target with several more people than just him on his lonesome - if the stag had killed them it could have easily killed him . But it didn’t. And those eyes ... Asmund felt a shiver run up his spine. Whatever that thing was, he hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. He’d have to ask the guys about it back at the tavern - with such a uniquely dreadful description, he’d either get answers or volunteers for a hunting party. Maybe both. Nonetheless, though, he couldn’t return with nothing but chatter about strange beasts in a forest full of strange beasts. He had a reputation to uphold, and nothing less than concrete answers would do. When the morning came, he’d set out all the same and search for the missing clergymen until he had something to bring back. Reaching into his winter coat once more, Asmund procured a small pouch containing a handful of coffee beans and popped several into his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. Not that he had been feeling particularly tired, anyways. Asmund had been dozing off when the sing-song symphony of morning birds roused him from his half-slumber. The fire had gone out some time ago, but Asmund spent little time worrying about how long he had been exposed as he covered the ashes and pocketed the thermal stone. Taking several gulps from the steaming water, Asmund spent several minutes packing up before resuming his journey. There was a large lake not too far away from where he was that had several rivers and streams feeding into it, with the lake itself flowing into a waterfall that continued downhill. That was where he was going. The crunching sound of boots on snow filled the air as Asmund strolled through the forest, one hand resting on the strap suspending his aethercaster from his shoulder. Puffing his smoke pipe, Asmund watched a pair of four-winged snowdoves twirl about overhead before flapping off deeper into the forest. Those birds were quite tasty when cooked, the hunter thought to himself. Especially when they were mixed in with some garlic, rosemary, thyme, a sprinkle of sage... His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, reminding Asmund of how long it’d been since he had had a proper home-cooked meal. He’d been out here for the better part of a week; and although the rations he’d brought with him weren’t bad, they weren’t good either. Most of the big game was gone too, so he hadn’t been able to bag any big helpings of meat like venison. The only large animal he’d encountered, Asmund thought to himself, had been the large stag last night. Other than that, the forest was oddly deserted wherever he went - not even a cursory glance at some unsuspecting wildlife. The rumbling quacks of rusty bluebills signaled that he was almost to the lake, and Asmund welcomed the idea of seeing a flock of the little feathered dragonfowl swimming about. Following the sounds, they grew louder and eventually became accompanied by the sounds of splashing water and flapping wings. But before he broke the treeline and made his way to the bank, a loud crash rung out as something big broke the surface of the water, causing an uproar of quacks and flaps that eventually fell silent. Silence is deadly. Whipping the caster off of his shoulder, Asmund held the rifle at the ready as he stepped out into the open bank bordering the lake. It was a gradual, snowy slope ending in a conglomerate of weeds and reeds and other coastal plants that broke up the waves before they hit the soil. It was a beautiful sight, really - a lake several miles in circumference framed by picturesque evergreens and standing at the foot of distant snow-capped mountain ranges. But the only thing he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves and the gentle roar of the waterfall halfway across the water. Asmund scanned the treeline, wondering if some beast had jumped in after the bluebills, but saw nothing. He puffed his pipe, uneasy at the fact that it was so quiet. Lowering the caster, Asmund took a minute to pop some more coffee beans in his mouth before his gaze meandered back up towards the lakefront where a small modicum of commotion seized his attention. A bluebill was sitting among the reeds, bobbing up and down with the water, pecking intently at something. The creature’s uncaring disregard for what had caused the noise relaxed Asmund somewhat, and he walked over to the dragonfowl to see what it was pecking at. The sight of a severed forearm was not what he was expecting. The flesh was in some degree of decay, largely fought off by the sheer cold of the climate. Asmund puffed his pipe, the sense of calm retreating to the back of his mind. There was a torn and tattered sleeve around the forearm, whose elaborate trim and symbolic eye embroidery identified it as belonging to the robes of a clergyman. Or belonged to, actually. Asmund came to a stop at the edge of the water, watching the bluebill peck and tear at the arm. The limb’s hand, clad in black leather gloves, was holding a chained and ancient-looking medallion in a tight death-grip. He was tempted to reach for it, but he knew better than to get between a bluebill and its food. Fortunately, he had something in his packs that bluebills loved: blue-banana nut bread. The iconically-colored loaf was a provincial staple, made using the hardy and nutrient-dense Musa-Cenizo banana. Unwrapping what was left of the loaf he had brought, Asmund ripped off a chunk and tossed it several feet to the bluebill’s left. The dragonfowl took a moment to turn its blood-stained beak towards the disturbance before splashing over to the floating chunks with a surprising speed. Asmund took the moment to use the butt of his rifle and nudge the frostbitten limb within arm’s reach. Setting the loaf down beside him, Asmund pried open the frozen hand and hung the odd medallion around his neck. He had his evidence. Time to head back home. Asmund slung his caster over his shoulder and picked up the arm, wondering where he was going to store the limb as his eyes analyzed the damage. Near the end of the arm, where it would have connected to the elbow, the sleeve was pinned to the limb by a large white tooth. Pulling it out as the bluebill hopped up onto the bank and zipped towards the unguarded loaf, Asmund realized why it had gone so quiet. This was the tooth of an ursinus orca . A Black Pilgrim. Twenty-foot long, several-thousand-pound amphibious sea bears that lived in groups called congregations and made annual pilgrimages across the continent to terrorize new feeding grounds. Possessing a striking black and white coloration, four powerful, clawed limbs, a jutting spike of a dorsal fin, and a large tail, Black Pilgrims were a nigh-unstoppable natural disaster to everything they came across. Like the carriage. Asmund looked out towards the lake as the bluebill waddled up to him expectantly, a cold sweat running down the hunter’s back. A loud huff startled Asmund, causing him to drop the arm in surprise and frantically shoulder his rifle. The stag from last night stood at the treeline, staring at him with its unnerving gaze. Asmund pocketed the tooth, staring back at the stag. It blinked, huffing out another cloud of vapor and gesturing its head towards the lake before quickly turning around and galloping off. Asmund turned his head towards the lake. A tall, black fin was rising out of the water. And then another. And another. Heading straight for him. A shocked “ Oh, ” was all Asmund could muster before the bluebill’s expectant quacking snapped him out of his daze. Taking several hurried steps backwards as the fins gained speed, Asmund practically threw himself up the bank and broke into a desperate sprint through the forest. Behind him, the trumpet-call of blowholes sounded off accompanied by the noise of large beasts charging up from the depths. Their footfalls were fast and heavy, their jaws open and their breaths hungry. Asmund didn’t look back. A tree cried out as it was forced aside, and the shrill hunting calls of the Pilgrims haunted his ears as he ran, the monstrous creatures shouting to one another as they pursued their quarry. His head start was small at best, and the Pilgrims were much faster than he could ever hope to be. Asmund ran nonetheless, hoping to come up with some last-minute plan with the few extra seconds he had. And then he came into a clearing. Unslinging his rifle, Asmund got it to his shoulder just as the first Pilgrim ran into view, leaping out from the treeline like an instrument of divine judgement. Asmund pulled the trigger on his caster, sending the glimmercrystal in the rifle’s mechanism flying forth into the rune-laden paper wrapping of the spellfire cartridge. In an instant, bouts of arcane energy came crackling out of the barrel as an imposing fireball burst into existence. The flaming orb surged forth, colliding with the Pilgrim and causing it to come to a halt with a shrill shriek of pain. Hurriedly sliding in another cartridge, Asmund brought his rifle back up as a pair of Pilgrims came into view on either side of the burned one. The three beasts looked at Asmund with a hesitant hunger, primal gears turning in their head. The burned one stared at him, seared flesh marring the right half of its face. Several minutes passed before the Pilgrims called to one another, slowly taking several steps back. Asmund exhaled, taking a step back himself as a set of thundering footsteps to his left announced the presence of a fourth Pilgrim bounding up on his flank. Asmund barely had time to aim his rifle at the gaping maw of the predator before it was slammed to the side by the great white stag. Their attack routed, the Pilgrims retreated back into the forest with the rest of its congregation, leaving just the hunter and the stag alone in the clearing. Its eyes glanced down towards the medallion before looking back at him. The guys at the tavern weren’t going to believe this.


