That’s the thing about this city, people come from all around, and no one ever leaves. It isn’t that they fall in love with the beauty of it all, though it is beautiful. Between the neon lights, and all the clowns down on their last dime, it can feel like a carnival, and that can make you feel like a kid again, but Richie Rich wasn’t a gambler... his parents probably were. This city.. it lives on the blood of the innocent, human or otherwise. You think those animals in there wanna be fightin’? Shedding blood so some asshole vacationing from who-gives-a-shit! Can bet on which fuckin’ pig can gore the other to death the quickest?! No... BUT... the show must go on.. if it doesn’t, a quarter of the city loses its blood, it’s life force.. Down that way, about ten blocks, is THE BEST barbeque you’ve ever tasted! The place is called “Delilah’s”, Their special on Friday nights is “The Loser”, and yeah it’s what it sounds like; a piping hot runner-up on a hoagie roll with BBQ sauce. I guess the heat of battle gets the pig’s juices flowing just right; maybe their adrenaline is the perfect marinade, I don’t know, either way check them out! You’ll only hate yourself for a few seconds.. If you want to gamble your money away go right across the street. That kid there, the one giving us the finger, that’s Garth. He stumbled across a Clone-XS, stole a few hairs on a class trip to the zoo, and bam! He’s got a whole portable fighting ring in his fuckin’ backpack! Gorillas, Lions, Elephants, you name it, he’s got it.. He claims he can re-grow them too, I personally don’t believe him, but I still steer clear of the little shit.. "Madame Z's Spell Shoppe" is right around the corner, but don't bother trying to find anything that'll bring you luck, the mayor had it all outlawed years ago, you'd be better off if the cops caught you with a bag of meth than a four leaf clover... You can however pay for an incantation that'll make you grow six inches.. You decide where that applies.. Just be careful going down that path, us locals call their street "Salem's Stretch", it's the only place in the city witches are licensed to operate, and their soul-to-goods ratio is way off.. Six inches might cost you a year of your life if you're lucky, get it from the wrong lady, you might lose a whole decade, but that's just another kind of gambling the city offers.. If gambling isn't your thing I HIGHLY recommend visiting our red light district, shapeshifters from around the world, ready to give you whatever you can imagine. Want to spend the night with Scarlett Johanson? Not a problem. You wanna have a threesome with Santa and the Easter Bunny? Simple enough. Between all of them they can turn into anyone, or anything, get real weird with it, god knows I have.. Everyone thinks they're a freak in the sack, but they can come talk to me when they've literally screwed themselves.. Speaking of flesh, "Delilah's" isn't the only place in town to get a hot meal. You should check out "The Rowboat", it's a classy joint down by the docks, the whole restaurant is inside of a yacht, I don't know who owns the place, but their food is to die for, very... exotic. If you think you've got the stomach for it I would give it a try, but get there by at least nine or they might set off without you, the Captain can be a bit sporadic with his scheduling, especially when the feds try knockin on the door.. Make sure to tell the chef that Emanuel told you about the place, that'll get me a discount next time I go in, and if I were you I'd order the femur, meat falls right off the bone.. If you're lacking superhuman abilities I would just avoid downtown all together, that place is a genetic nightmare, some scientists saw to that. I'm not sure if they were actually trying to help, or if they just got bored one day, but between the giant slugs, and the supermen, the place is pretty much a death trap.. I'm sure you probably caught a glimpse of it on your way in, maybe saw a giant lizard? A flying woman? Either way it's the part of the city that's on fire, nobody bothers even putting em' out anymore, the government thinks it's just a waste of resources, and being a taxpayer myself I'd have to say I agree.. When the time comes that you want to leave, IF you want to leave, you do it the same way you came in, one of those pretty little jets over there, that is, after your mind has been wiped of course. Like I said before, feds are always poking around, trying to shut shit down, they don't like the way we do things here in Fällhourn, but I say they stay in their little corner of the world and let us have ours. Just cause we do things differently round here doesn't make it wrong, most people just can't stand the thought of living so freely, the possibilities scare them I guess..The mayor will permit back and forth travel sans the memory wipe, but that perk comes with a cost, a microchip that they implant right into your spine, the procedure is irreversible, once you get one they have eyes and ears on you always, that's why most people opt to just stay in the city, they don't wanna risk spilling any secrets to outsiders, cause if they did that, boom, heart attack, stroke, electrocution, anything to keep our business OUR business.. Anyway I won't hold you up any longer, Ms.Green was it? You look like the sort of woman who can handle herself, I'm sure you'll be fine, just keep in mind everything that I've told you, I'm sure you'll get used to this place in no time! Welcome to our city!


This was my story submission for the Secret Santa story swap we ran on the community Discord server, for u/ReverendWrites ! This was a ton of fun and a great challenge, with some brilliant constraints! Rev's chosen constraints for me were: 1. Includes the phrase "Conditions are rapidly deteriorating" (or "were") 2. Someone falls in love during the story. 3. At least one character is Fae. 4. A natural disaster is happening or about to happen. 5. It's the Old West. 6. A specific plant plays some role in the story, however minor. *** Mary stumbled through the snow, her stetson-covered head bent against the biting wind and whirling ice. Old Bess complained loudly behind her, the greying mare struggling against the reins as Mary doggedly pulled her along. “Steady on, girl. We have to get home before this ungodly snowfall gets even worse!” Bess snorted and stamped her feet. “Don’t you give those eyes, you old pot of glue! Conditions are rapidly deteriorating - we have to get home and get you into the barn, or not even the coyotes will be able to find your stiff carcass until the snow melts!” Bess nickered and rolled her eyes, but pushed on. “Atta girl. We’re nearly home - well, as long as I haven’t gotten lost.” She looked around, studying the snow-laden junipers. Her familiar landmarks and the well-trodden path to her cabin was frustratingly lost to the white drifts, but she hoped she was on the right track. Thankfully, she soon found what she was looking for. In the midst of the thick pines stood two out-of-place pinyons, side-by-side. She’d planted them herself ages ago, and now they returned the favour. “See, old girl?” Told you I’d get us home safely!” Bess’s snort told Mary exactly how much faith the creature had in her. “Bah, hush.” She dragged Bess up the path and beneath the thickening boughs, breathing a sigh of relief as the winds lessened and the height of the snowdrifts shortened from her waist to her ankles. Soon after, the path opened up into her little clearing, her log cabin and Bess’s tiny barn standing strong beneath the blanket of frost. She got Old Bess into the barn with the goats and bedded her down under a thick quilt, then hurried to get indoors and out of the wind herself. Only to find a huddled shape slumped on her porch. She blinked as she looked at the small bundle, half-buried beneath snow and shivering. With some shock she realised it was a kid - a little girl, no older than six if she was a day, her dark hair frozen to her forehead and her lips nearly blue with cold. “What in tarnation- Hell’s Bells, girl, you’re frozen stiff! Let’s get you indoors.” The child barely stirred as Mary carried her inside and got her bundled up in furs near the hearth and hurried to get the fire going. The half-frozen stew that was still left in the cauldron would have to do to warm her up- There was a knock on the door. Mary’s head whipped around, staring with disbelief. Nobody could possibly be mad enough to come to visit in this weather. Am I going batty in my old age? Another knock, a precisely rhythmic *rap-tap-tap*. Mary’s eyes narrowed. She reached up and grabbed her old coach gun from atop the mantlepiece, quietly breaking it open to check the cartridges. Cold but dry. Good enough. Another knock, more insistent. *Rap-tap-tap, rap-tap-tap.* “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” She held the coach gun by her side, out of sight, and slowly cracked the door open to peer out into the cold. The man standing out there was the most handsome person she’d ever seen. His skin was so pale it was nearly the same shade as the snow around him, his uncovered hair silvery-blonde and his eyes the green of emeralds. His smile was dazzling, and he bowed with a flourish that sent his pristine, black leather coat flapping around him. Mary felt her face grow hot and her heart skip a beat. “Fair lady,” the man said, his voice ringing clear and bright like a clarion, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you - may I come in?” *Yes, you may come in and have your way with- What?* “Pardon?” Mary blinked at him, her thoughts feeling strangely fuzzy and distant. His expression didn’t change, beyond a slight twitch of his lips. “I am looking for my daughter, my lady. I believe she may have come to your cabin to shelter from the blizzard. Her mother misses her terribly, and I must bring her home. Have you perchance seen her?” *Oh yes, of course, she’s right in here- No!* She pressed herself against the door, smiling shyly at him. “I might, sir. I just might.” The man’s smile widened, another jolt of warmth and a swarm of butterflies bursting to life within Mary’s chest. “How wonderful. May I see her?” *Of course, sir-* “Please don’t let him in.” The small voice was like a bucket of ice water dunked over Mary’s head. She stiffened, hand tightening on her gun. “I don’t like him,” the girl whispered. “He’s mean.” The man’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward and grasped the doorframe, long, pointed nails clicking against the wood. “My lady, surely you would not leave me out here in the cold.” Mary shuddered, the fuzzy warmth tickling closing in again. “I am sorry, sir,” she managed. “I believe you should leave. Please let go of my door.” “I do not think I will.” He pressed in, forcing the door open inch by inch. His smile changed from friendly to cruel, his features seeming to lengthen, growing alien and twisted- Then he stopped, as the barrels of Mary’s coach gun pressed into his stomach. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think your blunt rod will stop Robin Goodfellow, woman?” “Only long enough to pull the triggers. And a “good fellow” you ain’t.” The man sneered. “It’s Goodfellow, not-” The coach gun bucked in Mary’s arms, the thunderous noise ringing in her ears. The man stumbled back, clutching at his stomach and his eyes wide with shock. He seemed to shrink in on himself, twisting into a hairy, fuzzy-furred goblin as pale red blood welled beneath his grasping fingers. “Witch,” he gasped. “Cold iron-” “I ain’t a witch,” Mary spat. “I am a widow.” She raised the gun again. “And I have no time for smooth-talking kidnappers.” She drew back the second hammer. “Git.


