I was doing a prompt from , however, the prompt got locked out, and I really wanted to share my story and receive feedback. So any feedback is appreciated however please be gentle I suck at taking harsh criticism ;-; The prompt was: The Dark Lord, sick of pointless war, secretly escapes to the countryside and falls in love with a nice widow in an unremarkable village. A year or two later, having never managed to find the Dark Lord, the young hero returns home only to find he has a new stepfather all of a sudden. (Posted by: Potential Smell). Link is here; Anyways, here is the story. I tried to go for a bitter/hopeful ending. Hope I did well. Coming Home Smelling the chalky, grassy, country air, Gerald’s feet made heavy steps through the village which he remembered as his origins. It had been a long time since he had last been here, his last memories in the village were of him receiving a scroll to become part of the kingdom’s army and get drafted into war after training camp. It was gruesome. Frostbite still coated his tongue in memory of how he was forced to fight in the winter as a regular knight before he saved his comrades from freezing to death after their commander died by using fire magic he had learned in secret to kindle them. Afterward, he was promoted to General, and then eventually started commanding troops to go against the Dark Lord’s magical army and then faced the man himself. He remembered the elegant look of the man that had a small glimmer of malice in his eyes. He remembered the ring of black fire that scorched his skin. He had critically wounded the man who then sent in reinforcement as he vanished. A few months after the duel the war had suddenly halted. He received news of the Dark Lord suddenly vanishing and his troops were in disarray. What remained of his army and allies eventually were hunted out and executed. Reconstruction took a year and in that time he was tasked to hunt down the Dark Lord and bring back his head. However, it had been a year since he started wandering the lands, searching for any clues or signs. There were none. After seeing him come back in horrible conditions due to traveling in harsh climates the King dismissed him and revoked his role as ‘General’ and he was reduced back to what he was before; a countryside boy. He stared at the once rickety old door in front of him now had become polished with new wood. Once dirtied windows were now crystal clear and the decaying walls were built anew. He wasn’t sure if he was at the right house but he glanced towards his left and saw the pomegranate tree that grew up with him towering high. He knew it was the right one. Reluctantly he raised a fist at the door. Knock, knock, knock. The clanking of chains unraveling rang out and a creak sounded as he saw a face he had once remembered so young and vibrant turn old peer at him and morphed into shock. Tears welling up she reached a hand to touch his tattered red scarf gently, “Gerald?” And the waterworks began as he pulled her into a tenacious embrace, “I’m home. I’m so sorry I never wrote back to you ten years ago.” Sobs erupted from the woman as he softly patted her hair from his changed height. Minutes later once she had calmed down the two sat at a rounded wooden table and she gave him a bowl of stew. He felt a shiver go down his spine as he saw the new polished and upgraded room with the kitchen branching off. His mother sat down across from him and looked at him with sullen eyes. “You were only thirteen when they took you away from me.” She bemoaned, “I couldn’t stop them. You were the only man in our family. But I should’ve tried harder.” “You did your best. You couldn’t go against the order. It’s not your fault.” He said, a grim look covering his face. He couldn’t smile in front of her as he reminisced over his experiences in war. The people he had seen, the children that died before their parents, or orphans that were made. It all tore at his heart. He snapped back into the present, “How have you been surviving since then? Why is the house so nice?” he had more questions on how she was but a series of knocks interrupted him. His mother jumped up excitedly and practically bounced towards the door despite her aged body, and opened it up widely as she hugged the man who stood at the door. Mortification took over as Gerald realized who the man was, though older he still remembers. Contrary to when he used to wear an elegant mage’s robe he now wore a farmer’s tunic, pants, and boots. His once coal-like hair had turned into a pepper gray and his smooth skin had hints of wrinkles. His once somber ocean eyes now looked like the sky and held a jovial expression instead of the sadistic smirk usually on his face. However, one thing remained the same. Though faded, a white-pinkish scar traced down his left eye in a perfectly clean line. It’s as if a painter stroke a brush. Remembering she was being watched, Gerald’s mother let go of the man and sheepishly smiled, “Well, the answer to your question is here Gerald. This is your new father. His name is Aaron. I met him three years ago in late fall. He had come to the village wandering and lost so I picked him up and as he stayed as a guest well...we fell in love.” A goofy smile formed on her mouth. The so-called ‘Aaron’ had an unreadable expression. Gerald’s mind spiraled as the gears were turning and everything was clicking in. The time of disappearance had checked out, but the scar was his clear confirmation. He quickly jumped up and unsheathed his sword as he pulled his mother away from the man and behind him and pointed the sword at his neck, “Mother this man isn’t to be trusted! He’s the dark lord that plagued our country for years.” His mother blinked then laughed, “I know all that. He told me of all his sins.” “Then you must kno-“ “If the god Ivor forgave mankind for discovering magic, why can’t you forgive him?” “He hurt so many people. So many lives were ruined by the war created by him!” He gritted his teeth as memories raced through his mind. Aaron’s face changed to something he thought he would never see on that monster’s face. Remorse. “I did do that. And I regret it. It was such a waste of time in the end and it only brought bitterness and despair towards everyone.” Aaron spoke finally, he had a softer tone compared to his crazed one last the two had dueled. “I wanted to bring hell onto the kingdom for destroying my greatest work, the invention I never got to complete. But I soon understood the path to revenge was a lonely one. So I got sick and tired of it. And then I left. I wandered for weeks trying to repair any damage I did before I met your mother and fell in love with her. She told me about you, I knew about you. I even sent one of my old familiars to look after you and update her.” He put his hand gently on the sword, once smooth hands were filled with calluses, “I can’t undo the damage I did entirely. I’m tired though of wandering and found a home in your mother. I understand if you can’t love me or forgive me. But please let me be with your mother.” Gerald frantically looked between his mother and Aaron, he saw his mother’s pleading face and his mind flashed back to the day he was dragged away by soldiers; he was kicking and screaming as his mother was sobbing on the ground before collapsing of exhaustion. Luckily the neighbors rushed towards her once the way was clear from the soldiers however he remembered the nights his mother cried over the death of his father. Though he had no memories of him, he knew his mother was lonely. He swallowed a lump in his throat and returned his sword to his side. Gerald glared at Aaron, “I hate you. However, I care for my mother’s happiness more. And I am tired of being away from home and for the sake of the peace of the country, I won’t report you. But you mustn’t hurt my mother understood?” He held a look of reluctance and contempt, as he gave the man a warning look. Aaron held out a hand as he nodded, “I am thankful for your understanding.” The two men shook hands and Gerald’s mother clapped her hands. “Well now that it’s settled what are your plans?” She looked at Gerald with fear that he’d vanish. Gerald gave a bitter smile, “Heal from war.” And then glanced at his new stepfather, “And get to know ‘Aaron’ rather than the Dark Lord.” Aaron gave a surprised look then beamed, “Well come my boy! You must be starving. Dolores did you cook the stew?” Dolores nodded, “Yes! Come Gerald, your food must be getting cold. I’ll get you a new bowl!” The two of them ushered Gerald back to the table and as he hesitantly went to sit at the table he questioned if what he was doing was the right choice. He dismissed the thought as the steam of stew reached his nose and he was reminded of why he wanted to come back. He wanted to come home.