With a loud clunk, the last light was extinguished and the room blackened. I waited for the clicking of the librarian’s heels to fade before I risked emerging from my hiding place in the rarely visited encyclopedia section of the library basement. The dust bunnies under the shelves were as large as my hand and also my only companions for the last two hours I had spent waiting for the library to close. The dank, musty smell was clinging to my clothes. My excitement matched my anxiety as I was never one to break the rules, and staying here after closing time was regrettably one of the most rebellious things I had ever done in my twenty-six years. My adventure was about to begin, and how challenging could it be? What, you might ask, would prompt me to be here in a cold, dark, dusty library instead of home in my own comfortable room full of my books, comfy pillows and my two orange tabbies, Watson and Holmes? As it turns out, I accepted a dare from a mischievous octogenarian named Abigail in a game of Truth or Dare. Scoring an apartment amidst the residents at the town’s senior living community had its ups and downs. Employed as the Activities Director, I spent many a night among the senior residents coordinating and participating in various games and projects, which could be equal parts entertaining and frustrating. Historically, I am much more of a Truth person in the Truth or Dare realm. I have very little to hide, being quite strait-laced all my life. My elderly neighbors have had many laughs at my expense, as they seemed to all have led pretty scandalous lives based upon their “truths”! They each now generally chose “Dare” in the game, as they had few secrets left from each other. Some of the dares, such as who can fling his dentures the furthest, held little appeal. Nonetheless, I had one wine cooler too many the night in question, and decided to throw caution to the wind. Abigail, my favorite at the senior center, had long been wanting to shake up my life, so jumped at the chance to assign my fate- “You will spend the night in the Eastbrook library basement!” she declared. Abigail, a retired guide for the Eastbrook ghost tour, always believed the library to be the most haunted site in the town. She maintained that her own decades-deceased Aunt Edna, the first librarian in Eastbrook, traveled its halls to this day looking for mis-shelved books and shushing loud patrons. Not being one to worry about ghosts, and having fantasized about being uninterrupted and surrounded with thousands of books at my disposal, I decided that this would be a good chance to prove to them that I wasn’t just a stick-in-the-mud. I also believed that I would enjoy a night when I didn’t have to wear headphones to drown out the Bingo caller. This felt like a win-win situation for me. Now however, being in the dark, quiet, and unnaturally chilly basement, I was rethinking my decision. Ghosts aren’t real, I was sure, and how bad could one night be? I had my handy flashlight and sleeping bag hidden in the back of the stacks, and I readied myself to hunker down for the night. As I spread out my quilt, I was startled by a noise that sliced through the silence. A loud thud followed by a barrage of clops and bangs came from upstairs. It sounded like a horse was galloping through the fiction section! My knack for keeping calm in a crisis kicked in as my brain sought to imagine a reasonable explanation for this development. After all, I had never been in the library at night. Maybe the furnace was really loud or maybe workers were cleaning (the absence of light did make this less likely). I was torn between cowering in my corner and investigating the unexpected sounds, when the noises ceased and a creepy silence once again overtook the building. A small shiver worried up my spine as I slowly crept up the creaky library stairs, the need to investigate winning out. The building was inky black, and my small flashlight did little to illuminate the large space. As I inched along the library wall, feeling cobwebs brushing against my cheek, my foot kicked something hard on the floor. A small book, Things that Go Bump in the Night lay at my feet. Admittedly a little nervous, and with my blood pounding in my ears, I shone my flashlight around me. All I could see from the fine beam was an empty hall and imposing book-lined shelves. I listened for sounds of life, but there were only stillness and my own rapid breaths. Did I imagine the noises? My senses were on high alert and I wanted to stay hidden until I could investigate further. From behind me, though, another thud made me jump, and another book landed near my feet. The offending noises were starting again now as books were leaping from the shelves onto the floor in front of me. I spun my flashlight, desperately trying to see what was causing this, but saw nothing but what appeared to be the books alone, launching themselves off the shelves. I was torn between the desire to run for my life and the overwhelming urge to reorganize the messy, unshelved titles strewn on the floor. The Shining grazing my forehead in its rapid descent hurried my decision and I spun around to escape the attack. In my haste, I dropped my flashlight and heard the battery fling across the floor as it crashed down. The room again was draped in black and now I was surrounded in the darkness by a cacophony of books sliding from the shelves and dive bombing the ground. I felt the hard covers scratching my ankles as I ran from the section. I dove under the nearest desk as more books launched themselves at my head. I heard screaming which I realized was coming from me and the thuds were joined by a loud whoosh as a strong breeze began to blow my hair. It sounded like “Shoooooooooosssshhhh” as it rang past my ears. I tried to make out where the door was so I could escape this nightmare but I was unsure of where I was in the darkness. The books continued to hit the desk, leaving what I imagined to be brick sized divots in the ancient wood. The thought of Aunt Edna seemed like less of a joke now and I scrambled to figure out what I might have done to prompt a ghost’s wrath? I had kept to myself while I waited for closing time, and I had passed time by thumbing through some encyclopedias. Had I accidentally left one open, or, worse, put it back in the wrong place? Convinced that this must be it, I resolved to brave the book attacks to try to right my wrong. I grabbed the desk blotter to use as a shield, and plunged myself back into the tornado of flying books. I made my way to the stairs again and threw myself down them, trying to get back to the encyclopedia section. I did hesitate when I imagined those tomes coming at me, but all still seemed quiet in the basement. It was harder to examine the area as I was without a light, but remembered my cellphone in my pocket. I shone the phone light where I had been hiding and discovered that the S volume was left open to Supernatural Events and was set away from its shelf mates. I quickly slammed the book closed and re shelved it properly, just as the surrounding volumes were beginning to tremble. I braced myself for the onslaught, but the hurricane stopped as quickly as it had started. I was afraid to open my eyes for a time and remained crouched in the corner in the fetal position for what seemed like hours. No more loud thuds were heard, and the whistling wind quieted. I thought I heard some quiet scraping from above, but the air was calm in the basement. The hours passed as I sat frozen in place, not daring to open my eyes or move, for fear of angering Aunt Edna any further. Had this been a bad dream? Was I going crazy? Did the ghost of Abigail’s aunt try to kill me for improperly reshelving an encyclopedia? I didn’t move until I was startled by the lights popping on. Not wanting to be found in this state, I unfolded myself from the floor and gathered my belongings. Inexplicably, my now intact flashlight was resting on my sleeping bag. I waited until I heard more activity from upstairs, expecting there to be shouts of horror at what the main floor of the library likely looked like. When these did not manifest, I crept upstairs, intending to mix in with the other patrons. I stopped dead in my tracks at the top of the stairs. The library was in pristine condition. All books appeared to be in proper order on their respective shelves. The desk where I sheltered from the book attack appeared unscathed. Not wanting to tempt fate any further, I quickly exited the building and hurried home. Met at the door by a group of curious senior citizens, I knew I could not escape to my room without filling them in on my night at the library. “How was it?” Abigail asked. “Did you see my aunt?” “It was fine, Abigail. I had a nice, quiet evening reading myself to sleep. It is amazing how relaxing it was,” I lied. Abigail and the others looked disappointed, but satisfied that I accomplished my dare. They exchanged money among the 5 of them, apparently having bet on me reneging on my side of the deal. Maybe now they would leave me alone when I chose Truth in the next game. As the hours ticked by at home, I started to believe that maybe it had all been a bad dream. I started to question my sanity and struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I witnessed. Ghosts aren’t real, and books don’t dive bomb your head, I told myself. I got up and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Surely the blossoming bruise on my forehead was from me running into something and not from some book ambush? A bit reluctant to turn off my lights and go to sleep, I lay awake that night. Just as I shut my eyes, my door shook in its frame as something struck it loudly. With an inward groan and a rush of adrenaline, I tiptoed to the door and peeked out. On the ground was a copy of Casper the Friendly Ghost. As I leapt over the book and took off down the hall with a shriek, I could barely make out the snickers of the seniors from around the corner and could almost swear out of the corner of my eye that they each held a book in their hands.