"Lights out!" the prison guard shouted. I guessed it was 8 o'clock at night. It was that or he fell asleep for sometime. After all, he did look like he just took a nap. Anyway, it was time to go to sleep, but I wasn't tired just yet. And I knew why. I'd been here in prison long enough to realize. You see, I was framed. It was January of 2019 when it all happened. I was in the bank, getting some money to pay for my daughter's soccer camp. Next thing I knew, a person with a blue backpack, just like mine, was running out of a hallway holding a gun. A robber! Police followed him. However, it took one turn of a corner to throw them off. While all of this chaos was happening, I also tried to run out of the building, but I was slower than the robber. The police saw me and arrested me right on the spot. I had one chance to explain myself after that. But I was already forced to put on the grimy orange prison suit generations of prisoners probably already wore. The police and witnesses made their points. It was time to share my side of the story. "Well...you see...," I nervously argued, "I might be the spitting image of the robber, but I'm not. Just because...well...we wore the same backpack doesn't mean we are the same person." "Oh, so you know what the robber was wearing? Suspicious, suspicious indeed," the judge said. He started to write something down. "No! Not in that way! I was running out of the bank because I was nervous. The man who I saw had a gun, after all. But the robber was faster than me and hid in the bushes before the police saw him," I tried to explain. This was true. I did see him do this. I later knew that my explanation was not enough, though. Within two days, I was in an orange suit again, behind bars. I would stay in prison for the next ten years. I knew there was no hope of getting out before my sentence was over. I grew up watching those shows where prisoners escaped their cells and stuff like that. I knew I lived in reality, though. I wasn’t stupid enough to actually believe people got out of prison that way. Most of them waited and served their sentence, like I thought I would. There was a possibility that I would be pardoned by the president, but people only get that out of shear dumb luck. Seven more years to go, I thought miserably. So, in the morning, I woke up to the piercing yell of a guard. Not very pleasant, but, then again, I’d been here for a long time, and I’m not even halfway through my sentence. One way or another, I would eventually get used to it. A guard unlocked my cell along with several others, and I headed down to breakfast. Today was my lucky day, as there was some sloppy french toast that was more toast than french. Some might call it a meager meal, but prisoners call it a miracle. Unfortunately, I was a quick eater. Instead of savoring the meal like I should have, I gorged it, finishing in a maximum of five minutes. Pleased, I unfortunately remembered I was still in prison. “Courtyard, now! Everyone! That’s right, everyone!” the guard shouted, nearly giving me a heart attack. While recovering, I made my lazy self get my butt off the bench, throw out my plate, and slowly walk to the courtyard. This was where I was confused. You know that I had been here for three years, and this is true, but I never got the purpose of the courtyard. What were you supposed to do? Workout? Play tag like kindergarteners? Maybe hide-and-seek? All of these options seemed useless. We had a gym for working-out, and I had a feeling games weren’t fit for strong-armed, six-packed, buffed prisoners. Thankfully, there were bleachers. Most of the time, I sat on them and thought. About what? Several things, mostly about my family. Back home, I had a family of five;my wife, Sandra;my two sons, Stephen and Jordan; my daughter, Melony; and I, Dan Whailord. We lived at forty-two Cherry Lane. We were all happy, the five of us together. That quickly changed when I went to prison. Of course, they knew I was innocent. They visited me every day possible. However, that wasn’t enough. I longed to go home like I used to do everyday to see a warm smile on my kids’ faces and get a group hug from all of them at once. At this, I rubbed a tear from my eye. For some reason, thinking that it would make me feel better, I kicked the fence. I didn’t get a good pain in the shins, though. Instead, I fell off-balance and hit the ground. My foot was through the fence! I wiggled my foot. It was touching free land, land not guarded 24-7 with guards carrying threatening guns. Quickly, I got back on my feet and looked around. No one saw. Acting as if nothing happened, I sat back on the bleachers. Now, I had something else besides my family to think about. I had something revolutionary to think about. I mean, could those cartoons I saw on TV when I was a kid happen to me in real life ? The thought of it gave me a tremor of excitement. Happiness flooded me. This could be my ticket to freedom. I could escape and then- “Lunchtime!” one guard announced. I had no more time to think. I got up and went to the lunchroom. I saw the food options and said, “Grilled cheese, please,” with a tone of happiness that wasn’t usually there. I gobbled down my grilled cheese just like I did with my french toast. The rest of the day went smoothly. As it went by, I had more and more time to think about my fantastic escape plan. I called it the “No More Orange Suits Plan.” I figured that I would go at the last free time, where no one decided to go to the courtyard. No one would see me. To start off my plan, I somehow managed to grab a set of clothes that weren’t orange whatsoever. Instead, I grabbed a red shirt and blue jeans. Next, I headed off to the corner of the courtyard. I looked around. No one was looking at me. I slipped through the crack and ran for it. I only stopped running when I was sure I was at least ten miles away from the site. I laid down the clothes and took off my orange suit. I replaced them with the red shirt and blue jeans. I started a fire. To fuel it, I burned the orange suit. Fire was usually a bad sign to me, but right about now, I loved it.


I forgot to tell him. I forgot to tell him that the night sky is too dark when he’s not holding me. I forgot to tell him that I don’t know how to breathe without him. I forgot to tell him he is the sun. I forgot to tell him. Staring out the window, there was nothing but darkness, grief and the smell of sickness. The reflection of nurses hurrying past the reflection of parked cars in the lot down below. The waiting room. The fucking waiting room. It had been 9 hours; what could possibly be happening back there? WHAT IF HE'S DEAD. It doesn’t feel like 2am, but the light is always artificial anyway. The parking lot outside is much quieter than during the day, and there is too much silence in the hallways. Footsteps and whispering. The sound of clattering clipboards. I guess it’s good if it’s quiet - I mean, no emergencies, but... no. I can barely remember the time before this, when we weren’t at the hospital at least once each week. I know it must have happened because I know we both used to be alive. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Seven months ago, he collapsed. I was sautéing yellow onions and yellow bell peppers in a yellow room. A Latin song was playing on the Google mini. It was raining outside. He grabbed me by my waist from behind and spun me to face him. He started swaying us both back and forth. I remember thinking how my body always melded into his. The way I wished it had been with so many other men, but never believed in. But he was... Then his face turned white. His eyes glazed over. He slacked for half a moment, then tried to lean on me for half another, and then his eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground. He was wearing a purple v-neck t-shirt that day. And his favorite jeans. I’ve always loved his legs. The doctors at first thought it was a cardiac episode. But then they did a CT and an MRI. After, a nurse who looked alarmed took several samples of his blood. He looked okay... except the hospital gown and the bracelet and the IV and the monitors. He laughed at me and told me I looked too worried, running his free hand gently down my left cheek. He made a joke about how it was probably just my bad cooking that landed him in here. But it wasn’t. The morning after he collapsed, an oncologist came in. The moment the nurse said the word - ONCOLOGIST - I knew the white noise outside the windows wasn’t rain. It was the rattling hiss of death, mimicking lungs that can no longer take in air freely. It was coming for us. After, the only words I heard: CARCINOMA METASTASIZED IMMEDIATE TREATMENT STAGE 3, and then I collapsed. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Barely listening to calls and announcements over the PA system, barely smelling the sour coffee sat on the nurses' desk, barely breathing on my own, I can’t stop thinking about the day we had to shave his head. He laughed and said he’d look better this way anyhow. Lex Luthor vibes, he said. But when we accidentally locked eyes in the mirror, me stood above and behind him, him sat in a dining chair we always brought to the bathroom when I’d cut his hair before all this, we almost fell apart. I watched his eyes turn shiny and wet. I felt myself tense up to swallow the wail that had been sat in my stomach since that Tuesday morning 6 weeks before when they’d told us he had kidney cancer. Turns out kidney cancer is really fuckin’ quiet. It has almost no symptoms in its early stages, while it’s invading the blood. And now we were too late. Bones. Stomache. Brain. Liver. And now we were too late. At night, when I can’t sleep, he puts his arms around me and whispers in my ear - WE WOULD HAVE ALWAYS BEEN TOO LATE. My eyes are always wet now. But he only cried that one time. In the bathroom, his head half-shaved, looking at me looking at him and holding my hand against his face. Just that one time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In June we had made it a full month past his initial prognosis. But things were starting to change. Sometimes he couldn’t remember things. Once it was how to tie his shoes. Then it was forgetting to turn off burners on the stove. Then, one day, there was half a moment in the kitchen at breakfast when he lost me. I saw it. I saw him forget who I was and then I saw him recognize me again. That was the day we made the pact. We promised each other that every day, no matter what, we would tell each other who we were to each other and how we were so in love. So he wouldn’t lose us completely, and so I wouldn’t lose myself as I watched him leave his body, ever so slowly. Later that week, he vomited blood for the first time. Later that month, he had a seizure. He was wearing a gown and a bracelet that day. He had fainted the night before, so we were already in the hospital. We’re always in a hospital. An alarm down the hall shakes me out of my memories and I turn my head to make sure it’s not from his room. It isn’t. I look back to the window, and now all I see is an exhausted, grieving woman with unkempt hair and no makeup. She looks bereaved. She looks lonely. But he isn’t even gone yet. But he might be. And I forgot to tell him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Last month, we got the hospice bed. He’d lived two months past his initial prognosis. No one knew why. Watching uniforms I didn’t know place a death bed in my living room and lift him from his wheelchair and into the bed, I lost it. He looked at me, pleading with me not to spiral. But I couldn’t not spiral. I couldn’t look at the bed. I couldn’t look back at him. I cried in the bathroom, slumped against a blue wall. Remembering what he looked like in my favorite of his blue jeans, back when he could still walk. Dabbing my eyes at the edges with a blue towel. I sniffled, fixed my hair and walked back out. He was lain in the bed, watching Tik Tok on his phone, laughing. He looked up at me, set his phone down and said nothing, never breaking eye contact. I overflowed - burst the way a dam would. Sobbing, I ran to him and threw myself next to him on the hospice bed. He put his arms around me and tried to quell my heaving. And he told me. I was the love of his life. His best friend. He never knew he could be this happy. He would love me forever. FOREVER. I slept in the hospice bed with him every night, curled up next to his body, which became just a little bit colder, a little bit bonier, a little bit less, each night. I slept in the hospice bed with him, every night until this night. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They didn't let me see him after the ER. He was barely present when they took him. He looked like a painting. He looked like a ghost. White sheet, white face, white room, white coats. There was no color left in his face. I knew when they took him that there was no color left in my life... I forgot to tell him. He won’t remember unless I tell him. He hasn’t remembered in weeks. He hasn’t eaten in weeks. He hasn’t walked in weeks. But he has never forgotten to tell me. Not once. Even the days where he’s not sure who either of us are at all. And I am snapped back out of my thoughts again by a coat and a clipboard asking for my name. The voice of the coat and the clipboard tells me it’s very sorry, but - THERE WAS NOTHING WE COULD DO. And then the wail finally came. I heard a woman making an unholy, un-human sound. It pervaded the hallways, the rooms, the building itself. It surrounded me. And when I realized it was me, I stopped. Abruptly. There was nothing. I was nothing. I forgot to tell him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CANCER EATS EVERYTHING.