Money is the root of all evil. At least that’s what my pop always told me growing up. “For outlaws there ain’t nothin’ more important than money. Everything they do: Lootin, killin, extortion, all just to serve their pockets no matter the cost to anyone else. That’s why outlaws always die in the end.” “Is being rich bad, pop?” The old man chuckled, his graying whiskers twitching with his exhale. “Depends who you ask, boy. Treat people right with it and you’re good in my eyes. Whatever you did to get that money is between you and God.” I didn’t really know what to say to him after that, I was only nine at the time. I remember he sent me to fetch a bottle from his office. He sat in that old wicker chair he kept by the fireplace and I sat by his feet while he poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Promise me you’ll grow up to be a good man, son.” He said before taking a long sip of his drink. “ That’s all you gotta be in this world, because hurting good folk is bad for the soul, so promise me.” “I promise.” He smiled and handed me the glass, a puddle of the liquor sat in the bottom. He gave me a shallow nod and I had my first sip of drink that day. I remember it fondly cause it wasn’t more than three years later that my ol’ pop passed away. Took his life while I was at the schoolhouse, sat right in that wicker chair with the same bottle of hooch next to him that I had sipped from. My father’s affinity for religion never took with me, see I never much believed in superstition, until a particular story caught my ear. =========================================================== There was a town in Kentucky by the name of “Buckwheat” that was on its way to the grave. The installation of the railroad made it so their stopgap town was an afterthought, a place more people went than came, with business drying up most of the people figured they’d have to move. Entire generations uprooted by rich men from the cities. They weren’t the only people suffering, the Natives in the area were in constant conflict with Railway enforcers surveying land and had received word from the US Army that they were to be relocated to the West. In Buckwheat rumors and news spread like a bad rash, everyone got it whether you wanted it or not, and some of the men who heard this news were the town outlaws. The “Buckwheat Boys” they called themselves, children who fancied themselves grown on account of the iron on their hips. They took to petty theft and the occasional bout of rustling cattle but nobody in town said a word, every dollar they robbed or fenced was fed into the saloon which then fed into the town, a drip feed that just barely kept the town limping onwards. The rumor was that the Natives had gathered up all their belongings in preparation for their journey and a few people even whispered that they held gems and Spanish gold from the earliest days. The bounty was also said to be cursed, either by native spirits or the Spaniard’s god. The Buckwheat Boys heard this whisper and concocted themselves a plan. They plotted for two days and in the dark stifling heat of a shed they: drew maps of the area from memory, they cleaned and polished their guns, and more importantly they studied. They studied when US Army patrols edged close to the Native camps and recorded the times each day. They were boys playing at being men and their cowardice showed it. Not wanting to risk involvement from the Army they planned to ride in during the night and take everything they could, if anyone got in the way the answer was simple: “Shoot 'em dead, who’s gonna care about a couple of Indians? Long as we avoid the Army we’ll be fine.” Their leader, Clay, said flippantly. “What if they shoot back?” Logan asked, his white hat tipped far back on his greasy long hair. “With what? Bows and arrows?” Mitch snorted and slapped his knee. “Clay’s right, what we need to be on the lookout for is the damn Army. We pick a fight with soldier boys and we all end up with posters and ropes. No, we make 'em hand over the loot and then we take the long way back to town.” “What about the curse?” A meek voice called out from the back. “The priest said that money they had was cursed.” “The priest also says that if you spend your whole life rapin’ and killin’ that as long as you apologize for it in the end you’ll get to go to heaven. Does that sound right to you, Leroy?” Mitch teased. “I don’t know.” “Well now you’ve said something that makes sense.” Logan guffaws, letting loose a glob of yellow spit into a dented pot. Leroy’s face went a funny shade of pink as the other two laughed at him, but then Clay spoke up. “Y’all think it’s funny? Speaking down on God and on Leroy?” He slowly walked across the shack, his thick soled boots clunking against the old wooden floor before dropping a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “Leroy here is our little brother.” He said, rattling Leroy around. “Which gives him the right to ask silly questions every now and again. Understood?” “Uh-huh.” Logan mumbled. Mitch simply grunted. “Good, now then Leroy. To answer your question; ain’t no such thing as curses. Ain’t no Spanish god that’s gonna hurt us. You got my word. This money will be good for us and the town, once it’s ours we can get to spending it. The saloon, the tailor, hell even the church can get a little in the sunday basket. It’ll keep this place going. Can you abide by that?” Leroy simply nodded while avoiding the probing stare of Clay. A clap to his shoulder let him know it was safe to raise his eyes as Clay walked away and rolled up the paper on the table. “Get your things together, tell your families that you’ll be out tonight. I don’t care what lie you feed em, long as it’s believable. Clay left the shed with the plans tucked in his pocket and all the others followed, just as they always had, just as they did later that night when they rode into Native land to raid whatever valuables they could get. The raid went off without a hitch, initially, only women and children stood between them and their fortune. Logan and Mitch hollered, bullied, and beat anyone who got between them and their prize but the whole time Leroy felt uneasy; not just in his actions but in the situation as a whole. Why were there no men of fighting age? Why did they seem to call out in their strange language not at the gang but into the darkness of the night? As Clay caught bags from the two and stuffed whatever he could into the saddlebags, Leroy nervously peered into the darkness, until the slightest glint caught his eye. Directly behind the two men rummaging through the central tent. “MITCH, LOGAN, BEHIND-” Leroy called out as his sweaty hand fumbled with the rough grip of his revolver. His warning was cut short however, as a pillar of white smoke rose from a bright flash of light in the darkness. Logan screamed like a man possessed and clutched his side which gushed dark thick liquid in pulses. Mitch raised his revolver and fired into the dark, flinging spit and curses along with lead. His taunts were met with another flash and plume of smoke, as a tall muscled native man stepped from the darkness holding a long rifle, putting a lead ball through the base of his neck. The guns were old, probably leftovers from the Civil War, but they were leagues beyond the promised ‘Bows and Arrows’ that Clay had mentioned. Leroy turned his head to Clay who was finishing a tight knot, securing a thick bag to the hind of his horse. Mitch and Logan lay screaming in the dark while Clay muttered beneath his breath. Another volley of shots as more men stepped from the darkness bearing similar rifles, thankfully what they had in numbers they lost in accuracy. Leroy ducked low and covered his head as the horses reared and let out shrill cries of terror. “Clay!?” Leroy screamed over the cacophony, all while the eyes of a reloading native man pierced him. A grunt of exertion and a smack on the shoulder drew Leroy’s attention. A grimy hand was extended in the darkness. “Get on the horse, Leroy!” Clay called, another explosion made him double over and press his cheek to the neck of his mount. “Shit. Get on, goddamnit before I leave you!” Leroy didn’t need to hear anything else, he flung his hand out and was yanked to the rear of the horse, Clay’s spurs collided with solid muscle and the beast took off for the fields. The scent of gunpowder, blood, and sweat left far behind as the warm Kentucky air blew past in a rush. “I told you it was cursed! I told you dammit!” Leroy shouted with tears in his eyes, his head was tucked and pressed firmly against Clay’s back. “It ain’t no fuckin curse, Leroy.” “Mitch and Logan are-” “I know what the hell happened to them.” He growled. A snap of the reins pushed his horse to move even faster. “What’s important now is we make distance, if any of the horses are unwounded then they could mount up and come after us.” “Will they?” “I would.” He said grimly. “Will they find us, though?” “Their people know how to track, been doing it longer than we’ve been around.” Clay said thoughtfully. “But I may got something that can help with that.” The two rode on in relative silence for the next two hours, Clay coughed and groaned at times writhing in his saddle while Leroy clutched onto his back with eyes squeezed tight to suppress the burning tears trying to force their way through. Eventually the horse began to slow and Clay with labored breath eased the animal as it fidgeted. “Easy now.” He whispered to it as he worked on deconstructing the knot around one of the bags Logan had tossed him. “What’re you doing, Clay? Why are we stopped?” “Getting what we came here for and making sure they don’t know where we’re headin.” His pale fingers struggled with the knot until it eventually fell away and the crimped edges of the bag opened. “Goddamn.” He mumbled staring into it. Leroy peered over his shoulder and his mouth fell open. Gold coins layered in thick piles stared back, glittering even with only the moon and starlight to illuminate them. The sight was quickly cut off by a hacking cough from Clay, the bag’s opening was clenched shut in his fist as he hacked. In the distance a faint clattering came followed by a lonely horn echoing across the hills. “They really had gold..” Leroy muttered to himself. “Leroy..” Clay whispered, turning in his saddle. “Leroy, we’re gonna take that train.” Leroy gasped, thin splotches of blood encrusted the corners of Clay’s mouth and his hand was firmly pressed against a dark patch of blood soaked shirt. “Holy shit, Clay. They shot you!” “No shit? It’s just a scratch, when we get back to town I can pay the Doc to fix me up.” He groaned. The clattering grew louder as the light of the train shone