Boxes and more boxes were everywhere. Roma sat in the middle of room on the floor contemplating her next move. Pen and paper in hand she had just started this task. What was her task, more likely could she complete it. This was Romas first official job as a curator/caretaker of collections. Roma knew since she was eight years old that she wanted to be in charge of a museum a curator just like her father. Her father was Walter Hames the famous curator of the Boston museum collection. Her father often took her to work with him on the weekends he showed her the delights and hidden gems in the museum how best display these items so people could see and understand what he was looking for in his pieces. Roma loved the artwork and the anthology section, and the priceless pieces of artefacts that adorned the halls and rooms of the museum. Roma learned how precious each piece was and how to catalogue and value each item. Once Roma had finished secondary studies she automatically enrolled in and was accepted at Boston University undergraduate curator program obtaining a bachelor degree with a major in a relevant area, such as classics, fine arts, history, cultural studies or anthropology, as well as a relevant postgraduate qualification. It had been a tiring 4 years but Roma had managed to be an exceptional student. She flourished at University and made her mother and father exceptionally proud by graduating with honours. Now she was ready to explore the world. Her father had offered her a job at the Boston Museum as a Junior curator but Roma wanted to make it under her own steam and not after her fathers name. She had recently come across an advertisement in the Boston Times newspaper requesting a deceased property evaluator. The position was a live in for approximately six months. Reading the article Roma knew she was more than qualified maybe this could be her start. You have to start at the bottom and work your way up isn’t that true, she thought to herself so she had made the call to the Lawyers firm who placed the advertisement and gained a interview. Roma felt a little bit nervous she didn’t know why she felt on edge, it was a run of the mill interview which she had completed plenty of them, university had encouraged students to participate in mock interviews. She had her list of questions to ask. Arriving promptly at 9am at Tesslers and Tesslers Law firm Roma was shown into the interview room. Seated at the large half moon table were three important individuals of the Law firm. Each introduced themselves to Roma who was seated directly in front of them. Trying not to feel awkward or pressured Roma exhaled a few short breaths before relaxing and answering their questions. Once the interview had been concluded Roma was advised that this position is top priority and the successful applicant will be advised by the end of the week. By Friday morning Roma was a bunch of nerves she realised she really wanted this job. It would be new and exciting making her forge her own career path. From her room Roma could hear the phone ringing downstairs, she raced almost sliding down the banister. Stopping in her tracks she picked up the phone and introduced herself to the caller. Standing in the middle of the hallway, her face seemed pained maybe she wasn’t listening or comprehending what was being said. Did Mr Tesslers just say the job was hers and he will be sending over the legal paperwork for her to sign later that afternoon. She will commence her appointment with the firm Monday. Her mother and father congratulated her on her success and her father offered her his assistance should she require it. Monday morning Roma drove out to the address she had been given. She was to meet Mr Tesslers at the home at 9am. She had packed enough clothes and toiletries to last awhile. I’m sure the house will have a washing machine, that was the least of Romas problems. Approaching the home, Roma checked the address again. Yep 2011 Ralley Drive. It wasn’t just a home but a sprawling mansion, with sweeping lawns, gardens that would rival Bucharest gardens the place was gorgeous. Waiting while Mr Tesslers arrived Roma walked around the house. Surely Roma though one person didn’t live here alone, Mr Tesslers had arrived and taken Roma around the house before they continued inside. Insisting Roma called him George they both sat down in the drawing room while George advised Roma on her role, duties, responsibilities. She was allocated a bedroom on the second floor which had its own bathroom and a luscious view of the gardens. Roma had been provided an expense account card and was to use it for any necessities . Meals could be ordered in or if she liked Roma could utilise the large kitchen. George advised Roma that she could explore the mansion today and commence her duties tomorrow. Packing away her belongings Roma set off to explore, crossing the expansive lawns Roma located a tennis court, an indoor swimming pool and a pagoda that was shimmering with the sun. The complete mansion was breathtaking. Spending her first night at the mansion was a little daunting, but she settled down and slept like a baby. After a breakfast of toast and coffee which Roma had brought with her, she set herself a target each day she would try and complete one room’s inventory and value register. George had also given her a dozier of the Duke whose home it had been. Apparently he had been a widower without any children to inherit this beautiful property not to mention the artefacts and gems that will be discovered. The Duke had left strict instructions on his personal charities and fundraising activities that will be recipients of his estate. Roma was searching through a number of boxes in the anti chamber, noting each item and a value she had almost filled up her A4 notepad once this note pad was full she will transfer all of the information to her computer database. It was easier to work like this. After a few weeks George came out to check on how things were running, Roma knew he just wanted to get out of the office he loved the outdoors and they conversed via telephone every day. Visiting the local store Roma grabbed a few essentials and a jam and cream cake for morning tea. George was thrilled to see that Roma had been able to make headway with the inventory. they sat in the drawing room and went over their prospective plans and evaluations. George had advised Roma that a Mr Michael Low will be joining her in the home, his job will be to do the inventory and evaluation of the library. He will be arriving tomorrow morning around 9 am. He will be set up in the same way Roma has, with an expense account, his room will be on the first floor closest to the library. George stated that Michael was a comely gentleman who really was dedicated to his work and they should get on rather well. The next morning Michael arrived at promptly at 9 am. Roma showed him to his room and they did a quick tour of the home. Michael went to explore the library advising Roma that he will meet up with her at lunch time. Time flew bye it was 1:30 pm when Roma and Michael managed to grab a cup of tea and make a sandwich. Roma asked Michael what he would like to eat for dinner she said she was going to order Italian food from the local restaurant, her favourite dish was chicken parmigiana with vegetables and she will splurge on a bottle of red wine if he would like to join her. So they made a time to meet in the drawing room for dinner, Roma had ordered the meal, set the low table with napkins, silverware and wine glasses. The meal arrived at 7pm. They both sat down to dine, chatting between bites there conversations flowed easily. Roma spoke about her life as did Michael. They were of similar backgrounds and age. Roma felt that a friendship could be forged. Week after week Roma and Michael became more ingrained in their work. Meeting up for meals and cups of tea. Passing on tidbits about what they had found in the library, attic and other rooms. The valuation collection was becoming quite substantial. Michael commented on day on how lucky the recipients of the Dukes estate are going to be. Roma walked into the library to find that Michael had removed all the books from the shelves. They were laying on the table in little piles picking one up Roma asked Michael if the Dukes library collection was extensive. Michael responded there are some great books here but unfortunately no first editions. That doesn’t mean that they have no value. People perceive books in their own way. What is of value to one person may not be valuable to another. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Michael and Roma were firm friends by now more like brother and sister they were very comfortable being in the same house. Early one morning Roma heard Michael yelling from the library Roma, Roma come quick Roma ran to the library standing at the door she looked at Michael what’s going on, I thought you had hurt yourself Roma responded. No just come closer and look at this, Roma moved closer to Michael ok what am I looking at. See that slot there next to the shelf, can you put you fingers into the slot and press down on the shelf. I think there is a hidden shelf behind this one. Roma slipped her fingers into the groove and pressed down. The shelf moved and swung open. Looking inside between the shelves they both could see an array of other books in glass cases. Michael opened up the shelving wider it was like a mini room. There were three books each encased it it’s own glass pyramid. Grabbing the torch from the table Michael shone the glow of its light over each glass casing. No way, no way Michael was rumbling to himself, what is it Michael Roma asked. Michael was still muttering No way. His torch lit up the first book Shakespeare’s First Folio bending lower to see what he was seeing was correct Michael’s voice squeaked, it’s worth about 5.2 million dollars, it’s in mint condition tracing the torch over the second pyramid the book illuminated by its light the first edition book of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Michael commented to no one in particular this book is precious, but even more so due to its rarity. Only 2,000 copies were initially printed but were quickly recalled due to the illustrator’s unhappiness with the original drawings. There are only 22 known first-edition copies of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , with one copy being auctioned in 2016 for an estimated price of between $2 and $3 million. Turning the light towards the third pyramid Michael looked ashen he wobbled on his legs what is it Michael Roma asked, Michael she repeated his name again. Ugh umm The most expensive book ever sold is the Codex Leicester, purchased by Bill Gates in 1994 for $30.8 million. But here it is here. Michael I think we better phone George and let him come and see for himself. I’m going to phone Daddy and ask him to come and take a look. Michael I think we’re going to have our 10 minutes of fame.