My name is Ajuji, and they call me the ghost of Nairobi.  I was cut free from my mother beneath a blood moon in Kibera, Nairobi. The doctors said that mama did not survive the birth, and that it was because I was cursed. You see, I was born white. Pale as bone with devil red eyes. I was shunned from the very beginning, even the holy men cast me aside. Father was the only one who showed me love, and I never forgot it. He named me Ajuji, which means 'born on a rubbish heap'. The others, the people who I called neighbour, they had their own name for me.  I wish I could say that my childhood home was special. That it was safe, and clean. That I wasn't beaten everyday for the colour of my skin. But I can't say that, because it isn't true. Kibera is the biggest slum in all of Africa. There is no water. There is no food. No school. No work. Criminals roam freely and nowhere is safe. Everywhere you turn there is suffering. I guess I am fortunate that I cannot walk in the sun for too long, I didn't have to see it much. But when the moon rises, so do I.  I remember one night when I was around ten, I met Alhaadi Okewa for the first time down by the festering bile we called a river. What a giant he was. I had heard the stories about Alhaadi, and I can say that they were all true. He would openly boast about the massive quantities of heroin he sold, the men he'd killed, and all the others he's maimed, regardless of who was around to hear. Not that it mattered of course, not even the police could touch him. He was the most feared, most respected man I have ever seen. I knew he was always looking for boys to do his deliveries, and I wanted to give something back to my father, so I began to work for him.  I worked through the night, when most were asleep. It didn't bother me much, I could sleep during the day and keep out of the sun. Even though Alhaadi was one of the most violent criminals Kibera had ever known, he was always kind to me. After my father died, he was all that I had. I spent many years working for Alhaadi, and the trouble I had previously known had stopped. At least for a little while.  One night when I was doing deliveries, I was attacked by a rival of Alhaadi. I lost some teeth, and my left hand was broken. The money and the heroin was stolen too. It took me two days before I plucked up the courage to return to Alhaadi. I was sure he was going to kill me. But he didn't. Instead he gave me a club, and told me to do my deliveries. It wasn't like Alhaadi to offer a second chance, and I wasn't about to ask why he did.  I taught myself how to use the club. I started small at first, and would crush cans by my shack. Alhaadi bandaged my hand, and I began my deliveries again. It was a week later when Alhaadi's rival came for me again, but this time I was prepared. I broke his jaw, and smashed both his feet beneath my club. Alhaadi was pleased. Not only had I defended myself and completed my deliveries, but I had taken out the competition. The ghost of Nairobi was becoming a known name, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't revel in it.  Father always said that nothing happens by chance. That we are on a predetermined path in life, laid out before us by God. Kibera is home to half a million people. Half a million. Now imagine my surprise, when on the last delivery of the night, I was reunited with one of the doctors who brought me into this world. At first I thought nothing of it. He was just another customer, another regular man turned junkie. That was until he recognised me. He started to talk, rambling in his drug fueled stupor. He told me how he and the other doctors had murdered my mother, and if not for my father, they would have murdered me. He said that mama was in league with devils, to have had a son like me. Only a child of sin would have been born this white. I didn't want to believe it, but every beating, every name calling, every time I had spit in my face, they all told me that it was true. How may others had been killed because they were like me? Hundreds? Thousands? I didn't ask. I guess I didn't need to know.  I clubbed him to death until I was too tired to continue. But not before he gave me the names of the others.  I never knew my mother. She was stolen from me, and I from her. All my life, all I have ever known is pain, and for what? Maybe father was right. Maybe God has laid a path for me. The foul misdeeds that plagued my life have made me who I am, and if this is his plan for me then so be it.  I will be his servant of justice. For every child born with bone white skin who didn't live to see another day, and every parent who lost their life for the crime of having an albino child.  I will haunt these streets like they have haunted us.  My name is Ajuji, and I am the fucking ghost of Nairobi.