I was working in my shop as a Chemist when a woman walked in with a gun and shot me. My bulletproof lab coat deflected the six.44 Magnum shots, but it still felt like getting pummeled. Bullets ricocheted, breaking beakers, vials, and other glassware. I winced, verified my body was not Swiss cheese with a glance, then gawked at my assailant. She was young, maybe in her twenties which meant she was born into the apocalypse. She wore a black tank top with black polymer pants and a clear visor with a digital display over her eyes. I heard the gun’s hammer striking the empty chamber with a click, click, click that seemed like punctuations to the woman’s screaming. Since I deal with these assassination attempts at least twice a week, I recognized her as a novice, not a Scientist like me. “Die, World-ender!” the woman shouted, then threw the empty gun at my head. “Hey!” I shouted and ducked as the handgun flew past me. She then ran at me with a knife. I guess I wouldn’t be making any sales today after all. I extended my hand, palm up, toward the woman and said, “ Aeris .” The oxygen and nitrogen gas molecules in the air were beckoned by my will to concentrate and expand in an instance. The shop's interior shook as a wind flowed from my hand with hurricane force. Vials and bottles rattled, a few more breaking on the concrete floor. Tables pushed to the sides of the room from the gale. The charging woman covered her face with her arm as debris and dust whirled in a vortex around her. The wind’s force stopped her charge by pelting her with billions and billions of molecules. She strained to push toward me, but her foot slipped and fell to the floor. She tumbled as the wind pushed her to the shop’s exit, but she held onto the door frame. “I’ll stop you from doing it! I’ll save the world!” she screamed as her grip slipped. I redirected the wind to the shop’s metal security door with a flick of my wrist. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut with a clang, and I replied, “Yeah, well, take a number.” My name is Dr. Henry Ion Fischer, and I destroyed the world. Well, not technically me. My future self will be the one to destroy everything, you know when I go back to the past to do it. What I mean is that I am destined to go back in time and destroy the world. Nothing can stop that. If something could stop me from going back in time and destroying the world, then the apocalyptic world I live in now wouldn’t exist. Confusing? See, this is the reason people keep trying to kill me. No matter how publicized it is, people still didn’t get it; they can’t kill me. It’s not like I’m immortal or something. I can die, just not yet. And why? Because you can’t bend time; time bends you. Let me start from the beginning, er, maybe present is a better descriptor. I have traveled from the pre-apocalyptic year of 2025 to the post-apocalyptic year of 2049. In this future, the population has been decimated, governments have been obliterated, survivors live in cities run by gangs, and it is perpetually night. Blocking the sun was what I did, er, will do, to destroy the world. It’s an odd feeling to know what you haven’t done yet. I didn’t know how I filled the sky with clouds so black that sunlight couldn’t break through them, but I assume it has to do with my abilities as a Chemist, a type of Scientist. Scientists live long lives and have extraordinary powers related to our discipline. We call the ability our nous , and sometimes the power feels like an actual noose more than a gift. I don’t know why I destroy the world. I’m not an evil Scientist. If anything, I am an apathetic Scientist, or maybe an aloof Scientist, but not an evil-doer bent on world destruction. When I first arrived from my jump in time to 2049, I had a bit of a freak-out month. I’ve since resigned myself to my fate as World-ender. How I came to be thrust into the future is a story for another time but suffice it to say that a Physicist specializing in time travel launched me into the future to materialize in the dark, dilapidated streets of future Boston. I was jumped by fanatic body augmenters, but a group calling themselves the Remnants rescued me. The Remnants escorted me back to their base at Fenway Park but didn’t tell me I destroyed the world. In 2025, I had a friend named Melody Kenzie, and we often worked together on her cases as a private detective, especially when she suspected a Scientist was involved. However, in the future, I found myself in now, Melody was the leader of the Remnants. It was Melody who told me I was the cause of the world being destroyed. She said I died when it happened, and I heard loss in her voice that implied we had something more than friendship when I returned to 2025. Melody said she never knew I went to the future and back until 2030, right before the apocalypse. I was relieved to know I would eventually make it back to my time, but as I saw the devastation of this future, I became fatalistic. I contemplated suicide in hasty thoughts meant to preserve the world I once knew instead of this futuristic hellscape. When I told Melody, she put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. No shot was fired. She then turned the gun away from me and fired again. The deafening shot jolted me with the realization that I wouldn’t be able to stop the world from ending. I was the World-ender. That’s when she told me, “You can’t bend time; time bends you.” Melody’s demeanor differed from the hotheaded seeker of justice from the past. She was now much harder, militarily shouting commands and keeping what she knew about me close to her chest. While I remembered conversations Melody had with me just a few months ago, for her, our friendship had been buried under years of strife. Like I said, after that, it was a hard month. I drank a lot. I slept even more. I explored the expansive area in and around Fenway Park. People lived in hovels and slums, barely surviving on the resources gathered from scouting. My shop was one of several in the market district, and people traded necessities there. A few Scientists were in Fenway, and they used their abilities to help keep everyone’s head above water. In my time, Scientists were to remain hidden, but now they were society's leaders, caretakers, and soldiers. Within a few days of arriving, everyone knew who I was. Some Remnants started calling me World-ender when the assassination attempts began. Melody had to put up signs telling people how they couldn’t kill me and shouldn’t try. There was a banging on the door to my shop, and my reminiscence ceased. I shouted, “Go away. I’m closed for today due to excessive attempts on my life. Thanks, please come again.” I heard a key turn in the metal security door. There was only one person that had the key. Melody Kenzie walked through the door and closed it behind her. She saw the smashed vials on the floor, and her eyes met mine. “Typical day?” she asked. “For this dystopia, yeah, it’s about the average day I expected,” I replied. I grabbed a dustpan and broom from the back of the shop and swept the broken glass from the floor. Melody walked around the broken glass and said, “At least it wasn’t a Scientist this time.” “Yeah, I guess being shot at is better than having another Chemist hurl fireballs at me, or my mind attacked by a Psychologist trying to make me kill myself, or being thrown into a portal by a Physicist to who knows what place. Oh, and remember that Biologist who could turn into that werewolf-lizardman creature that almost clawed my face off? “Yeah, but I got there before he could,” Melody said. “And I’m thankful for that, of course,” I said, “and thankful for you helping me set up my apothecary shop. You pulled me out of a bad place when I first got here. Despite some Remnants trying to kill me, I enjoy synthesizing medicine for them. Makes me feel like I’m alleviating the pain I’ve caused or will cause. At least it gives me something to do besides drink myself to death, er, well, you know what I mean.” Melody said, “Henry, you know you don’t have to stay here.” “It’s not like it’s safer anywhere else,” I said. “The only place left with a shred of normalcy is the society you have made here. It’s bleak, but I can still see hope when I look for it. Because of you, there are businesses, children can play, people still fall in love, and--” I stopped myself short of saying more. I loved Melody once, in the past. Maybe I still did love her. I locked eyes with her and felt my heart skip as I saw her push a strand of red hair over her shoulder, and she adjusted her form-fitting body armor. Melody was a Scientist, a Chaotician who could see through the chaos and use her nous to predict a few minutes into the future with incredible detail and accuracy. I shook my head and broke my gaze into her eyes. If I still loved her, it was the Melody I remembered from the past, not this one. How could I love anyone without loving myself? “Why are you here?” I asked. “There’s a mission--” She paused there, already anticipating my interruption. “Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I don’t go on away missions. I tried my hand as a scout before you helped me establish my shop and most of the away missions were like I was some Red Shirt in Star Trek. There was always one crazed Remnant that lost their shit and tried to fight me, kill me, or just make the whole journey a pain in my ass.” “It’s not like they can kill you,” she replied. “Uh, yeah, but it still hurts,” I said. “Sure, I can’t die, but I can be maimed, beaten, and put in a coma. So basically, as long as I’m still capable of destroying the world, anything can happen to me.” “It’s just pain,” Melody said under her breath. I didn’t reply, and we stood silent except for the broom's swish and glass clinking in the dustpan. I glanced at Melody to see her back was to me, and she was standing tall and straight. Then, after a while, she said, “What if I said this was ‘ the’ mission.” I jerked my head toward Melody, but her back was still turned. I gathered myself, anxious about what she meant, but calmly placed the dustpan on a table. I said, “Do you mean--” “Yes,” she said, interrupting me. Stupid nous always telling Melody what I would say. She turned to me, her hands behind her back, and stood to attention. “We all have our part to play in this future. As the leader of the Remnants, I command you to join this mission. We depart tomorrow morning.” The broom dropped from my hands and clattered to the floor. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or terrified to be going back to my time, but for the first time in a while, I felt excited. “I accept,” I said, suddenly surprising myself. She looked at me and shook her head. “You don’t have to accept. You don’t have a choice. Time bends you.” Melody turned on her heel and exited the shop before I could say another word. The following day, I heard a knock on the shop door. I rose from the cot in the back room of the shop where I slept and said, “Hello?” “Officer McCreedy here to escort you to the launchpad, Dr. Fisher,” said a scruffy voice from the other side of the door. I cautiously opened the door. I recognized McCreedy as one of Melody’s lieutenants, but I didn’t know much about him. “Are you ready?” he asked. I nodded. McCreedy then escorted me to the launchpad atop a platform on Fenway. Word must have spread because everyone came out of their homes as I walked the streets to watch me. A few people heckled me, and a group of kids threw garbage at me, but fortunately, no one tried to kill me. When we reached the launchpad, I saw Melody in the cockpit of an airlift, a vehicle like a helicopter but with no rotors and flies using magnetic levitation. “Hey, so now that we are all here, does someone feel like telling me what we are doing?” I asked Melody and the four officers on the launchpad. No one said anything, but then Melody spoke from the cockpit, “Remnant scouts found an anomaly outside the city. We’ve been analyzing it for a couple weeks and determined the origin to be from the past. 2025 to be exact.” “What is it?” I asked. “You’ll see,” she said, and then, “Ready for takeoff?” Her team gave the affirmative then we were in the air. Seeing the destruction of Boston from above was like swallowing a stone. A city I loved was in ruin. I thought of the other cities around the world that shared the same fate because what I did, er, will do. When the airlift landed, the officers jumped out and scouted the area with their rifles held at the ready. I stayed in the cockpit with Melody until we heard the all-clear. “The anomaly is this way,” Melody said, walking into the forest, the officers following her. We walked a while before reaching a glowing two-dimensional, circular portal. I froze. The portal’s center was black, and the edges ringed with blue. It looked exactly like the portal the Physicist forced me into last year. “At least I won’t have to worry about my tensing anymore,” I murmured. Then louder, I asked, “So what do I do now?” The officers shuffled their feet. They seemed anxious too. “There’s nothing you can do,” Melody said, drifting off as she spoke. “Well, how about I just don’t go into it!” I said. “If I don’t go into it, the world doesn’t end.” “And then you wouldn’t be here to say that,” Melody explained warily. “Just like you can’t die until you destroy the world, you can’t stop yourself from going through this portal.” “Then tie me to a tree or something. Nope, not going to do this. Living in this hellish future is one thing, but there’s no way I’m going into the portal to willingly destroy Earth.” “Then we’ll make you,” Melody said and eyed me. She was serious. With a nod, two officers grabbed me by the arms while the other two put their rifles to my head. “Whoa! Back-off!” I shouted as they pushed me closer to the portal. “I’m warning you,” I said. “Throw him in!” Melody shouted, and the officers forced me forward. Most of the last year was spent wishing I was in the past again. Now, with it so close, I couldn’t do it. Not if it meant things would end like this. I reached for my nous, and black clouds stirred above me, sucking down to ground level until no light could be seen. My nous flared, and molecules consisting of the air pushed a spherical wave of pressure around me, knocking back the officers holding my arms and clearing the blackness. One of the rifles went off, and the bullet sliced my cheek as it went by me. All four officers were on the ground around me, and I said, “Now, how about we just talk calmly about this?” “Officer down!” McCreedy shouted, and I spun to see that the stray bullet had caught Melody between the eyes. Blood oozed from the bullet hole in her forehead. “No!” I shouted. Even though Melody was going to force me through the portal, I still felt our friendship of the past. The love I had for her back then and now. “Why didn’t she move?” an officer asked. “She knew that would happen, right? Her nous lets her see a few minutes in the future.” Then it hit me. The world's weight crushed me, and I felt myself take a step forward. Then I took another step. And another. Melody did know. She hadn’t told me much about how the apocalypse happened. It made sense now, though. She would have gone back to the past with me if she could, even if it was just to look up at a blue sky together. Maybe she hadn’t told me about when I returned from the future because those were happier times for us. Perhaps she was trying to give me what she had already experienced. But at what cost? The world? No, it was because we can’t bend time; time bends you. So, we might as well make the best of it. I stepped forward into the portal and returned to 2025 to become the fated World-ender.


I call her, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Weird." I mutter to myself. I check her location and once again the technology of Apple has failed me. Why does this thing always seem to glitch out when I get worried? I tend not to bother her with multiple calls at a time, but this time I am just really worried. I know that she doesn't like it when I blow up her phone, but I need to know she's okay. If anything, at least maybe she will appreciate how much I care about her. I call her again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Damnit..." I say to myself again. Now I am genuinely growing worried. It is 11:30 P.M., and I know she has been off work for an hour now. Why is her location off? Why isn't she answering? Maybe she got into an accident on her way home. Maybe she got carjacked and they tossed her phone into an ocean or something. Maybe she got picked up off the street and God forbid anything happened to her. Or maybe... I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I don't say anything this time. Instead, a feeling of fear begins to wash over me. The last time we spoke on the phone, she answered so frantically and hung up in such a rush. I can tell she is going through a lot right now. We haven't seen each other in about three weeks. She told me she has been going through a lot with her job and her mother and her living situation and that she just needs some time to sort everything out. Still, as far as I know, everything is good between us. I have afforded her some space for the time being, but tonight something has just come over me. I can't deal with the thought of her stressing, worrying about everything too much like I do. Seeking comfort in unusual places. I only hope that it all didn't become too much for her. Maybe she adopted some bad habits to cope with the stress. Maybe she is strung out in some drug house right now, in danger around those animals. Maybe she had a mental break and hurt herself or worse. Tears begin to well in my eyes as once again I call her. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Please" I plead with myself, or whoever may be listening. At this point I just miss her so much, I really just want to hear her voice, to know that everything is okay. She has gotten so distantly lately, she seems strained anytime I talk to her. Her stress has mounted to a point where I am lucky to get an "I love you too." I just feel so bad for her. I wish she was here so I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be okay. I want to relieve her stress in every which way and let her know that as long as we have each other, everything is going to work out. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I know she has been spending a lot of time at her friend's house, staying there to unwind and get away from her mom. I'm not sure what exactly it is her and her mom are arguing about, she hasn't bothered to tell me. I only hope she is safe in the company of friends. The thoughts start to creep in, but I know my beloved, and that she would never betray my trust. The bond we share is far too strong, true love doesn't come often, but when it does, you can just feel it. I love her with all of my heart, and nothing could ever change that. When she answers the phone, be it today or tomorrow or whenever that time comes, I am just going to spill my entire heart to her because I want her to know what she means to me. She is my everything. I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. "Fuck" I blurt out through tears. They now stream down my cheek uncontrollably as my mind churns in a whirlwind of doubt and discomfort. I am hardly thinking straight at this point. I call fifteen more times, and fifteen more times, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. I have no thought in my mind other than to keep calling, and keep calling, and to not give up until I hear her voice. I am close to calling the police just in case she is in danger or dead somewhere. So many intrusive thoughts race through my mind, each more disgusting and vivid than the last. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, a voice answers! Momentarily I am relieved, but quickly I realize, this is not her voice. "Hello?" I say. "Who is this?" A man's voice responds. "This is Katherine's boyfriend" I respond, it's strange, she never mentioned her friend was a boy. He lets out a soft chuckle, he pauses for a moment and says "I'm sorry dude, she's asleep, and I don't think she considers you that..." "What?" I respond. My heart falls to the floor. Surely he misspoke, or perhaps I misheard him. "She's been here for a week bro, and this ain't the only place she has been. I don't got time for this shit, I'll let her explain." He says as he hangs up the phone. A tremendous feeling of grief washes over me. For a moment, I am absolutely floored by these comments. Quickly, I come to my senses. This must just be one of her friends fucking with me. Maybe the friend she was staying with has a boyfriend and they just thought it would be funny to play a trick on me. Maybe she was just off to the side, finding a quick laugh in my discomfort. It's the least I could do for her in her time of need. I'd like to say she would never embarrass me like that, but it wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the case may be, everything is going to be okay when I get her explanation tomorrow. Hopefully I wake up to it, I love the sweet messages she used to leave me every morning before all of this stress was put on her.