Good Morning By Peter Wallace Walter had a hunch it wouldn’t be long. He didn’t feel any pain, which meant that the dose of morphine he was on must be pretty high. It was more than they’d give to someone who would possibly have a risk of developing an opioid addiction. In other words, someone who might live. He, his wife, and his doctor agreed six months before that continuing to treat the tumors wouldn’t improve his chances of recovery, which, apparently, were near zero. To that point the treatments had been pretty rough, so the strategy changed from recovery to a transition into the next chapter. The epilogue, if you will. Six months was a long time to spend dying. He’d mostly come to terms with it - as much as a person can. There weren’t that many things he’d wanted to do before he died, other than what he always did, so there were no trips to Mount Everest or the Taj Mahal. Instead, he had tried to spend his time thinking and writing, and enjoying the people he cared for, and who cared for him. At first it was surreal, since he felt okay, and didn’t look sick. Over time, though, things got more serious, and it showed. He was often tired, and not able to be as active as he wanted. Some people didn’t stop by to see him because of that, but other brave souls made it a point to visit because he wasn’t doing well. He admired them. The worst thing was trying to keep the people in his life from going crazy. His wife, his kids, his sisters, his in-laws, his neighbors... they all wanted to do and say something helpful, and bless them, they tried, but each time one of them said something that they intended to cheer him up or give him hope, he could see in their faces and their posture that they felt they’d failed. In reality, while it was painful to see the people he cared for feeling so helpless, it did make him feel good that they cared enough to try to find the right words in the right order with the right inflection. Here’s a secret that he wanted them to know, but didn’t ever express: the right words don’t exist when someone is fading away. At least he didn’t know of any. So, Walter lay in the hospice-provided hospital bed that had been delivered to his family home. There was hardly room for it in what was, ironically, called the living room. People needed to turn sideways to pass the bed on their way to the downstairs bedroom or back the other way to the kitchen. There were always people around him, which was nice. He had no reason to feel lonely for his loved ones, but he did feel lonely for his life, now that it was in very short supply. He missed all the spring and summer days, the autumn crispness, and even the brutal winter nights spent snow-blowing the driveway, only to have it drift over again by morning. Like so many people in his situation, Walter realized that every day of life, good or bad, is a wonderful gift. It is like an immense punch-card, each day leaving our life-cards a day closer to the time when all the punches are gone. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to remember. There was a day, long ago, when he and his wife, Rose, were dating. It was 1976, which was the widely celebrated bi-centennial of the United States’ Declaration of Independence from Great Britain. Every broadcast organization was doing special bi-centennial programs, bi-centennial minutes, and special bi-centennial movies of the week, starring Mr. T and The Six Million Dollar Man, or something. As part of his weekend job working at a local television station, Walter decided to film the sun coming up over the lake on the first day of the third century of the United States. They were always looking for short video clips to play between the news segments. He felt that the bi-centennial sunrise might be meaningful to some people, as he knew it would be to him. He invited Rose to stay at his family’s house in order to get an early start on July 4 th , before the sun awoke for the day. Sometime after 4am he quietly entered the room where she was, and tapped her on the shoulder. After an initial protestation, she got up and they loaded up the car. His father wanted to come too, to take some snap shots. He was the self-appointed family photographer, and had taken thousands of pictures; some never seen. Half-awake, and rubbing their eyes, the three of them drove across town to the usually busy park, which was completely vacant. That night there would be standing room only, of course, to see the special bi-centennial fireworks show. But now, as dawn faded into view, it was quiet. They stopped alongside the calm lake. Walter got the camera set up, and Rose helped to the extent that she could. His dad took a photo of them working together, and all these years later, they still had it on the desk. Back in the present, in his bed, Walter opened his eyes and called his family close to him. He hugged his girls, their husbands, and their children, and pulled his wife, Rose, down to him, and held her. He closed his eyes again. Returning to that day in 1976, he could hear Rose’s breathing as he pressed the record button on the camera. In his mind, that sunrise was spectacular. It felt like the beginning of their life together, and also like touching base with his father, who now had been gone for so long. Slowly, the darkness of the night was replaced with the sunlight of the new century. He felt Rose touch his back, and he was in ecstasy. He smiled. As the darkness from that bi-centennial night faded and the sun rose, his light, at home, surrounded by his family, slowly faded into darkness. It was perfect.


"Blasted!" yelled Magnolia. "You just can't do anything right can you?" she said, her voice laced with anger. He had only been working there two days and he already managed to mess up just about every task he's been given. "I am so sorry i promise it won't happen again." he said, his voice sounded childish as he pleaded for her to give him a second chance. "Out!" she boomed as she pointed to the door. Her wings fluttering in annoyance. He left the store, his head drooping down. Everywhere he went people muttered vain things towards him. He wasn't surprised, he was one of the only humans in a fairy tale world. He thought it would've worked to coexist but he seemed hopeless at this point. "That's just great." He muttered as he kicked the ground beneath him. Hatred rising in him as he thought about his father. Why, of all people, did my dad have to be the one who fell in love with a human? Sixteen years ago his dad journeyed beyond their small town. During his travels he met a woman and they fell in love. Will didn't bother to remember the rest because whenever he thought about it he wanted to hurl. Even though his father passed a few years ago he still couldn't bring himself to forgive him. He hated the thought of true love, mainly because it's what made him an outcast in his own home. He had grown up in Fairy-town yet he was treated like a stranger his entire life. He also hated the fact that their town had such a basic name. "Watch where you're going!!" he heard someone yell, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a car swerving in the road in an attempt to not hit him. He staggered back in surprise as he realized he had walked into the middle of speeding cars. He ran as fast as he could to the other side without getting hit by oncoming traffic. He put his hands on his knees as he heaved in breaths. He looked around and was met by faces of disgust staring back at him. Usually he was able to ignore them but today was different, today it stung more than usual. People walked by without giving him a second thought muttering one single word under their breath. "Outcast" Something about the way they said it always angered him. It was as if he was imposing on their home. He continued walking, keeping his head low as he tried to ignore the looks of disgust that were thrown his way. He just wanted to go home and hide away. He had thought about running away a couple times but always found the idea stupid and pushed it aside. If he couldn't keep a job for more than two days how was he supposed to run away? He had no money, no resources, he hadn't even been outside of town before. As he opened the door to his home he was instantly greeted by his mom. She gushed over him as she pulled him to the dining room table and set a plate in front of him. He was relieved that at least not everyone hated him. He could always count on his mom to be there. "How was it? Spill spill spill!" her voice laced with excitement as she brought a pot to the table and sat down. "How was what?" he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he spoke. He knew what she was referring to, he just didn't want to talk about it. "Your second day on the job!" She said as she plopped a scoop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. "Actually i'm feeling kind of tired, i think i'm just gonna go lay down." he said, as he pushed out his chair then pushed it back in. Her face lost its excitement yet held its composure. "Oh okay. That's fine. We can talk about it later." she said, faking a smile. His stomach turned as he saw her disappointment. He hated seeing her upset but he just didn't have the heart to talk about it right now. He gave her a slight smile as he turned and walked up the stairs. They had a modest house. Hardwood floor, two stories. They lived semi close to the edge of town which is just how he liked it. His home was the one place that he didn't feel like an outcast. It was the one place where he felt normal. He opened the door to his room and was relieved to see the familiar setting. His desk was cluttered with crumpled pieces of paper and littered with pencils. Books were stacked on the floor by his bed along with a few shirts here and there. His bed had been neatly made despite the messy room. The blinds on the window were pulled fully down, darkening the room yet the door brought in light to the messy world. As he entered he felt along the wall for the light switch. He turned it on and flung the door close. He plopped himself down on his bed with a loud sigh. After a couple minutes he heard a knock on his door. He sighed and sat up as he prepared to greet whoever was about to come in. His mom slowly opened the door as she peeked her head through. "Hey" she said softly. He smiled faintly but didn't reply. She came in and sat down next to him. Her eyes danced across the room. "I'm going to your fathers grave if you want to come with me." she looked at him with pleading eyes. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he couldn't lie to her. "I have a lot of stuff to do-" he said with regretful eyes "Maybe next time." She smiled at him and patted his leg before she stood and walked out. Stopping in the doorway and looking back at him. "I'll be back soon." and with that she closed the door and left. He let out a sigh as he walked to the window and watched her drive away. He let out a heavy sigh as he left the room. He needed something to distract him so he decided to go out and look for another job. He knew it was pointless but he at least had to try. He skipped down the steps and walked towards the door. He hesitated before opening. Debating whether or not he should go. Without thinking about it more, he twisted the handle and marched out the door.


Hello all! I wrote this little snippet of a diary, and perhaps you like it :) Now, I am a man, and thus I occasionally need to feel manly. I might not be very manly, but I need to feel that way some times. It is in my nature. Sometimes I drink beer. Sometimes I decide not to stray at the sight of a large dog. Sometimes I make sure a painting hangs perfectly level. In my latest attempt to unleash my testosteron on the world, I decided to refurbish a small cabinet that I own. Manly! I went to the hardware store. I bought the stuff the other manly man said I would need to feel manly. I payed the cashier. And I went back home to unleash all of my creative fury of the defenseless cabinet. Manly! Only one problem... So far the only way I ever fixed something was by replacing the batteries. Though I was sure I could do this. After all, what is the worst that could happen? I am a man, it is in my genes! I started to sand the cabinet. The hardware store man told me I needed to. I would never have thought of it, but real men share their conquests. Manly! It did not take me long to put a new leg on the cabinet but it was a struggle, it was a conquest. The old one had served me obediently for over fifteen years, but it had died, and his three friends were carrying his share or my burdens... but this new one... This little piece of shaped wood was resisting every step of the way, but I beat it into submission and it is now supporting my stuff. Manly! Time for primer! Who needs primer? According to the hardware store man, I do! I grabbed the brush. The big brush. I opened the primer. The white primer. I dipped my brush and I unleashed the Leorardo da Vinci in me. But this... This was not manly, because I lost. Layer one. It would be clear that I needed more layers. Layer two. If only that was enough. I was losing, but I did not give in. I am a man. Layer five arrived and the cover still wasn't there. I lost this battle. I needed reinforcements, thus I called the best person I know. The wisest person I know. The one person who has had the answers to every question in my life. My mom. I explained the dire situation. I explained my hopeless position. And she replied with the words only the wisest of mothers dare to share with their sons. Words that would turn even the Bible silent. "Did you stir the primer?" I was in awe. This wisdom. This knowledge. This experience. I was once again a man worthy of Valhalla. Of Sovngarde. Of Elysium. I stirred this primer as if it was the blood of demons. I dipped my brush as if it was a sword piercing a heart. I spread the paint as if I was repairing the walls of Minas Tirith. And I made my cabinet as white as Roman marble. This wise knowledge applied to the true paint as well, and I was once again in awe at my first devine creation. This creation made the mighty Ra so jealous, night dawned early. It made Odin cheer so loud, it will echo across the earth. And it even made Atlas squat our realm one more time to rival my Manliness. Thank you mother, for making me the man that I have become.