The children ran around to sit in front of the olden, graying man, adults lazily found seats scattered around in ear-shot corners and the whole town settled delicately beside him as he opened his fragile jaw. His eyes were foggy and appeared to almost be cracking, but the depth in them spoke of wells of true knowledge. The old man’s power was in his stories, they had power and meaning, cadence and rhythm, they danced in the imaginations of the youth and activated the cerebral workings of adults, and they always seemed to have a truth that was ethereal to words but physical to the soul. “Yes, yes” he said while raising his shaking hands. “I will tell it again, don’t worry.” His skin was grayed and sagging, forming the cloak of a wiseman naturally formed by the wisdom of age. It was the summer solstice, and as tradition, the elder was supposed to tell the origin story of their people, as he was the only living human to have witnessed it. No matter how many times it was told, or how many times it was haphazardly retold by excited, inspiring play-writes, people still listened to it like it was their first time. It represented a wonderful spirit that ran through their generations and permeated their blood, and by all means of the phrase, it was them. *** I was a young general back then, filled with the hot fire of youth and exuberant at the idea of spilling more blood for history’s benefit. At this time I was fighting in the Great Eagles army and decorated with the confidence of back-to-back victories, which formed into unstoppable progress. We were a well-organized and proud army, having fought the continents best and beaten them with the vicious, annihilating force of violent battle. Around this time we were finally on the horizon of our final, glorious victory that in our minds would unite the world into one cohesive totality. You could not have found a more ready group of men, every troop, every cook and every mother of a soldier was ready for what the Eagle had called our mandate from heaven. The Eagle's words were prophetic to us, they elevated mere human inspiration and flew up to divine reasons for living. He had started his career as a crazed madman yelling strange predictions as he led small troops of men into battle, but as time went by and his victories piled on, his words turned from strange oddities to visions from the heavens, and we were his loyal disciples. Practically overnight an insane nobody turned into a prophet by the mere coincidence of victory, be it luck or skill. “Men,” he said to us as we gathered for our final battle. “Today you engrave your names onto history's doorstep, and forever enshrine the legacy we have built for all of mankind -- a monolith for peace and tower of unshakable providence. Today we ride into the kingdom of the dove Princess, and fight her yet unbeaten army.” We were in the midst of marching into the eastern-most empire, the lands of the dove princess and her large swaths of territory. Her story was legendary to all peoples of the continent, and one that every soldier knew by heart, for they knew that it was their destiny to one day face her unbeaten army in battle, and deliver a bloody finale for the gods. The dove’s father, the Dragon of the East, had died suddenly while in the midst of an epic campaign, and the reins of battle were left to his young, untrained daughter who by all signs had no experience in combat or leading troops. We, inspired by the Eagle’s words, predicted doom for them, and thought that our campaign would ride through the rest of the continent with the ease of a sharpened knife, unifying our final cause atop the ashes of the once-great Eastern Empire. But to the surprise of all, she not only took up the reins of leadership and held the shaken kingdom together, she started expanding its borders at a rate that was never seen by any leader before. It was like a terrifying bolt of lightning struck the map of the world of men, before we knew what was happening, her empire had doubled in size and great nations were toppling like dice. The most impressive part of all of this was that legend said she did this without losing a single man, which earned her the name of the dove princess by her people. After hearing of all this and keeping his ear close to the wall of her empire, the Eagle became enraptured by what he considered to be the gods greatest and final test for him, the cosmic and immortal battle between the Eagle and the dove, a clash that would decide the fate of all the world and put a close to this chapter of humanity. It was poetic to the Eagle, who saw it all from the eyes of a daring playwright. Two kingdoms, separated at birth and scattered across the lands both making a bloody trail into each other's arms. It is right and proper that they were to be the final battle, as in his mind the gods would have had no other way, trial by fire for what was to rise to be the greatest nation of men. No such thing could be born of anything besides blood. That fated day, every one of us gathered our spears and swords and gazed into our reflections, wondering what was to await us soon. Never before did we feel the weight of the world like we did then, and every man knew that we’d have to spill much blood before we could call peace, before we could go home as heroes and greet our families with the love and joy at a job well done. “The sun greets us as saviors,” The Eagle told us as we began our march to battle. He then saw the looks in our eyes, looks of meekness or slight terror, and gave a disgusted spit at such a laughable sight. He pulled his sword from its golden sheath and stabbed it at the sky, prophesying once more. “Power resides behind a blade men, and each one of you holds the power in your hands right now. The power to command the world, and change her ebbing tides.” As we carried further on, we gripped our blades evermore tightly while looking at the sun he just preached of, and tried to imagine it calling our names, tried to imagine it looking past all of the souls we vanquished to get where we were. I recalled the first man I killed, and the look in his eyes as his soul left for that very sun. I wanted to be haunted by it, and haunted by him, but I rallied myself from the Eagle’s words and remembered that it was the only way to peace. That was how the Eagle would calm our souls, by reminding us of the inevitability and necessity for violence -- “Peace can only be found through the blade” and “Your children sleep safely when your enemy's blood coats the battlefield.” Were what we were rocked to sleep with. Even in times of great atrocity, when we burned villages and sacked much-needed food stores, he maintained the position of high-minded peace. “Look upon the wasteland you create and rejoice, for only fire breeds a healthy forest. Only corpses fertilize a field. We are merely the reapers of history, preparing for the harvest of a great peace. Look on the waste and rejoice .” When we came close to the plains that were meant to be our fated battlefield, the Eagle became more and more enraptured by our purpose. His eyes grew large and red, and we could see the veins of his neck pulsing like slithering snakes as he shouted. “The time is now!” He screamed, “Over these hills we find our destiny! My destiny! To vanquish the last dissenters of this world and become the world! We are history’s reapers and we shall have our harvest!” We were ready, we were ready to find the enemy below us and give epic, glorious battle to define our legacy forever, but as we strode over the hill, swords and spears in hand, we were not greeted by troops. No, as we crossed the crest of the horizon, gripping our blades tightly and sending prayers of protection up to the sky, we saw below us men and women, not troops. We saw kids playing in the fields and mothers holding babies, we saw fathers chasing their kids with a smile and elders watching on with great heaps of laughter as the warming sun cast golden rays onto their faces. We saw an abundance of food and water, feasts and fun, flowers and toys all surrounded by the pleasant, human sounds of nature at rest. We didn’t find a battle below us, but humanity and mankind. We were awestruck, frozen by the sight and unable to move even a finger. The Eagle was stuttering to himself in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing, and every man could not say a word, for they didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Then, from the crowd of pleasantries a young woman came forward. She was not ornately dressed or in possession of some grand form of beauty, she was plain and smiling, a warm sight for soldiers who spent most of their days on the march. She walked forward with arms outstretched and presented a delightful scene behind her: It was the dove. “My friends.” Her voice was sweet and kind, a honey to our ears. “You come for battle and glory, protesting it for the cause of peace and prosperity, so I instead offer exactly that: peace and prosperity.” There was not a word in the air besides her own. “My once father led an army of conquerors, much like you all. Marching across the lands and claiming to be fighting for peace and stability, much like you all, but I saw that whatever he left behind was not peace, but destruction, and what everyone wanted was not war, but kindness and a quiet life for their families. I offer to you no bloodshed or battle, but exact peace. An opportunity to gather under this beautiful sun and talk about things however you wish.” We all looked at the Eagle, whose face was twisting into a perverse sight and was covered in a cold sweat. “This is a trap!” He yelled desperately. “This is how she had defeated so many armies before us! Men, she’s wanting to lure us into a siren call and then they’ll pounce! Slaying us like dogs!” He rode around us atop his golden horse, sword raised and eyes frantic little beads. “Do not fail history men! Do not fail me! Look at what we have accomplished, that is the only way to peace, she spews lies!” We all looked at each other, unsure of what to do and clouded by doubt, then, from beside the dove a man stood up, simple in clothing, much like her, and decorated by a gracious smile, “Hear me men, for I was once the leader of the Mountain Kingdom, and I can attest that she tells you is no lie. All of what was once my men are before you on this field, not slain nor injured, but enjoying this fine day.” Then, one after another, more men like him stood up and explained similar stories, all speaking up until every kingdom that fell before the dove was accounted for, not fallen but standing beside her. “These are lies!” The Eagle screeched. “Men, charge into the crowd and cut them down!” We were frozen, we looked down into that crowd of children and saw our own, we watched the happy fathers and longed to be with our wives and kids. The dove motioned her hand and the women and children approached us with flowers and baskets of food, petrifying us even more. The Eagle became more desperate as they came closer, yelling at us from his new position in the back rank. “They come now with poison and hidden weapons! Now, act now and slay them or be destined to die!” But we didn’t, when the people came, wrapping us in flowers and handing us food, we smiled kindly and thanked them, looking around with sprouting delight and realizing that it was over. Laugher began to rise from our ranks as we dropped our weapons and rejoiced with each other. I lovingly remember seeing my reflection again in the falling swords, and knew that I would no longer have to use its edge to draw life. The only other thing I remember of the Eagle was that he seemed to then lose his mind, riding off into the distance yelling the screams of a madman. This was the beginning of our world, not one of possession and violence, of force and battle, but instead, one born of love and kindness, true humanity and the want for a happy life. Men like the Eagle are hardly remembered, and instead of immortalizing events and people, we immortalize our collective effort and remember to never forget our fellow man. In the end, it wasn’t the dove that saved us, but our humanity as a whole.