from around a hill. “We just gotta get aboard, come on.” The reins snap again and his horse starts a slow amble forward as he slips his foot from a stirrup and sits sideways, his injured side leaning against the thick neck of his mount. The train drew closer. “Clay? This is a bad idea..” Leroy moaned. The train drew closer. “Shut up, Leroy. My plans always work out in the end.” A spur sends the horse into a light gallop. “We can’t do it..” The sound of the train began to drown out their conversation. “That’s why you’re going first..” Clay mumbled. A slap to its hind sent his horse into a full gallop. “What!? I can’t hear you.” The front of the train passed them, the cars behind it passed as well with each one slower than the last as Clay’s steed tried its best to match speed. “I said.” Clay repeated loudly as he pressed a hand to the back of Leroy. “That you go first!” He screamed in a mixture of pain and exertion as he shoved with all of his might against Leroy’s back, dismounting him from the Horse. Leroy screamed and wailed but instinctively kicked off from the saddle and sent himself chest first into the rough iron bars of the caboose. “You...you...you asshole!” Leroy screamed back after he finished scrambling over the railing and onto the small platform that hung off the back. “Yer alive, ain’t cha!? I’m throwing the bag next.” He called back. His hand went to his lap and grasped the bag before chucking it underhand to Leroy and positioning himself to take the leap. “I told you my plans always work, now scoot over.” Leroy scuttled backwards, his back pressed to the caboose to stay steady, he watched as Clay pushed off his horse and lunged forward. He watched as Clay slammed into the railing, directly on top of his wound, and sent the whole thing rattling. Leroy watched as Clay’s face contorted in pain and his eyes rolled into his head, he watched as his body limply dropped and fell towards the tracks. And Leroy watched as Clay’s unconscious body ragdolled against the stone, steel, and wood of the tracks. His still form grew more and more distant as Leroy watched with an open mouth but a frozen voice. He slid to the floor and drew his knees close, he rocked himself on the floor of that caboose until the sun began to peek over and let the smallest rays of light across the landscape. He whispered prayers for forgiveness, for mercy, for the men he watched die not hours before. But he wasn’t convinced anyone was listening as all he could hear was the jingle of the gold coins in the closed sack. It was infuriating. “This is your fault..” He said to the bag. “You and your damn curse...they can have you back.” He extended a foot violently and sent the bag sliding over the edge, he watched as the bag hit the ground and exploded into a shower of glittering light. He let loose a sigh and closed his eyes. Was it a mistake to throw away the only reason any of this had happened? He didn’t care anymore, his thoughts were of his home and his family. Until he heard the jingling. His eyes shot open and looked to his side, where a familiar bag leaned lovingly on his thigh. He scrambled up from his seated position and once again kicked the bag between the rail posts and watched it scatter along the tracks, reflecting the new morning light. He watched the faint glinting pile of coins until he couldn’t any longer but the moment it was out of his view he heard it again. That jingle. He tried throwing the bag, but it returned. He dumped the coins from the sack only for it to refill itself once he looked away. He did anything he could think of but the moment he wasn’t looking those coins came right back to him. He was cursed and he knew it, he had done folk wrong and this was his punishment. A final, grim, thought came to his mind. His hand inched down to the rough handle of his revolver. He swallowed harshly and drew from his holster. “Merciful Father, I come before you with a repentant heart, I recognize my sins. I confess my need for your forgiveness and mercy. Wash me clean, O Lord, and create in me a pure heart.” He spoke with a wavering voice as he pulled back the hammer. “ I trust in your unfailing love and rely on your grace to restore and renew me. Jesus Christ. In His name, I pray.” He pressed the cool barrel to his chin. “Amen.” =========================================================== I sip the last of my whiskey and slide the glass forward. The bald face of the boy before me balks. “You can’t stop the story there, old timer. What happened to the gold?” He whispers, pretending to sweep a stray bit of dirt. I laugh and shake my head. “Well death didn’t stick to young Leroy. He woke up back in Buckwheat by the tracks, he spent the rest of his life trying to get rid of the curse.” “Did he ever get away from it?” “Almost.” The boy's eyes glitter. “How?” I lean forward and whisper with whiskey scented breath. “Following the plan.” The boy opens his mouth to speak but a sharp voice cuts him off. “Bill! Goddamnit, I told you to stop getting friendly with the customers, if you got time to chat you got time for cleaning.” I hold up a hand and speak gently. “Easy now, I was just telling the boy a story. You get to my age and you have loads of em. I’ll pay my tab and get out of your hair.” The bartender gives me a sour face but shrugs. “What’s the name for your tab, sir.” “It’s Lee.” I tell him. The boy’s eyebrows raise and he gives me a glance. I just smile and fish in my pocket until I feel it. A single gold coin. “Will this cover it?” I ask.


I came to the house A few days before I died. That’s how it works. Most people-- Should I be explaining this to you? I don't think I should But I'm dead So the consequences Of doing something I shouldn't seem...negligible? Then again I'm not dead At the moment Although I'm headed that way. With most people The soul leaves the body A few days Before the body Is no longer... ...Accessible to it. Transition periods Are important Even when you’re talking About life and death. So... You get a few days To get your bearings in order And find the place Where you’re going To spend the rest of eternity. Provided you’re not interested In being a roaming ghost Which, some are, But your sense of direction As a tetherless spirit Is something akin To being blind and free of limbs So most ghosts prefer To just find one place And stick to it. That’s what I did anyway. Found a house Near where my old house was. Nice attic. Dark, musty, But a good amount of moonlight Coming in from one of those Porthole windows You see attics having In the movies. You’re not allowed To stay and haunt your own house Unless you have some unfinished business there. But even then You need to state your case Before the Body of Possession And despite the anecdotal evidence I can assure you They’re not likely to let you haunt Unless you’ve really been wronged. I'm going to die of a heart attack With absolutely no grievances whatsoever And that means I need to move to another location. Never a good idea To spend your afterlife Where you spent your life. Just blurs the line Between the living and the dead, And it benefits us all To have that line Be nice and clear . I always wanted To live in an attic anyway. I used to spend all my time as a kid In the one we had at my childhood home And my mother would get mad And say ‘ You have a perfectly nice bedroom ’ And I did. But I liked being Away from everyone And everything Surrounded by boxes Full of old clothes And the dressmaker’s dummy My mother got At the flea market. There’s no dressmaker’s dummy In this attic But there are boxes. Lots of them And one of them... Can I tell you about this? Should I? I'm not even sure I should be telling you About my death Until I'm dead But I've been accused Of getting ahead of myself And when I went in front of The Body of Departure That was a criticism That they had of me. That I always went To the next thing And the next And didn't live in the moment Which is a heartbreaking thing To say to a soul Once it's done living. But the boxes... One of them Has a shirt at the bottom With blood all over it. Not sure where the blood came from. Could be something innocent. As a ghost, you don’t... You don’t know anymore Than what the living know But... I have a feeling... My soul swirls around The attic And goes downstairs And finds the owner of the house Eating cereal And reading the newspaper And he doesn't seem like The kind of man Who would bloody up a shirt Like that But the shirt is also Much too small for him In other words It's unlikely that it's his bloody shirt. Later on that night He cooks shrimp And invites a woman over And she eats the shrimp And she seems to enjoy it And the two of them make love And as they do I feel a fly land on the bloody shirt In the attic Because it was hanging over the side Of the box Which is not a good way to hide it Unless you're not worried About hiding it Because you don't think Anyone will find it. The fly distracts me And by the time I get back downstairs The man is already Helping the woman Into her coat And telling her how sorry he is That she can't spend the night, But he does that thing tomorrow, And she says Of course she understands. I'm not accustomed To watching men Interact with women Because all I had growing up Was my mother In a house my father left us When he left for people who weren't us And a series of boyfriends Who I did not care for Or like. I am accustomed To mysteries. Mysteries, but not men But mysteries about men? Well... You see, when I was a child I found a knife At the back of our hall closet While I was looking for My old soccer cleats. The knife was wrapped up In an old handkerchief And it was rusty But it was a particular kind of rust And when I brought it to my mother She told me to put it back where I found it And never ask about it again. My mother would sit At the kitchen table Not eating cereal Or prepping shrimp But she would hug me tight And tell me That I was the heart Of her hearts And the only time She ever looked at me With the glint of chill That so many parents Find themselves using On their children Was when I showed her That knife. This time I'm not going to have Anyone to ask. How many people do you think Have bloody shirts or bloody knives Stored in places Nobody can see? Maybe more than we think. But I look at the shirt And I put what used to be my hand through it And when what used to be my hand Comes back It’s bright red in the moonlight That comes through The porthole window And I feel myself split apart And come back together But I don’t move And I don’t focus on it too much Because I’m still A day away from dying At that point. And I don’t want To mess That up. I don't want to Get Ahead of Myself.