Three paths merged, which was not unlikely in the bustling Manhattan city. Many of these merging paths gave birth to other exciting events such as friendship, marriage, or criminal activity. This one, however, gave birth to not really anything exciting. Jules, Kay, and Ry were both oblivious to their upcoming, shared predicament. Jules, a struggling self-made businesswoman, walked to work with a folder of charts and a home-made coffee in hand. Kay, the victim of a scam, took a bus to his scheduled meeting in a suit snagged from Goodwill. Ry, the scammer, drove to meet his future “employee.” They were all heading for the same destination: a four-story building that looked as if it were built by the first colonizers of England. It stood in one of the quieter neighborhoods of Manhattan. Cracked, interweaving maroon bricks gave the building an appearance of a large Jenga game. One missing brick could possibly mean the end of its entire structural integrity. Cobblestone ledges lined the windows and a teetering, sun-bleached awning covered the doorway. People would walk by and remark, “How is that not a safety hazard?” However, this building was like the elderly who had no business being so strong. Those elderly who look like a stray breeze would mean absolute death, but instead, they bend the iron bars of age and defy the laws of the land. The building was a physical manifestation of those old people. Although it would not win any fashion shows, it was a survivor, indeed. Over the years, its multiple owners attempted to modernize it. All the projects met dead ends or were left abandoned. This building stood to spite history. And so, an elevator remained long after the stairwell fell out of use. It literally fell out. There were no more steps. Odd mixtures of new and old trends could be seen in wallpapers, flooring, and furniture. The current owner was a remote man. He rented the building to desperate individuals with a dream or desperate individuals with a criminal background. Whatever happened in the building was no concern of his, as he had bought the building at rock-bottom prices hoping for an extra source of income. After the sale, any concerns or complaints went ignored as the owner disappeared off the face of our planet Earth. And thus, these three characters entered the building. Jules who had rented the fourth floor in hopes to start her own business. Ry, who ran a slow but steady pyramid scheme of weight-loss miracle pills, occupied the third floor. Kay stepped through the doorway and thought, “Maybe I should leave.” Such was the enormous power of the building’s hazardous appearance. They bid good morning to one another as they stepped into the dinghy elevator. Jules watched Ry through her peripheral vision. She recently learned of his pyramid scheme targeting desperate individuals and had yet to confront him about it. She sipped her coffee with furrowed brows. Ry was in a great mood. He knew he was hiring a new employee, but he did not realize that his future employee was in the same elevator. He hummed a little tune that sounded a lot like Britney Spears’s Toxic. Kay peeked at Ry, waiting for Ry to acknowledge him. “Did I get the wrong building?” thought Kay with considerable worry. Maybe the man in the elevator was just a lookalike. He shook the thought away as he had checked the building address more than twenty times. He hyped himself for the meeting and reassured his nerves. Things were going smoothly. KA-THUNK-KSHHH The elevator staggered to a stop. The lights flickered off. Silence perforated the air. No one dared to breathe. A single thought raced through all of their minds: What was that? No way..." Indeed, it was yes way. The elevator had stopped, old age, and years of cheap maintenance had finally caught up with the hunkering machine. It was a wonder the emergency brakes were still in working order. Kay was the first to speak. “Huh, seems like the elevator is broken.” Ry scoffed. “Yeah, thanks Sherlock.” Jules, bless her kind soul, stuck up for Kay, partly because Kay looked like a poor child and partly because she bore a simmering animosity for Ry’s scamming business. “Hey, calm down, Jesus Christ. That won’t help anything. Let me just call for hel-” As she was speaking, she pulled out her phone to call for help. To her crippling dismay, there was no signal. “How is there no signal? There’s always been a signal here, albeit a weak one.” thought Jules. “Alright, it seems there’s no signal so we just have to hunker down until we can get help or help comes to us. Someone’s bound to notice our absence.” For a few seconds, the three characters tried their signal in different parts of the elevator to no avail. Ray grumbled about the wait time but succumbed to her suggestion. To pass the time, he played Candy Crush Soda Saga on his phone. Kay was not about to take this unused time for granted. He was a college student; work needed to be done. He sat down and opened his laptop to continue his research paper. For a while, the only sounds were Kay’s typing and Ry’s Candy Crush audio. Jules hoped the three of them would get to know each other but it seemed Ry and Kay preferred to keep to themselves. She sighed as she slid down the wall of the elevator to sit on the floor. Then she was struck with a bright idea. For weeks and weeks, she wanted for a time to confront Ry about his pyramid business. Now was a perfect time. She was going to expose the man. “So, Ry, what do you do here exactly?” Ry did not look up from his phone. “Hold up, let me finish this level. I'm so close... Hell yeah, new score. Alright, what’s up?” Jules looked him in the eye and repeated herself. Judging from her tone, Ry knew something was up. He became wary of the question. “I manage a business to help people feel their best.” He silently congratulated himself for the great answer. Jules was not about to back down. “I know about your machinations. You’re running a pyramid scheme, aren’t you? Ry wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Jules’s accusation was unexpected. “What’s a pyramid scheme?” Surprisingly, Ry was not joking. He was wholly unaware of the very idea of a pyramid scheme. He was running an accidental pyramid scheme. After a few minutes of fervent discussion and a lot of exasperation on Jules’s end, Ry realized that his business was illegal and became determined to change things. His Candy Crush game no longer interested him. He was ready to turn things around. Throughout the entire conversation between Jules and Ry, Kay grew increasingly certain that the man standing before him had tried to recruit him to the pyramid scheme. So he spoke up. “Dude, I think I’m the person you hired. I was supposed to have a meeting this morning with Ry Manning. My name’s Kay.” Ry looked closer at Kay and realized he was right. “Oh my gosh, you are. Sorry about that. You don’t have to take the job, but the offer still stands. Just let me fix the business first.” “Wow really thanks man,” beamed Kay. Refilled with a purpose, Ry couldn’t stand staying in the elevator for another minute. “Let’s try to escape the elevator. There’s got to be some sort of door to go outside the elevator.” And thus began the search for an escape hatch. They decided that Kay would sit on Ry’s shoulders to inspect the ceiling. To reach higher, Kay unstraightened his knees while Ry held his feet in place. “I’m not sure if you want to know this, but your butt is literally on my face right now.” expressed Ry in a calm and level voice. From up above, Kay inspected the ceiling while responding. “Yeah, well, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it! Stop looking up then. Ah, I found it.” The safety hatch was pried open with numerous tools including fingernails, pencil tips, and rulers. Ultimately, their combined effort proved worthwhile. The hatch popped open and no one could believe their eyes. Surely, it must’ve been a trick. The opening revealed a teal and foggy sky. Strange floating, golden lights hovered, illuminating the fog in an eerie way. It smelled like the community pool’s chlorine. The three of them stood inspecting the strange environment. Out of absolutely nowhere, a large BOOM BOOM BOOM shook the entire elevator. Shocked, Kay dropped the hatch and left it open. It sounded like a large dinosaur was sprinting in their direction, each BOOM becoming stronger and louder. “Close the door! Close the door!” screamed Jules from below. Ry, shaken by the sound, fell, and Kay fell right on top of his face. Jules’s commands spurred them into action. Quickly, they detangled themselves and rushed to close the hatch. It closed and the BOOM BOOM’s softened to silence. “Whew, what was that?” thought all three of them simultaneously. Kay was the first to speak. “So that was probably a dinosaur.” “What’re you talking about? Dinosaurs died like a million years ago. That’s literally not possible. Maybe some freak gas accident.” suggested Ry. “You think a freak gas accident is gonna cause floating lanterns and repeating earthquakes? Unlikely. But I also don’t think it’s dinosaurs.” exclaimed Jules. With that, they settled into silence. Jules analyzed her charts and sipped her remaining coffee. Ry beat the 100th level in Candy Crush Soda Saga. Kay finished his research report. Going by Ry’s watch, they opened the hatch each hour and were greeted by a new, eerie environment each time. Ry broke the silence. “I need to pee.” Jules was flabbergasted. “What? You didn’t even drink anything. I finished this entire coffee and I don’t even need to go anytime soon.” “Yeah, well, I drank a lot of water before coming here. People are saying it’ll help clear your skin,” remarked Ry dejectedly, pointing to his acne-scarred chin. “Jules, you have your coffee cup right? He can go in there,” suggested Kay, sitting crisscrossed on the floor. With no better idea, Jules surrendered her coffee cup while Ry turned to face the corner. For a few seconds, the only sound was trickling. “Uhhh guys I don’t think this cup is enough. Guys, oh my gosh, get me another container!” “WHAT HOW’D YOU FILL THE ENTIRE CUP AND STILL HAVE MORE!” screamed. Kay, frantically searching his backpack for a container. At the bottom, he uncovered his reusable bento box. Silently bidding his box farewell, Kay surrendered his beloved bento box to Ry’s calling of nature. They disposed of the bento box and cup in a world with a blood-orange sky, constant buzzing noises from every direction, and intolerable cold. After the fiasco, they resumed their silence. Once in a while, a small conversation would strike up about their lives and themselves. They continued to check the outside each hour. Eventually, sleep consumed them and they huddled together in a corner for warmth because the elevator had gotten unbearably cold since nighttime. In the morning, they opened the hatch with little hope. Hallelujah! If there was a God, He had answered. The hatch revealed a darkened elevator shaft with brickwork familiar to Jules and Ry. Ry helped them both up before pushing himself up onto the elevator top. They climbed the horizontal iron bars embedded into the wall and pried the elevator door open. Sunlight pooled on the wooden floorboards through half blurred windows. Jules, Kay, and Ry simultaneously released a long-held sigh. Immediately, they looked to one another and laughed. They had made it, a full 24 hours later. They agreed to seal off the elevator and renovate the stairs, with or without the remote owner’s permission. Kay began his work with Ry, fixing his fraudulent business and Jules’s business grew slowly but surely. Connected by their shared struggle, they became friends: not close friends, but friends. Ry purchased a new coffee cup for Jules and a new bento box for Kay. Back in the red, icy dimension, the tainted coffee cup and bento box remained unmoved.