# The Writer **How far would you go to tell the perfect story?** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* My therapist, Dr. Raymond, has cleverly deduced that I suffer from mild paranoia. But what the simple doctor does not understand is that I am not paranoid, I am prepared. You see, it is all a matter of perception. Dr. Raymond’s reality was a linear one; he saw things in the first person, subjectively, in a straight line. I, on the other hand, saw reality in the third person, objectively, as the narrator, with a birds-eye view, scanning the entirety of reality’s infinite depth and possibilities. And that being the case, along with the knowledge of the sins in my past, my fear of being tracked down and plotted against was not one of paranoia, but of sound logic. Much of that fear drives from guilt, I am sure. It is the little bit of human feeling left in me that clings to man’s etiquette, believing I should answer for the crime I committed. I saw a priest who told me that feelings of paranoia are signs of the guilty soul screaming for confession. But God has seen what I have done and on my day of judgment if He cannot see the reasoning to my actions, well, then He is just as short-sighted as Dr. Raymond. Until that day I remain, Grant Hull-New York Times Bestseller. The author of “Held Up”, critically praised as, and I quote, “The most realistic depiction of the life of a bank robber in our time.” My book has given me literary recognition, public praise and wealth beyond my wildest expectations. Does this not prove even as we punish and imprison the thieves, rapists, and murderers that society secretly has a passionate yearning to swim in the dark thoughts of society’s most evil creations? The publishing industry knows this and year after year they publish weak attempts to capture the life of society’s darkest. The books are penned by authors who pull their research from dramatic fiction or Hollywood movies. But when these “authors”, if that is what they choose to call themselves, draw upon inauthentic sources like Hollywood they produce an inauthentic story. Then, the game of broken telephone begins and author after author draws upon the inauthentic stories before him, creating an even more far-fetched attempt to capture the essence of the bank robber, the rapist, the murderer. But those books will come and go, making a small profit but quickly forgotten in the collective consciousness of society. I wished not to be just another waste of paper but one of the great writers of our time-Of *all time*. If you look at the great authors of the past, such as Charles Dickens with *Oliver Twist*, or George Orwell with *Down and Out in Paris and London;* two undeniably honest commentaries on economic, social and moral abuses of the ruling class-these works only achieved such high levels of authenticity from the authors actually *taking* to the slums and *living* with the down and out characters they would eventually reflect in their books. To write great literature it is imperative that you know your characters *intimately*. When I first created my protagonist, he was so far from my country boy persona I couldn’t relate to the character. Jimmy, my bank robber, was a down and out kid from the Bronx who could no longer stand his bottom-of-the-list place in society, and so, turns to a life of crime. I didn’t know a thing about city life or desperation-so I researched. I read every book on bank robberies I could find, I watched every heist movie there ever was, I listened to every gangster rap album I could get my hands on. I learned much about the topic and it helped me to create much more depth and authenticity to Jimmy and the characters around him. For example, I had originally intended Jimmy to burst into the bank guns blazing, wearing a gorilla mask and telling everyone to, “Get the fuck on the floor!” while shooting off a couple rounds into the ceiling. In the movies, this seemed pretty standard, but in real life Hollywood’s portrayal of the bank robbery is heavily flawed and out of date. Bank security has come a long way over the years. Maybe in the 1920s John Dillinger and his gang could burst into a bank with guns drawn and stick around long enough to shoot it out with police, but not today. In today’s banks each teller has a panic button under the desk, so it was imperative that at all times throughout the robbery the only person who knew the bank was being robbed was the single teller, and only when Jimmy was close enough to her to monitor her hand and knee movements. The best way to achieve that would be with a simple note handed to the teller once he was called from the line. Do you see how much research helps create authenticity? But these were things any and every author would do in preparation for their story. I didn’t want to be just *any* author. I knew I needed a more aggressive approach if I was to be remembered with the likes of an Orwell or a Dickens. Over a scotch in a hotel lobby, I came to terms that the only way to capture the raw energy of a bank robbery was to actually rob a bank. I chose a Royal Bank across town as the target. At first, I just stood in the lobby and watched. I watched the customers, I watched the tellers, I watched the cameras-I even watched the half-dead security guard habitually putter about back and forth before he eventually found peace in a plastic seat next to the front entrance. Nowadays, banks don’t carry much cash in the drawers and I did not have the equipment or the manpower to try and successfully take the vault. But again, from my research on bank security measures, I knew that most tellers kept a “robbery bag” around that they were to give to the robber if ever faced with the situation. That’s what I wanted to leave with. I knew the bills were marked but I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to spend any of it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for character research. I needed to witness the look of fear in the teller’s eyes when I handed her the note threatening to kill her if she did not co-operate. I had to document the doubts and second-thoughts that would race through my head just before handing her the note. I needed to experience the pounding heartbeat and surge of adrenaline I would feel as I walked out the front door with that heavy bag of bills. And so, on a chilly day in September, I walked into that Royal Bank on Main St. and stood in line. I wore a hat, sunglasses, and a fake mustache to disguise myself from the recording cameras. One by one, I watched the person in front of me break from line and approach the teller until, all too quickly, it was my turn to step forward. I kept my hand steady while handing her the note that warned her I was armed and would shoot if she made any signals or reached for the panic alarm. It instructed her to give me the robbery bag and everyone would be safe. The moments from when I handed her the letter to when she gave me the bag under her desk were the most intense. The fifteen or so seconds it took seemed like an eternity. I thought my heart was going to beat right through my chest and land in her lap. It was not so much the *teller* that had me so on edge, she was scared and I knew they were trained to co-operate. It was the customers behind me. I was sure one of them had seen me hand over the note and would attack me from behind, but I couldn’t look behind me without arousing suspicion from security and I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the teller’s hands. Finally, she reached over the kiosk and handed me the unmarked bag, holding in her tears to the best of her ability. I turned and, bursting with elation and disbelief, quickly walked through the front door, passing the senior security guard who may or may not have been taking a quick midday nap. I couldn’t say for sure, all I could see was the street outside-complete tunnel vision. Once outside, I walked around to the back of the building where the taxi I had arrived in waited for me on a back street, completely unaware of what had just happened. He dropped me off at a McDonald's a few blocks down where I disposed of my disguise in the bathroom garbage before hopping on a bus back to my neighborhood to count the score. Now that I had experienced the rush of criminality I was ready to translate my recent enlightenment to paper and bring Jimmy from the Bronx to life. I understood him now. As I wrote the novel I was constantly expecting the police to come to my work, or come to my home, and take me off to jail...but they never came. Three months after the book’s completion, with a little luck and a great agent, “Held Up” became a New York Times Best Seller and I had hit the big time. I did not need to spend the cash from the robbery; I was selling millions of books. Why? Because readers recognize authenticity. They really do. I had trouble during the book tour though. I was forced to grab a pushy fan by the throat to remind him of who he was disrespecting. I don’t deal well when dealing with the *readers*. The ones who read my story, living my experiences vicariously, never having enough guts to go out and do what I did. They used my experiences to escape their dreary, safe, and pointless lives. How I loathe them. But it was this incident, during a book signing in Los Angeles, that my publishers came together and decided I needed to see a therapist, throwing Dr. Raymond, uninvited, into my life, to accuse me of this paranoia. Things are better now that the book tour has ended and I am back in the comfort of my writing studio. Just the other day I received a call from my agent letting me know the publishers green-lit my next novel proposal. With the recent popularity of the murder mystery genre, I have decided to create a story from the point of view of the killer. Genius, is it not? I am happy to say, I have already begun my research.