Thank you for taking the time to read this. I’m an amateur writer, and come from no previous coaching. I really appreciate any honest feedback, as I’m still developing and want to improve to give the reader a better experience. Good, bad, neutral, or any advice that you feel my writing did or didn’t do for you. Comments or suggestions are well received! 1. (Parenthesis) the setting 2. \*Stars indicate the voice of the main character in the first person 3. “Quotations” are back and forth conversation between main characters My Date with Tina Turner (Young handsome man is sitting in upscale bar in downtown Chicago. He is set up on a blind date. It’s the spring time, evening on a Saturday night. The year is 2038 . He is sitting at a two top table facing the entrance of the restaurant. A beautiful woman has just walked in. She looks exactly like a former famous actress, Tina Turner) \*Ugh, I think its another duplicate. (Duplicate walks in smiling, acting a little jumpy while talking to the hostess) \*I swear every date I’ve been on in the last 6 months has been like this. Another girl who has paid an exorbitant amount of cash to have every “flaw” they see modified. This one looks like Tina Turner, I’m not certain though, its hard to see in this dim lit place. Screw it, I'm desperate for a girlfriend and at least this one is smiling. Last week I went through a round of scallops with a manic obsessive Courtney Cox. (Standing up he smiles back at her and reaches out to shake her hand. She looks stunning, a 5"10 Tina Turner) M: “Hi Simone, very nice to meet you, you look amazing” S: “Hello, Michael, my you’re not to bad yourself. Are those your real eyes?” M: “Yes, these are my own, given to me by my mother” S: “Oh that is so original of you. As I’m sure you can see I’ve had a few modifications myself” M: “Really? I couldn’t tell. You look gorgeous.” S: “You couldn’t tell? Have you seen *Whats Love got to do with it*?” M: “Ummmm, I don’t think so. Who’s in it?” S: “Tina Turner! She was a big movie star a long time ago. I thought she was the prettiest chocolate girl I’d ever seen” \*Did she just say chocolate girl? M:“Oh right, Tina Turner. Well I think you look beautiful” S:“Thank you. Well, I guess thank Daddy. Hehe. Anyway, if you can excuse me, I’m going to go to the bathroom really quick to freshen up.” \*Freshen up, she just got here? M: “Oh okay, I’ll keep the table warm for us” (She doesn’t listen to this part, and walks away) \*Jesus christ, what is the world coming to. I can’t keep doing this, but I’m so lonely. I’m going to have to backtrack this broad on Truth Finder before she gets back. (Looking on his Smart Device, ) \*So her name is Simone Sampson, she is daughter of Sam Sampson, senior parter at William & Sampson LLP. Lets see if I can get a picture of her, before her procedure. Okay here she is. TRUTH FINDER Simone Sampson: Simone is the head social media marketing director. Her work here over the last 3 years has helped William & Sampson propel as a formidable firm in the tech space. She is the only child of Senior Parter Sam Sampson, and is enjoyed by everyone, bringing a unique flair into the office. Education: St. Principles High School Favorite Hobby: Shopping and Reality TV Picture: Not posted \*Shit. Okay, let me at least see a picture of the Dad at least. (Switches on the website page to her fathers profile on his smart device)  TRUTH FINDER Sam Sampson: Senior and founding partner at William and Sampson LLP. Sam Sampson is a well respected lawyer in the greater Chicago area. He has won over 8 figures in settlements and has been ranked #4 Big Business Attorney in the USA, and been featured on Esquire Quarterly. Currently serves as chief board of directors of the “Free Choice” movement, propelling legislature protecting the individuals right to pursue human metamorphosis procedures. Education: De Paul University, BA Political Science Class of 1999 JD: University of Chicago, Class of 2002 Picture: Older and wider gentlemen, bald, caucasian descent (Tina Turner, I mean “Simone” walks back to the table, standing over him) S: “Hi!” M: “Oh hey there Simone” S: “What are you looking at?” M: “Oh just checking my email” (She stairs at him suspiciously) S: “No phones at dinner. Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners? Hehe, I’ll let it slide this time” M:“I apologize. It won’t happen again.” (They both smile at each other) S: “Hehe, its okay I’m actually on my phone all the time, its part of my job. You see my Daddy has me post all of the pictures on our social media page for his firm.” M:“Oh thats really cool, do you like it?” S:“Yes, I really do. I get to help create the image of our company, get everyone smiling at work and such. Its super easy and super fun” M:“Did you go to school for marketing?” S:“Oh no, I actually didn’t finish college but I was in beauty school for a while. I wanted to do fashion design” (She looks down, obviously those words cutting deep) M:“Well I’m sure you do an awesome job with what you do now” (Still not picking her head up, a tear drops from her eye) S:“Thank you, can you excuse me, I have to go freshen up” (She leaves the table, not looking up obviously a bit distraught) \*This is what is wrong with the world. You have all of these insecure people coming in, paying millions to look like other people, and not even that can make them happy. Part of me feels sorry for her, but the other disgusted, I still can’t believe she said chocolate girl. (15 minutes later) S:“Hi!” M: “Hey Simone, is everything all right” S: “Yes, I’m sorry. Its just I’m just beginning to kind of regret this metamorphosis procedure.” (He looks at her very surprised, she continue’s.) S: “You see, my Dad has always been very embarrassed of me. Ever since I was young, he always acted as if I wasn’t good enough. When I told him my dream of doing makeup, he said I was worthless to him and that I was throwing away a career of taking over his firm. I know this a lot to kind of throw at you, but it is the truth, and I’ve had to deal with it my whole life.” (He begins feeling empathetic to her) M: “You know I come from a family with a lot of pressure as well. I can completely understand how you feel. I’m sorry your Dad made you feel that way. In all fairness, I think it takes a lot of courage to go through with that procedure. I know I definitely couldn’t do it” (Grabbing his hand she leans over and kisses him passionately on the lips which he receives startlingly) S: “Thank you” (2 hours later and a few more martini’s the two are now out in the city walking down the street hand in hand dancing to music playing off of his phone. The song he is playing is “This will be” by Natalie Cole) \*Wow, this girl is unbelievable and she’s beautiful. She’s the heir to a multimillion dollar law firm, and genuinely has a good heart. Since letting her guard down she’s really shown her true colors. Well not literally.... I swear when she’s kissed me, I’ve never felt so much power. (His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. Call from Keaton his best friend. He ignores the call.) S: “Hi so this is my place” M: “I’ve had a really good time with you tonight Simone” (She pulls him in again for one more kiss, in one swift motion Simone dips him on his back and then pulls him up, kissing passionately) S: “Thank you for tonight, lets do this again sometime” M: “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you up” S:“Hehe I’m not ready for that yet, give me a few weeks” (Simone leaves slamming the door behind her. His phone starts ringing again. It is Keaton) M:“Keaton I think I’m in love” K:“You’re not going to believe this” M:“What?” K:“Check your phone” (Opens up a new message from Keaton)  TRUTH FINDER Simon Sampson: Simon is the head social media marketing director. His work over the last 2 years has helped William & Sampson propel as a formidable firm in the tech space. He is the son of Senior Parter Sam Sampson, and is enjoyed by everyone, bringing a unique flair into the office. Education: St. Principles High School Favorite Hobby: Shopping and Reality TV Picture: Muscular colorfully dressed man in thirties, balding, caucasian (Meanwhile his phone is still playing.....


Someone was watching Renee Aljour. The latest package, if nothing else, established that much. She thumbed through the latest set of photographs while sitting on her hotel room sofa, but she was unsure what she was supposed to be seeing. This was the third time in a week she received a similar delivery but was still to make any sense of them. The first set was waiting at the front desk for her when she first checked in but could only be considered benign. They had to be publicity shots that needed approval or maybe cancelled ones that were sent to her by mistake, she reasoned. The second envelope was stuffed with photographs of Renee Aljour as well, but these were no longer canned poses. These were snapshots of her in public, candid shots of the young actress on location, stepping into a café, buying roses from the corner stand, petting a stray cat, scratching her wrist while she waited for cab. The work of local paparazzi, she told herself. She reminded herself that it was far from a secret that she was staying there. Someone tracking her down was no reason for any immediate concern. It wasn’t anything the cast and crew looked forward to but they had come to expect set-crashers. Renee spotted a green cardigan she was wearing in one of the pictures that she liked. She didn’t remember bringing with her, let alone owning it. She was rapping the stack of images against her knee wondering if the sweater was something lying around set that she could ‘borrow’ when a slip of paper fell out from between the photographs. A phrase was scrawled across the torn scrap of paper. “*Make her listen*.” She ran her fingers over the back of the paper where the author had all but scratched through in their crude urgency. Was it a reminder for the courier that delivered the package? Were they supposed to have left something more behind? She picked through the rest of the photos but found only more reflections captured in time and space. She considered calling her agent, but at best the protracted dialogue would result in his half-hearted attempt to hire a bodyguard. Not that she would have taken him up on the offer. The thought of someone following her every step, watching her ever motion was the last thing she needed. Instead, she took to triple-checking her locks and walking around her hotel room with an empty bottle of cabernet, just in case. Curious mailings or not, she was going to have to leave for work soon, especially if she wanted to visit with Abby at the University. Before their reunion earlier this week it had seven years since the friends had last seen one another. The pair that was inseparable in high school discovered life had diverging plans for them not long after graduation. Renee entered into acting with the same affable disinterest she glided through the early half of her life with, but for Abbey it was different. She had all the determination for the two of them. She was always dead set on her objectives, whatever they were, and obsessive until they were realized. Renee once joked Abby would be terrifying if she wasn’t so damn boring. Renee could tell the intervening years had been good to Abby. She was still her bookish, gray self but now she brimmed with an assured fulfillment that her estranged friend admired. Academics were clearly her calling, not that Renee could pretend to understand a fraction of the studies Abby described over coffee, but she smiled and nodded through the conversation, just happy her friend had found her place in the world. Abby leaned forward after Renee told her about the confusing packages. She was hardwired to interpret everything as an equation to solve. Plug in enough factors and the strangest of scenarios suddenly begins to provide their own answers. At least, that’s what Abby told her when Renee tried changing conversation to the weather. “Where did they come from?” she asked. Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. No return address. I asked the receptionist but they haven’t noticed anyone, not that I knew what to ask them to look for.” “What do you think it means?” “Couldn’t say,” Renee downplayed the event, feeling silly mentioning it in the first place. “Maybe nothing. People are weird.” Abby placed her hand on Renee’s. “People are also creepy, Ren. There’s a difference. Can’t you, I don’t know, call the cops, or something?” “Not really. It’s not a crime to leave mail for someone. It’s not like there was any actual threats of violence or any mention of anything illegal.” “Yeah, but these are not regular press photos or fan pics. These are personal.” Abby picked out a snapshot from the stack Renee brought with her. “This one is of you walking into your hotel. The thought that at any time there could be someone out there, watching us, looking right at us. It’s just awful. I know you’re just in town for a few more days, but have you thought about changing hotels just in case?” Renee suddenly became very aware of their presence in the center of the campus courtyard. She felt exposed, vulnerable, even with her friend. The others walking past, standing in the distance, where were their wayward glances going? Were they watching her right now? Was it one of them? She would never be able to tell. “I should probably get going. I have to get back to the set.” “You could stay with me, if you like. It’s not every day we get bona fide movie stars crashing with us, after all.” “I’m a glorified extra, Abs. I just stand in for the actual movie star while they’re blocking the shots and setting up for the real thing.” She realized she hadn’t answered her question and felt her cheeks flush red. “And, no. Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine.” Abby walked with her to the parking lot and waited until her cab came. She could tell the mailings were troubling Renee no matter how aloof she tried to play it. “Listen, I’m sure it’s nothing. Like you said, people are weird. You should come by later tonight. We’ll get take out and watching dumb movies or something.” “Maybe. My ride’s here. I’ll see you around.” Work was tediously present for Renee the rest of the day. The bulk of her time was spent standing within shouting range of the assistant camera director while they positioned and repositioned lighting for several hours. After returning to the hotel she held her breath while passing the front desk receptionist but there were no packages this time. She could exhale. Renee took a long shower and slipped into her sweats eager just to relax in sequestered anonymity for a change. She would text Abby in a bit, thanking her for the movie night invitation but saying she got held up on set. It was sympathy. She could see it on her face when she first made the offer. She was concerned, just being nice. It’s what friends were supposed to do for one another but it left Renee uneasy. Abby was the practical one. That much had stayed the same since their time apart. If she thought there was something to worry about then that made it real. She was settling in for a marathon of competitive cooking shows when a knock at the door froze her in place. She waited for a beat, then another, and another. Nothing. Room service, she told herself. Besides, the packages had been left with the front desk. They knew the hotel she was staying, but they didn’t know which room, right? She took the empty wine bottle from the stand and let the door swing open. She was alone. Down both ends of the hall she saw no one and took relief it was just room service or maybe a guest who had the wrong door number. She felt silly that she let her imagination run away with her until she saw the photograph taped to the other side of her door. There was no package this time. There was only one photo. It was another image of Renee Aljour, but something had happened. She was the same, but different. Her hair was bone white and much longer than she had ever grown hers. She turned the sheet over. This time in red marker and underlined-- “HETONTBREKENDECIJFER Make her listen.” *They were here*, she thought in a swelling panic. *They were right on the other side of the door while I was showering*. She tossed her phone in her bag, took the keys off the counter and rushed from the room. He didn’t know what her next step would be but knew that she could no longer remain there. She was peeling around the corner of her floor trying to remember Renee’s address when she crashed into someone heading the opposite direction. The jolt toppled her backward. When she looked up Abby was reaching out her hand. Her hair was a mess. There was dirt on her face and dried blood smeared along the back her arm. Fire had burned a hole through the shoulder of her jacket which now draped over her bandaged shoulder. “Jesus, Abby, what happened?” She was stammering, fending off shock through sheer force of will. “I-I-I- didn’t know where to go. My lab. They attacked. Burned it to the ground. Tried to do me. Burn me too. It all happened so fast, but I was moving so slow. I was watching everything, but I couldn’t do anything.” Renee got her feet and wrapped her arms around Abby. “My god, Abs. Are you okay?” Abby’s attention had already drifted, studying the overturned photograph lying at their feet. “Het ontbrekende cijfer. They were here.” She followed her eyes back to the photograph. “What are you saying, Abby? Who was here?” Abby pulled away from their embrace and looked her old friend in the eyes, fighting against her better judgment before relenting. “Renee, there’s something I need to show you.” The facility was at the far end of the industry park away from the rest of the world. The windowless one-room building was efficient and utterly unremarkable. Its immediate secrets revealed nothing more than ordinary research materials and dusted over laboratory equipment. Abby locked the door behind them after they entered. The florescent lights were still flickering to life as she pulled up a chair to a computer console. “I thought you said they trashed your place?” “They did,” she answered. “This is a backup location. I set it up a few months ago for situations like tonight. The incidents are escalating, but if they knew how close I actually am then they wouldn’t have quit until they stopped me permanently.” Renee’s head was spinning. The photographs were bad enough, but Abby was supposed to be her constant. “Abby, please, you have to slow down. I don’t understand. You said you had something to show me?” By way of explanation, Abby crouched down to pull away the rug in the center of the floor. A hatch door which sat flush with the concrete had been hiding underneath. There was no door handle and the hinges sat in recessed channels carved out of the ground. Abby slipped a pry bar between the frame and wooden door until she could slip in a single finger, then her hand, to pull it open. Inside, metal scaffolding served as a worker’s stairwell that spiraled out of sight. Intuition told Renee to leave, that she should not have come here. A part of her knew she should have just turned around and gone back to the hotel, back to her unfulfilling job standing in for other people, go back to the pissy production assistant who only ever called her ‘that one’ and act like none of this was happening. Maybe then she could return to a time before her best friend had that manic glint to her unblinking stare, back to before the marking on her door and Abby waiting right around the corner, back before she dragged her here, alone together. “Abby. What is this?” Even swept in her passions, Abby could read Renee. She had to give her more. Finally, she relented. “The message on the back of that photo- it’s not HETONTBREKENDECIJFER*.* It’s ‘Het ontbrekende cijfer*.* It’s Dutch. It means ‘the missing digit.’” “*Dutch*? How would you know that?” Another set of switches along the wall activated a string of track lights that guided commuters deeper into the awaiting unknown. Abby took the first steps into the basement and held her hand out for Renee to follow. “That’s part of the reason we’re here. I’m asking you to trust me, Renee.” Whether she did or not, they were still friends. What choice did she have in the matter? After the first few unsteady steps down the metal scaffolding she was able to balance herself and risk a glimpse at the world she was entering. There should have been a level between the two stories but the floor just beneath the lab was missing. Instead the support beams ran deeper, into an unfinished subbasement. Aside from its depth and lack of access, Renee didn’t notice much immediate difference from the floor above. The walls were unfinished bedrock with planks of thin plywood laid across a dirt floor. Instead of the random assortment of consoles and laptops like the previous room, this floor housed a single machine, one large computer bolted in the place to the subterranean earth. Renee was still taking in her new surroundings as Abby strode to a power cable grafted onto a collection of car batteries. After connecting the current she ran to other side of the room to kick start the gas generator. An engine whirred to life and a globe of pink and gold light materialized, throbbing a meter above a white porcelain platform on the other end of the chamber. The light’s power was redoubling on itself by the instant and was soon blinding even in periphery. Abby had come to expect the brilliance and was already wearing heavily tinted glasses. She handed Renee a pair and warned her not to get too close. “You asked where I picked up Dutch. Geneva really is a beautiful in the springtime. I studied there for quite a while. I was working there for three years until I had to come back here. ‘*Misappropriation of funds.’* ” She spat the accusation from her mouth. “If they even had a fraction of the sense of what we were going to discover if they let me push a little further. If they weren’t all so damned frightened of the future all the time we could finally get there.” “What *exactly* do you study, Abs?” Renee asked while keeping the rungs along the scaffolding back to the first floor in sight. “I can’t get into specifics, for both our safety. Suffice to say, I’m on the verge of something groundbreaking and there are people who are trying to stop me.” “Stop you from what?” Abby punched in lines of code and the console clicked and chirped in response. The pink and gold light hummed at her side like a house broken ball of lightning. “This machine computes chronal-spatial relationships and reintegrates the assets into practical applications. At least, that’s the idea.” “English, Abby. What is all that supposed to mean?” She declared in victory, “Time and space. I’ve cracked them both. I’ve figured out ways to reinterpret their interactions on a quantum level. And before you start, need I remind you: Everything is impossible until someone does it. Admittedly, I would like to run the data a little while longer before we fire live tests but if the attack at my lab was any indication we’re out of time.” She embraced Renee, unchecked ambition leaping from her pores. “Everything is going to be okay. It only has to run once and then we’ll show them I’m right, that my numbers are sound.” “Numbers?” Abby went back to her keyboard, anxiously hammering home the final lines of code. “Hmm? Numbers? Yes, of course. It’s not exactly long division, but it’s a living.” There was a single, intimate moment of reflection that overcame Renee. She understood the message. It wasn’t about her at all, it was *to* her. It was a command, a request, a desperate plea. One last warning. She shouted over the whine of the gas generator. “Wait! The packages, the attack, the missing digit, everything, all of it leads to this.” Abby wasn’t listening. Not now, not after she had already gone so far, not when they were so close. A few more keystrokes and it would all be over. Renee tried wrenching her away from the console. “You have to stop this. Whatever you’re doing, it’s wrong. Something’s gone wrong, or will go wrong, or I don’t know, but you have to listen, damn it.” “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” “None whatsoever,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t change anything. The missing digit. It’s in your math. It’s in the machine. Somewhere in this byzantine labyrinth a brick was laid out of sorts and now the whole thing is going to topple.” She shook her head, refusing to hear the warning. “Impossible. I’ve been writing these algorithms for the past three years. It’s all I’ve thought of. You’re not going to take that away from me. No one is going to take this away from me.” The two fought for control of the console. Renee snagged Abby’s hand again, refusing to let it go. “You asked me to trust you. Now you need to trust me.” The cold calculation of hard science cut across Abby’s face just before she swept Renee’s legs out from under her. “There’s not enough time.” Renee was falling backward, her arms flailing as she tried gain her balance. Abby extended her hand, this time to shove her backwards onto the porcelain dais where the light was still shining. Everything was happening so fast for her. She expected the light to burn, some effect of electricity or radiation. Instead, a prickly chill swelled at her heels before rushing up her spine to the ends of the hair on her head. Renee shrieked over the howls of beast gearing up around her. “Something’s wrong in the numbers, you missed something. The missing digit! You have to listen. Abby, please. This is it.” “You can’t possibly know that, Renee. Neither of us can until one of us tries.” Renee shot an arm free of the neutralizing light that was ensconcing her. She was desperate to make it to her wayward friend. If she could just reach her, a hand, a single finger even. Abby exhaled and allowed herself a silent prayer before throwing the switch. That’s when the wall of light rose up. Renee Aljour was on one side, Abby and her missing digit on the other. It became brighter, whiter, until she could hear it, taste it, feel it filling her every cell. Then the light began to fade and the world fell back into place, but the pieces were all wrong. It was the fire she saw first; smoldering in on itself, impossibly falling and rising at the same time. The figure of Abby’s body stood amid the inferno, at first no more than a black outline after reintegrating from a flurry of spent cinders. A moment later, her face returned. It was screaming, wailing in pain. “.thgir erew uoY” A hole was taken out of the side of Abby’s body and then the explosion that caused it followed afterward. A cloud of fire and wild arcing sparks of electricity shrunk, retreating away from Abby’s face and back into the side of the machine from where it erupted. The images were coming faster now, becoming part of the light fuzzing in around the corners of her sight. A few more faces flickered past. Snatches of conversation and smells of places she had forgotten she had ever been flowed back at her. She was being suspended for pulling that fire alarm all over again. Paul McCartney was talking about LSD. Genghis Khan was eating a goat leg. A giant lizard howled in charnel death throes before the first final light swelled and took them all. Someone was watching Renee Aljour. The latest package, if nothing else, established that much. She thumbed through the latest set of photographs while sitting on her hotel room sofa, but she was unsure what she was supposed to be seeing. This was the second time in a week she received a similar delivery but was still to make any sense of them. Candid shots of the young actress on location, stepping into a café, buying roses from the corner stand, petting a stray cat, scratching her wrist while she waited for cab; the work of local paparazzi, she told herself. Three stories below her, a woman in a green cardigan and bone white hair was stepping from the lobby of the hotel out onto the street. The other remainders would be waiting for her to return. They were always short on time. There were real hopes they had gotten through in their latest attempt, that they could finally put this behind them. It was the closest they had come, but still just as short. They would try again. They had to. If they could just get through to her, if they could just get her to listen before she throws that switch and leaves them to less than nothing all over again. She had to hold out hope on herself to see this to its end, not that she was in short supply at this point. She stepped to the curb and waved down a cab as the world sped on around her, never accounting for a woman with a missing digit.