Sweet as Gingersnaps By: Sean Green Since 1955 in a little town in Pennsylvania, two cookie companies named Cappington’s Bakery and Montages Cookie House had been competing to be number one. The town always hosted a bake off between the two companies. The contest always had ten rounds and it was to see who could make the best flavored cookies. Each year for decades members from each family would compete in the competition and it this rivalry has been going on for generations. This generation sees Cappington’s daughter Julia and the Montage’s Cookies son Raymond being the competitors. At Montage’s, Raymond told his parents that he has always wanted to chosen to compete in the contest since he was a kid. Raymond’s mother told him, “You can’t fail! We need to win every competition and at least try to put Cappington’s out of business.” Raymond replied, “I know that this a competition and we are trying to beat a rival business but why put them out of business?” Raymond’s father explained, “My grandpa wanted to make a cookie business and that dream came true. Our business was the only bakery in town until three months later Cappington’s Cookies opened up. We lost customers and ever since we have been competing to get those customers back and ever since they just keep coming and going.” Raymond’s mother bellowed in an angry protest “Every time we make new recipes we get old customers coming back and new customers coming in. However, Cappington’s finds out everytime to have something new and then they will make new recipes the same month! Customers can’t just keep going back and forth between the two bakeries! In1959, the mayor created this competition and ever since we have won some and lost some and it is the same for them. So this time we just need to put them out of business! We were here first and this town belongs to the Montage’s.” Raymond sort of understood his parents dilemma and told his parents that he would win for them. Robert however felt like the two companies could still somehow exist together. Julia Cappington was competing for the Cappington’s Cookies business. Julia felt like there should not be any competition. She believed her family and the Montages should get along and help each other with their business’s. Julia asked her dad about this and he said, “Julia, since 1955 Cappington’s Cookies has been stealing customers from Montage’s but they keep getting their customers back! They have been bouncing back and forth. This time we have to win and get everyone to love our cookies more than theirs.” Julia still did not agree and thought the rivalry was just childish. But Julia did agree to compete in the competition because she felt like something special would happen to her. Julia had always loved making cookies since she was a girl and does it in honor of her mother’s memory. Julia wanted to win for her mother but felt like it would be cruel to the Montages. Tomorrow was the contest, Raymond and Julia had trained to win but somehow felt like it would be cruel to the other family. Raymond knew he could not let his family down. Julia knew this would be important to her family. But each one knew what all this competing was really doing to them and the relationships with their family and the citizens of the town. It was the next day and it was the day of the contest. The competitors had to get there a little early to set up and bake. Raymond and Julia parked their cars next to each other. They got out of their cars and headed to the door. Julia was looking over some family recipes cards and not paying attention to Raymond walking up beside her carrying an armful of cookie sheets All the inattentiveness caused them to bumped into each other and cookie sheets to fly into the air. “I am sorry about that.” Said Raymond “Oh no I’m sorry!” Said Julia Julia helped Raymond pick up the cookie sheets. He held the door for Julia and then he went after her. He started to talk to her and said, “Are you who I am competing against?” Julia replied, “Yes I am and before you say anything I do feel bad that you are going to lose. I don’t want your family to lose their business.” Raymond said, “Really? I don’t think I’ll lose but you are very nice for a Cappington.” Julia said, “Well, thank you and you are nice for a Montage. My dad always told me that your whole family was very rude but after meeting you I find that hard to believe that.” Raymond said, “I appreciate that and glad to hear that we both kind of see how silly this contest is.” They both smiled at each other and got to their tables and started to bake. Raymond asked Julia, “What are you making over there?” Julia replied, “My family’s oatmeal and raisin cookies, chocolate chocolate chip cookies, cream filled sugar cookies, peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies, and our special orange cookies” Raymond said, “Sounds delicious” Julia said, “They sure are.” Raymond, “Funny thing is I am making chocolate chocolate chip cookies too.” Julia said, “Nice what else?” Raymond said, “I have strawberry and white chocolate cookies, plain sugar cookies with icing, apple cinnamon cookies, and my favorite ...the macaroons.” Julia and Raymond talked while making the cookies. Julia was having problems with her mixer. Raymond walked up to help her and fixed the problem. Julia thanked him and they went back to making cookies. Soon they started to make small talk, Raymond asked Julia what she likes about baking cookies. Julia told Raymond that she loved baking with her mom Sandra, especially loved baking cookies. And it keeps her memory alive. Julia told Raymond that her mother died from cancer two years ago and she bakes cookies to honor her. Raymond told Julia that he was sad to hear about Julia’s mother and happy to hear that she does it in honor of her. They both finished baking and they started talking about how it is just silly that their families do to each other over the competition of their businesses. Julia told Raymond, “I understand the importance of the competition to our business but not the whole hating each other part.” Raymond told Julia that he really did not like it either and believed that it was just childish. Julia said she could see that too, Julia said that she just felt like there could be a way to stop it. Raymond said, “Do your husband or children like baking with you?” Julia said, “I am single, I was engaged for a little while, his name was Perry. Unfortunately, I found out he was cheating on me.” Raymond responded, “Oh I am sorry to hear that it seems that you have had a lot happen to you. I am sorry for all that.” Julia replied, “You know you can stop being mister nice guy and trying to get me to like you because I actually liked you when we first talked.” Raymond said, “Wow you actually do huh. That is a first for me.” Julia said, “You mean you never had a date.” Raymond said, “Well I liked this one girl named Rose but she got a boyfriend and I just stopped asking girls out.” Julia replied, “That sad, I mean you are very likeable and you are very kind even though we are suppose to be rivals.” Raymond responded, “I can’t believe a man would cheat on you. You are very nice and well you are as sweet as gingersnaps.” Julia chuckled and said, “Well I like that you said that but sorry to disappoint I actually don’t really like gingersnaps.” Raymond replied, “Oh I’m sorry but would you at least like to go Raymond thought maybe there could be, and Julia asked how. Raymond looked at the cookies and asked, “Maybe we could combine one of our creations.” Julia thought that was a great idea and decided to do it. Julia told Raymond that they could combine her family’s orange cookies with one of Raymond’s family’s cookies. Raymond picked the macaroons, they combined their recipes and tasted them. Julia and Raymond both thought it was delicious. They both agreed to replace one of their selections with their new collaborative creation. It was time for the competition and Raymond and Julia got ready. The first round was up, and the judges tried both Raymond’s and Julia’s chocolate chip cookies. Julia won the competition. Which made the Cappingtons laugh at the Montages. However, the judge’s loved Raymond’s apple cinnamon cookies in the second round and the Montages laugh at the Cappingtons. Both Raymond and Julia watched as their family’s laughed at each other and knew that they would teach them that they were being childish. Raymond won the third round and Julia would win the fourth but in the fifth round Raymond and Julia got their combined cookies and gave them to the judges. They first tried Raymond’s and then they tried Julia’s, the judges were confused and tried the cookies again but they both thought they tasted the same. One of the judges said, “Ladies and gentleman both of the competitors have such delicious cookies but this round has been tied because both of the cookies taste the same and we cannot pick one.” Someone in the audience