Maybe it was fate, maybe it was dumb luck, and maybe it was just coincidence. Whatever it was, things that day seemed to fall into place all by themselves. It was the perfect day, the sun was shining, birds were singing as if they also knew how good the day was. Women were smiling at me, the lights were green everywhere I went, everything was perfect. Until eight o’clock. It had been a productive day. I’d gotten groceries, changed the oil in my car, gotten a haircut, I was getting things done. Then the phone rang. I paid the bills, washed the dishes, and did the laundry; I even got some reading in. It was her. I went for a run that morning, visited my grandparents in the home, called my brother in California, I even sorted the recycling. She was coming into town. I spent some time cleaning. I swept the floors, cleaned the bathroom, and vacuumed the rugs. She was going to be here in an hour. It was like the world wanted me to see its best side. My usually optimistic outlook on life was twice as bright as usual. I hadn’t had a negative thought all day. I couldn’t believe it; a person sees a day like that about as often as they see a movie star in a small Midwest town. Nothing could ruin my day, except maybe Maggie. It was two years, three months, fourteen days and one and a half hours since the last time I had seen or heard from Maggie. We were engaged at the time. She went to the store for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. That was a lifetime ago. The whole thing had been a whirlwind. Not just her leaving but the entire relationship. We met at a Halloween party. I went as James Dean; she made one hell of a Marilyn Monroe. We did what seemed natural given the circumstances. Two months later, I proposed on New Year’s Eve, a decision that by the night she called I had second guessed a thousand times over. Don’t get me wrong, it was great at the time. I couldn’t have asked for more. We were madly in love. She moved into my apartment shortly after we started seeing each other and gave it and the rest of my world the life it had been lacking. We played all day and made love all night. Nothing could shake us, or so I thought. It was St. Patrick’s Day; we were getting ready to go to my best friend’s house for the evening's festivities. Maggie said she was going to the store for a pack of cigarettes, and that’s when she left. At six-thirty on March 17th, 2006, with no explanation, no warning, and no goodbye Maggie left for the store, and left me. She left me to explain, to wonder, to myself. After that I had to tell everyone either of us knew what happened. She didn’t explain herself to her friends, she didn’t tell her family, she didn’t warn her coworkers, she didn’t even tell the clerk that sold her the bus ticket. Sure, the nametag behind the counter knew she was going somewhere, but they didn’t know where she was going or what she was leaving behind. After several days of hearing too much from me and not at all from Maggie, her parents had reported her missing. There was an investigation; all they found was Maggie’s car at the bus station. They couldn’t figure out where she went, or even if she had bought a ticket. I guess the teller wasn’t paying enough attention to actually keep track of who bought tickets and the security cameras weren’t working. The detective said they couldn’t track down every bus that left that night just to see if she was on it. I disagreed, but they didn’t ask for my opinion on this one, kind of like Maggie. Even if the police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, prove it, I knew she had gotten on a bus that night. Maggie was like a cottonwood seed, she seemed to go wherever the breeze took her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had seen a street sign that read Delaware and gone there. I knew there was a bus driver somewhere that remembered where he dropped her off, that there was a waitress somewhere that had served her coffee, that there was someone somewhere that knew where Maggie had gone. I just didn’t know where they were or what that damn street sign had said. Everyone told me to move on, that it wasn’t good to dwell on things we couldn’t blah, blah, blah. I heard so many “everything’s going to be alright” and “time heals all wounds” in the following days and weeks that I thought I was going to be sick. I fell into a depression so dark that a mole couldn’t see. It took almost a year for me to come out of it. It was a year of blind dates, of disappointments, of lowering my expectations and still being disappointed. I tried, I really did. I dealt with my friends trying to fix me up, I tried to meet girls at bars and coffee shops, but it was useless, none of them were good enough, they all failed my test. In their defense, it wasn’t a fair test. There was no way they could pass, even as simple as it was. It had only one question, ‘Is she Maggie?’ It was summertime when I finally started to pull my head out of the sand and come to terms with the fact that Maggie wasn’t coming back. After a year of disappointments, unfair tests and unfounded hopes, I had finally come to my senses. The mole could see again. It was July when I met Cara; she was working at the coffee shop next to my apartment building. I went out for a smoke and there she was, beautifully distorted by the cloud of smoke that she was exhaling in my direction. After two weeks of awkward hellos and all too brief, cigarette fueled conversations, I gathered my courage and asked her to dinner. That was exactly one year before Maggie’s call. I was making her dinner to celebrate our anniversary; she was going to be there at nine. Maggie was going to be there at nine. By the time I met Cara I had made a decision to forget Maggie. Not that you can ever really forget a girl like Maggie. She was the kind of person that once they were a part of your life they were permanently etched into your memory. Like an image on a broken etch-a-sketch that no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite shake off. Either way I had decided to put Maggie behind me, not think about her, not talk about her, nothing. I hadn’t told Cara about Maggie, she didn’t even know she existed. She was about to find out. I wasn’t sure which part made me more nervous, Cara finding out about Maggie or Maggie finding out that I hadn’t waited for her. As I was debating this point with myself it hit me, I wasn’t over her. If I was over her I wouldn’t have told her she could come over, if I was over her I wouldn’t care what she thought, if I was over her I would have stopped her. It was the doorbell that finally startled me out my introspective; I didn’t know who would be there when I answered the door. I didn’t know who I wanted to be there when I answered the door. It had to be one of them but I didn’t know which. I opened the door to see the girl that I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life with. Two years, three months, fourteen days and two and a half hours later, Maggie was back from the store. She invited herself in while I searched for words, any words. I’m not sure which part of my setup for the evening she noticed first, the soft music, the smell of home cooked food coming from the kitchen or the candles on the table but that’s when it hit her that I had left something out when she called. I told her everything, I didn’t really mean to but it all sort of spilled out. I told her about the investigation, about my depression, about the fix-ups, and eventually about Cara. When I finished she was silent, it was a lot to absorb and I was sure that she would have questions, but all she said was “Cara.” It was one of those statements that almost got to be a question but didn’t quite cut it. As if to give her statement the answer that it almost demanded, I went for the picture of Cara and I that I kept in my wallet, but in its place was the weathered picture of Maggie and I on our first date that I used to keep with me. Confused, I went to the drawer in my nightstand where I kept Cara’s love letters. Nothing, just old notes from Maggie. I couldn’t find her number in my phone and the drawer that she kept in my dresser was filled with the things that Maggie had left so long ago. I didn’t know what was happening. I went back to the living room and just stared at Maggie in disbelief. It was as if she knew everything that had happened since she left. She simply smiled at me and said “It’s OK.” In that instant I knew that Maggie knew me better than anyone could. I never heard from Cara again, I never found her number, the people at the coffee shop didn’t remember her, and it seemed that there wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. It was almost like she hadn’t ever happened. There was no explanation for it, except maybe Maggie.


Before man, fire did not know its name. It was a bastard child of the Sun, made through unspeakable acts of domination, but cast out in noble embarrassment, cursed for eternity to roam the earth and feed on others just to breathe, breed, rage, dance! It danced. Through countless years and in countless beings, seeking a worthy name in their widened eyes and mangled screams. Yet nothing was found but fear. Delicious fear, endlessly abundant and yet lacking, ultimately, the satiation of an equal. So man was made, in the image of fire.  So true was man to his father. So unrelenting was the force of his insatiability. From the bloom of his youth, fire blitzed his soul. In moments of play, he sought complete domination, thirsting to prove his supremacy with brute force and fear. He would growl just to stoke the fire, he would let out battle cries and pound his chest, feeling within him a force that could break worlds. Gazing at his hands, he imagined with no remorse how it would feel to crush a man, he imagined their shared grin, their unspoken brotherhood in the ultimate dance, the victors spoils above all the consumed fire of the defeated. He walked past crowds and truly wondered why they did not bow. He wondered how certain men could stand peace, and knew that such peace would never last as long as fire was. It was fire that blew the world like the wind, everything deemed good or bad born in debt to possibilities paved by annihilation. By plows soaked in the blood of bureaucracy. By the shrieking sacrifices of kings and commoners alike, their carcasses reeking with disbelief. By ruthless ambition, a man’s willingness to bleed through hell for applause, power, gold, women! Women. Daughters of Eve... cursed for eternity to both love and hate the fire within man. They confounded him, arousing the deepest depths of his fire and yet a maddening softness, as if he were on the edge of his greatest strength and weakness. In full witness of his brutality they would scold his ways and yet gleam with desire, hating and loving the rage within him, hating and loving his hands of fire which pulsed whispers of death, wrapped around their necks in the dance of life. Who could deny themselves to be, if only for a moment, the object of a desire so ancient, eternal, insatiable?  He walks still. Festering under the veneer of civilization, under frail peace--the twisted fire of lesser men, snakes in hollow trees, dry as a desert bone. He walks among husks who have doused their fire in fear, who can no longer comprehend the danger, dousing their fire as if it were not also life. He cannot be stopped. He cares not if he burns. He is always born, he is always coming, the Mad King. Clearing the stage. Over and over again. Laughing, clapping, cursing, dancing, burning. Over and over again. Lost cities born and lost again singing lost songs through lost rubble. Looming in every distance. In every stare, lustful, vicious, unforgiving. A fire clearing snakes in hollow trees, the soil reborn, stronger, virile from the blood. He will never stop. Empires approaching beauty, with beauty, beautiful, burned, and approaching again. He clears the stage, again and again, mindless of his own purpose. And what of he, who burns with fire but does not wish to be devoured by it? He who knows in his heart that all men are hideously unequal, that the Mad King will never be satisfied, can never be stopped, and yet still stands tall against the embers heavy whisper? Blessed are those who seek solace from the fire but do not douse it, who seek solace in the unforgiving wild, wrestling mountains and rushing toward the raging stream, plunging themselves in the freezing cold just to hear the fire scream, to feel the pure heat that is life raging from within, raging to stay alive. They wield the fire like a deft dagger, always seething, always simmering, always piercing the wind in controlled bursts with powerful grace, their practiced bodies scorched and scarred and yet never devoured in their attempt to transcend destiny. Every day is a battle. He stands firmly with the world, inescapably within time, fearless, his minds spear soaked in tears of the Sun. End.