I awoke to find myself in a cavern deeper than the sleep under which I had been. A strange glowing moss dusted the door of my cryogenic chamber; this I swept aside and felt a sharp pain in my arm. I stopped and realized my muscles were dangerously weak. For a day I rested in my chamber, eating the silver packet of biscuits stored neatly in the side. I found my NotePod in my pocket, almost out of battery. Hesitating, I lifted it to my ear and turned it on. Music flooded the abyss. It was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2. I put the biscuits down. What was waiting above? I began my ascent, holding my NotePod in my hand. A light beamed from it. The whole cave was lit by this dim phosphorescent moss. Stalactites of quartz and limestone glittered above me from misshapen curves of pearly stone, like unicorns waiting to be born. I walked under an archway of milky green glass that looked like chrysoprase, getting its green color from traces of nickel in the material. Just before the meteor storm I’d been to a museum of geology. The NotePod flickered. The music began to crackle. I didn’t have that much time. I pushed aside some of the moss and found myself at a steep hill. This I climbed, and began to see a bright light. It grew stronger upon my path, which consisted of metallic black rubble, and finally, long after the NotePod had gone silent, I emerged in the above world. The world had become a glittering, staggering mess of geometry. Cubical formations burst out of the ground like bismuth skyscrapers or mutated computer chips. I climbed one of these and found far beyond me a desert of sand. Beyond that, something that was unmistakably a city stood guarded by a wall that extended on both sides until it disappeared behind further glittering skyscrapers of blackened rock. I began to venture into the desert. The cold moon shone above me. I had underestimated how windy it would be; this delayed my trip by two days. In the morning it was impossible to go on in the burning heat, so I hid under a massive rock and waited. On the second night, I found something strange that moved across the sand; hungry, I broke it upon a rock and ate it. I came across many more of the strange insectile creatures as I approached the city, and suffering no ill effects from my first meal I ate a few more. On the third night, I came to the city and knocked on its walls. They were capable of translating my speech, and I became something of a novelty in that city of a thousand worlds. It was in my fifth month there that I came to visit the Museum of Geology. In it I found chemical combinations from across the universes. Next to a piece of petrified wood, I read, “*Homo sapiens scorpionem*, mutation result of the Meteor Shower 2020 AD”. Fossilized in the wood was the creature I had eaten in the desert.


“I get the child. End of discussion,” Calista says, folding a lavender top and putting it in her luggage. “I don’t understand how you can just decide that, without even asking me,” Julian says. He sits right in front of the luggage, forcing Calista to look at him. “I am her mother. Therefore, I get more rights on Lydia. Is that so hard to get through your thick skull?” she says, manoeuvring around him to place the next item in the luggage. “Yeah, maybe it is. Maybe I imagined it, but did you just say you had more rights on Lydia?” he asks. “Why, is there cotton stuck in your ears?” He grabs her hand and looks up at her from the ground. “Firstly, Lydia is not an object to be possessed by either of us. Secondly, she’s my daughter just as much as she’s yours,” he says, his hopeful eyes almost breaking Calista’s resolve. She frees herself from his clutches and looks at the wall behind them. “She is my daughter, more than she’s yours. Why can’t you just accept that? You never wanted a daughter, and now you want her just because you can’t have her?” she asks, still keeping her eyes trained on the worn-out dusty wallpaper of the bedroom they had shared for so long. “People change Calista. People change their minds,” Julian says, getting up, losing his patience. “You still haven’t answered my question. How do you arrive at the conclusion that Lydia is more yours than mine?” he says, seating himself on the mattress without a bedsheet on it. “I already told you, I’m the mother.” “I feel like I’m missing something big over here.” “I gave birth to her, so I should get to keep her.” “I thought that two people made a baby?” “If both those people wanted the baby in the first place. If one person doesn’t want the baby, it automatically belongs to the other.” “Show me this book.” “What book?” “Where these rules are written.” “It’s called common sense. You should really use it sometimes.” “Oh wow, what a sick burn. I’m melting,” he says, bitterly laughing. Calista rolls her eyes and returns to the packing that had slipped her mind. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you be a good person for once, and give us joint custody?” “I can’t do that.” “Why not?” “I just can’t.” Julian throws a vase on the ground in frustration. It breaks into a gazillion small pieces, and he picks them up, ignoring the blood that soon starts pooling in his palms. “Are you hurt?” she says, walking over to him. “No, not at all. I’m not hurt by the fact that my wife, sorry, my ex-wife doesn’t trust me with my daughter, no. I have no feelings at all,” he says, wiping off the tears on his face with his bleeding hands, leaving dark red marks on his cheeks. “Julian, you know that’s not what I meant,” Calista says, trying to help him up. He swats her hand away, and stands up on his own, wobbling a bit without support, trying not to get any blood anywhere on the room. He fails terribly, as he places his hand on the rough mattress to steady himself, the blood slowly seeping into it and leaving a stain. “You know what? You keep Lydia. You keep everyone. That’s what you always do, isn’t it? Everything is yours and yours alone. Can’t you open your mind up to the possibility that other people may also want the same things you do?” “Oh wait, I forgot. You can’t. You can’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you. So, you keep everything. You keep my broken heart, my daughter, my life, my home. I’ll just leave empty-handed, just like how I entered,” he says, and goes to the washroom. Wincing slightly at the sting, he washes his hands with soap and runs water over it until the bleeding stops. He washes his face and dries his cheeks. As he dries his hands, Calista stands at the door of the washroom, tears running down her face. “You know, I don’t even remember why we thought it was a good idea to get married,” she says, wiping her tears off. “We were stupid hormonal teenagers too caught up in love. I guess love isn’t always enough,” he says, and walks outside the washroom, passing by her. “It’s always like you’re speaking another language. It’s like you’re saying something, and I’m saying something else, and it just becomes this big mush of nothing. I don’t like that at all,” he says, sitting on a chair. “I don’t like it either. But you need to understand only one thing to understand me.” “That you have more possession of our daughter because you gave birth to her? That even though you were the one who said ‘I love you’ first, I still love you more? That even though my heart is lying on the floor in pain right now, you still have the right to put a knife through it again?” he says, his voice breaking at the end. “No, no just hear me out.” “What’s the point of hearing you out? We are not together anymore. Did you not know? Did you not realize that nothing you say will matter because this marriage is over? Gone. Burned to the ground. Even if you try to convince me why you have more right on Lydia or the house or the money, it will still sound as confusing and pointless as the first time I heard it.” “Julian! Can you just shut up for once?” He sets his jaw, his eyes on the floor. “Look, there is only one thing that you need to understand to understand me.” He tilts his head, looking bored. “I still love you. Even if we can’t understand what one person is saying half the time, I will always love you.” “But clearly, understanding each other is important in a relationship. We can’t speak different languages and expect it to work.” He cracked a sad smile. “We can have joint custody of Lydia,” she finally concedes, walking away from him and continuing the packing that had been abruptly stopped. His expression changes to one of shock. “Really? You’re not kidding, right? This isn’t some kind of sick joke, is it?” he says, getting up with a suspicious look. “No, not at all. She’s your daughter as much as she’s mine, so we must have joint custody.” He laughs in relief, and runs over to Calista, picking her up and spinning her around and around. “Julian. Put me down. Wake up a bit. It’s not like we got back together.” He stops spinning her, and puts her down, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself there for a second.” “Thank you, Calista, you have no idea how much this means to me,” he says, and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. “You know, I think I have some idea of how much it means,” she says, smiling. He looks at her and smiles back. “I’m going to go and see Lydia for a bit,” Julian says and walks to the nursery, where Lydia is peacefully sleeping in her crib, not having heard a word of their argument. He caresses her head, looking at her fondly. “You know, today Mommy finally understood me. You know how much of a big deal that is?” Lydia just smiles in her sleep, and Julian knows that she understood. He smiles to himself, happy that in the last few minutes of their relationship, Calista and he had understood each other.