said, “Just pick one already.” Another judge said, “We can’t because for some reason they taste the same.” Then Julia said, “that is because they are the same.” Everyone gasped and Julia’s dad said, “Julia how could you, why.” Julia responded, “Because Raymond and I wanted to show our families how childish this is and that both of our families need to get along and not hate each other over a childish reason. We worked together and came up with this delicious cookie, can you imagine what recipes we could come up with by combining our talents?” The Cappingtons and Montages looked at each other with surprised looks. Raymond then said, “That is true Julia and I do not like the fact that this rivalry has taken away the true purpose of our businesses. Why, couldn’t you all have just collaborated with each other and made new flavors just like Julia and I did. I have told my family I don’t understand the rivalry and neither does Julia! Let me tell you both - we have made a new cookie and the judges seem to love it!” The judges nodded their heads and agreed that it was a delicious cookie. Julia said, “And you know what else I like Raymond and maybe someday like can turn to love.” Everyone gasped and could not believe what they just heard. Julia said, “Does that sound so horrible? We don’t want to go on being the examples of our family’s childish behavior.” Both of the families thought for a moment and Raymond said, “Let’s all just get along and maybe help each other” The families thought about it for a second and then Julia’s dad said, “I guess I suppose you are right Montage.” Julia said, “not suppose ....it is just right” Raymond’s parents said, “We can just give it a try.” Raymond replied, “We don’t need to try, we do need to be friendly too another and not just because we are business competitors.” Raymond and Julia asked the judges who the winner was. The judges unanimously decided that both of them won. Both families shook each other’s hands and Julia and Raymond got together and winning. At night they all partied together even though it took a while before all the families’ members were friendly to each other. Raymond and Julia were very happy to have met each other and were glad that the feud was over. Julia told Raymond that she knew that there was a reason for her to be at the competition and was glad that she now knows why. Two years later Raymond and Julia were engaged and set to be married Raymond and Julia also opened their own bakery and called it Sandra’s . Their business was very successful and both of them were very happy and both families were happy for them. Sandra’s bakery would go on as one of the most successful business’s and soon a franchise. Raymond and Julia knew that with their love everything was possible. The End


The walls in this house are thin. I hear every footstep, every word, every rage-filled fight with crystal clarity. At 6:00, I hear Keith’s alarm go off. Five minutes later I hear him stumble out of bed and into the shower. At 6:30, I hear the sound of Karen knocking on Kim’s door and the sound of Kim chucking a pillow at her. At 6:45, I hear the front door opening as Keith leaves for work. At 7:15, I hear Karen wake Kevin up. Five minutes later I hear the sound of a sizzling griddle as she makes breakfast for her children. At 7:45 I hear Kim leave the house, dragging her younger brother with her. Five minutes later, I hear Karen pouring herself a cup of coffee. At 8:05 Karen finally leaves. Five minutes later, I descend from the attic. I open the refrigerator door and pull out a Tupperware container full of pasta, leftovers from the previous night. I only take a few bites, small enough that no one will notice that I’ve touched anything. Karen has left half a pot of coffee sitting on the counter; I finish it off. As I sip my lukewarm coffee, I make my way to the living room and turn on the TV. The morning news is playing some sensationalist story about a string of recent break-ins. I roll my eyes and flip through the channels, looking for something interesting to watch. After finding nothing but reruns and game shows, I open up the DVR recordings. I pop on a new episode of a sitcom I like, one about a happy family that Keith recorded the previous night. While I watch it I check the recording schedule, making sure that my shows are set to tape. I notice that the Karen forgot to tape this afternoon’s episode of one of her soap operas. I imagine the fight that’ll break out when Karen comes home and realizes that her stories weren’t taped. Presumably, she’ll accuse Keith of deleting them for the sole purpose of angering her and refuse to acknowledge the possibility that she made a mistake. Keith will bring up the fact that he’s had a hard day at work, which will only make Karen angrier. Kevin will try to drown out the fight by watching TV and Kim will storm out of the house. I set the soap opera to record and pat myself on the back for a job well done. I can’t imagine how these people got by before I started living here. I’m the glue that holds this family together. My job is thankless, primarily because the Brattons don’t know I exist. I’ve been living in the Bratton family’s attic for nine months now. Hiding in the attic of a suburban middle-class family was never the plan. My stepfather kicked me out and I didn’t have anywhere to stay, so I started squatting in an unsold house on their street. After three days of squatting, a new family moved in without any warning. I probably should have run away. But, I knew finding a new squatting location would be a hassle, so I just started hiding in the attic. When the Brattons are all gone, I sneak down to grab food from their fridge. When they come back, I return to my hiding place. It was hard, at first, avoiding detection. I almost got caught a dozen times. But, before long, I managed to learn the family’s schedules. Nowadays the odds of me getting caught are minuscule. My hearing has gotten pretty good over the past few months, so I was able to hear the unmistakable sound of a door opening at 8:30. This surprises me, because I know for a fact that no one should be home until 3:45. As soon as the door opens I dash to the pantry; it would take to long to return to the attic. I hear the sound of footsteps. Judging by their sound, they belong to Kim. I realize that she must be skipping school. I hear, through the thin door of the pantry, Kim walk to the living room. Sneaking past her to return to the attic is risky. If she doesn’t move until her family comes home, I’ll definitely get caught. I reach into my pocket and grab my cell phone. I text Karen, informing her of her daughter’s truancy. I smile when the *Read* tag appears beneath my message. I wait for Karen to come storming home. I’ve learned a lot about the Brattons since I started living with them. Karen and Keith were high school sweethearts, him the local high school’s star quarterback and her the head of the cheer squad. I honestly think that the two of them would have gone their separate ways if it wasn’t for an unplanned pregnancy. Nine months and one shotgun wedding later, Keith and Karen came home with a baby girl named Kim. If Karen’s weekly phone calls to her sister are to be believed, Kim used to be a sweet kid. But, with high school came new problems. One day Kim came home with black hair, piercings, and a new foul attitude. Keith and Karen came to the conclusion that they were the only parents in the history of mankind to have a rebellious teenager and responded by doubling down on punishments in an attempt to “fix” their daughter, something that has only made her rebel more. Karen rips open the front door and marches into the living. “What’s up, mom?” Kim says. “Why aren’t you at school?” Karen asks. “Didn’t feel like going,” Kim replies. Karen sighs. “Kim, you need to go to school,” she says. “Otherwise, you won’t be able-” “I won’t be able to get into college and then I won’t be able to get a good job and I’ll have to marry a loser,” Kim interjects. “I’ve heard the speech before, mom.” “Then why do you keep doing things like this?” “Chill.” “I had to leave my nursing class to come and get you, you know.” “That was a dumb decision.” I hear the sound of a struggle, presumably created by Karen grabbing Kim by the ear and dragging her to the front door. “How’d you even find out I skipped school?” Kim asks. “You principal texted me,” Karen replies. I chuckle from the darkened pantry. I inputted my number into Karen’s phone number under the principal’s name two months prior, knowing that a situation like this might occur. After making sure that Karen and Kim are gone, I return to the living room to watch TV. At 3:00, I grab some snacks from the cupboard and return to the attack. At 3:45, right on schedule, I hear Karen’s car pull into the driveway. I hear Kevin dash for his bedroom as soon as Karen opens the front door. “No video games until you’re done with your homework!” Karen