You’ve read this story before. By: Timothy McGuire He woke up at the same time every day, though he didn’t have to. He walked into the bathroom, had a good morning pee, started to head out into the kitchen when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. Was that a permanent line in my forehead now, he thought. He was 47 then. He went back into his bedroom and lied down, thought about his position in life and the sweat started beading on his brow almost immediately. He grabbed his cell phone and performed the now daily ritual of checking his bank account. The numbers just kept getting lower. He pulled his eyes away from the screen and thought that even his phone would soon become a luxury he could not afford. He walked into the kitchen, to look what he could eat for breakfast. Not much, a tiny bit of milk bordering on expiring and some not yet stale store brand cereal. He sat down to eat, once done he looked up and said to no one ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do’ and the tears instantly came. This also became a daily ritual. By the time the crying stopped, the sun was usually fully up by then, a year ago at this time he would be getting ready for work. A place that he no longer wanted to be at, with people who no longer wanted him there. He would always promise himself afterwards that if things didn’t change by the age of 50... he would never quite finish the thought, though dealing with one’s own brain, there’s never an unfinished thought. One day they called him into the office and fired him, for things that have been done the same way for years. Ironically, he had to wait to get fired for the ‘witness’, the number 2 in charge, he was usually late 9 times out of 10, casually apologizing with an $10 coffee in his pudgy little hands. Once the deed was done, he felt relieved, and panic all at once. Now, driving to the local coffee shop, another daily ritual, waiting in the long line to pay for a drink he really shouldn’t be buying, but it’s worth it for the 20 to 30 seconds of flirting with the girl at the window, Ana Beth. She’s memorized his order by now and flashes her smile. He feels special for those few seconds, it quickly fades as he hears the her state the name of the next customer behind him at the drive thru. As he drives home, he’s about to pass the library, that he’s passed hundreds of times before, but today for whatever reason he stops. The place is quiet as libraries usually are and he just started looking up and down the rows and rows of books, not knowing what he was looking for when he eyes just stopped on one title: You’ve Read This Book Before By: Fran Siss He borrowed it and headed home. He zombied out in front of a screen watching videos of people watching videos of people hurting themselves and reacting to it. It was a good waste of time while he drank his coffee. He was about to pick up the book when the urge to nap came upon him and he quickly gave in. When he awoke, he noticed the sun was going down and figured it was almost dinner time, but he wasn’t too hungry just yet, instead he turned on his side and almost dozed off, when the cell phone on the night stand chirped saying it needed to be charged. Instead of going back to sleep he grabbed the library book and started to read. It wasn’t exactly a mind blowing story, boy meets girl they fall in love and more than likely live happily ever after, he hadn’t gotten that far yet. It was the title that struck him, it was just strange, and nothing in the book seemed strange at all. It felt familiar, right from the first line, ‘He woke up at the same time every day, though he didn’t have to,’ felt comfortable. After a little while of reading, he finally did feel hungry. Knowing there was no food in the house he’d have to go out. Found a bookmark and was about to save his place when he noticed the page was torn. It bothered him for whatever reason. He went about finding a scrap of paper to tape to the front to inform the library of the damaged pages, he noted the page number. He went out to the nearest taco shop, getting one hard, one soft and headed back home. Ate in front of a screen watching videos of people reviewing other peoples reviews of movies. He glanced down at the book and noticed the author’s name Fran Siss, it didn’t sound real to him. It was his own middle name. He finished his meal and returned to reading. The character in the book, who had a similar name to his own, met the love interest, a fairy tale sounding name Anagelina Elizabethe. It was predictable and boring and when he decided to turn in, grabbing his bookmark, again the page was torn, the number missing. He penciled the new number down as well. He fell asleep. The next day, being exactly the same as the day before, he found himself in line for his daily dose of caffeine facing Ana Beth, giving her his order for the millionth time. The computer is taking longer than usual today, but she keeps smiling making small talk he doesn’t really seem to hear. His eyes wander from hers to her lips to her neck to her chest, and stay there just long enough for her to notice and give a good clearing of the throat. ‘Your change.’ Out of character he mentions that her name is similar to the name of a character in the book he’s reading. He says the name with a slight made up accent which she smiles at and says, that’s cute. And wishes him a good day. Back to the comfort of home. He sits in bed and reads more of the book, each time he stops for whatever reason, the page he stops on is torn, there are 5 torn pages before he hits page 100. He was actually thinking about giving it up. Despite its interesting title, the beautiful love interest, and the calming effect the story had it was boring, even when the book presented a twist, the main character, the guy with a similar name, gets killed in a random robbery. That was page 100 actually, and he closed the book and thought about that is something that would probably happen to himself. He decided to return the book. It was the middle of the night and he couldn’t sleep, he looked down at the book with the note on the front informing the librarians of the 5 torn pages and decided to return it. He drove to the night drop off box and was about to throw it in when he noticed the note was gone, this angered him a little bit, but also thought to himself, ‘figures.’ He threw the book back into the passenger seat and drove away. Headed back towards home, he passes one of those 24 hour gas stations advertising gross oversized frozen drinks, decides to stop in to get one. He checks out the candy aisle maybe get a candy bar as well. He heard giggling voices and noticed at once, the beauty from the coffee shop Ana Beth looking at which six pack of beer to drink, she notices him and gives a half hearted smile and seems to be relived when someone comes up next to her, she whispers something to him, they both look at him, and he hears only a few short words ‘...staring at my chest.’ He turned away instantly thinking to himself that she had it all wrong, but he knew it didn’t matter. He strolled up to the counter to get his drink, forgetting about the candy bar. The cute cashier, Beth, gave him a genuine smile and a friendly hello. He wasn’t feeling to friendly at the moment and went to pull out the money to pay, and the note from the book came out stuck to the cash, it fell to the counter. As she reached for the money he noticed on her wrist a little tattoo of a stack of books, smiled and thought it was cute. His attitude brightened a bit and once again out of character said out loud ‘cool tattoo, on my way to return one now.’ Beth smiled and handed him the change, and picking up the piece of paper she asked ‘oh, did you still want to play your lotto numbers?’ He turned and started to say they were not lotto numbers, but changed his mind, smiled and then nodded. He became a millionaire that Friday, asked Beth out on a date Saturday night. Two years to the day, they welcomed baby Frances. He never did return that book to the library, the late fees must be outrageous!


You look out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been. You have to rub your eyes and pinch yourself to make sure that you’re not dreaming and that this is in fact real. To be honest, you didn’t even realize the weather forecast could be this wrong. Sure, there was the occasional sunny day when the forecast predicted rain, but nothing could have prepared you for the purple clouds gathered overhead and the sizzling rain splashing on the sidewalk. It had been three days since you had seen normal weather, if snow in August could even be considered normal. You typically wouldn’t consider that normal, but compared to the weather this week, you’d give anything to see a gray cloudy sky instead of the mauve gathered overhead. Donning your raincoat (like that would help anyway), you step outside. By this time, the sizzling rain has thankfully ceased, leaving the sidewalks peppered with small holes, but strangely damp. You shake your head, letting out a sigh before freezing in your tracks. Even the weather forecast could not have predicted the large mako shark that lands not even a meter in front of you. You jump back, startled as the shark stares back at you, apparently as confused as you were, before it flopped over, rolling down the hill, tail over fins. You hear the loud honking and squealing of tires on the road as you shook your head, wondering what other sea wildlife has fallen from the sky. As you head into work, you walk by an angry-looking porpoise and a sea lion who scampered toward you, whiskers twitching. You eye them cautiously as you skirt around them. “Don’t look at me,” you mutter. “I don’t know anything either.” The porpoise snorts. It would have rolled its eyes and cursed, you swear, if it could. The sea lion sniffs you again before waddling off, flippers smacking on the sidewalk that should be soaked with water. Then again, you admit. It’s decidedly not the strangest thing you’ve seen all week. With the strange weather this week, you admit that you should have seen it coming. Yesterday, it was the nor'easter of tiny elephant figurines that swept through town. You barely got a wink of sleep that night, with the pitter-patter of what should have been snow on the roof. The day before, you shake your head as you recall the nightmare cleaning up had been, it was a torrent of fluorescent green slime, cold and slippery, that poured from the sky, the clouds a glowing turquoise above it. It had taken hours for you to scrape up the sticky goo off the windows, and even then, you hadn’t even made a dent in the green goo still plastered over your roof. Hopefully, you huff, the sizzling rain from this morning will have washed the remnants of the goo away. The rest of the journey is mildly uneventful. You give silent thanks that a great white shark doesn’t land on your head, chomping you in two, or a giant squid does not careen into you, tentacles wrapping around you. When you near your building, you do notice several tuna fish flopping on the sidewalk, flippers tangled in sticky green goo, probably residue from yesterday’s storm. “Strange weather we’re having,” Bob remarks as you hold the door for him. You nod, following him in, shutting the door in the face of a curious narwhal. “What’s going to be next?” You ponder aloud. “A tornado of furniture? A hurricane of toys?” Bob chuckles. “That would be a nightmare,” he comments, staring pointedly at an orca whale rolling down the street. “Very bizarre,” you snort as you watched the orca’s tail hit a car, smashing the windshield in on the belligerent driver. The elevator dings and you and Bob head separate ways. You to your office, Bob to the front desk. If not for the odd purple-tinted lighting, you could almost imagine it is a normal day. Just an ordinary summer, blue skies, mosquito bites, grills in the backyards. Not any of this nonsense, with squids coming from the sky or sweeping figurines off the sidewalks. If you were a child, you would have been amused and in wonder of the strangeness of what was going on. Certainly, you remarked as you watched two children run by on the street below, chased by a fur seal, you would have had much fun. You have to admit, you’re mostly adjusted to this strange weather. The day goes by without much thought to the weather. You’re too busy with phone call after phone call and meeting after meeting to be preoccupied with the sight of leatherback sea turtles lying on the roads or the walrus sleeping in the fountain, unbothered by the flashing of cameras around it. In fact, it’s almost three by the time someone raps on the door and you look up to see Bob’s smiling face. “Weather’s on soon,” he says. "I'll be there," you answer, following Bob into the common area where you joined your co-workers watching the large screen. “Welcome to the weather forecast. Tomorrow’s forecast,” the weather reporter sounded flustered. “Temperatures should be around 10 degrees Celsius and cloudy. Well, folks, as you are probably certain, we’re not quite sure what we’re dealing with. All over the country, strange weather phenomena are being reported. With a bean storm in Manchester, yes you heard us right, a bean storm, and it’s literally raining cats and dogs in London. We have Dr. Johnson, a famous meteorologist here to tell us more.” “Thanks, Josh,” the voice switched to a smoother and deeper one. “We’re not quite certain what we’re dealing with, with the aquatic sea life coming from the skies or the elephant figurines.” It sounded as if Dr. Johnson is trying not to laugh. “The strangeness of it all is perplexing, we have to admit, but we think that the weather has been caused by a change in the jet-” You sighed, turning away from the screen, letting the report drop into the background as you stare out the window, watching a few seagulls tussle with a giant squid. With the strange weather patterns, you only knew one thing for certain. It was going to be a long, and very bizarre, week.