It was the Christmas of 1936. I docked from S.S. Emerald and found myself roaming about the roads of Middlebourgh--a town secluded at the south of West Sussex and had long preserved the customs of the old fashion. The ringing bells and the exciting carols of the children heard on the doorsteps of the wooden cottages were a reminder of the holidays of which I once cherished in Middlebourgh. For me, it was a stroke of luck that my intentions were not to return but to settle a will reading with my family. If only Daddy listened to my advice towards that diminishing health of his, perhaps this urgent demand for my presence wouldn't curse me with much fright and agitation. I was, however, encouraged by a hope for substantial inheritance to at least exhibit a friendly smile. At quarter to ten, I took a carriage to the Chevrolet hall, the home where my childhood flourished. On the doorstep of the hall, I saw Ms. Orchid Elliot. She was the head of Daddy’s maids, deemed excellent in fulfilling her duties. She took my hand as I alighted. “You’re a lady in a fine fettle, Lilith Dear--” The wind struck suddenly and as suddenly, died away. I stumbled on the snow, clinging onto my pillbox hat. She stood me up with a soft chuckle. “And one who hadn’t changed a bit.” I played with the fingers of my left hand that was concealed with a glove and doing so nearly shed me a sweat. I gave my pleasantries to Ms. Orchid thereafter. “Please make yourself comfortable, Lilith Dear,” she said. “Do you fancy a cuppa?” I nodded. Ms. Orchid opened the doors for me. I was about to step inside when continuous blaring noises, apparently from a Cadillac, sounded at the gates. The driver of the vehicle had round scarlet lips, auburn hair styled into curls, shades of black, and on her hand, a tobacco pipe. That woman, though reckless in nature, was my sister, Elise Chevrolet, and was the oldest among us siblings. “Do hurry, will you?” she told the gatekeeper. “I see your sister keeps well too,” said Ms. Orchid. Elise skidded her vehicle at high velocity and stained the markings of her wheels on the pavement. She ceased in front of us, put down her shades, and looked at me with crinkled eyebrows. “Has Father gotten himself a new maid before he died?” I rolled my eyes and teased her with a frown. “Oh, yes.” she snapped. “Little Lilith. Still can’t say boo to a goose, can’t you, eh?” I shrugged. A man with a bowler hat, six foot two if I were to assume, exited the front doors and called our names. His beard and mustache were those of Van Dyke. I couldn’t get who he was at first, but soon realized he was my brother, Cillian Chevrolet. Unlike us, he didn’t leave town and stayed with Daddy until his final days. I hugged him abruptly. “Why, how’s life in the Netherlands, Lilith?” “Lovely,” He tensed his tone and aimed it at Elise. “And you, Elise? What have you done for the past years? Father and I heard of your scavenger hunt. Chasing men, I suppose ? ” “That’s where you’re wrong, Cilly.” she put on her shades and drove away. “It’s the men who chase me.” “I wouldn’t wonder if Father cuts that swine out of the will,” Cillian said. “An irresistible creature with no guilt at all -- that’s what she is.” I couldn’t hold my soft giggle. “Come on inside, Lilith. Maxwell and Juliette await you at the sitting.” “Mr. Ed-Edward?” “Oh yes. He’s been here since dawn.” My other siblings, Maxwell and Juliette, welcomed me with their flattering smiles. With the solicitor and some tea at the sitting, we went with the customary ways of getting along after centuries of being separated. I was proud of Maxwell as he was now a doctor and to my sister, was saddened upon hearing her recent divorce. Elise later joined but didn’t say a word. She was too busy contemplating me with a smirk. At a segment of our chatter, my sight dimmed and everyone in the room but me vanished into the air. I peeked at the window and saw day becoming night, winds severing into gales, and the falling snow turning into rain. Confused, I stood and walked about. A shadowy man emerged from the sitting. His face slowly became clear. “Daddy!” I screamed with utmost joy and noticed he was seated on one of the red couches, looking rather sick and tired. I cuddled Daddy, but he didn’t reply as if I was the ghost, not him. I tried moving his arms but could only touch Daddy and even if that was my sole ability in this strange scenario, he couldn’t feel any sensation. I then jerked and went to a far corner seeing he had a pistol in his right hand. "Daddy?” said a lass. She entered the sitting holding a stuffed unicorn. It made me smile as that girl was my younger self. Another girl walked in. It was young Elly. She hid behind my back with a somewhat unhappy expression. Daddy replied with his cavernous voice: “It's past your bedtime. Why are you both awake?” “Where’s Mommy?” Elly asked. Daddy paused to a great extent, and then an outburst of tears wet his cheeks and reddened his eyes. “She’s gone,” he murmured. I woke up from what I thought was reverie. Elise and everyone else returned. At half-past eleven, we gathered for the reading at the round table in Daddy’s study. I recalled the days Daddy would work with his typewriter while I would lie on this very desk, reading a book and listening to Mommy’s violin. We were once a joyous family until Mommy passed. Without her, no music fluttered the air, no energy stimulated the house. The solicitor coughed. “Shall we begin?” “If you’re ready, Mr. Edward,” said Juliette. Mr. Edward tore the seal off the will’s envelope and commenced the reading. It ended with Cillian inheriting all of Daddy's fortune, properties, and estates. The solicitor also reported to us that Daddy's supposed will was surprisingly changed on behalf of his dire request only a week prior to his death. If it weren't for that, Maxwell and I would originally possess all of what Cillian owned now. Maxwell placed his fists on the table. “Poppycock! Father wouldn’t do that.” “Cillian,” Juliette said calmly, “Did you coax father to do this?” “No.” His reply hung above us for a little while and then made its way out the window and flew with the snowflakes. Juliette and Maxwell leaped into their defense and argued with Mr. Edward. Elise, however, only had a gaze locked on Mother’s ship bottle displayed atop one of the shelves. I gave no interest in the conflict either, although deeply, I was upset. Cillian was in disbelief too. He was frozen. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Edward? His signature wasn’t plagiarized, or any sort of that matter? It doesn’t do justice. Especially to Dear Lilith. She did no wrong to deserve this,” said Juliette. Mr. Edward flung his shoulders. "It's all perfectly true." Maxwell knitted his brows on Cillian. “Now playing the guilty party?” “Maxy, might that be too harsh?” Juliette tried calming him. “You heard what Cillian said. It’s not his fault. Father did it because he wanted it to happen.” “He treated Mother and Father as if they were ready to be thrown out to the rubbish,” he sat with a palm on his forehead. “Mother wouldn’t allow this.” I must confess my brother’s outrage had a few points I could agree with. Cillian, at his young age, was an unruly boy. He was Daddy's favorite as I was Mommy's. Our father even sewed a multi-colored robe just for him. “What now?” Elise whispered, gnawing her nails. “Murder Cillian?” “Sometimes I wish to put my dear scalpel against his neck and just slit it open.” "Gracious, Brother! You're going too far with your inanities," said Juliette. “What will wounding him gain you?” Elise walked from her chair and halted in between the gap of the doors. “Satisfaction? Anyway, I’ll be heading straight off to London.” “So, you’re going to skip Father’s funeral just like what you did to Mother’s?” said Maxwell. Elise tipped her cloche hat and continued her way out. Maxwell abandoned us inside the room and was followed immediately by my other sister, perhaps to make certain he was alright. I laid myself on Cillian. He wrapped me in his arm and rubbed my shoulder with eyes on the vast portrait of Daddy in front of us. “Such a charming, innocent, woman, you are, Miss Lilith.” Mr. Edward tidied the desk. “How come you haven’t married yet?” “Mother prohibits her unless she’s twenty-six,” said Cillian. “I see.” He took his suitcase from the floor. “I do wonder why your Father would make a bold move. He often spoke of you to me, so it seems you’re fond of him.” Ms. Orchid knocked timidly on the doors. We informed her that the reading was finished and since it was, she offered Mr. Edward to have lunch with us, but he couldn't agree because of his appointment with the barber. Ms. Orchid called a carriage for the solicitor instead. Cillian cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. “I’ll join you in the dining later, Lilith.” I nodded. “I’ll be in my bed if you need me.” “You’re not going to have lunch yet, Mr. Cillian?” “No, no, Ms. Orchid.” I wandered about the room for a moment and whilst wandering, I came across Daddy’s furnace. On the black charcoal wood was a torn parchment labeled with two peculiar words: From Elise. My sight dimmed again. “Burgundy!” A voice, that of a man, yelled and nearly pushed a scream out of me. It came from behind. I looked back and a woman with a fine shape, eyes of amber and hair of black, walked into the study. She met me with ignorance and walked through my body as if I was invisible. I recalled the name Burgundy a myriad of times and later remembered it was the nickname of my mother. I was worried about Mommy as she seemed distressed and infuriated. She continued her way to the mantel of the furnace, unzipped a case, and then brought out her violin. My father followed. “Burgundy, listen!” Mommy ignored him and began playing her violin. She increased the volume of the instrument the more my father spat gibberish at her face. This response of hers deteriorated Daddy’s patience. Daddy grabbed her instrument and Mommy tried to reach for it but her strength was of no reliability, thus, her violin ended up being fed to the inferno. Mommy, wailing, collapsed to the carpet and watched the wood of her precious Stradivarius burn into ashes. Daddy was suddenly aware of what his actions had led him to. He froze and stared at Mommy. “There’s nothing!" my mother yelled. “There’s nothing I can do. It’s all over--it’s done. I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do.” Their argument arrived at a minute of calmness. “This is the last call. You will agree or--" “Abortion or not, I can't do anything about what I did. It’s better to raise--" Daddy was maddened. He pulled Mommy from the hair and dragged her out of the study. I wanted to help, but I winded up giving her a mere touch. She