Down the street, only three blocks away from mine, lies a big dark house with windows that are always shrouded in shade, even when the sun is out. All the kids on the block avoided it. Except on Halloween night, when all the kids dare each other to ring the doorbell. I never accepted the challenge, even when my friends called me names. I knew better, there was something off about the place, some kind of weird smell hung around the place like a molding blanket you wrap around a poor child. Plus I’ve seen the signs that others haven’t. The kids who do ring the bell, seem to suffer some kind of accidents in the next weeks after. Like the tall blond boy my friend Giulianna was dating at the time, he accept the dare with great zeal, but in the few days after he ended up in the hospital for a month. Something about intestinal rot, something that at his age shouldve been impossible. He’s not the only one to suffer some kind of horrid accident, there have been others. When I told my friends they just laughed at me and told me that it was just my imagination. Which could be a logical explanation, since they knew me during my “seeing things that don’t actually exist” faze. But I know what I see this time, is real. I’m not imagining anything. Those accident don’t happen at random. It’s not normal for a perfectly healthy teenage boy, to suddenly have a fatal illness, three days after he just had an appointment. Anyway, it was this creepy house that I avoided. That is until I decided to earn some money. A year ago, my mother told me that if in a years time I didn’t have a job she’d kick me out. My mother isn’t the kind of person who jokes around. I spent a while in classes so I could become a legal sitter. Then like every teenager I posted my job proposal up on the electricity poles. For a while, no one accepted. Then about a week ago, I got a call, from one Serenity Lane, at 1245 Amber Road, asking if I would sit her daughter. It didn’t take long for me to recognize the address. Of course, just my luck. The creepy, dark, mysterious, ominous, I can come up with many names for it, house. So here I am. Waiting on the front porch, not daring to ring the bell. I almost feel as if all the kids in the neighborhood have their eyes on me, waiting to see what I will do. They know, of course, that I never ring the bell, no matter how many people dare me, double dog dare me, even triple. They must be wondering what in the world I am doing on the front porch, my fingertip inches from the doorbell. As the minutes tick by the pressure builds, my stress amounts until it is almost a fisical pain in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and Will my finger to press the ivory colored button. I feel my finger press on the doorbell and I wait for the world to end, I wait for my body to order come with some sudden and untreatable illness, but nothing happens. Just the quiet ring of the doorbell from inside the house. I let my eyes flutter open. I’m okay. For now at least, anything could happen in the next three days. While I’m marveling at my continued existence, a tall woman opens the door. Her long dark hair is braided back in a high ponytail. The hair is pulled so tightly it stretches her face unatuarly. Her lips are bright red and her lashes extremely long and bedecked in miniature jewels. She smiled when she sees me, an unnerving thing when her face is already pulled upwards. “Emma!” She exclaims as though I were an old friend she couldn’t wait to see. From what I could tell from our conversation on the phone was that her husband had died a few years back and she had been living with her only daughter since. She’d been looking for a sitter for her daughter so she could go on this business trip and finally I had been the only one to accept. “Come in, come in.” She says gesturing for me to enter. The house is awesome on the inside. The dark wooden floors accent the heavy black chandelier that hangs high on the carved wooden ceiling. The tall windows are swathed in thick red fabric, providing darkness that only the dim light from the chandelier penetrates. The woman, which I assume is Serenity, leads me down a red carpeted hallway lined with dark doors. Finally she pulls up in front of the only door that is marked. Etched in the rectangle of brass is the carefully crafted letters spelling out the Little Bird. This must be her daughters room. Serenity knocks once, but when no one answers she turns the metal doorknob and enters the room. I blink a few times when we enter, the room is much brighter than the rest of the house. The curtains have been thrown open, the Crystal chandelier on full brightness. The room is large, the walls splattered with crude paintings of multicolored birds in flight. The large canopied bed takes up at least half the room. It’s much bigger than my room at home. I find myself looking for the girl I’m supposed to sit. Serenity looks calmly at the room as if I should be seeing something that I don’t. Then I see her, sitting in a nook close to the window. Her small hands are pressed to the glass, as if she can’t get enough of the heat. Her frail body I’d curled in a ball, she looks as if she hasn’t eaten in a while, unlike her mother who looked like she’s never missed a meal in her life, on the contrary she’s probably had one too many. From the back the only resemblance to her mother that I see is the long dark hair. “Palila, your sitter is here.” The girl doesn’t move, nor does she answer. Serenity doesn’t look the least bit concerned about this. “I’m going to leave, then. Emma’s going to be here for the next few days.” Palila drops her hands from the window and wraps them tightly around herself. Then whispers in a low voice. “Goodbye mother.” Serenity looks satisfied. She turns to me and hands me half of my pay, promising to pay the other half when she returns. Then she leaves. No hugs for her daughter, no “I love you” and no instructions for me to follow. With no clue as to what I’m supposed to do I sit on the edge of Palilas bed, watching as her pale hands trace careful circles of the backs of her arms. I fold my hands in my lap, encasing the crisp money Serenity gave me. The silence is so thick it’s almost tangible. Palila makes no noise, it almost sounds as if she isn’t breathing. It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding my breath. “So, what would you like to do?” She doesn’t look at me, just sighs and rests her chin on her forearms. “If in some way I benefit from you, I suggest you tell me now. It’s not to late to call my mother and tell her you quit.” She says calmly, reciting almost as if she’s had to say this many times before. The way she says it is eerie, and I can tell most people would probably have left by now. But not me. I refuse to give up. “I’m not going.” I say firmly. I can see in the dim reflection of the window that Palila raises her eyebrows. I’ve passed a test. I can’t help thinking. Although this girl is much younger than me she seems wise, or at least knolagedable. She knows things I don’t. My friends would tell me I’m being ridiculous. That there is no way a skinny girl looking out a window would be testing me. “Your not here to take care of me, are you?” The question takes me off guard. It rings with truth, though. Although I’ve told myself I’m coming here for the job, and the job only. I know that the only reason I didn’t bail out and run instead of pressing the doorbell is because I want to know this house. I want to find its secrets. I’ve had actual dreams of entering this house, actual visions of what might be awaiting me inside. And here I am. It might all just be a fantasy I made up so I could solve a mystery, but I need to know. I don’t know how Palila knew this, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of telling her she was right. If I’m going to be in charge I need to start acting like it. “I came here for the job and the added bonus of getting payed.” I try to look annoyed at the question, or indifferent, or anything but guilty of a lie. But for all my best efforts, she doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it drop. “Okay, then I want you to read to me.” For some reason it seems like a strange request. I look around the room, then realize why. “There are no books.” I say. Palila has shelves lining two of the four walls, but instead of volumes stacked high on them there are only birds. Not real ones of course, but figures. Some clay, others folded from paper, some even look like taxidermy. It’s an odd choice of decoration unless you are completely obsessed with the winged creatures. But I don’t think Pilala is. Despite the name on her door and the birds lining the shelves, there is no other thing in the room that has any indication to the fact that Palila is a bird fanatic. “Of course there aren’t. We have to go to the library.” That makes sense. I feel a bit disappointed. I hadn’t even realized I been hoping for a mystery. I’m about to voice the question of where the library is, when Palila jumps up from her place on the ground and she makes her way out of the room. She makes an effort to keep her face turned away from mine, and as I follow her down the hall I can’t help wondering why. Down the hall, a right, a left, a pair of staircases, another left, stop. Palila pushes open the heavy oak door to the library. I gasp as we enter the big room. Every wall is lined with bookshelves along with six rows of them down the length of the room. Every available space is piled with books. Books of every color and shape, every size and thickness. The titles varied in font, color, and language. I can’t help thinking how much my father would have loved this. Then I shut down the thought, remembering I’m not to speak, hope, or even think of him anymore. As I follow Palila down one of the isles she instructs me on the kind of book she wants to read. “A big book, not to big. A red book but not shiny. One with a long title but no T’s.” The requirements seem weird and unnecessary for picking a book. But I scour the boom shelves anyway, for one that fits the bill. After what feels like an eternity, when I feel like even a book lover will have gotten tired of looking at book spines, I see one. It’s a beautiful matte red, like the color of blood without the shine. It’s about as thick as my three middle fingers out together and the title is five words long, with no letter T. In small golden letters it reads. When in darkness calls bird. I put my fingers in it to pull it out, but Palila grabs my wrist. I look at her, and she doesn’t hide her face this time. Her eyes unnerve me, sending a shiver up my spine. They are darker than any eyes I’ve ever seen, and they glimmer as the light reflects off of them. They’re unnatural. Almost as if they are holes that lead to nothing, or maybe they lead to everything but there’s no light to see what lies there. I want to scream, I want to run, I want to go home as fast as I can, but I regain my composure and give Palila a questioning look. “Not that one.” She says sternly. I begin to object, but she takes my face between her hands, staring me down with those endless eyes. “Never that one, never.” End Of Part One