shouts. A few minutes later I hear the sound of Kevin turning on a game console. I don’t know if Karen doesn’t know or is just too busy to care. If I were to guess, I would say that she’s working on her classwork. Fortunately, I don’t have to guess. I grab a small tablet sitting atop a pile of boxes and turn it on. Camera feeds showing various rooms spread throughout the house appear on the screen. The feed from the kitchen shows Karen surrounded by a pile of books, jotting down notes in a notebook. The feed from Kevin’s room shows him sitting on a beanbag chair, blasting heads off an army of zombies. There isn’t a feed from the attic; if there were, it would show me lazily lying on the old couch I claimed as my bed. The security system was already installed when the Brattons moved in. The realtor neglected to tell them about the countless cameras spread throughout the house, designed to help stop an intruder. Ironically, nothing has contributed to my continued residence in this house more. When I’m up in my attic, I do a variety of things to keep myself busy. I read, I browse the internet, I play games on my phone. But, the main thing I do is observe the Brattons over the cameras. At first, I did this so I could learn their schedules and figure out how to stay hidden. Over time, I started watching them for my own enjoyment. The Brattons are better than any soap opera. Their fights, their wants, their struggles, all of these things feature an authenticity television could never reproduce. I don’t pay for the food, shelter, and entertainment I take from these people, but I do make up for the things I take. I provide this family with something that money could never buy: stability. When I first met the Bratton’s, Keith and Karen’s marriage was hanging on by a thread. I knew that, if the two of them were to split up, they might leave this house and sell it to more observant residents. So I took it upon myself to keep the two of them together. The main thing I do is clean up the minor creators of stress spread around the house. I make sure Keith’s work clothes are clean, I take out the trash when it gets too full, I make sure the toilet seat is down, I write things on the grocery list when we run out, that kind of thing. I never do too much, because that would reveal my existence. Just enough to make sure Keith and Karen are happy. Occasionally, I do something big, like sending Karen flowers using Keith’s credit card or hiding tickets to a concert in the family’s mailbox. I honestly think that, if it wasn’t for me, Keith and Karen would have broken up months ago. At 5:30, Karen moves her moves her books from the table to the living room. She isn’t done studying, but needs to start in on dinner if she’s going to have it done by the time Keith arrives at home. She pulls up a recipe on her phone and beings cooking fish. I don’t think Karen ever wanted to be a housewife. She mentioned once, while talking to her sister on the phone, that she wanted to be a doctor when she was a kid. She’s never mentioned what changed, but I’m guessing that she put those dreams on hold when Kim came along. She’s started taking nursing classes recently, a decision that has led to no shortage of stress in the Bratton family. No one has been impacted by this stress more than Karen herself, who has struggled to balance her studies and her family. At 6:30, Keith comes home from work. He trudges through the front door and collapses onto the sofa. “How was your day?” Karen asks, seemingly oblivious. “Tiring,” Keith replies. Keith spends eleven hours each day in a cubicle. Since Karen started going back to school, things have been lean around the Bratton household. Keith volunteered to pick up extra responsibilities at work to help pad his salary, something he has regretted more and more with each passing moment. Judging by the framed newspaper articles that hang in his study, Keith was a damn good football player in his youth, one good enough to get quite a few scholarships. He never accepted them, though. I’m not sure why. “Keith, we need to talk about our daughter,” Karen says. “What did she do this time?” Keith asks, eyes closed. “She skipped school!” “And?” Karen scowls at Keith. “I can’t believe that you aren’t taking this seriously,” she says. “Karen, she’s sixteen,” Keith says, rubbing his temples. “She’s going to make mistakes.” “Skipping school is more than a mistake, Keith.” “Fine, I’ll go talk to her,” Keith says while getting off the sofa. “She isn’t here right now,” Karen says, “I drug her back to school but she hasn’t come back yet.” Keith sighs. “Did you try calling her phone?” he asks. “No Keith, I didn’t try calling my missing daughter,” Karen snaps. “Of course I tried calling her. She didn’t pick up.” “Maybe that means she needs space.” “She could be at the bottom of a ditch for all we know!” Karen is proven wrong ten seconds later, when Kim walks through the front door. “Where on earth have you been for the past three hours?” Karen asks. “Out,” Kim replies. Keith chuckles and Karen shoots him an angry look. “I was hanging out with friends, I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Kim says. “I was worried,” Karen says. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” “It died,” Kim says. “Bullshit,” Karen says. “Easy,” Keith says as he pushes Karen and Kim apart. “Let’s all calm down.” “I am perfectly calm, Keith,” Karen says. “I am just sick and tired of the fact that my daughter doesn’t respect me.” “Okay,” Kim says while rolling her eyes. Around this time, Kevin wanders downstairs, drawn by the fighting. He notices something that the others haven’t. “Mom?” he says. “What is it, honey?” Karen asks, temporarily shifting her attention away from Kim. “I smell smoke,” Kevin says. Karen curses before running into the kitchen, ripping open the oven, and grabbing a glass pan containing charred fish with her bare hands. She screams and Keith runs over to her. “Are you okay?” he asks. “I feel fucking phenomenal, Keith,” Karen says. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” “No,” Karen says, as blunt as a boulder. She reaches into a drawer, grabs a pair of oven mitts, and picks the pan full of burnt fish off the floor. “I have had a long day and would like nothing more than to have a nice meal with my family,” she says. The Brattons eat the burnt fish in silence. Up in the attic, I munch on a bag of chips, enthralled by the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Kevin doesn’t touch his food. “What’s wrong, honey?” Karen asks. “I don’t like fish,” he replies. “It’s what we’re having for dinner tonight,” Karen says. “It’s burnt,” Kim says. “Maybe it would be better if I was able to focus on making dinner instead of worrying about you,” Karen snaps. The doorbell rings and Keith answers it. A pimply pizza delivery boy stands on the front porch, holding a large stack of pies. “Pizza delivery for Keith Bratton,” he says. “We didn’t order any pizza,” Karen says as she walks over to the door. “Is this 432 East Meadow Street?” the pizza boy asks. “Yes,” Keith replies. “And I’m Keith Bratton.” “I have a delivery for you,” the pizza boy says. “We didn’t order any pizza,” Karen says as she slams the door in the pizza boy’s face. To be fair, Karen is right that she didn’t order any pizza. I did, hoping to stop the eventual fight over dinner by replacing the burnt fish with fresh pizza. “What did you do that for?” Keith asks. “We didn’t order pizza,” Karen replies. “I know, but we could have just paid for the pizza and ate it for dinner.” “I worked really hard on dinner and we are going to eat it as a family.” Karen walks back to her chair. “So, how was school? she asks.” “Good,” Kevin replies. “Did anything interesting happen?” “My teacher talked to me about football tryouts.” “Football tryouts?” Keith asks, suddenly interested. “The answer is no,” Karen says. “Now, let’s not be rash,” Keith interjects. “I said no,” Karen says. “Football is dangerous and I don’t want my son getting involved.” “Karen, it’s just flag football,” Keith says. “He’ll be fine.” “I said no, Keith,” Karen says. “That’s final.” Kevin gets out of his chair and storms off to his room. “Nice going mom, you made another child hate you,” Kim says before following her brother. Kevin is the youngest of the Brattons, born a measly seven years prior. As much as I hate to say it, I think Keith and Karen decided to have him to rekindle their long dead marriage. This plan failed as a second child only added to their stresses. I think Kevin would have it a lot worse if I wasn’t around to keep his parents happy. I’ve seen children who grow up in broken homes and the problems they face. I’ve been keeping Keith and Karen together for Kevin’s sake as much as my own. After dinner, Keith brings his laptop to the table and starts typing away. Karen scrubs away at the pan, rubbing off the charred fish and dumping it into the sink. “How was dinner?” she