was dragged along the hall of the second floor. Young Elly and I, watching them from our room's door, perceived the pleas for mercy from our mother. From the study, I saw Elise bending further, clinging to the door. We were seen by our Father, but he didn't mind and instead went on with pulling Mommy. “Look, Lilith!” Elly said and pointed at Mommy. My younger self gasped. “Where are they going?” Elly took my hand and delivered ourselves outside the bedroom. Young me resisted and showed her the time on the clock. “Come on! It’ll only be awhile. The maids are asleep. They won't catch us.” Ms. Orchid spoke, snapping me back to reality. “And you, Lilith? You must be starving.” I convulsed to a jolt and flashed a smile. “I’ll be at the dining once I finish cleaning this room. You go ahead.” I was the earliest to arrive at the table with silence keeping my company. I suffered in deep thought with fear for Cillian. Witnessing Maxwell and his jarring dialogues left me anxious, however, his words appeared short in genuineness to me. Elise and Juliette came at half past noon. They were quiet until Juliette sparked a conversation. “Could Father really want this?” “He wouldn’t cut us out for fun. That’d be absurd.” Juliette snared. “You’re one complex lady, aren’t you, sis? Whenever it’s positive, you’re negative about it and vice versa. You deserved to be cut off.” Juliette paused and looked at the fingers of her right hand. “Maybe I--Maybe I do too, but Maxwell and Lilith?” “Cillian’s Father’s favorite child. Do you recall the robe Father gave him?" "You should be content, sis." "Who blabbers about the will?" Elise turned to me. “About you, Lilith? What are your opinions?” I shrugged. “You ought to speak more often. Feels like I’m being watched by a ghost.” From the back doors of the kitchen, Ms. Orchid entered and dusted her apparel. “Why, where are your brothers?” “I’ve just lost track of Maxwell. Maybe at the lake. How’s Mr. Edward, Ms. Orchid?” said Juliette. “Took a long time for the carriage to come. But he’s on his way back to Endbourgh. Hopefully.” “I was just at the lake,” Elise chimed in. “Neither Maxwell nor Cillian were present there.” “Room.” “Room? They're in their room?” “Cillian,” I said to Juliette. She launched herself up the stairs. In a matter of seconds echoed a scream trailed with waves of hiccups. It aroused us three. The three of us went to the second floor. Before Cillian's door was our sister, deeply rooted beside a sculpture of Escamillo from Bizet’s opera. She tried to withdraw but dread remained her intact. I took a peek at Brother’s room and was paralyzed by drastic shock. Cillian was on the carpet. Tears clouded my vision as I gripped Elise’s dress. In my sorrows were a blend of rage because of Maxwell's presence. I cleared my eyes a dozen times, yet still, there he was, sitting inside with fists clutched on a knife and a shirt now damped with Cillian’s blood. “Does this make you proud, Brother?” Juliette hissed. Maxwell had no reply. He trembled. Ms. Orchid ran to the other room to phone the station. Elise threw away my grasp and walked down the stairs with poise. I followed her with the slightest pace so as not to be caught. She weaved herself through the kitchen and traveled to our lake at the back of the hall. She ceased to the fore of the waves and threw snowballs to the water. I expected to be successful in my approach without her gaining any suspicion, but then she stopped and didn’t say a word. I went closer to Elise and stood by her. We both looked at our reflections cast on the gentle current. “You.” she snuffled, “You ought to get back inside, Lilith.” Her eyes were carmen and her voice was croaky. I disapproved of my sister’s order and cuddled her in efforts to deliver her warmth and comfort by virtue of the horrendous scene. Seeing Cillian’s body must’ve touched her soft spot. “No,” she pushed me aside and turned her back on me. “Elly?” “Go inside now, Lilith,” she said strictly and took out her revolver. “You wouldn’t want to see this.” I was appalled. I ran to grab it but tripped inches from her. She pointed the gun at me. “Lilith, inside!” Her index on the trigger twitched. “Elly?” My voice quavered. Elise exhaled and pointed the gun away. She picked up a snowball and shot it at the dense woods. “I did,” she murmured, “I did it. I knew from the start that Cillian would have everything. I couldn’t hold myself and had to attend the reading. He may be a chimp, but isn’t he the only one who accompanied Father till death? Juliette, I,” she chuckled lowly, “Even you... You... avoided him. I know that Lilith.” My lips quaked. I threw buckets of snow at her to express my fury. Even if I saw how irked she was, I didn’t stop. She slowly turned back to me with her gun to my stomach. “You think you’re so innocent, Lilith, just like what people say you are? The woman who cares for everyone? One thing you failed to realize--” I stopped. “Is what you hide underneath those gloves of yours.” I lifted my hands, positioned them before me, and looked at them without awareness of what she spoke of. “Don’t play dumb.” She grabbed my wrists as I tried to grapple, yet my grand attempts were impotent against her might. My gloves slid out and there she and I gazed upon what I kept secret from my family for years--my wedding ring. “Indeed, I knew, and I had to write to Father. You can never stay clear from the papers, Lilith, no matter how discreet you and your duke is.” I was devoured by an inner consuming blaze and couldn’t help but to drown her in my rage. We pulled each other’s hair, inflicted scratches upon each other’s faces. We heard the sirens ringing in the front yard and Juliette scouring for us in the house, yet we both ignored them. Then, Elise above my body, a thunderous bang was set off. My lower abdomen burned and fire clustered in it. Her shadow shook me and repeatedly called my name. Her voice was becoming deeper and blurred. My sight dimmed for the third time, and probably the last. It transformed into night and was stormy like the first two. I looked to my left and saw our parents covered in mud meters away from us. Our mother shrieked and shrieked, protecting her stomach while struggling to escape Daddy above her. "Please! I beg of you," Mommy said breathlessly. "I can't--I can't breathe, Lawrence." Daddy was deaf. He hurt her at the behest of jealousy and his utmost aggression that worsened until he decided it was time to end Mommy for good. He took out his pistol and aimed it at Mommy but conscience thought better, hence changing his plan. Instead, he dragged Mommy once again and to the wharf he brought her. My Father tied a heavy stone with a rope and tied the other end at Mommy’s feet. After a slight hesitation, however, moments before he disposed of our mother, Daddy realized Mommy was no longer uttering a word nor feeling any pain. She went silent. "Burgundy?" Daddy whispered, shaking her. I looked at the Hall -- blood still flowing in me -- and spotted young Elly and I just staring out the window, watching Daddy lament on Mommy's breast. We were witnesses to a crime we could’ve attested to. How stupid of me and Elly to stay quiet. If only the sun came and swept away the thunders, we would be at liberty to step outside -- blind to fear that cripples. The curtains of memories furled. I did my best to have a glimpse at Elise one last time. “I didn't-- I didn’t mean to,” Elise mourned. “Lilith, Lilith, I’m sorry -- ” I closed my eyes, and then she spoke: “The ordeal is finished.” There was stillness... And after that came another bang.


Fairytales and childish movies have given us a skewed perception of what fairies look like. Man created such beautiful depictions of fairies to make them more pleasant to the eye. However, by doing this they forgot what fairies truly look like. They aren't beautiful at all, they once were but not anymore. No, they are repulsive, with skin-like bark on a dead tree, black and fractured. Crackling off into small pieces as they move. They don’t have pretty wings, instead, they are leathery, covered in mold and decay. They look like the very essence of death. However, the most noticeable thing about their appearance is the fact that instead of having rows of pearly whites, depicted in the movies; they have yellowed, crooked, fanged teeth, like a decomposed rat. No, they aren't very pretty at all, but mother nature never really was either. Throughout our history, mother nature is the one thing you can always count on men to destroy. They tear her down bit by bit using her body however they see fit. Man is greedy, we take and we take until there's nothing left. We once lived in harmony with her, she gave us her body for our salvation with the promise that we would not hurt her. We took her body and murdered it. Each time we cut her, bombed her, burned her, she screamed out in agony sending waves, fires, and earthquakes as we drilled deeper into her soul. It’s not a surprise that she wanted revenge. While we preyed on her children, she preyed on ours. She created a protector. A way to fight back. Fairies were once innocent things, beautiful even. However, once man evolved and produced generations of themselves, the fairies no longer were beautiful or innocent. Man found a way to hurt them too. Each time a child is born a fairy’s innocence is taken from them and given to the child, leaving the fairy repulsive and weak. Because of this, the fairies no longer have childhoods. Where they once flew with butterflies and birds they now sleep. Plucked of their innocence they were weak and filled with rage. On the other hand, human children flourished, living out their innocence for 18 long years. They have a childhood and innocence that does not belong to them. Once mother nature learned that man has yet again taken this from her too, she was distraught, enraged, furious. She focused all of her energy on the fairies she made them strong, and no longer weak. When they were healthy again and awake, they took back what was once theirs. They would expose the human’s young to treacherous things. Their innocence left them sooner than the 18 years it was supposed to. The fairies relished in this. They were vengeful. While the fairies' children were dying, the humans were living. So their fairy’s created basterds, thieves, murderers, wars, in the hopes of getting rid of this pest. The fairies hoped that by doing so the humans would do what they’ve always done; kill each other. It worked. The humans waged war on each other killing themselves over and over again. Her body still may be destroyed but at least she knows that the pests will exterminate themselves sooner or later. Mother nature has taught humans a valuable lesson. Innocence is a privilege.