Eeeeerk. I woke up groggily to the sound of my door opening. A familiar figure stood at the edge of my bed.  “Hello John.” my father’s trembling voice spoke softly.  Terrified, I hid my head under a pillow. I couldn’t look at him, I had hoped to never see him again. I hoped to graduate, change my name, and leave this town forever. \*\*\* I still vividly remember the day, 4 years ago, that the police showed up to search our house. I remember being locked in my room, peeking out the window to look at what I thought were soldiers, despite my mother telling me not to. I remember the barking of the dogs in the back yard, and my mother’s screams after they dug the first body out. Finally, I remember them taking my father away in a police car, the last glimpse of him I’ve had. You see, the police say my father killed 7 children, 7 that they found anyway.  I was twelve then. Ever since that day I have lived in what I can only describe as a dystopia. No one trusts me. I have no friends. You’d think I was wearing a costume the way the other students look at me. I feel completely isolated and alone. Who can blame everyone? When they see me, they are reminded of their friend, son, or cousin who they all believe were killed by my father. That kind of anguish and frustration is hard to express rationally. I would look funny at me, too. I live in a community in pain, and everyone relates me to the source.  My mother hasn’t been the same since, which isn’t really surprising. She spends most of her time drinking and watching reruns of old TV shows from her childhood. I think she wants to forget she grew up, forget she got married, and even forget me. I remember calling her two years ago on the phone.  “Hi mom, I forgot my lunch on the counter, do you think you can drop it off at school on your way to work?”  There was a long pause, but I could faintly hear her sniffling, as if she was crying over the phone.  “Mom, are you okay, it sounds like you are crying.”  “You sound like... You sound like your father.” She said, barely able to say the words as she cried, her anguish apparent in every syllable.  She never speaks to me anymore. It hurts her too much. I can’t imagine the pain in her eyes if I had told her father escaped, but she was already passed out drunk when the news broke. \*\*\* “Take the pillow off, John, I want to see my son” he trembled. I could tell he was crying.  I couldn’t even muster words to say to him, so I just shook my head. I could feel a force push into the pillow and rip it from my face. Immediately, my eyes met his. He looked so different than I remembered him, there was so much pain in his eyes. My heart immediately fell to my stomach; I felt broken looking at him. When I looked at my poor mother eyes, glossed over with a haze of booze, I can blame it on my father. The tearful eyes of my classmates, mourning the loss of those kids before every football game, I can blame on my father. But my father’s sad blue eyes were all my fault. I hadn’t felt that before. He knew I killed those kids.  “I sacrificed everything to save you, John.” He cried, pressing his tear-dampened lips to my forehead “but I love you.”  I struggled to get a word to come out, but I finally sobbed ‘It didn’t work.” \*\*\* They caught my father as he left my house, and he went back to jail. But now, every drink my mother downs, and every pregame prayer, I feel that same pain. If I was in a dystopia, I’m now in pure hell.


The salesman smiled slightly as he saw the father approach the counter, his lanky teenage son in tow. He knew the look in the man's eye, had seen it often enough with others, the grim determination of a teacher, blended with pride and a hint of melancholic remembrance. "We want to see the...goods," the man said, in a voice used to give orders. The salesman dipped his chin in acknowledgement but wasn't to be coerced into moving right away. He regarded the son, maybe fifteen years of age, who'd been looking around the store with a somewhat paranoid pattern of head swivels, eyes darting to the equipment on the walls, as if assessing their potential to hurt him. The salesman stepped out from behind the counter and led them through the nearby curtain, the heavy corduroy sighing as they entered the room behind, waiting in suspense for the lights to come on. It always took a breath’s length until the neon flickered awake, and the salesman had, over the years, found that this little moment of darkness helped to put customers into a more affluent mood. The man slapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, beaming with pride as if he had invented or owned all of the shiny black devices in the room. They were mostly held in cases, heavy duty with stenciled type numbers, in a variety of sizes. The smallest were easy to hide on the body, carried in ladies’ purses, while the biggest were professional grade, long black cylinders that reflected oily and readily. A slight smell of polymers and machinery emitted from the cases and their contents. The teenager seemed to be frozen on the spot, until the salesman received the OK signal from the father. Encouraging the youth, he smiled genially, took an object from a case and gently pushed it into the boy’s hands. "How does it feel? Do you like the weight?" he said. He noticed that the boy had an idea of what to do but seemed overwhelmed with the power given to him. Did the father ever let his son touch the one at home or was it safely locked away? The boy eventually leveled it and the salesman nodded with approval that he didn't immediately point it in someone’s face. By God, this had happened often enough, reason enough for many fathers to postpone the purchase by a year. He subtly positioned the arms of the boy, adjusting his stance. "Now here is where to aim, close your left eye and look through here..." The teen did as he was told. "Do you like it?" "I guess so," the boy said, lowering the black body, glancing at his father for guidance. "Maybe something a bit more suited for beginners," the salesman said and set another slender object into the boy’s hands, this one lighter and a bit more modern in appearance. "38 is more versatile," he said, awaiting the protest from the father. Men of his generation usually protested at this point. "It was 45 or 50 in my day," the customer said gruffly and predictably. The salesman took it as an opening to start his spiel, lecturing about sizes and grades and how they had changed over time, how nowadays everything was getting smaller and lighter, trending towards portability and such. He could tell the father wouldn't be convinced but that he eventually accepted the authority of the salesman, respecting his expertise. The teen wanted to hold the biggest item and he let him. At this age, they all wanted to feel powerful by holding the large caliber, maybe some sort of phallic symbolism related to puberty. While the boy perused the goods, the salesman exchanged some expert talk with the father, how some companies had released new models, others were taken off the market, how technology evolved in faster and faster cycles. In the end, they settled on the premium version of a popular bestseller and the salesman took them over to the test range. He loaded the device, using this opportunity to show the teen how to load it up, how to use dial in the right setting for single shots and how to make sure that everything was closed properly before operation. Primed, he stood close behind the boy, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Now, level up, look through the viewfinder, locate your target, breathe in...then, slowly, with your index finger, take the shot." To his credit, the boy wasn't startled as the device responded mechanically, keeping his grip. "Well done!" the father said. The boy smiled shyly. They went over cleaning and maintenance and options to purchase adapters and extensions, should the need arise. After the man had paid cash, the salesman took the boy aside, a ritual he had perfected over the years. "It's a powerful tool, you know. Always be careful and take some time to practice. Your friends will want to hold it and use it, but I advise you to keep it in your hands. Others will not know how to handle it, and they might cause a lot of damage." He added a conspiratorial wink before releasing the boy back to his father. Once they had left, the salesman tidied up the room, putting all the devices back in their cases, in one corner the Canon Single Lens Reflex, in the other the Pentax Mirrorless. He wiped down the Zeiss lenses and turned the Hasselblads so that the logo was shown properly. Lastly, he closed the showcase with the Sony pocket cameras, took the money from the recent purchase and left the room through the curtain, the automatic sensors switching off the lights shortly after.