Now that Billie was on board with trying to rescue Liam and Joe, they’d thrown themselves into the planning wholeheartedly. It hadn’t taken them long to insist that they would need more help. Though part of Madeline wished that it could stay just *her and Billie*, she knew deep down that her friend was right. So she reluctantly agreed to go to their group’s next meeting. And that meant they had a long way to travel. The two weeks that remained until the next assembly would take place should be ample to cover the distance, even with the meandering route they’d have to take to ensure they had sufficient cover and with plenty of stops along the way, but that didn’t make Billie any less eager to get going. They made sure that Madeline was packed up and ready to leave within an hour of the decision being made. Then, the long hours of walking began. They agreed on parallel paths, trying to remain in range of each other on the walkie-talkies, but far enough away so as not to be detectable by any Poiloogs in the area. Though they tried to keep each other company from afar, it was clear that both of their minds were elsewhere. Snatches of conversation trailed off all too easily. The same topics were repeated over and over. But Madeline didn’t mind. Just the sound of Billie’s voice brought her comfort -- a perpetual reminder that she was no longer truly alone in the word. By the time they paused for lunch, they were pretty much out of the city. Given the nice weather and lack of other options, Billie suggested that they eat outside for a change. The occasional farmhouse dotted the otherwise green landscape, leaving a clear view in most directions. Madeline found her head swivelling around even more than usual, continually checking over her shoulder. The lack of obstacles obscuring the horizon gave them plenty of warning if anything might be coming, but also left them exposed. “What will we do when we get further out?” Madeline asked between mouthfuls. Billie frowned. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I haven’t really been out of the city since... well, since the Poiloogs first came. I imagine as we get further into the country it will be difficult to find places to sleep. Particularly if we want to find two buildings close enough together but also far enough apart.” “Not really,” Billie replied. “Not with some careful route planning anyway. There are plenty of small villages between here and our destination. As long as we stop in one each night we’ll be fine.” “And what about the Poiloogs? Are there fewer out here? More?” “About the same really.” “Huh,” Madeline said, taking in the information. “Surprised?” “A little. I’d always assumed it would be quieter out here. Given the lack of buildings and shops, there aren’t many resources, which means not many people. Why would the Poiloogs waste resources patrolling here?” “You’re kidding, right?” Billie asked. The incredulous grin that was spreading across their face made Madeline flush with preemptive embarrassment. “Nooo,” she said slowly. “Why do you say that? And please be nice about it!” Billie gasped, grabbing their chest as if wounded. “Am I ever anything but nice? No! Don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know.” They chuckled at the glare Madeline shot them before continuing, “We may not be surrounded by shops and houses with packets and tins of food. But you know what we are surrounded by?” “Farms!” Madeline groaned. “Oh my lord, I can be slow sometimes. I bet a lot of people were eager to move out here when everything kicked off.” “Oh, they were. Some of them still are. If you know what you’re doing you can survive quite well out here. It’s a shame neither of us were farmers, eh?” “I suppose so.” “Now, are you ready to get going again?” Billie asked, climbing to their feet and holding a hand out for her. “If I say no, do I get to eat more?” Billie bent to grab her hand and used it to haul her up. “Come on lazy bones! The sooner we get going the sooner we can stop for the night.” \ Just as planned, they reached a small village later that afternoon. Seeing as they only had to average a distance of around five miles a day, Billie suggested they stop there until tomorrow so that they could spend some time relaxing and recuperating. When they’d found houses to sleep in a few streets away from each other, they went to meet up at a pub on the opposite side of the village. Madeline arrive first, though only because Billie was in the process of sweeping the surrounding block. After a quick check around the building, she stepped up to the garden wall and jumped, grabbing hold of the top as firmly as she could. With a burst of effort, she hauled herself up, pressing her toes into the wall for extra help. When she was securely on top, she swung her legs over and landed nimbly on the other side before taking a seat at one of the tables in the beer garden. It wasn’t long before Billie joined her. She heard a loud exhale as a pair of hands appeared over the wall, followed shortly by her friend’s face, then body. They waved at her quickly from the top before jumping down and strolling over. “So what did you want to do in our time off?” Billie asked as they approached. “I’m guessing sparring -- or exercise of any kind -- is out of the question? For now at least.” “Forever, if I have anything to say about it,” Madeline replied. They took a seat nearby, hopping up to sit on the table and rest their feet on the bench. “Nah! I’ll wear you down. And the best thing is, you know it too. I can see the acceptance in your eyes!” “You can see no such thing,” Madeline said haughtily, folding her arms and turning her head away. But she couldn’t hold the expression long. A moment later, a stifled giggle burst out from her lips. “Alright, alright. *I’ll* admit that I actually quite like having someone to spar with if *you’ll* admit that sometimes you’re *extremely* relieved when I talk you into having a break.” “Me? Need a break? Never!” Billie exclaimed. Then, they cracked a smile. “Oh, alright then. You might be onto something there.” Madeline grinned back. “So, with that in mind, what did *you* want to do now?” “Well... what do you think about taking the time to come up with a bit more of a plan?” “A plan for the--” “The rescue, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, we’ll still ask the group for their input, but I’d like to present as complete an idea as possible to them. I think they’re more likely to go for it if we can make it sound like a realistic possibility.” “That makes sense,” Madeline said, nodding along. “So did you have any ideas? Or did you want me to start?” “Go ahead,” Billie said with a wave of their hand. “Okay, so I figure the first question we have to answer is: where are they?” It didn’t take long for the pair of them to lose themselves in questions and answers, details and ideas beginning to take shape as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.


“There is not a guidebook for knowing how long is long enough to feel OK after someone passes on. There should be, it would make everything so much simpler and provide a clear and obvious goal to work toward. It is infuriating that such a set marker doesn’t exist. It’s not that I cannot stop mourning, it’s that I don’t know when I’m allowed to put it down and stop picking it up. I was at our bar last night; it was trivia night, and I was sitting in our booth, and everyone knew it. It took a little while, roughly 3 beers and two trivia rounds, I couldn’t tell you what that equals in time on a clock, but I don’t have to do I? You know exactly how long that is. “Anyway, it took that much time, but I was having fun you know, the category was sci-fi films and literature, I was kicking all of the ass, and I had a good buzz going. I laughed at a question, got it right in less than 3 seconds and secured the win for the round. So, of course I did a fist pump and whooped and called for another beer. The looks I got... these are our friends and I know they miss you, but it feels like I’m supposed to carry the collective grief of the room every time I’m there. All of them were laughing and cutting up just like always and as long as I had my long face on and gave an occasional sad smirk, they were fine. But as soon as I cut loose it was like I had violated your memory and the energy in the room changed from sympathy to anger. They were actually pissed off at me because I was having fun while you’re rotting in the ground, I don’t know what to do with that. “Oh well, screw it all anyway. It’s been a year today and your ghost just keeps lingering. I’m not mad about it, it’s nice having you here to talk to about you not being here hehe. I’m going to call it long enough, if you ever have to mourn me go ahead and knock a few months off the requisite period, give me 9 months. If a human can grow from conception to birth in that time frame, surely you can grieve adequately and send them back to the stuff they came from in the same window. It feels incredibly stupid to drive all the way out to the canal to meet you tonight, but you always were half stupid, so I packed a bottle of Jameson and the good ice, and I’m headed that way. I guess I’ll see you there, if you have some haunting lined up it better not be lame. I want some proper floating specters and flickering lights to make the trip worth my while.” ... “Was it always this dark out here? I could have sworn there was a lamppost or two along here once upon a time, but my memory has been through too much for it to be a reliable witness. You know what’s really unfair is that I don’t even like Jameson, this is your whiskey. Why didn’t I bring some gin and tonic, why didn’t you recommend it? Selfish bastard. Well, I’m here now and here’s to you. What do they say in the movies? Pour one out for the homies. “You know what I don’t get, and what you were too preoccupied with breathing your last to tell me, is why 10pm. I guess I can understand the canal, we spent the worst parts of our youth out here being shitheads, I told you things I swore I’d never tell anyone sitting right here. And you told me about the diagnosis sitting right over there. It’s a fitting place to celebrate a year without you. But you didn’t die at 10pm, you shuffled off midmorning. And try as I might, I cannot for the life of me remember anything of significance that happened at 10pm specifically out here, or anywhere for that matter. It’s such an odd thing to be so insistent about and to tell you the truth I almost didn’t come tonight. I’d rather have driven out here in daylight and I’d much rather drive home with some illumination. In the end I decided to camp out in the truck and that’s the only reason you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night. Damn it, I really should have brought the gin, or at least something to mix this swill with. Not only does it taste like Irish piss, but it’s also going to give me a righteous hangover, I can already feel the headache. Your taste in alcohol is as bad as your taste in women. “Did you know that the old gal found herself a new man not two months after the funeral? I saw them at Chili’s snuggled up in a booth bold as you please. She pretended not to see me when I walked by, and I returned the favor. I guess that’s hypocritical of me, I was just bitching and moaning about people’s expectations of my grief. But listen, maybe there isn’t a set time but certainly it’s more than two months, right? Oh well, she never was as good for you as you thought she was anyway, she just had a fantastic ass and a wardrobe to accentuate it and you’re