“No! I can’t- I won’t let you do this to yourself!” She stared at him, some part of her brain vaguely wondering why he was so upset. They’d worked toward a cure their whole lives, hours spent in school, then university, then their lab. Every waking hour had been dedicated to finding a solution to a problem that could not be solved, and here he was, stopping her from taking the last little step. It was something so small, so insignificant, but Alec looked afraid. Terrified, even. But why? Death himself was knocking on her door, coming to reap what had evaded him for so long, what had hidden away in doctor’s offices and specialist’s labs, and he wanted her to stop? Freedom was so close. The cure was so close. Laura glanced around the room, strangely content. There were pictures and little sticky notes on the three square cork boards, each a memory or some sort of reminder. A glass of cold tea sat on Alec’s desk, right next to the beat-up coffee machine they shared. The tech, the furnishings, everything about this lab was shared between the two of them, although the cause was singular. A cure. That’s all she needed, that’s all he wanted. All her life, they’d been side-by-side, closer than anything. Which was strange, because now she had him locked on the other side of the wooden door, the ominous threat of both known and unknown clouding judgment. Experimental, he had said. Well, experimental was better than nothing. Infinitely better. She pushed the needle a bit deeper into the vein, reveling in the pure familiarity of the gesture all whilst keeping him occupied with a low voice. “Why? My meds aren’t working anymore. It’s this or suffer, you heard what the surgeon said.” “Laura, please! We’ll find something, okay? I promise we’ll find something!” They both knew it was a lie. Nobody had found anything her whole life, and even that was dwindling. Her hands were a pale white and gloved with blue latex, every aspect of her form screaming ‘half-dead’. Still, the syringe didn’t shake in her grasp, the wheelchair’s leather and steel cradling her body like an old friend. Something in her knew that this wasn’t the way, that there was hope , as far-fetched as it might’ve sounded. Hope. The fleeting, crushing weight of hope hung around her neck like a hundred-pound weight, dragging her deeper and deeper into despair. The words 'nothing we can do’ blended with white coats and stethoscopes, medical tables and silver instruments swirling into a nightmare before her. Tubes snaked themselves up and around her throat, forcing air into hyperventilating lungs. Friends rushed to give her the medication her aching body cried out for, temporary relief found in each new needle that pierced her skin, each new pill that was washed down with stale water. A tear slid down her cheek, surprising her when it slipped down her chin and into her shirt, coming to rest just over her still-beating heart. Was that a sign? Perhaps. Alec had started beating on the locked door, his tearstained face shown only by the small window near the middle, the noise pulling her away from the distant fog that had swarmed her mind’s eye. His keys lay on the silver tray-like table next to her, another sharp edge gleaming in the fluorescent light. “Laura! Just- just wait a damn minute! Listen to me, we can find something. We can find something!” “This is something.” “We don’t know what it does, Laura. That could kill you!” “If I go, I’m going on my own terms.” He was sobbing openly now, begging for her to wait, begging for her to stop and realize what she was doing. But she knew. All her life, she’d been confined to sterile spaces and her stupid wheelchair, the outside world lurking just outside her vision. Surgery scars marked porcelain skin, veins accenting her corpse-like demeanor like print on china. Freedom was in her grasp, waiting just behind the needle. Alec’s hands clawed at the door, then beat at the glass, and he looked very much like a madman, what with his face contorted like that. A faraway feeling stirred, and she wanted almost to laugh, seeing as how the tables had turned so drastically. He was usually the calm one, always telling her to be rational while she screamed and threw things, crying out about the unfairness of it all. Now it was the reverse, the sun and moon’s orbit rudely interrupted and flipped inside-out. “Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.” “I know full well what I’m doing. I’m finding peace.” An ugly, broken-sounding cry ripped from Alec’s throat, and he pressed his forehead against the little glass square of their lab’s door, his tears and face fogging it. Laura could see the vague outline of his lips forming words she couldn’t hear, his fist clenched tightly around the knob that wouldn’t move. In the kindest voice she could manage, she cleared her throat and spoke, mustering every ounce of courage left in her fragile being. “It’ll be alright, Al. You made it, it’ll work.” As if filled with new fire, he began screaming nonsense and formulas at her, all the reasons why it wouldn’t work, the hand that had held her own so many times warped by the criss-cross pattern of the glass between them. Her thumb pressed down on the trigger, the serum he’d created rushing through her veins. A minute passed. He kept sobbing, kept pounding on the door. Another minute. Something in her seemed to tense, the drawstrings in her gut pulled taut by an invisible puppeteer. Alec screamed, and as the medication hit her heart, she realized that it was not freedom nor peace she was rushing into, but an unforgiving abyss, the darkness and rot of Death that she had feared for so long. Hope had brought her to the top of the cliff only to shove her off, a sneering traitor painted as a hero. With Alec’s scream escorting her to what awaited, Laura’s hand fell limp, the wheelchair sagging beneath dead weight.


Imagine a world without people. In this world, concrete buildings stand tall against pale blue skies, their interiors left completely vacant. Streetlights flicker when dusk emerges, but the illuminated streets remain silent. Living rooms, kitchens and bedrooms become time capsules, preserving the remnants of a once lively human race. Now imagine, you wake up one Sunday morning to the sound of your alarm clock; the rest of your house deafeningly quiet. You make your way through the corridors, expecting to be greeted by someone you love. But nobody ever greets you. In fact, nobody will ever greet you again. You don’t know how long it has been since you woke up alone that morning, but it has been long enough to forget the sound of shared laughter, bustling traffic and overhead airplanes. Everyone you knew is gone and everything you ever thought was important no longer exists. At first, you convince yourself you’re dreaming, paralyzed by your subconscious mind. But you soon realize it’s not a dream. At least not one you can wake up from. Deep down you know that things will never be the same, but you find ways to adapt to a new way of life. When society still existed and borders defined countries, you lived somewhere in middle America. Now, you spend your days exploring new cities and rural landscapes, relying on worn billboards, and highway signs to tell you where you are, or where you once were. You need these remnants of mankind because nothing looks the same as it did before. Landmarks are overgrown by luscious green trees. Flowers sprout from cracks in the highway pavement. Clean rain collects in streams that flow through pristine woodlands. Without humans to impede, Mother Nature quickly regains her throne. Humans were the only animals to vanish. In the weeks and months following humanity’s departure, the birds, four-legged creatures and marine animals began to thrive. Their natural habitats restored quickly, despite the once highly developed wastelands around them. Every breath you take of the atmosphere is refreshing. The water is pristine. Strikingly blue and pure enough to drink. Every day, you are overwhelmed by the world’s unwavering beauty. In this new world, time is a mere suggestion. The cyclical nature of seasons indicates it has been at least a few years since that day, but you know nothing precisely. The blooming flowers rising from the soft soil and warm sun rays on your exposed skin provide an inkling of summer. The weather is temperate, and you find yourself without clothing. You feel completely free and at ease; one with nature. But if you try hard enough, you can remember the poisonous haze that once blanketed skylines across the globe. Mostly, you remember the unpredictable and tumultuous state of the world, where good news stories were few and far between. Whether it was the looming threat of nuclear war, financial collapse or an indiscriminate virus, you, along with many others, had little hope for the future. Your whole life, people had been predicting the end of the world, but no one could have predicted this. No one could have fathomed the beauty that lie beneath the earth’s toxic soil and layers of floating debris in its oceans. Despite the beauty that surrounds you, you still fear being alone. Often, you wonder how different your situation would be if you had a partner; just one person to share this peculiar journey with. Before departing an area you’ve explored, you leave behind some semblance of human activity. Whether it’s writing on the dusty windshields of abandoned vehicles or scrawling chalk against barren sidewalks, you make your existence known. You know nobody will ever see these messages, but the minuscule chance that they might is enough to keep you going. If you can, imagine now that this world you’ve come to know will change once again. Unlike your previous life, you now have the freedom to do as you please, when you please. Before, your ability to enjoy life was stifled by routine and the shifting expectations of society. But now, freedom is a guiding principle of your existence. This freedom leads you to follow the steady rising sun for what feels like several weeks until eventually, you reach the once-booming metropolis known as the Big Apple. You wander through the empty streets surrounded by towering buildings; their walls covered in resilient foliage. A skulk of foxes emerges from the undercarriage of an abandoned vehicle and prances through the empty streets; the once feral animals are unbothered by your presence. Your bare feet stick to the hot pavement as you take a moment to appreciate the peaceful ambience of the city’s skeleton. Eventually, you encounter a massive, magnificently diverse park nestled in the center of the urban landscape. A large olive-green placard, partially shrouded by overgrown trees, reads ‘Central Park.’ The scenery is expansive with a canopy of tree leaves stretching as far as your eyes can see. Small critters hurry up and down thick tree trunks as birds glide high above, chirping melodically. In the forest ahead, you see a small spotted fawn frolicking beside its graceful mother drinking from a fresh stream. This is not the Central Park you remember. As you walk through the park, your hands graze the vibrant shrubbery, occasionally picking a flower to smell. The aroma is intoxicating. Eventually, you reach a small meadow in the middle of the forest. In the center, a colossal apple tree casts a shadow over the lush green grass. You sit beneath the tree, resting your naked skin on the soft grass. Relaxed by your surroundings, you begin to drift off. You are awoken by the unusual sensation of someone watching you. Your eyes open to the sight of a rugged, middle-aged man crouched in front of you. He stares intensely into your eyes while gently touching your shoulder. His face is the first you have seen in years that’s not plastered on a billboard. You realize that the man is also naked, but neither of you feels compelled to react. You sit up swiftly and return his stare, once again questioning the boundary between dream and reality. But like last time, you know there is no dream to wake up from. After years of solitude, you are no longer alone. The man is utterly stunned by your existence. Tearfully, he describes his many days and nights alone, convinced he was the last remaining person on earth. That is, until he saw the messages you sprawled in chalk in the otherwise empty Time’s Square. Naturally, you sympathize with the man. You understand exactly how he felt, alone in a vast yet empty world for countless days and nights. You're immensely relieved to have someone to confide in. Your once uncertain future begins to unfold before you. The two of you sit comfortably in the shelter of the towering tree and talk for hours. You discuss the perils of mankind - its fragility and increasingly hostile nature before all of this happened - a stark contrast to the serene paradise before you today. Although neither of you can explain what happened on that fateful Sunday or why you were spared, you both agree that the world is a much different, albeit nicer, place now. You both yearned for someone to share this life with and against all odds, it became true. Together, you share a boundless utopia. You sit next to the man in peaceful silence until suddenly you feel a tickle on the top of your foot. Your heart begins to race. A small yellow garter snake slithers quickly across your skin, disappearing into the tall grass. Startled, you jump to your feet. As you try to catch your exacerbated breath, you look up to see an abundance of shiny, red apples hanging from the picturesque tree above you. Your mouth begins to salivate at the sight of the perfectly ripe fruit. You want to ask the man if he too would like an apple, but you realize you never had a proper introduction. Feeling rather foolish, you ask him for his name. “It’s Adam,” he replies, looking up at you with a smile. “Nice to meet you Adam. I’m Eve,” you say as you take a bite out of the succulent red apple in your hand. The man, still sitting beneath the tree, returns your gaze. His eyes scan your fully exposed body and his cheeks begin to flush, turning a slight shade of pink.