Something considered to be **08/15** is totally normal and nothing of particular importance. If you have **clattered off** a town, you have explored its entirety to the last corner. If you can **make-up something off yourself**, you are definitely not going to do it. You're very surprised, which leads you to believe that **the ape is delousing you** and **your pig whistles**. Thinking you can punish Serbia for the Srebrenica massacre the same way Germany was punished for the Holocaust means **comparing apples to pears**. You have an absolute disadvantage that will have you lose this argument no matter what you say? Well, you've **pulled the asscard**. An **asscrawler**, also referred to as **spitlicker**, does tiny favours for a superior, such as saying what they want to hear, usually to avoid or lighten punishment. Again, you've gotten into trouble and I get to bear the consequences. It's always the same: you do something and I have to **bathe it out**. If you do destructive things all the time, you **behave like the axe inside the forest.** What? I have no idea what you just said. I only understood **train station**. I can see in your eyes that you're lying. Tell me what you want, but I know you're **binding a bear on me**. He told me something magnificent and unbelievable had happened, but - **the labouring mountain gives birth to a mouse** - it's only a small new update for a PC game. If unfortunate events have led to a terrible situation you're in now, **you have the salad now**. Look, you're in a really shitty situation with all the problems you have to face, but I can **build you a golden bridge** to get you out of this mess. You know what? Kiss my ass, **slide down my humpback** and **take a shit on the wall**. Your concerns **pass my ass** right now, I don't give a shit about them! I think this guy is cooperating with you. I don't have proof yet, but I'm pretty sure he's **beneath one cover with you**. Oh great, you've ruined it. Everything was fine, then you came, and now everything is **in the bucket**. To help you remember the conversion better, I might show you a **donkey bridge**: "five tomatoes" sounds like "five two eight O" and a mile has 5280 feet. Things were turning against democracy, and Hitler seized the opportunity, **turning his little fan after the wind**, and established a dictatorship. I have to run away. It was a difficult decision to make, but I have finally decided to **give heel money**. There are many ways to embarass yourself, and if you've done it, you've stepped in a **little bowl of fat**. If a German calls you a **bottle**, a **rag** or a *bag*, they mean you're an idiot. If you get **cold feet** about something, you're sure it's doomed to be a total failure. My **patience thread** is about to break. If you do such a thing again, this won't go unpunished. If someone is overly sensitive, you should talk to them with a lot of caution and empathy, or in other words, **touch them with velvet gloves**. Oh, all those terms for death... - scratching off - passing the spoon - biting the grass - smearing off - crossing the Jordan - hearing the little angels sing - being off the window - looking at the radish from below - being called home - blessing the temporal things If something a person said isn't acceptable according to your customs, it's **below the belt line**. A **joy girl** is a hooker. This theory and its arguments are pretty far fetched, or as Germans call it: **pulled along by the hair**. It **has neither hand nor foot**. **"Broken neck and legs!"** means "Break a leg!", which is a wish for luck upon someone. You've insulted me, and now you'll feel my revenge. I'll **show you what a rake is** and **where the hammer hangs**. If a lot of cold wind rushes through your room, it **pulls like pike soup**. The sentence "What the fuck?" has various translations: - What the devil? - What the hangman? - What the cuckoo? - What the vulture? **Seventh Heaven** is just Cloud Nine. If you have **a little chicken to pluck** with someone, you two have a score to settle. You can't sit still for a second! Do you have **bumblebees in your butt**? This is too much for me, I can't take it anymore, this **goes over my hat string**. If two options yield exactly the same result, they are **jacket like pants**. **Sailor's yarn** and **hunter's Latin** are blatant lies. You have run 100m in 8 seconds? Yeah, **and I'm the emperor of China**. This type of behaviour is outrageous! You've been behaving **beneath every cannon** lately! Another round of beer, this time on my **cap**. Yes, I'm paying this one. If something is **for the cat**, it's hopeless, useless and/or pointless. If you are willing to take a risk, you take what may happen **into purchase**.


I pulled into my sister's at about 6:15, only fifteen minutes late, unsure whether she would be ruffled by my proximity to timeliness. Usually if she tells me a time, she does so with the full understanding that I will be approximately forty eight minutes late, and gives me an earlier time of arrival than she actually expects me to show up at. She doesn't like it when I mess up her life hacks, even if it is as a result of trying to be a responsible adult. Her annoyance will be mitigated by the fact that I brought two boxes of wine with me, or maybe she would be irked because she was only expecting one. It's hard to tell what will set her off these days. I hope her new boyfriend will take the edge off a bit. I worry about her when she gets anxious like she has been recently. I decide to sit in the car for at least ten minutes, just in case, and recline my seat back so I can drink straight from the box. Everyone always expects me to bring a box of wine when they invite me. I am the box wine guy, ever since the ordeal with Mrs. Perot back in the 10th grade, which is actually a pretty funny story. One morning I spotted a box of wine just sitting under a tree in the park as me and Tommy were walking to school. He dared me to take it, and then said we would chug straight from it at my locker in between classes. By fourth period we were both completely blotto. I was in Mrs. Perot's English Lit class, and we were discussing The Old Man and the Sea, which I had actually read the summer before, and disliked immensely. While Jackie McKenzie was giving her usual brown-nosing spiel on the moral worldview which she believed the story was a metaphor for, some overeager hogwash about perseverance and natural law, I stood up and declared Hemingway to be a closet homosexual whose masculine prose was nothing more than a literary beard, then puked in Jenny Watson's hair and all over her cheerleading outfit. So that is why I will be 'that boxed wine guy' for the rest of my life. While I waited I turned the radio to the oldies station and played a game where I drank every time someone sang the word 'baby'. I do not recommend it. I ended up doing this for fifteen minutes and had finished half a box. I was feeling fully socially lubricated when I knocked on my sister Lacey's door. As soon as she opened it she could tell I was pretty well into my cups, and gave me a look of exasperation. "You're early." "I brought you a box and a half of wine," I said, holding the full one out to her, then let out long belch that somehow summoned a chunk of cinnamon roll I ate hours ago into the back of my throat. I lifted the box to wash it down. "Come inside and do that, you savage lush," she commanded. I followed her into the house and said hello to the other dinner guests, offering to hoist my box so they could wheeze my juice, but they all politely declined. Too polite for my taste. I hardly knew these people any more. We all grew up together, but then they actually went and grew up for real, and the fun machine took a shit and died. It used to be awesome that I was the boxed wine guy, but now they look at me like some kind of hopeless manchild, which is what they were doing right then. These fucking people with their hopes and dreams and unaffordable mortgages and credit card debt. "Where's the new guy?" I asked my sister. "Out back smoking with Paula." she replied. "Cigarette or joint?" "Dinner, you fuckin' manchild," she scolded. I am dying to see meet the dude that has my sister texting emojis, something she once claimed was the literary equivalent of pissing your name in the snow, but first I have a few pints of boxed wine to relieve my bladder of. I somehow get sucked into an article in a magazine that is sitting on the toilet that claims the KGB were responsible for having Malcolm X killed, which is complete and utter bullshit, but contains some really great illustrations with unintentionally hilarious captions beneath. I am staring at a picture of J. Edgar Hoover in a pencil skirt with a tennis racket and thinking that mainstream liberals have gotten out of control with this ironic neo-McCarthyist, anti-Soviet stuff - since we have plenty of corruption inside our own borders that is far more worrisome -when someone knocks on the door. "Go away, baitin'," I respond, but then am drawn out moments later by a familiar voice. One that should not be here. When I reach the living room my worst suspicion is confirmed. My sister is dating Geoff. We both act like we have never met, which is easier for me since I am expected to act drunk and stupid anyway. My sister introduces us and we shake hands. She explains how they met at the laundromat after he offered her a coupon for a free salad at Panera in exchange for using some of her soap. Everyone laughs at all the right parts of the story, but I can tell Geoff is faking it just as much as I am. Neither of us wants to be here in the same room with the other, it goes against every instinct of our kind. Werewolves are a strange bunch. Someone who might be your best friend on a full moon will be someone who you would never want to run into during the rest of the month. It's just hard to look into the eyes of a man whose asshole you have sniffed, and with whom you have tag teamed a German Shepherd on numerous occasions. It is almost unbearable to come to terms with the fact that such a beast is boning your little sister. Somehow we managed to get through the night without Lacey realizing anything was going on, mostly because I drank myself unconscious within an hour. Before I passed out Geoff and I managed to communicate the necessity of our predicament using nothing but facial expressions. A few days later my sister called, emotionally devastated, and told me Geoff had broken up with her the next day, citing some bullshit about an ex he still hadn't gotten over, but hoped to work things out with. I felt terrible, knowing I was part of the real reason, but I knew it had to be this way. They had only been dating for a few weeks, so it wouldn't be too hard on her. I showed up later with a box of wine and we watched all four Toxic Avenger films to help take her mind off the breakup. A week later Lacey called to tell me she had already met someone new, a Morrissey lookalike who sings in These Charming Men, a tribute to The Smiths. Immediately I found Geoff on Facebook and messaged him that he should give my sister another chance. There are worse people to be forced to spend Thanksgiving with than a guy who occasionally licks his own balls and once gave you fleas.