“Is there anything else that you will need?” Asked her Aunts butler as he set the tray of tea on the table in the dining room, an elderly gentleman, about the age ninety five, with slick white hair. “Oh, no sir, I believe that’s all, thank you.” Orchid replied politely. Orchid had only been at her Aunt’s Gothic styled mansion for about three days; she was still trying to get used to the quietness about the manor but try as she might she didn’t think she would ever get used to the reclusive silence. Aunt Tess being older than not, had a head of white hair, and what seemed like no emotion whatsoever, she despised loud noises claiming that they would reignite the pain of her headaches she seemed to get so often. She never spent time with Orchid, even though Orchid was sent there to spend the entire year with her Aunt, her Aunts health was not at it best so Orchid’s mother and father thought it was a good idea for her to spend a few months with her Aunt as an energetic pick-me-up, so to speak. The whole idea sounded great to Orchid, she had heard so much good things about her Aunt and was excited to meet her for the first time, but the only thing her Aunt had said to her the whole time she was there was, “Hello” Once and, “This is Wade, the butler. If you need anything ask him.” And that was it; her Aunt had no care whatsoever of what Orchid said or did as long as it was out of her way. “Wade,” She said quickly before he left the dining hall, “is it all right if I explore the mansion?” “You may, as long as you do not get in the way of Madam Tess, she has complained of a massive headache this morning.” He replied dryly. “Oh good,” She thought to herself as she ate her breakfast, “I’ll have the whole day to myself. I can explore part of it today and part tomorrow! Maybe I’ll find secret passage or two.” She stood up and started for the sitting room, there was a grand fireplace there, she was almost certain there would be a passage to another place in the mansion. She walked up to the fireplace, it was a beautiful masterpiece carved out of a huge block of marble. With flowers, leaves, vines, and trees carved out to make it a magnificent part of architecture. “Oh where, oh where, would there be a trap door or something of that sort,” She said to herself. “Aha!” she exclaimed, “there on the grapevine, in a cluster of grapes, on the bottom there’s a hickory nut!” She softly pushed on it, and then as if it were a magic trick, the fireplace slid back than to the side. “Oh my goodness!” she jumped back in surprise, “I didn’t actually expect that to work, I just felt intelligent.” Once it slid back she grabbed a small flashlight from the coffee table behind her. She turned to the new opening in the wall, she took her first step into to the darkness, Crunch , she stiffened. She slowly directed the flashlight to her foot. “Ah!” She screamed as she jumped back, it was the cleaning maid. She was, dead, Orchid ran as fast as she could, screaming all the way on the top of her lungs. Her Aunt marched out of her room and grabbed Orchid by the arm. “What is the meaning of this? Waking me up in the middle of my nap! Running about like a headless hen! You have brought about my blistering headache once more!” Aunt Tess yelled as all the staff gathered round to see what was all the commotion. “A b-body in the sitting room!” Orchid gasped out, “Who is it child, who?” asked her Aunt “The cleaning maid!” Orchid raced to the sitting room, her Aunt and the rest of the staff closely at her heels. She pushed the piece if the fireplace in and it opened up to display the maids body lying on the ground. There was a shriek from the maid’s sister, Maud, who also worked at the mansion. “What happened? How could this be?” said Maud frantically. “Calm yourself Maud, Wade call the police. Orchid, make Maud a cup of tea. Everyone else stay here until the police can question everyone.” Aunt Tess sat down on the cotton sofa; funny to Orchid it seemed Aunt Tess’s headache had by some miracle dissipated. When the police arrived Maud had calmed down quite a bit and was eager to find her sisters killer. “Would Maud Waters please come forward for questioning?” One of the officers asked politely. This was said to everyone in the room, Orchid’s Aunt had given the police a list of everyone who had been working that day, and who normally worked there. It wasn’t a very long list because of how little the staff was at the manor. One of the police officers said that they believed her to have been poisoned, but was not sure. They said that they could not be certain of the cause of death until after an autopsy has been finished, which would not be until a few more days. Orchid, still being a bit shaken even after the police had left, went to her room for the rest of the evening. Her Aunt went to her own room and the rest of the staff went home. “This is very strange indeed,” said her Aunt as she walked to her room, “very strange to happen to the cleaning maid of all people.” “This is a very strange turn of events.” Orchid thought as she drank the rest of her tea, “And who would murder her of all people, there wasn’t much anyone had against her.” She sat there making a mental list of suspects. “There was Wade, but he would have no reason, Maud, but her own sister? Hmm... who knows? Well Maud had seemed to recover from shock surprisingly soon for seeing her sister dead, perhaps. And Aunt Tess didn’t seem surprised at all, there was the laundry maid, but I don’t believe she was here today, oh yes she only comes on Mondays and Fridays. And it was Wednesday. So she couldn’t have, there was the cook, he could have poisoned her lunch or a cup of tea,” Her stomach did a flip, “oh I certainly hope it wasn’t the cook, he might poison anyone of us.” As she continued to think about who it could have been she lost track of time and realized it was time for dinner, “Oh I hope it wasn’t the cook, because I’m still eating whatever he’s made for dinner.” She mumbled under her breathe as she quickly walked to the dining hall. It had been one week since the autopsy had been sent out, it said she had died by poison, Arsenic, to be exact. And Orchid was no closer to finding who the murder was, all she knew was it could not have been anybody. “Who could it be, who could it be.” She whispered to herself as she reviewed the clues she had found over the week, after the body had been moved she had gone down that passage and found it led to the library where it seemed that the cleaning maid had been dusting the book shelves. There was a new stain on the carpet that seemed to be tea, so she suspected the culprit had poisoned the maid’s tea. She also found a piece of a blue hair ribbon at the scene of the crime of course the police had investigating and had asked her if she knew of anyone who wore blue hair ribbons. She had said the laundry maid did but would think of other people who might have been wearing one. “Wait a minute,” said Orchid out loud in a bit of a gasp, “the day the cleaning maid was found she wasn’t even working here that day, but how could her body be here? Unless she came for some reason, someone made her tea, poisoned it, and hid her body! For one thing who told her to come to the manor that day?” Orchid quickly jumped up ran for her aunt’s room and lightly knocked on the door, “Yes, who is it?” Her aunts said quiet dryly, “Um, it’s me Orchid. May I speak with you?” “Oh, yes I suppose so.” Her aunt opened the door stepped out and said, “Come I was just about to go to lunch, can you walk and talk?” “Yes quiet well, and I just had a question, have the police searched the cleaning maids house?” “Yes and the cleaning maid had a name, its Carol.” “Oh yes, very sorry I didn’t know her name. And did they find anything suspicious there?” “Yes, they said there was a note there saying, ‘Come to the manor immediately, very urgent.’ And that was it.” “Written?” “Yes, actually very sloppy of someone planning to kill.” “Hmm, very odd, may I go to the police station?” “All right, but don’t stay out after dark.” She knew exactly who the murderer was, and she wanted to see if the police agreed with her. It was late in the afternoon when all the staff was gathered in the sitting room, the police was there ready to make an arrest. But they waited until Orchid could come in and explain exactly how she thought it happened. They believed they could get a certain reaction out of the murderer if Orchid was the one explaining how it happened and by whom. “All right everyone thank you all for being as patient as you waited, I had to get some things from my room. Now I am going to explain exactly what happened to Carol, the cleaning maid, who was found in this room a week ago. Now it started with the note, it was sent directly to the cleaning maid’s house by whom? By our culprit, the hand writing was definitely our very own Maud Waters, but Maud has a very solid alibi helping Aunt Tess and our dear butler Wade rearrange the living room. And actually everyone has a very solid alibi, it could mean only two things; one everyone did it, or two there is a psychotic murderer on the loose. And so all of you shall be arrested and taken to court. ” “No,” There came a shrieking wail from Maud, “you knew! You knew the whole time that it was me! How could you turn me in like this you little rat!” “There you are officers, there is your killer, but I must ask one thing, why?” “Oh you should know why, because she was going to marry him, she knew I loved him but she was going to marry him anyway! She deserved to die!” “Marry who?” “Her fiance, Clark, of course, oh and I was going to marry him once my sister was out of the way! But you’ve ruined everything!” The police took her away once she was out of the house Orchids aunt asked her how she knew, “Well for one thing,” Orchid said, “she had been acting guilty all week, and another thing all the clues especially the note pointed to her. Did you know she’s an extraordinary forger, she was bragging about it the other evening and I asked her to prove it. I wrote something down and she copied it almost exactly the same.”