This story's about 2900 words and is about an old man who's been working on something for many years. What it is and why he's working on it are explained in the story. If you have the time, I'd appreciate your feedback. I'm mostly interested in impressions -- what works for you, what doesn't and why. Thank you very much for reading, and even more so if you can spare a word or two :) I hope there's something here that you like!  The Old Man’s Machine By Thomas Bradford The underground complex is abandoned and has been for a long time. Not abandoned completely, but deserted of its original inhabitants. Now it serves as the old man’s home, its concrete ceilings and dark corridors his refuge from the empty world above. He sits in front of a peculiar machine. It is a device he has worked on for decades. Breathing through his nose, the air rustles his long white beard as he stares at his creation, concentrating, before lifting a wrench to the side of the machine’s cylindrical frame. There he tightens a bolt slowly, his muscles moving of their own accord, mindlessly performing tasks of which he has spent his life in the hope of one day finishing his creation. Finally, it seems, he has. The old man lowers his arm, letting the end of the wrench fall to the floor with a soft clang. His movement is tired as he pulls a yellowed sheaf of papers from his waistband. He adjusts himself on the metal stool and holds up one particular page, his eyes moving back and forth from the completed machine to designs he had sketched forty-seven years ago. Forty-seven years. To him it feels like a hundred lifetimes; an incomprehensible span he has become deadened to. Or so he thought. For now the possibility of change has returned, the longing for redemption spreading through his being once again, like water gifted to gnarled roots that for ages have been dried-up and dormant. Satisfied that each bolt is in its right place, that each metal plate and circuit is exactly as it should be, the man lowers the page, his expression unchanging save for a faint hopeful smile in his eyes. He regards his cylinder of metal, his unassuming capsule, one final time, resolving to test it tomorrow. Getting to his feet, the old man walks away. Like a silent watchman, his time machine stands at the ready, waiting for his return. \# His filthy bedroll sits in a dark corner of another room in the complex. This area is as big as a warehouse, with many stairs and catwalks running along its sides. It is under their canopy that the old man rests, his back leaning against the cold concrete of the wall as he sits among his rat-eaten blankets and musty pillows. He idly scratches the white hairs on his chest and thinks of the past. Of the world it created. He speaks to a rusty machine that floats at the edge of the room, its quiet presence like a specter in the shadows outside the muted glow of the overhead bulbs in their circular dishes. “A-lon, activity on surface,” he says. An orange light flickers briefly in the corner of the robot’s rectangular frame. “*Previous expedition to planet’s surface yielded no signs of human life. Long-range scanner detected no presence beyond basic flora and fauna.*” The old man’s eyes are distant as he listens to the robot speak. His lips move slightly, mouthing each word as it is spoken. The machine’s report has never changed, he knows it never will, yet he asks for it every day. In a way he has become like a machine himself, compelled to a routine of robotic banter from which he doesn’t deviate. “Current state of reserves, A-lon.” The light blinks again; calculations are made in microseconds. “*683 bags dry goods -- 406 dehydrated, 277 regular. Freezer holds 308 items. Freezer itself exhibiting increased signs of failure; at current rate it will cease to function in approximately two days, twelve hours, thirty-eight minutes and twelve seconds. Recommend utilizing my hunt/gather protocol functionality in order to secure parts necessary and/or additional unit.*” The old man shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. There’s more than enough dry food to last. Were you able to find what I asked?” The machine floats towards him, circumnavigating a metal staircase to come to a gentle stop several feet from his bedroll. Its frame rests halfway between light and shadow; the overhead glow catches its side and reveals a faded serial number: A-lon686742med-u1. A small compartment in its metal frame opens and a rudimentary arm emerges, its two claw appendages holding a clear glass bottle of bronze liquid. The bottle is coated in a fine layer of dirt, the label visible: black, with white lettering. “*One bottle eighty-proof distilled bourbon whisky.*” The old man cups the bottle, his hand trembling. The days when he’d been thankful that his sole companion’s synthetic voice is non-reproachful by design have long since passed. This frequent request has become merely another part of his routine. He murmurs his thanks as he takes the bottle. “*You are very welcome, Robert.*” The old man says nothing. Untwisting the plastic cap, he lifts the bottle to his mouth. Thick bubbles of air chug through the liquid as he takes deep gulps, desensitized to the burn of the alcohol passing his throat, welcoming the warmth as it settles in his stomach like a dull ember. He lowers his arm, his gaze fixes on the floor as it empties and becomes vacant, and he loses himself for a moment. Then he notices the robot again and waves his hand. “Go away A-lon.” The machine dutifully obeys. The old man takes another pull from the bottle. Minutes pass in silence, his expression unchanged. He thinks of the past. Suddenly the man’s eyes water. He shakes his head bitterly, finally lowering it altogether, as if in defeat. He clutches the neck of the bottle to his leg as he cries, his shoulders hitching in silence, tears spilling onto the rotting blankets. The old man’s heart is heavy and his chest feels like it’s filled with lead. Tilting his head back, he clenches his teeth and rubs a hand across his eyes, wishing for the moment to pass. His nose is running and the mucus is in his beard. He looks ancient, rundown and withered. He is a sorry sight to behold. The importance of this man’s invention, the machine he has crafted in his many years of isolation, cannot be understated. The empty surface of the world above has not always been empty. If one had the ability to go back, to address the past with knowledge of what the future holds, perhaps that world could be saved. Perhaps the old man’s present could be nothing more than a bad dream, and the world could be filled with life once again. For anyone else, that would be the reason. It would be incentive enough to construct a machine to travel back in time, and one could not be blamed for expecting it of anyone with such an ability. For what greater purpose could there be than the world’s salvation? But this man . . . Robert . . . He doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t care about the world above. He doesn’t care about those who lived, or those who died. He doesn’t care about the joy they had, the dreams they kept, or the hatred they visited upon one another. He doesn’t care about lost potential for love and kindness, the possibility of wonder, the capacity for creation and destruction and everything in between. The machine he created could be important to the world that was; he created it because it is important to *his* world that *is.* Maybe in the beginning he told himself otherwise. Maybe he even once believed it was so. But even a year in isolation, with ruminations of the past as his only diversion during the countless hours of staring at nothing or lying restlessly awake, is a long time. Over the decades, he has come to know the true reason for his work. Has come to know it intimately, to see its face over and over again, impossible to get away from, useless to try to suppress. The bottle in his lap has always proven a poor weapon against it. It is regret. It is shame. And throughout all these years, it is all that is left to him. The old man wants to sleep. He wants to not stare into nothingness with red eyes for hours, days, and years. He wants to go back and fix it. He thinks back to who he was before -- the child he was, then the man. Nothing seemed to work right for either one. It was an odd-shaped life, a puzzle piece that never fit, its only purpose that to be set aside, disregarded and forgotten. It was an awkward existence where the greatest of ideas had a way of stuttering into reality stunted and ill-formed. Luck was never with him; many decisions he made were doomed to be wrong from the start. And like a curse, his wrongness of being finally culminated in a single instance, a terrible moment of which he would give his life to have avoided, if only he could. He is to blame. He, and he alone. But now it seems he can change things. He can erase that blame, make it go away, leaving him free at last, without burden, with a clean conscience at the end of his life. More than anything, he does not want to die with this regret. An air processor switches on, clicking its fan and pulling the old man from his thoughts. He goes to take another drink from the bottle and discovers it is empty, and that he has no recollection of draining it. Disappointed, sad that it’s gone, he pushes the bottle away, a moment later hearing the sound it makes from the shadows as it stops against the other empty bottles. \# The old man rubs sleep from his eyes as he sits down on the metal stool. His creation stands before him, its quiet presence unchanged. It has been two days since he completed it. Rather than try it out the following day like he wanted, he found himself too nervous to go near it. He finally summoned his nerve by telling himself that if he didn’t do this now, then he never would. His fingers shake as he adjusts several dials on the machine; this time his shakes have little to do with sobriety. He sets the numbers, he checks the circuits, he lets his hand rest over the toggle switch. His eyes are wide, his stare intense with a mixture of hope and fear. His dry throat clicks as he swallows. His lips tighten as he steels himself, ready to push the button to start the machine for the first time. For the last time. He pushes the button. . . . Nothing happens. The old man’s heart drops. His mind floods with panic and he presses the button several more times, each time hearing the dry click of the switch inside the small metal box, followed by his rushing breath, followed by silence. He lets the box fall to the floor and runs his hands over the outside of the machine. He checks the myriad of wires, he feels the bolts, he looks at the exposed circuit boards. He sees nothing wrong. “*. . .--obert . . .*” Turning his head, he sees A-lon appear in the doorway. A small red light glows steadily in the corner of the robot’s rectangular body. The old man has never seen it lit up before, and doesn’t know exactly what it means -- clearly an error sign of some sort, but he doesn’t know of what. “*. . .