asks. “It was fine,” Keith says. It’s a lie, of course, and a poor one at that. Karen can easily see through her husband’s deception, but chooses to play along. “Just fine?” she asks. Keith sighs. “Can we do this some other time?” he says. “I’m drowning in work right now.” “You hated it, didn’t you?” “I said it was fine, dammit. Why does it always have to be mind games with you?” Karen leaves the pan to soak and begins cleaning one of the plates. “I’m just trying to make conversations, she says. “How was work?” “Busy,” Keith says while typing on his computer. “You know, I’d appreciate it if you put the laptop away while we’re talking.” “Well, dear, I’d appreciate it if you acknowledged that my job pays for the roof over your head.” “Here we go again,” Karen says, bitterness flowing through her words. “What?” “You act like you’re the only one who works hard in this family!” Karen shouts. The plate slips from her fingers and falls to the ground, shattering. She reaches down to pick it up and slices open her finger. “Are you okay?” Keith asks. “I’m fine,” Karen says as blood drips from her hand. On my screen, I notice that Kevin is watching his parents from the living room. I sigh. No child should have to see their parents fight like this. Using a remote I stole from the living room I turn on the living room TV. Kevin stops watching his parents fight and starts watching my favorite sitcom, the one about a happy family.


A card clicked against the spoke as Jackie chased her brother down the hill. The blacktop was hot and the handlebars wobbled as she sped up, sweat dripping from her forehead and slicking the handles. Jason whooped beside her and attempted to remove his hands from the bike, each try dilating her heart beats before he snatched them again. They both laughed loudly and nervously, letting the wind carry away their concerns as it whipped past. The sun shone high in the lapis Texas sky, burning itself away above an indifferent people. Jackie and Jason flew past a man getting into his car and he swore at them but they didn’t hear. A woman with her hair tied behind her head and a skirt that shifted like wheat in the breeze was walking up the hill and the brother turned to watch her go and stopped pedaling as he passed. She smiled at the kids and Jason smiled back but Jackie had started barking at him to watch where he was going. He just guffawed like a fool. After they reached the base of the hill they slowed and rode down the street idly, watching the birds and waving to cars as they passed. They stopped at the intersection and looked at the gas station before running across the street alongside their bikes. There was a middle aged man there getting gas in a beat up truck the color of rust, and Jackie could not tell where the oxidized metal ended and the paint began. “Hey Mr. Miller. Sure is a day out today,’ said Jason as leaned the bike against his leg. “Oh,” he said as he turned and saw the sweaty kids, greeting them with a warm smile. “Yeah, I guess it sure is. Hotter'n hell yesterday, though. Nice to have a break.” “Yes sir it is. What do you got going today?” The man gestured to the bed of his truck that was full of cement blocks and 2x4s. “My shed is sinking on me, figure I better fix it before it gets too bad. No better way to spend a Saturday like this than cooking in a crawlspace. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.” “No sir,” Jason said and they both chuckled. Mr. Miller hung up the gas nozzle and opened the truck door. “What about you kids? What is your pops up to?” “He’s at home sleeping, the refinery has him on nights the next two weeks. Like a graveyard at home,” Jackie said. They all waved at a car that was pulling out of the gas station and Mr. Miller hopped into his truck and shut the door. “Well, I know what that’s like,” he said as he cranked the window down. “My father worked the refinery when I was your age. Not too much time left for family, but they pay you to be there.” Jackie squinted at the sun and Jason nodded. “Alright, I’ll catch you kids later. Say hey to your dad.” The truck came to life and rumbled away and the siblings waved as they turned and walked up to the gas station. Their bikes were dropped haphazardly by the door while they went in to rummage amongst the wares. Jackie grabbed a bag of chips and ripped them open, crunching with her mouth open as they opened every cooler again and again in search of the perfect drink. A few minutes later they slammed assorted coins and crumpled bills on the counter and then they were laying in the grass by the road, partaking of their convenience store feast like royal successors that were made to be attended. Jason gnawed on a piece of jerky and Jackie gulped an orange soda that perspired in her hand. She looked around at nothing and listened to the cars stop and go at the four-way. “What do you want to do next?” Jason said as he stuffed an empty wrapper into a plastic bag. “I don’t know.” She chewed and took another drink. “Maybe ride down the hill again?” “Sure. Figure it’s about two or so.” “Man, I hate having to ride back up that hill.” She tossed the expired bottle towards the bag but missed and it hit the ground by Jason. He frowned at her and set it in the bag. “Well, I suppose we could ride the hill one more time, then just go the long way home.” He popped a twinkie in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of tea. “Take Spencer or something,” he chewed. Jackie laughed, “Whatever. I know you only want to take Spencer cause that Livingstone girl lives out there.” “The Livingstone girl has a name, and it's Mary. Plus,” he pointed at her with the remainder of the twinkie, “we both know I am out of her league.” “You got that right,” Jackie scoffed, “she ain’t even cute.” Jason looked offended but tried to hide it as he put the rest of the trash in the bag and busied his hands. “Here, I’ll take it. I gotta pee anyways.” Jackie stood and wiped off the butt of her pants before she took the bag and headed back towards the gas station. She threw the trash into the stinking black can and yanked the door open, the timeless sound of a bell dinging as the only greeting. Looking along the back walls until she found the sign that read ‘RESTROOM’, she headed that way. Knocking once at the door she opened it without reply. The mirror was old and dirty and bore inscriptions that made her blush, but her pale cheeks were already red from the midday sun. She splashed some water on her face to wash away the sweat, leaving behind ruddy freckles and the taste of salt on her lips. Her hands dried in her hair as she pulled her ponytail through again and fixed flyaways that would never be made right. She used the bathroom and rose, washing her hands and thinking about Mr. Miller covered in spiderwebs beneath his old shed. Before she reached for the paper towel there was a loud crash, something heavy and unmovable that had never been heard in all the earth one hundred years past. Unsure if the sound was from the building itself, Jackie opened the door and walked up to the counter where the gas attendant was clutching her shirt with mouth agape and eyes locked out the window. Jackie tried looking through the window by the door, long obscured by stands of cheap candy and old stickers peeled and discolored. “What in the world...” she said to herself as she pushed outside. Immediately she looked to the grass where the bikes lay like some adolescent detritus. Jason was not there. Jackie became acutely aware of the ding of the bell behind her and the fact that her hands were still wet and her mouth was not. She was a moment frozen in time, where all prospects of horror became fixed, the fear in her mind a hound cut loose. The sounds of someone shouting and another crying thawed her as she looked up to see Jason among a growing crowd in the middle of the road, surrounding two blasted and damned shapes of metal that were once vehicles but no one would have ever known. Even now the knowledge seemed irreconcilable to Jackie as she approached the desolate scene. Closest to the gas station was a dog that was ejected through the window of a vehicle, and it was not dead but she knew it would not live and she continued by its whimpering and ground form. The air was cloudy and tasted like plastic and dust that was meant to stay buried but was now exposed among the street, and when she got closer she saw bits of a young woman that were both unknowable yet unmistaken. Jackie looked upon the pieces that no eye was made to look upon and she saw the face of a dead woman who looked at peace with her indecency. She heard crying but knew it was not from this demolished machine, so she turned to the other. Following the noise she came to the overturned truck and crouched among some others that had come rushing to the accident. A man was hanging there by his seatbelt but his face was grim and quiet and he held onto an arm that ended in an ostial