simple enough for that to work. “OK, listen up I have to tell you something and I know you’re not going to like it because I hate it. I told you earlier that I had made up my mind, that I have decided to call an end to my period of mourning. I have a confession to make, I didn’t come to that conclusion on my own. You know I’ve been talking to someone to help me sort through this mess. She’s a pretty sharp lady and if I wasn’t paying her good money to help me out, I’d even say she genuinely cares about me. Yeah, yeah, I’m a nasty minded cynic and she probably does care, at least a little bit anyway. Stop changing the subject, I have to get this out. I told her you and I have been talking, that we never stopped talking, that you just vacated your corporeal presence in favor of a mystical vapor. She didn’t laugh at the joke, said it wasn’t a joke and that was OK but that I needed to consider something. She said you were a coping mechanism and that was OK too, but that if I kept coping forever the limp would become permanent. She said I had to let you go Lee, that I have to say goodbye again and this time for good. I didn’t say anything sooner because I had no intention of listening to her. I told her where she could stuff it that day and I missed several meetings after that, dodged her calls, blocked her number, so on and so forth. “But that was a couple months ago and after a while I started to see the signs she was talking about. I don’t talk to anyone else anymore. Why would I? You’re always here, always listening and I always know what you’re going to say. If I’d known how much easier it was to be friends with a dead guy I would have killed you off a long time ago. Shit, see that’s the kind of stuff... I’ve gotten really dark and spooky lately Lee. At first no one said anything because it was just how things go when someone you love dies hard. But somewhere back there I crossed the invisible line and went too far, waited too long to get over it. I don’t know, maybe they’re all wrong, maybe she’s as dumb, or dumber, than I am, and this is exactly the right way to cope. But I suspect not, and I have decided that a year anniversary is as good a point as any to do something about it. “You and I are going to finish this bottle tonight, Lee, I’m probably going to puke before it’s over because I don’t drink like you do and this shit is nasty. But I’m going to get utterly shitfaced, then I’m going to say goodbye to you and I’m going to climb in the back of my truck here and pass out. And tomorrow morning when I wake up and hurl again and squint at the bastard morning light, I’ll be alone. This is goodbye old pal, it’s time for you to head on your way and for me to stumble down the road on my own. I’ll never have another glass of whiskey I can tell you that much, it will be reserved for you for all time in my heart. Thanks for everything, for all of it, you were the kind of friend you only get one of in a lifetime and I got mine early, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Cheers and goodbye!” The night crept along, the minutes crawling by and the whiskey did its job. Terrance toasted many more times, each toast involving more tears, less sarcasm and bravado. As the 10 th hour of the night approached Terrance was completely unaware, it had been roughly 8pm when he poured the first glass, and a guy can get a long way towards blackout in two hours. Most of the bottle was gone, half of it poured out into the canal but it was a large bottle and Terrance was, as he said, a lightweight. I want you to know that I had no idea that he planned to get liquored up out here, it isn’t the kind of thing he normally does, and I didn’t anticipate it. If I had I would have arrived early and saved him a lot of physical pain and myself a lot of repetition. But hindsight is 20/20 and I have only a limited capacity to view things from that vantage point. I had not, of course, heard any of the things he had been saying to me in the hours leading up to the appointed time of our rendezvous. I hadn’t heard any of the things he’d been saying to me in the year since my death, but he had spoken them and in his mind I had been there for all of them. I could not know how hard this would make the next couple of weeks. He kept referring to conversations we had in his mind, and I would stare at him clueless until he realized it. Then he'd be mad, I don’t think at me, necessarily, just mad and I can understand that. But that meant that he was mad a lot and I couldn’t blame him, but I also couldn’t help him. Anyway, at precisely 10pm CST on the banks of a little canal off an abandoned mining road in East Texas I stepped back through the veil of tears. I am not the first to do so, though it is exceedingly rare. And it is even rarer that someone gets to choose the time and place of their return. But the job I had been given was as rare as this opportunity and to do it I needed Terrance. There is no linear pull of time on the other side, I can’t describe what there actually is because the concept cannot fit inside of a human mind, I only know it is entirely foreign to everything we know. There are inflection points that link that place to this one and the stability of one is dependent on the other. A stream that is in constant flux, flowing both ways. I was back here to nudge that stream in a critical direction. But first I needed to get Terrance back on his feet and in his right mind and that looked like it was going to be my first Herculean task. “Terrance, why are you puking on that ant mound? Did they do something to deserve a vomit tsunami from the gods?” I feel like I had the right to expect more of a reaction from him. All I got was a vacant stare with bile drooling from his mouth, followed by another round of dry heaving. “I’m trying to decide if I’m flattered or insulted that you thought the best way to honor my memory was to drink till you puked. Is that all I was to you? The friend you got hammered with?” I walked over and took hold of his shoulders and when I touched him, I finally got the reaction I had been waiting for. “Jesus H. Christ! Who the hell are you and how did you get out here? God, Lee was a sick asshole, but this is low even for him! How long ago was he planning this? Did he pay you money? Cause if he did that’s messed up, he owed me three months’ worth of his rent when he died! Was he holding out on me so he could pay you to prank me a year after he died! God damn, what a sick fuck!” “Terrance, I need you to dig deep now. I don’t know why you thought a bottle of whiskey was going to do you any favors, but this is not a prank, you are not hallucinating, and I am actually here. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more, but I honestly didn’t know any more at the time, I don’t even know how I knew what I did. Those last weeks were strange, and they are blurred together with what came after. I need your help, but first I need you to sleep this off and shower. You smell worse than you look and that’s saying a lot.” Terrance wobbled there uncertainly for several seconds, his mind kept grasping for sense and logic and kept missing, it was damn illusive. His therapist was going to have a field day with this one when he told her, if he told her. He bet it would end up with him on some powerful meds, he wondered if he’d like that. Lee took another step toward him, and he put out a warding hand, he had felt real physical hands on his shoulders when this guy grabbed him, that was impossible, and it was a first. He usually didn’t see him either, he was just a presence inside of his head that he talked to, how had he pushed that inner presence out into the world? How could he put him back in the jar he came out of? It was too much; he was too drunk. His warding hand came down to his knee and he doubled over in another dry heave spell. The last thing he saw was Lee rushing to catch him as he tipped forward and blacked out.


“ It’s this unknown number calling again ” - Sarah announced as she picked up her phone from the coffee table. “ Answer it ” - Hannah suggested, taking a sip of her marshmallow filled hot cocoa. “ They’ve called twice already. What if something happened to your parents and someone is trying to get a hold of you? ” - she continued. Sarah looked at her friend in disbelief. Hannah was such a good-natured person, but she didn’t always think things through before saying things out loud. “ Good job trying to freak me out ” - Sarah replied, placing the phone back on the table. “ You almost got me. Whoever it is, they should text. Too much spam these days. But you’re right; I will answer if they call again ” - she added, grabbing a handful of popcorn and sitting back in her recliner. As soon as she did that, her phone vibrated just once. “ It’s a message ” - she said, reaching out for her phone and looking at Hannah. “ I’m sure they’re alright ” - Hannah replied, not sure if she believed her own words. “ What the heck? ” - Sarah uttered. “ What is it? Is everything alright? ” - Hannah asked, hoping it was nothing concerning Sarah’s parents. “ Someone’s playing a prank on me. See for yourself ” - said Sarah and passed the phone to her best friend. “ Let’s play a game of hide and seek, Little Mouse ” - Hannah read the message out loud. “ Little Mouse? ” - she asked. “ Yea, I have no idea ” - Sarah replied. “ Press play on that movie, and let’s forget about this nonsense ” - she added, settling back into her recliner. The moment Hannah pressed play, the background lights in the room went off. “ What did you do? ” - Sarah asked, slightly annoyed with how far from ideal this evening was turning out to be. “ Nothing. I pressed play ” - Hannah replied. Letting out an audible sigh, Sarah rolled her eyes, got up, and walked towards the light switch. “ Hmm... maybe it’s the fuse ” - Sarah announced after having flicked the switch back and forth a couple of times. “ Come back, and let’s watch the movie. We’ll check the fuse box later. Do you even know where it is? ” - Hannah asked, reaching out for the popcorn. “ It might be in the basement. Or the garage. Or maybe outside. I don’t remember ” - Sarah replied with a shrug and made her way towards the kitchen. Now it was Hannah who sighed and rolled her eyes. “ There should be a bottle of wine or two in one of these cupboards ” - she shouted so that Hannah could hear her in the living room. The past couple of months have been particularly difficult for Hannah. When Sarah invited her to come to her family cabin in the mountains of Montezuma for New Year’s Eve, Hannah was more than glad to accept. It was supposed to be just the two of them watching one movie after another, eating ice cream straight from the box, and complaining about men. “ White or red? ” - Sarah asked from the kitchen. “ Red, please ” - Hannah replied, browsing through all the available movies, making a mental list of what they would watch next. “ Coming right u- ” - Sarah said before a loud crash could be heard. “ You OK? ” - Hannah asked, turning around on the sofa. Without replying, Sarah approached from the kitchen. “ There’s someone outside ” - she whispered, white as a sheet, as she got close to Hannah. “ It’s alright. We can have white wine instead. Here, I’ll even help you clean it up ” - Hannah announced, getting up from the sofa. “ I’m serious, Hannah. I saw a shadow of a man pass by the kitchen window ” - Sarah said, gripping Hannah’s elbow. Sarah’s phone vibrated once. A message. Both girls looked at each other, and for a moment, neither one of them dared to move. Gathering up all her courage, Hannah reached for the phone. “ What does it say? ” - she asked, handing the phone over to Sarah. Sarah grabbed the phone and opened the message. “ It says: “Get ready to run, Little Mouse” ” - Sarah replied quietly and tossed the phone onto the sofa. “ This is messed up ” - she added, pulling her sleeves over her trembling hands. “ You’re right. Someone’s playing a prank on you. Put your phone on silent, and let’s watch this movie. We have popcorn and hot cocoa for now. We’ll get wine and fix the fuse for the next movie ” - said Hannah, gently steering Sarah towards her recliner and then taking a seat on the sofa next to her. “ Now, I need to pee. Be right back ” - said Sarah, rushing off towards the bathroom. “ We’re never even going to finish this movie ” - Hannah thought to herself. She looked towards the window, and all she saw was darkness mixed with patches of white. It was snowing. All that almost calmed Hannah down. She did not want to let on, but the anonymous messages were starting to get to her. Thinking that maybe she could figure out where the messages were coming from, she picked up Sarah’s phone. “ 10 new messages .” It was a string of messages counting down from 10 down to one. The last one sent 30 seconds ago. “ Sarah? ” - Hannah called out. Slightly unsettled, Hannah got up from the sofa and slowly made her way towards the bathroom. “ Sarah, you alright in there? ” - she asked, knocking on the bathroom door. After doing that twice and receiving no reply, Hannah placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it clockwise. Sarah’s lifeless body lay in the tub with duct tape over her mouth. Splatters of blood all over the walls. Hannah gagged and ran towards the door. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. “ Let’s play a game of hide and seek, Little Mouse ” - said the message on her phone. Hannah placed her phone back in her pocket, got inside her car, and drove off as fast as she could. # Having arrived in Silverthorne, Hannah felt she could let herself breathe for just a moment before formulating the next few steps of her escape plan. She was far away from the cabin, and there were crowds of people around her. They were walking down the street towards the market square, where the New Year’s Eve celebration was taking place. Sarah wanted to go, but Hannah didn’t feel like dealing with drunken assholes hitting on her. She wanted peace and quiet. With her head against the steering wheel, she allowed for the reality to hit her. “ Get ready to run, Little Mouse ” - was what Clarke used to say to her when he felt like playing. He beat her enough times that she finally got a restraining order against him last month. He always had violent tendencies, but she loved him. She thought he could change. She definitely had no idea he could go as far as to kill someone. A shiver ran down Hannah’s spine. Yes, she did know. Deep down, she knew it all along, but she didn’t want to freak Sarah out. Plus, Clarke had no idea where they were. It must have been a prank. The more Hannah thought about it, the more convinced she had become that it was Clarke, looking for revenge. The roads were icy, and Hannah was worried that she’d run out of fuel soon enough, so she stepped outside of the car and joined the celebrating crowds heading towards the main square. As much as she didn’t like drunken crowds, this was where she felt the safest right now. He could not find her among this many people. Plus, even if he did, what was he going to do? He couldn’t kill her in front of thousands of witnesses. As she arrived at the square, the music stopped playing, and everyone directed their eyes up towards the giant ball, just like the one in Times Square. “ Soon, we will enter a new decade. How exciting is that? ” - asked one of the hosts on stage. “ Yes, Marilyn, it’s very exciting. I can’t wait to see what 2020 brings ” - said the other host. Hannah’s pocket vibrated. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and looked at the screen. “ One new message .” Her heart began to beat faster. With sweaty fingers, she jabbed at the screen and swiped upwards. It was a message from him. “ Get ready to run, Little Mouse! ” “ Let’s count down the last few seconds of 2019 together ” - Marilyn said and held the microphone out to the audience. “ 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1... ”


# Happy Saturday, serialists! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ This week it’s all about the *Calm Before the Storm*. **Serial Saturday has a healthy mix of first timers and TT serial veterans, but we all have one thing in common:** Characterization can make or break us. When we go into a serial it can be easy to focus on the action-- tense scenes and endless heartbreak. *... No?* Let’s take this week to focus on characterization ( \^-- Sidenote, this song is amazing as a mood piece for 'Calm Before the Storm', take a listen.) Kiss those boyfriends/girlfriends/cats goodbye, because we're about to get on the bus to Plot Crazytown, Population: Serial Saturday serialists. If you’re brand new to /r/shortstories and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to consider this assignment basically a ***slice of life*** piece. Strengthen your setting and tell us why we should care about your characters. Ideally the groundwork you lay here is what will keep us caring about your character when they fail, and the strength and weaknesses you cover here is what will help your characters face challenges and live to see the dawn. That can come down to showing us a skill building scene, an illustration of your character’s beliefs, or taking a moment to strengthen a relationship. Basically, literally, friendship is magic, If you’re starting Serial Saturday with a TT continuation, consider this assignment your chance to inform us or endear us further to your characters before their , err, I mean, world changes forever. Do they know they’re about to be a protagonist in your universe, or are they ? Maybe your story isn’t about people. Maybe your story is about the crushing weight of forces beyond our control. In that case consider using this as a chance to lead us through a montage of your sleepy town and it’s unsuspecting residents. Perhaps your main characters use this moment to take stock of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Polish those guns. Write those will and testaments. Send the letters that never get opened. Things to think about for this assignment: Where does your character live, work, and play? Do they have nervous tics? When do those come out? Are your characters identifiable if you put them in a police lineup? What are their humanizing flaws? What does that look like? What do they do that endears us to them even when they *should* be unlikable? Show us what that is in this assignment. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **Top picks from last week’s assignment,****:** **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Ryter99, This week the **Smoking Hot Serial Sash:** /u/Xacktar, And honorable mentions: /u/Kammerice, /u/Lynx_elia, **Remember, top picks depend on your votes dm’d to me,** u/aliteraldumpsterfire, so make sure you send in your votes at the end of campfire! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * Submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * E**ach author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 8/29, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and are happy to offer the freedom of choice for our current and new users alike. All submissions are of course welcomed. We hope you enjoy your time in the community. * Leave a story from your original self-established universe, between **500 - 750** words here in the comments. * Leave at least 2 comments on other people’s stories mentioning at least one detail on each that you liked. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. **Join us for Serial Saturday’s Campfire!** * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** * There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Reminders:** * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post.


Andries cried in pain as he fell to his knees, coughing and flinging blood from his mouth onto the cold stone floor. Hot tears welled in his eyes as blood oozed from the scratches, cuts, and gashes. Many would have considered the magic that strengthened his body to be a blessing, it was the only reason he was alive after all. But to Andries, it simply was an excuse for more pain, a reason the world gave him that he simply couldn’t die and have it over with. He should have died when the thing that lay dead before him slammed its tentacle-like appendages into him, sending him crashing into the stone dungeon wall, he should have when he had been poisoned, he shouldn’t have lived when he was flung through buildings, he shouldn’t have survived the first time he had a sword rammed through his gut, much less the third, fourth, or fifth time. But there, there far below the ground the sun touched, far from the arms of those who loved him, there Andries breathed wearing wounds only befitting of a corpse. He tried to get back on his weary legs but slipped in the poodle of his blood that surrounded him, his face hitting the floor wet with his gore. For a moment he just laid there, but slowly he pulled his arms back towards his face. He pressed his fingers, each having been snapped at one point or another, against the stone. Carefully as to avoid slipping on the blood, he pushed himself up to his knees. Finally, as he got to his feet, he stifled a yelp as the powdered bone and meat held together by magic that he called a leg was forced to hold up his weight. He limped towards the thing he had slain, trying to put more weight on his less broken leg, and leaving a trail of crimson behind him. Its fleshy body was bulbous with barbed tentacles protruding from it. Two sickeningly person like legs stuck out at one end of it, and a head with two many teeth on the other. A sword was embedded in its stomach, the hilt simple white, and the blade silver. His crocked, swollen fingers slowly wrapped around the hilt. When he had first held this weapon, he had felt honored. It had been the first time he had ever been chosen for anything. That memory of honor and pride did go some ways in strengthening his spirit, but not far. He went to lift his “good” leg but found the pain that flared through what remained of his other leg unbearable, so he stepped back on the floor. Instead, he slowly, and gently placed his bad leg on the monster’s stomach and gripped the hilt of the sword. His fingers cried out in rebellion, and as he pressed his foot against the dead things gut his legs joined them. It was still more bearable than forcing all his weight on it, however. Gradually the blade began to slide free, the deep purple ichor that covered it gushing out of the monster's wound. There was a splash of monster blood as the tip of the blade was pulled free, and Andries stumbled backward, pain filling his body with each step. The tears began to run down his face, but he began to walk forward, towards the door that led deeper into the dungeon.