--zer ceased . . . function . . .*” the robot says, its speech clipped, the words disrupted by quiet pauses. The old man asks the robot what’s wrong. “*. . . speech . . .--otocol system is . . .--ailing . . .*” The old man nods, understanding what has happened. He is not surprised. It all makes sense to him, in fact. It fits perfectly with what he now knows is the only way this scenario could have played out for him. To imagine otherwise had been foolish of him, and he feels a rueful disgust for ever hoping things could have been different. The freezer had failed. A-lon was malfunctioning, wearing down after all these years. And his creation was a failure. A piece of junk. The possibility of this moment had surfaced in his thoughts throughout the years. Part of him had expected it, but a larger part of him had still believed. Believed that somehow, this time, things would turn out differently. This time he wouldn’t screw up, as he had with every other important thing in his life. This time things would come together, and he would finally succeed. Even if it had taken his entire life, in the end he would get this one thing right. He was a fool. There would be no fixing anything. The machine doesn’t work, and he is too tired to discover why. He is too old, his mind isn’t what it used to be, and he would likely waste away before the capsule’s mess of circuitry trying to discover where he went wrong. It is over, in other words. In the end he failed. Looking at his inoperable time machine with eyes that have begun to water, his stubborn mind slowly begins to come to a reluctant acceptance. He knows that there is only one recourse left to him now. He must accept the end. Accept his failings, his guilt, as best he can before passing on. His stomach pangs with a dull ache as he turns his back on his failed invention, putting it from his sight forever. He leaves the room, heading to his storage of dry food. There he gathers only what he thinks he’ll need, storing it inside a blanket which he then ties off, making it into a bundle which he can carry. He takes a small jug of water as well, wishing it were a glass bottle instead. Perhaps he can locate where A-lon has gone all these years to supply him, he thinks. The old man does not say goodbye to the complex as he starts to leave. It had been a lonely and desolate home to him, and he feels no sentiment in leaving it. A-lon follows the old man as he walks; the man notices the robot behind him just as he is about to leave and raises an eyebrow. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You stay here.” The old man turns to go, but the robot continues to follow. Again he commands it to stay; again the robot disobeys. Finally, he gives up and instead opens the door, ducking through it and slamming it shut before A-lon can follow, sealing his companion in as he turns the metal wheel. The machine floats on the other side, motionless, lost without someone to direct it. Left without a voice or purpose, perhaps it will never move from that spot for the remainder of its artificial life. The dim lights of the underground complex continue to glow, illuminating a facility that is once again abandoned. Just as it was less than forty-eight years ago, now it is again, and perhaps now will forever be. In a room tucked away in a back corner of the complex sits a curious machine, its lights and dials dark. If one were to look at it and deduce its purpose, they might discover that the only thing keeping it from working is a lack of power. A simple adjustment to its power cord would fix this problem. This theoretical person might also suspect that the creator of this strange contraption had already used the machine himself, and disappeared into the infinite stretches of time. It probably wouldn’t occur to them that the dead device was merely the last example of a lifetime defined by stupid mistakes, of messing up anything and everything it encountered. \# Tears stream slowly down the old man’s face. His eyes are rimmed with red as he shoulders the makeshift pack on his back. As he limps through the dark corridors on his way back to the surface, he feels as if he is reaching the end of a very long dream, one that should have ended differently. Everything feels wrong, like things were not meant to be this way, but they are. The urge to make things right is still within him, but it is useless now, impotent, with no path forward and no chance of being a reality. The old man doesn’t want his life to end underground. This at least is something he can fix. He wants to see the sky. He wants to breathe the open air. Maybe once he is above ground, he’ll see another human being again. This is secretly his last desire. Although he is old, and facing the end, the capacity for hope in his heart has not changed. His pull towards irrational longing is the same as it ever was, and he hopes to see one person in particular again. If not in the past, then here in the present would be enough. He wants to see this person and say that he’s sorry. That he always was, and he will die being so.


Kanna drew an impossibly deep breath as she drove down the winding drive through the overgrown brush and trees that were scratching their names in her airport rent-a-car. She could already hear the neglected engine of her father’s rotting chevy choking its way down the long-abandoned road in her memory. She exhaled a painful breath as she approached her destination. The driveway before her was cracked and beveled like an abandoned eggshell. She pulled closer to the garage door. The paint that was peeling from aged wood was piling like leaves in the fall at the base of the door that was so weather worn that it no longer sat solidly on the concrete but left large gaps as tiny doors for the mice to enter their undisturbed kingdom. She pulled the large manila envelope from her backpack on the passenger seat. Her name was written in deep black ink on the front with the logo in the upper left-hand corner from the Benson Harrison Haddock & Wilson law firm. She pulled a smaller envelope from inside and shook the key inside it into her hand. The post mark was from two years ago. The paperwork inside included the will, the deed and receipt for the last two years’ worth of back taxes on the property. She kept asking herself why she had come. She didn’t feel like she could sell the property until she had seen it once again. There was no other way to leave it behind her. Or she would always wonder. So, she had flown from two thousand miles away to face her fears. She pushed open the driver’s side door with some force in a moment of determination. She walked quickly toward the front door, but her steps became slower as she approached it. Her hands shook as she placed the key in the lock and turned it. The scream that the aged hinges made as it swung into the hallway echoed in her mind and triggered a memory and sped up her breathing. The door opened before her. Even from this place on the stoop, she could see the sunlight streaming into the tiny hallway from the kitchen window. Just step inside, she told herself. Her steps were slow on the color faded tile. Kanna dragged her finger through the dust resting undisturbed on the table in the hallway that held a solitary lamp. She didn’t bother to turn on any lights. She could’ve made her way through this home blindfolded. Nothing had changed in twenty-two years since she had been taken from here by Officer Lepetree. The sun was starting to rise outside and was sneaking noiselessly through the slats in the blinds that hung on the rain-stained windows and was leaving ladders of light on the weight-pressed carpet. She was only a few feet in but was doubting her ability to move forward. The memories were thick around her like the cobwebs that lined the walls. She didn’t know why her mom had kept this home after all these years or why she had left it to her when she knew how much Kanna had hated it. She put the back of her right hand to her mouth. She felt like she was going to be sick. She could still hear the sound his hand had made when he slapped her. God, give me courage, she prayed. She turned left into the kitchen. The oversized fork still hung on the wall next to the stove. The fridge had been emptied and unplugged and the door was open showing the yellowing shelves like unbrushed teeth. She pulled open the cupboard beneath the sink. She knelt in front of it to see if it was still there. She reached a single finger and touched it on the back wall in the upper left-hand corner- the flower she had carved in the soft wood of the cupboard while she was hiding from him. She had stayed hidden in there for hours until he had stumbled out of the front door finally drunk and disinterested in being home. Kanna didn’t know if he had even tried to find her that night or if he was relieved, she was quiet. She went through the kitchen and into the library. Most of the shelves were empty with a few exceptions. It was still here. Her favorite book from when she was small: The Poky Little Puppy. Her grandmother had given it to her, and it still had her name written on the front of it in her best five-year-old cursive. Her mother must have left it here for her. What other treasures had she left? Kanna almost ran up the rickety steps that groaned under her weight. She stepped over the threshold into her parents’ old room. It looked different barren of Mom’s old-fashioned bed frame and hand-me-down dresser. The window was slightly open as she always kept it for the evening breeze. The wood beneath it was twisted with the weather that had seeped in and warped the floorboards. If she remembered right, there was a place. She went to the side of the room that used to be beside the dresser. She tapped her foot on several of the boards until she found the place. One of the boards gave way beneath her tennis shoe and popped up at the opposite end. Mom’s secret hiding place that she had once shown Kanna. She pulled up the board. And there it was. Wrapped in a towel and enclosed in a sealed container that popped a little as she opened the lid. She pulled it to her chest and wept. She touched the surface of the worn family bible. She could picture it in her mother’s hands. The pages were soft with age and inside the front cover was her grandmother’s handwriting and after she had passed it on, her mother’s handwriting. A piece of ribbon was tucked into Revelations. Chapter 21. Verse 4 was always her favorite: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away. This was her inheritance. Even with all that had happened to her, Kanna’s mom had given her a belief in God. An understanding that hope is always a beautiful thing. Faith that people are good deep down. She never gave up on anyone. And she knew that one day God would stand with her and wipe away all the hard things and only good would remain. Kanna could bury her ghosts now. And move on. She would leave this haunted house behind her now with all its bad dreams. Someone could tear it down and make a happy family in the magic of the trees.