\# Afterlife \## Story 1, Part 1 \_Undisclosed Location\_ "Good afternoon. Firstly, I'm very tired. Kind of hungry and I've been in...whatever this place is for 6 months." Kendra said. "Six months?!" a thin, middle-aged man yelled as he stood up. A red light clicked to life on the wall behind his chair. As the sound registered the man quickly closed his mouth and sat down. "Ok." Kendra continued as she looked at man. "You've only been here a day but, honestly. I know as little as you do. I know what's in the identical binder we all have in front of us, and I know if you lose your \_shit\_." She kept her eyes on the man. "Then the little bracelet around our wrists injects us all with \_something\_, we all pass out and when we wake up the person who lost said \_shit\_ is gone." The man at the end of the table raised his hand and began speaking without being formally acknowledged, "....fuck. Only a day? I've only been here a \_day\_? I woke up in that little room with this binder. Which I read. The door opened, I came in here to find all of you and the \_only\_ reason I'm not going out of my mind trying to find a way out of here is because what's in this binder is just crazy enough to be interesting. That, plus the meeting I had with a person I trust telling me that no matter what happens, don't freak out. That match everyone's experience?", he asked. Heads nodded around the table. Kendra found his gaze, "Nice you meet you..." "Tom." "Ok, Tom. Our job is to figure out a next step to a problem that honestly doesn't seem like it has a sane answer. So, should we get started?", she asked. Heads nodded around the table again. "Great.", Kendra said as she pressed a small button in front of her. "Recording has started. Beginning session. Acknowledging receipt of the latest information from the particle accelerator." she said, as she motioned to the page sitting on top of her binder. Identical to the pages also sitting on top of the other binders. The group has worked to decode the message and believe with some certainty that it can be translated as follows, 'Info. Restarting node 78475\_AA-3849\_cAE. Subject 193847758\_AA-33111\_KKE designation confirmed as Buddhist. Reseeded in next available host successfully. Encryption set successfully. Logging will suspend for this subject until next terminal event.'" Kendra pushed the button to stop recording and looked up at a room of tired faces. They were all sitting in a small room on a classified lunar colony which up until 10 months ago served as the observation habitat for the McMellon Super Collider. Now it was the highly classified and \_highly\_ isolated think tank for the 9 men and women seated around the table. "So. Does this message give \_anyone\_ here an idea on how we might be able to use the collider to actually see what the real world looks like instead of just reading log messages?" \### Part 2 \_ Earth. UAE. Classified Facility. \_ In a room similar to the one built on the moon two people sit facing each other. "How was your trip?", asked the heavy set man. "Not bad. I mean. Until you locked me in this room. Told me we're all in a simulation, and I can either help or be placed in a medically induced comma until I die of natural causes.", Kendra said dryly. "Yeah. It's not great. We're going to try something different with you. Instead of black bagging you, locking you in a room and letting you read a binder we're going to simply let you ask questions.", the man said. Kendra looked at him for a long moment and then said, "This is fucked." "Not a question, but I agree. Well, we're both fucked and not fucked. Nothing really changes for the world with this discovery. Though we are concerned that if the people running the show find out we know then it's lights out for us.", the man said. Kendra eyed him for a second, "So before I launch into a endless sea of questions I'd like to assume you're telling the truth. What are you trying to accomplish?" The man took a breath and said, "I don't know. No one knows. We just want to understand. Then act. Maybe. Maybe do nothing. That's the point. We literally don't know what we can do. Frankly, it's all so incredibly head trippy that every day is a small exercise in not losing my mind. I'll tell you this Ms. Romin, asking questions and trying to understand is really the \_only\_ way to keep a gun out of your mouth. Trust me on that and remember that you are being recruited because we're down a person who decided the gun made \_more\_ sense.", he said. "Ok.", Kendra said while trying very hard to read his features. Then she started asking questions: **kendra** \- When did you realize we were in a simulation? **man** \- 10 months, give or take. man - Large particle accelerator doing classified experiments on the moon found data in the energy released from a routine particle collision. Structured data. Completely alien, yet familiar. While we couldn't understand \_what\_ it was saying at first, we could understand \_what\_ it was. **kendra** \- <flips through notes> - Right, says here a lab tech thought it was a prank. That someone put a stack trace with nonsense syntax in the system to be funny. First, what's a stack trace? **man** \- Bear with me. I started off as a systems engineer, but I was never good at explaining this stuff to people. When a program has an error, the underlying system may return a message describing the error with a bit of information about what caused it. kendra - So the collider malfunctioned? **man** \- No. Fuck. I wish. No. The collider is working flawlessly. **kendra** \- What then. Some part supplied by the lowest bidder in the computers had a glitch? **man** \- The universe. **kendra** \- I'm sorry? **man** \- The \_universe\_, under a very specific set of conditions will throw an error message. In something similar to the languages we evolved to use here on "Earth". Apparently. **kendra** \- <kendra went rigid. Her mind tried very hard to get back on stable ground.> That's insane. **man** \- Look. I can see why they picked you. You're handling this very well. Insane or not it's true. The universe is an engineered system, we're inside it and we have no idea what is \_outside\_ of it. kendra - I'm handling this well because I'm sure that no matter how deep this rabbit hole is there is a rational explanation at the other end. **man** \- <shrugs> - I honestly don't have a stable opinion about that. Though that does feel aggressively optimistic. kendra - Ok. Can you give me an elevator pitch or something that kind of wraps up what you do know? **man** \- Sure. Our reality is a simulation. Part of a colonist selection process for habitable worlds. We assume at least one for each major religion on Earth. Maybe one for every religion regardless of size. We know for example that early Earth history was designed to be hard in part because a planet discovered early on required pretty tough bastards. That planet has been abandoned. Total loss. **kendra** \- <opens mouth to speak> - \[man motions for her to wait\] **man** \- The idea goes something like this. Five main corporations...or at least that's what we're calling them. Gods is what they are but that feels a bit specific considering how little information we have. These corporations own the only 5 habitable planets found so far that classify as ideal. They each have a set of guidelines for colonization to try and ensure an ideal society is created. One that won't recreate the sins of their past. Candidates apply to one of the five corporations. These are your major religions when in simulation. It's also a contract. You are free to switch religions, but you are then bound to that new contract and the old one is voided. Christianity for example has a planet that is described as a paradise. An 'Eden' I guess. Code named H3-VN. They are also among the richer corporations. The planet is a farther distance away than the others and even at near light travel it takes a while. They are looking for morally strict colonists. People who won't steal, murder, or bang their neighbors' husband no matter how much temptation they face. People who under any form of stress will always consider the greater good first. Then a bunch of other stuff - like breeding on a new world is important so things like abortion and gay marriage are kind of taboo. The flip side of all this is these corporations also need a lot of labor to get these colony ships built and on their way. Even more for all the work to do planet side. If you sign up with Christianity and \_fail\_ the test then your contract stipulates that the rest of your working life will be spent building ships, mining ore, and watching as people better than you leave for paradise. To ensure you don't do anything spiteful the contract also stipulates that a minor lobotomy will be performed so you don't mind so much. Want to hear something funny? The labor habitat that processes out the failures is in orbit around Mercury and code named H3-LL. Each corporation is like this. Islam has a planet where local radiation has caused 75% of births to be female. There are quite literally scores of virgins waiting to be impregnated by men. Fail and it's a pretty similar setup to the Christians, only their work camps are mining the rings of Saturn. We also just received confirmation that the Buddhists let you keep trying until you get it right. Decent argument for becoming a Buddhist if you ask me. Though the planet they have is pretty sparce. Not a lot to do. So their whole thing is finding the happiness within. kendra - I'm sorry. How are we even able to have this conversation? If we're in a simulation and everything is being recorded then why haven't we been killed, or patched, or whatever. **man** \- turns out these folks really enjoy their privacy rights and contracts. When you get out of this thing you have to go on living your life. Your records are sealed to prevent what amounts to a lifetime diary of potentially bat shit crazy behavior from following you around. Another neat bit. Christians review \_all\_ of your logs when you die. Every thought. Every action. Hindus look at the net good accomplished and kind of redact the details. **man** \- <continues> The other interesting thing is there is a very good chance they do know we know. Or will know eventually. The simulation uses time dilation and a lifetime in here is something like 10 minutes there. This works in our favor since it means we have amassed this information in the time it might take a tech who is monitoring the system to sip her coffee. If that long. On top of that we assume the system generates a lot of data. We are going to great lengths to generate as little noise as possible as we investigate. We have a sort of foothold that lets us query a system connected to the simulation. Best guess is what we've learned comes from archives left over from the system design. Seems abandoned or used so rarely that when we poke around there no one seems to notice. This has been the most reliable, though the same particle collision never seems to produce the same error twice. Run it once and you get a stack trace. Run it again and everything looks like a normal boring experiment. System might be self-correcting. **man** \- So that's the elevator pitch. Next question. **kendra** \- So billions of people are in a simulation all at once? **man** \- No. We don't think so. We think there are only a very small number of people in the simulation and the rest are AI. So that's a wrinkle. Don't really want to kill yourself to get out in the off chance you're just a bit of code. **kendra** \- Which do you think you are? **man** \- 'We' are likely AI. By the odds anyway. **kendra** \- Can we interact with their world? **man** \- with a smile - I knew you belonged here. That is very much the question we are trying to answer, and quickly.


Brightly clothed bodies swirl through Leila’s vision, all loud music and swinging hips. With her hands in the air, she moves to the beat, dancing through the crowd. Her face is pink from the stuffy room and too many free drinks. She loves the free feeling that comes with a night out. It’s all syrupy thoughts and sultry eye contact. A blue spotlight swings overhead, flashing over her eyes. When they focus a young man is standing before her, watching intently. Leila smiles and sways with him. She can’t see his face well in the dim club lighting, but every once in a while that blue spotlight comes back and she can make out a wide nose and easy grin. Her smile back is laden with alcohol. He leans over her head, hot breath fanning across her neck, and Leila shivers despite the pressing heat of the crowd. His lips move against her skin. “In 90 seconds, this place will explode.” Leila blinks. Her mind malfunctions, not at all prepared to hear words she wasn’t expecting. It takes her too long to finally make sense of them, and when she does he’s already talking again. He’s pulled back an inch to look into her eyes, close enough still that she can hear him over the music. “See those stairs behind you? Go down them and out the door. It’ll take you into a back alley. From there follow the signs.” “What are you talking about?” He shakes his head sympathetically. “I can’t explain. Just do it.” Then he’s pulling away, retreating into the crowd. Leila scrambles to grab his arm but her reflexes are too impaired. She curses under her breath. “Wait!” She calls out after him. “What is this? What’s going on?” The blue light streaks over her eyes and she squints against it. When her eyes adjust the man is gone. She looks around desperately, feeling woozy from her brain trying to work through a haze of liquor. The rest of the club is the same as it was before. Sweaty bodies bump into her and splash sticky drinks onto the already nasty floor. She’s a frozen anchor in the sea of dancers. Then there’s a blinding flash of light that illuminates the dance floor and a boom so loud it’s almost silent. Around her, people scream and swarm toward the exit. That blue spotlight dangles and falls from the ceiling. Leila stumbles, her ears are ringing, and she can barely remember the man’s advice. She shoves through the crowd and pushes toward the back door he’d pointed out. It strikes her as curious that no one else is using it. Her ears rumble with the collapsing of the club’s walls. Bits of debris bite into her skin. She runs down the short set of grimy stairs and shoulders the rusty door open. She stumbles out into the alley, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The door swings shut behind her and the noise of destruction suddenly falls away. Leila breathes heavily, sends a glance over her shoulder, then examines the alley she’s been deposited into. She finds her first clue in the form of a water-stained poster of a local band tacked to a bulletin board. The logo is a bright yellow curled arrow pointing to the left. Leila runs down the length of the alley and is met with a crooked street sign that says “STAY LEFT.” She follows a jagged path of spray paint and peeling stickers to a door on the back of a closed café. Her hand hesitates on the handle, unsure if she should go in or not. She takes a deep breath, tightens her grip, and steps through the door only to find herself back in the club. The club that just exploded, except it’s not exploding anymore. Everything is exactly the same as it was before the man approached her. Leila looks around rapidly, but nothing strange happens and she heads home soon after. There’s nothing on the news the next day of any such event. Two weeks later Leila has written the whole experience down as a drunken hallucination. She’s at the neighborhood pool tanning on one of the lounge chairs. It smells like sunscreen and chlorine and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s the middle of summer and the kids out of school are splashing and screaming while she closes her eyes and pretends to ignore them. The heat kisses her skin and life is good. Someone plunks down in the lounge chair next to hers and she peeks an eye open, then chokes on her own spit and has to sit up quickly and cough violently before she can address him. It’s the man from the club, she’s somehow sure of it. In the daytime, she gets a good look at him. His skin is a shade darker than hers, and he has curly brown hair. He smiles with one side of his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” Leila whispers. She eyes the other pool-goers nervously. “Getting a tan, obviously.” He leans back in the chair, arms crossed beneath his head. “The club-“ Leila starts. “Was that... real?” “Real as anything.” Smooth muscles bulge in his arms. He sighs happily and lets his eyes drift shut. “But how?” He doesn’t answer, busy taking in the nice day. Leila watches him until his eyes flutter open finally and he says, “I think it’s going to storm.” It’s a ridiculous notion. The sunny sky is a deep blue and clear of any clouds. “You’re crazy.” “When the storm starts, get in your car and go to this location.” He places a torn piece of paper with an address scribbled on it on her thigh. “This is across town.” “Yep.” He slaps his thighs and sits up. “Well, I’m off.” Leila watches him get up and walk away. She has half a mind to follow him, but reasons it won’t do much anyway. She’s about to lay back in her chair and continue tanning when a breeze whips her face. A minute later dark clouds are billowing in, angry and roiling. The first boom of thunder is so loud a kid in the pool shrieks. Lightning streaks across the sky in a jagged branch. The rain doesn’t start as a trickle. One minute it’s not raining, the next it’s a downpour. Lounge chairs go flying into the pool, sinking to the bottom like strange fish. Tree branches snap and twist through the air. Around her people are jogging out of the pool. The metal gate screeches and wet flip-flops slap against the pavement. Leila stands transfixed, rain pouring onto her head and shoulders, until lightning strikes nearby and the thunder shakes her into movement. She climbs into her car, ignoring the wet mark she’s going to make on the leather. Fat rain droplets splatter the windshield. She takes a moment to put the address from the paper into her phone. The ink smeared a little in the rain, but she can still make it out. The drive across town takes her 45 minutes and to a large warehouse. It’s definitely in use- there are trucks and workers all over the place, but she finds the sign easily. A worker’s entrance on the side of the warehouse with a metal sign on it that says “DO ENTER.” The word NOT has been scratched out. Leila sighs and gets out of the car. It’s not raining anymore but her soaked hair drips water down her back. No one pays any attention to her as she walks up to the door, even though she’s still wearing her swimsuit and dripping onto the concrete. There are no puddles besides the ones she leaves on the concrete. She doesn’t waste any time doubting. Already, she’s coming to terms with this weird new reality. She pulls the heavy door open, steps through, and isn’t all that surprised to find she’s somewhere else entirely. It’s a bathroom. A small one, only two stalls. The floors are wet and it smells bad but she catches a whiff of chlorine. She knows before she walks out that it’s the pool bathroom. She stands and stares at the glistening pool and happy kids. The sun bakes her shoulders, and the sky is a bright, clear blue. Leila doesn’t have to wait long after that for another visit. The man knocks on her door three days later. She sort of wants to not answer and when she does, she thinks about slamming it in his face, but he flashes a charming smile and she lets him in despite herself. “Alright,” she says. “What this time?” “Eager, are you?” He looks around her house curiously. Leila takes a moment to glare at him. He pretends he doesn’t notice it. “Are you gonna tell me who the hell you are?” “Nope.” Leila groans. “Fine. Why are you here? You going to tell me there’s a bomb in my house?” “Not this time.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. Leila rolls her eyes. The need for information is eating away at her. “Then what’s going to happen? Go on, tell me.” He glances behind her. “I think it already has.” The tang of smoke hits her nostrils. Leila whips around just in time to see the flames climb to the top of her curtains and lick the ceiling. The fire alarms start screaming, the room heating up. She should try to stop it, she knows, but she’s more concerned with the man. He leans forward and shouts to be heard over the alarm. “Run down the block. Find house 3382.” He steps aside for her to leave, and she does, sending only a cursory look back at him before running down the sidewalk. The house is further than he alluded. Her lungs ache and her calves are tired, but she finds the house. There’s no signs or stickers, but there is a chalk drawing in the driveway. A child’s picture of a door with a swirl inside of it. Leila steps around it and walks up to the front door. She debates knocking but decides against it. Holding her breath she slowly opens it and steps through. She expects to be back in her home or somewhere else entirely, but she’s not. She’s in the house she entered, which is supposed to be the normal thing, but in this case it’s not. Just when she’s getting used to the pattern it skitters away from her. Footsteps ring on the hardwood and before Leila can worry about explaining herself the young man steps into the front room with her. “Good, you made it.” Leila narrows her eyes. “How- What is this?” He steps slowly closer. His shoulders straighten and he puts on his best customer service voice. “Thank you, Leila Walker, for your patience and cooperation. You have successfully completed your Anomaly Placement Identification. We’ve found where you belong and are now prepared to return you to the correct universe.” “What?” Leila fights not to let her jaw drop. “When you’re ready, step through this door.” He gestures to a closet door to the left of her. “Anomaly huh?” He gives her a small smirk. “It was nice meeting you, Leila. Maybe there’s a universe out there where we both belong.” She stares at him, wanting more explanation but not getting any. Multiple universes. Crazy. She looks him up and down. “Can I at least get your name?” This little bit of information is something she can have. His posture relaxes and he flips something that looks like a coin to her. “Mason.” Leila nods and turns the token in her hand. There’s a logo pressed into one side and a series of numbers on the other. “To remember me by,” he says. “Do you say that to all the girls?” He chuckles and shrugs. “Nah. Just you.” “This is goodbye, then?” “Yep,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs one shoulder. “Have a good one, Leila.” Her hand is sweaty on the round doorknob. She squeezes and turns, scrunching her eyes closed in anticipation, and takes a step through the frame. When she opens her eyes she’s back in the club. People are dancing drunkenly all around her and the music washes over her. She tilts her head back and joins them. It’s been a good night, she thinks. But for some reason, she keeps looking over her shoulder at a door at the back of the club. She feels like she’s waiting for something to happen. In her palm she finds a token but can’t remember where it came from.


A chill runs down my spine as I walk across the dew-covered lawn towards the place I hate most. Weaving through the gravestones, I reach my destination. I come here once a week; in all the years since Mother died, not a single Thursday has gone by in which I have not visited her grave. The thing is, I hate doing it. But now, I have more reason than ever to come here. It brings back painful memories; growing up during the Big War without a father was tough, but Mother and I always managed. We were happy, the two of us. The year Mother got sick was one of the worst of my life. I was only twelve. She spent most of her last days in the hospital; the times she was allowed to be at home, she spent in bed. While she was sick, I thought it must be impossible for me to feel more alone than I did. The day she died proved me wrong. I slowly kneel down in front of Mother’s tombstone. Clouds shift in the sky and the sun is brought out from its confines, rays of its warm light shining through the fog that covers the cemetery. I bow my head in a silent prayer, thinking about this place that brings me so much pain. Behind me, I hear the soft crunch of leaves. I don’t turn around, or even open my eyes; I know who it is, the one who interrupts my time with Mother. “You shouldn’t keep coming here,” She says softly. “It hurts you so much. Why do you keep returning?” I don’t answer immediately. I don’t want to face her. I know that that time will come, but I don’t want it to be now. “I have to come here,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out. “I miss her so much. I feel like she’s here with me when I spend time here. Like she knows I’m visiting her.” Jane sighs. My lovely Jane; I can tell she’s frustrated. “Peter, come home with me. You can’t stay here. You’ll go mad with grief.” Jane’s voice is weak; she sounds close to tears. The emotion in her voice nearly breaks me. The love I feel for Jane is insurmountable; it far exceeds that which I had felt for my mother. To hear such pain in her voice kills me a little inside. But I don’t turn to face her. “Leave me alone, Jane.” I say tersely. I hate speaking harshly to her, but this is becoming unbearable. “You shouldn’t even be here. You can’t be here.” Complete silence suffocates the gravesite. I am certain that Jane is crying by now, even though I cannot hear it. “Peter,” She whispers, her voice racked with sobs. “Please come home. I miss you so much.” Tears start to leak out of my eyes, despite me shutting them as tightly as I could. I try to control my heart rate, but it’s becoming more and more sporadic with every breath. “Jane,” I whisper. “I’m not going home. That house is empty. There’s no longer anything for me to live for.” “No,” She gasps, now sobbing more loudly. “Why on Earth would you say that, Peter?” “Mother is gone.” I say, finally turning to face my wife. “And now, my love... you are too.” Staring in the direction of Jane’s voice, I see only a withered gravestone. My wrinkled hands shake as they come up to pull at my shock of white hair; I fall to my knees and weep.


MY INTUITION IS A LIAR! A true satirical story We have all heard the phrase, “go with your gut, or what does your gut tell you?” I believe this phrase to be accurate in the case of men and women, but in women, I think it’s more intuition, that women are more intuitive than men, I know I am more so than my husband but then again, maybe not. Besides having faith and relying on faith and prayer, I have always trusted my gut or intuition, which brings me to tell this story. For at least twenty years, I had wanted to go to Maine! I wasn’t sure why, but when I would talk about it, I summed it up as a reincarnation experience of having lived there in a previous life. I remember when I first started having the feeling of needing to go, but I never shared the story until I was asked. Back in 2002, after I had moved back to Arizona in 2000, I had a realtor friend. I don’t remember how we met, but she told me about a house for sale that I should go see. I don’t remember if I was looking to buy it, however it was around the same time I bought my townhouse. I took her suggestion and when I went to see the house the owner was there. I don’t remember anything in particular about the house, except that when I asked him why they were selling, he said, “My wife wants to move to Maine.” I remember thinking, what a drastic change from Arizona to Maine. I will never forget that! It was like him saying that burned into my soul and despite everything else going on in my life, from then on, I knew I had to go to Maine. Fast forward to 2020, now having lived in Texas since 2009, and married to Steven since 2011, we were finally going to soothe my wandering soul and take the trip to Maine together, but then, after the trip to the travel agency and paying the deposit, COVID caused the world to shut down. Everyone knows COVID was, and still is, real, but at that time, it wasn’t my intuition telling me, don’t go there? After a few months, we finally got our money back and again, my hope of taking the New England trip was put away in the back of my mind. So now it’s 2024 and we are thinking about planning our summer vacation. We knew we couldn’t go to Key West, FL., we had tried twice and had to cancel both times, same with Alaska, so maybe, now, this time we would be able to go to Maine. We waited until two weeks before our planned departure date to make our plane reservations and when the day came and we were on the plane from San Antonio, I said,” We’re finally going to Maine.” July 22 nd , 4:00 p.m., we were wheels on the ground in Portland, Maine, “I can’t believe we’re here,” I told Steven as we walked, with our luggage in tow, across the parking lot to the rental car office. It seemed as if half the world’s population had traveled there that day. All the rental car desks had a long line of people, the room was standing room only with people, their luggage, children, and babies with strollers, who are all these people and what are they all doing here? I sat on the only vacant spot on the bench and watched and waited as Steven stood in the long line waiting to get our car. When it was finally his turn, he motioned for me to join him at the desk, “They’re out of cars,” he told me. My mind was reeling with visions of us spending the night on the benches in the rental car office so whatever conversation occurred between Steven and the agent, I was unaware of, and fortunately, the next thing I knew we were walking out to the garage and putting our luggage and ourselves in the gray Nissan Sentra with Massachusetts license plates, still wet from the car wash, to be on our way to our hotel in Trenton. The drive from the airport in Portland, ME. to Trenton, ME. is about 163 miles. It is a freeway some of the way, but, otherwise, it is a 2-lane road through small towns and communities lined with pine trees on one side and water on the other. The drive seemed long, like it was taking forever. We stopped to eat around 6:00, where I ate my first Maine lobster dish, after which we drove some more and finally arrived at our hotel after dark around 9:00. It had been a very long day. We had left home at 5:00 that morning, but still, I couldn’t believe we were there! My intuition had not deceived me, yet. We had planned our trip accordingly to be close to Acadia National Park. Our first full day there, we toured the park and hiked down to the water, where we met a fisherman who said he had some luck catching some fish whose names I didn’t recognize. Returning to the parking lot, we encountered a sea gull who, unthreatened by us or anyone else, made a perch on the roof of a red car parked next to ours. We spent the remainder of the day touring around, enjoying the scenery of the water, boats, and the New England style homes built of 2 and 3 stories with anywhere from 2 to 4 chimneys. Although most of them looked lived in and well maintained they gave the sense of having been there for centuries, reminiscent of generations of families living and making a living there off the rich, greenery of the forest and abundance of the water. If this is a dream, please don’t wake me! Our third day was Wednesday, although my day started with me sneezing and blowing my nose, and we were excited for our lobster boat trip. We took our time on the 12-mile drive to Bar Harbor since our trip was not scheduled until later that day. After eating a Maine style brunch that included their locally grown fresh blueberries, we walked along the harbor, through the shops and finally taking a seat on a bench facing the water where we could see the boats coming, going and docked. The weather was warm, but not hot, not humid like in Texas, the sun barely shone through the haze over the water. Steven, on a whim, decided to ask if we could take an earlier boat trip rather than wait till our scheduled 4:30, luckily, we were able to get on the 11:30 trip. During the 2-hour trip, we saw 2 fully operational light houses, a lot of seals, sunbathing on the rocks and experienced the full extent of lobster fishing. It gave me a new appreciation of how expensive they are, it’s a hard job and a lot of work. Hiking in the park, going on a lobster boat, seeing the light houses, even though, once we were there, we realized, there were other things we wanted to do, I felt fulfilled, I should have known better than to think that, once we arrived back at our parked car, we found a parking ticket and then on the 76 mile, hour and a half drive from Bar Harbor to Camden, we had to stop at a convenience store to buy Kleenex, due to my continuous sneezing and blowing my nose, I had gone through all the napkins and Kleenex I had. Why wouldn’t my nose stop running, was this my intuition mocking me for being here? By the time we reached the hotel in Camden, I just wanted to go to bed. Tired, achy but hungry, we walked 2 blocks to the closest, tiny restaurant, seating capacity of 40, waited until someone left, to sit and eat. I don’t know if the food was good, I just wanted to sleep. Back at the hotel, I showered and was in bed by 8:00. I couldn’t sleep, I hurt all over, tossing and turning but sometime in the early morning hours, when I finally managed to doze off, I heard her, laughing, my intuition, that lying, sneaky, witch, “ Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I tried to tell you not to come here, you have no business being here, you don’t live here, this is not your home.” Trying not to disturb Steven lying next to me, I thought, this is it, I’m going to die here, this is why my soul has led me here, it’s here it wants to rest. Well, I didn’t die, but the morning didn’t bring me any relief, I was exhausted, my whole body was fatigued, and I was still having to constantly blow my nose. Our original plan was to only stay one night in Camden and even though I only felt like staying in bed, we checked out of the hotel and got back on the road. Our reservations were to stay our last 2 days in Oxford, ME. to be closer to the airport when we left on Saturday. During the 105-mile drive, there were things we would’ve liked to have done but because I felt so ill, we drove straight to the hotel. After we checked in at 3:00 p.m., I went to bed, which is where I stayed until Friday morning when Steven took me to Urgent Care. COVID! “You have COVID.” The provider told me when he came back into the exam room with the swab results. I wasn’t surprised and, I knew I heard her mocking me , I thought to myself, you demon creature, are you happy now, you were right, I know we couldn’t come here before because of COVID, but why now, again, what is it about us, COVID and Maine? She wasn’t giving me any answers and I was too tired to care. With the provider’s suggestion, we decided instead of going home the next day, which was Saturday, we would go home on Sunday. Since I started getting sick on Wednesday, that would be 5 days. By Sunday I was feeling better and ready to get out of that hotel room but by then of course, Steven was feeling sick. “I’ll be o.k.,” he told me as we packed up to head to the airport, “I’m not coughing, I just have a headache, sore throat and feel tired, let’s go.” As much as I had wanted and waited to go to Maine, I wanted even more to get back home to Texas. Our return itinerary was the same, in reverse as when we went, Portland, ME to Charlotte, NC, Charlotte to San Antonio. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time, returned the car and were more than ready for our 4:00 p.m. departure, but then, delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, until finally at 9:00 p.m., a long wait, a long time to question her evil motives, What the Hell is your problem? You punished me for coming here, you even made it abundantly clear that we need to go home but now, you’re stopping us! American airlines did their best to accommodate us, there was a full plane and when we finally arrived in Charlotte that night at 11:30 p.m., they arranged for hotel rooms and shuttles to them for everyone. It was 1:30 a.m. Monday when we arrived at the hotel in Charlotte, which was o.k. except, our luggage had gone ahead to San Antonio, and we had to be out of the room and back to the airport by 11:00 a.m. I felt like a homeless person, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with no luggage and only a wannabe toothbrush the hotel had provided at check-in. Finally, when we were boarding the plane to come home, I said to that wicked witch of my intuition, we’re leaving now and going home, and you can’t come with us! You have caused enough trouble now go away and bother someone else! So.... In conclusion, I must say, my birthday twin/ bff, suggested I write this story with a sense of humor, I tried to do that by giving my intuition a mind of its own and taking the blame, however, nothing about having COVID is funny, that shit is NOT for sissy’s! As far as the state of Maine, it’s beautiful, and the things that we did and saw were wonderful, I loved it and am not sorry we went, and I would go again to see and do all the things we missed. I got to go to someplace I had never been, meet some people I had never met, the waiters and waitresses in all the restaurants, the shop clerks and especially the captain and first mate of the lobster boat. So, regardless of what my intuition says, I’m not listening to her, she’s not the boss of me! ◆◆◆