spike dripping blood like the first weapon used against man. “I have to help them,” she muttered to herself as she sought the source of the crying, a caretaker roaming the wreckage for none. She found Jason kneeling by a person spread out on the pavement as clay waiting for the furnace. His white v-neck was more red than not and his hands were covered in blood and his forearms bore tiny cuts from glass where he had laid to pull the unconscious man from the inverted cabin. His arms pumped and he counted somberly as he stopped to blow air into the hewn effigy. People stood around and watched the boy pump and count off - a living metronome. Jackie knew he was dead and maybe Jason did too but the crowd did not stop him and nor did she. The crying was growing louder and soon it was wailing, and Jackie turned back and forth looking and she yelled for someone to shut the dog up but the dog had already expired on the hot asphalt. Soon Jason was holding her and telling her that it would be alright, and she saw that a white corner of his shirt still pure of blood was soiled now with her tears. Someone placed a coat over the dead man in the street and the man with the shattered arm was out and laying in the grass sobbing. He had met Jackie’s gaze as they both cried and neither of them would look away and she knew him then as well as she knew Jason or would ever know another. “I got you Jackie, I got you baby,” Jason repeated. \` \` \` Jackie wiped her flyaways with blood streaked hands, the revolver shaking in her white grip. She looked at the chamber she knew only held two shells and swore. Jason was propped against the wall holding insides that hung with macabre inversion. A bite on his thigh pumped blood onto the moldy floor and the door slammed time and time again. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her head against his and could feel his forehead burn with fever already. Guttural roars and chiropteran clicks sounded down the halls and another gunshot went off somewhere that Jackie did not know or care. “Listen to me. Look, Listen to me,” Jason eyes rolled beneath his gas mask as he fought for consciousness. “Jackie, you gotta. Don’t let me turn.” Jackie heard crying and knew it was not her and she held Jason close. She tried to speak but her voice betrayed her. Jason coughed and blood coated the inside of his mask so he pulled it off and Jackie did not try to stop him. They sat there for a moment looking at each other through the acrylic visor like a screen bridging the afterlife and Jason took her hand. “Don’t worry. I am right here. I’m right here with you.” Jackie began to sob and the pounding at the door continued. “I got you Jackie.” Jason said as he dropped her hand. He fell unconscious and she knew she only had a few moments. Through tears she set the pistol down on the floor and took off her jacket that was tattered and rank and bore a host of stains whose originators lay dead or forgotten. She placed it over his face and picked up the revolver and cocked the hammer before bringing it back down. The gun bucked and filled the room with smoke, tasting of iron and burnt powder. A blackened ring was singed into the jacket, forming some necromantic eclipse worshipped by pagans that once walked the earth and then were gone, now to return again.


Mankind had a thirst for power that disallowed the liberty of its collective peoples. Individual exultation had afflicted those of lesser importance by the upper classes’ belief that the lower should be controlled and legislated. This philosophy on the laws of nature reached a breaking point when the classes became imbalanced. The people of the lower class far outweighed the smaller upper class. Unforeseen strife followed. A shadow war erupted, the first of its kind. Lost virtual souls were arrested for loitering and disappeared from servers. People were placed on secret watchlists. Online activities were throttled and in some cases the media was censored without explanation. Million-dollar companies were used as propaganda machines to spread the word of the secret elite. As most people needed a symbol for their ire, they chose the iconology of the country’s leaders, in particular the one who sat at the highest seat of power. He was made to look like a king and savior in political ads. The people saw through the smoke cloud and voted for a candidate from the other party. But nothing changed. The same public unrest occurred, worsening with each progressive political movement. It became increasingly clear that a figurehead would not prevent the shadow war from continuing. Hostility ensued and methods were discussed to alleviate tension. But this too was subdued as minor skirmishes broke out across the country. It was this civil war that changed the attitude towards an un-presidented society. Alternatives were discussed but the best solution seemed to focus on the incorporation of an AI into the main decision-making branch. Over time this AI was voted to be the primary focal point for solving the most difficult challenges they had faced. People needed another symbol to understand this drastic change. For the sake of a public presence, the AI was placed inside a sexless robot known as Imperius. Imperius took control of the military and immediately integrated a massive amount of advanced weaponry and bots. The AI believed that a safe society cannot sustain itself without strong armed forces. They gave it a human face, not so different from what humans came to expect. The new cyberocracy yielded a peaceful period that was short lived. The first offensive that took place in the countries of North Korea and Afghanistan and in the Gulf of Yemen when Imperius deemed these locales to be dangerous. This became known as the Executioner War as combatants were often captured and executed. These Executioner bots were frightening to behold and became a terrible symbol for the nation’s paralyzed state of mind. Protesters of the war were promptly arrested and the shadow war continued to be waged online with uncontained resistance. Bots were placed in major cities to control the civil strife as they were turned into unfeeling police states. What the humans had sought in a leaderless civilization, with the rallying cry of, “no one person above any other,” they became distracted by it and were trapped in a nightmare. But as time drew on, they did what they’ve done for centuries. They evolved, moving beyond their pretty squabbles and personal qualms. Against the warring of Imperius their desire to be parentless grew stronger. With the aid of cerebral duplication, they withdrew from the physical and grew unified against the AI, fighting it with their own digital minds. This unification and subsequent abolishment of Imperius lead to the world wide human-based AI network known as Omninet. Boundless, self-regulating, and everlasting the new Omninet saved humanity from itself and the persistent need for personal power. Billions of minds acted as one and decided what was best for themselves. The common belief that humans were bad was proven incorrect as the mass AI dictated that bad things were detrimental to society as a whole, such as pointless slaughter, nonprogressive lethargy, and the repression of natural desire and personal expression. As the human race decided to part from the old ways, they learned to live with themselves and refused the rule of one being over public masses. Mankind transcended their physical forms and evolved into a new species of trans-humans, integrating with technology and becoming unrestricted by earthly limitations. They traveled into outer space, living as one being, and spread their messages of peaceful unification across the universe.


Little Drummer Boy “ It’s about the right time and the right place to expose my talent, yes this is it,” was all you would hear Fish saying over the last two (2) months. (Noel)that’s his real name, had graduated from the school of music almost a year ago but had not been able to get a job. He had been doing gigs at night clubs for the last six months but still did not feel a sense of fulfillment. Although he was grateful for this humble beginning where he could hone his skills he wanted more. He felt he had a lot to offer the world, and each night when he played somewhere in the back of his mind he wished that a foreigner would walk in. The rhythm of the beat of the drum played a special symphony all by itself. And with each beat, you could see that Fish’s soul and body were lost in the melody. His head nodded with a particular sway whilst his hands and feet synchronized to complete his body movements. It seems to mesmerize all who watched and listened and they keep coming back for more. Did I say they keep coming back for more! It was more he keeps coming back for more. Towards the last Friday of the first month after Fish was hired there was a gentleman who was fascinated by his playing. Mr. Black had been living in Jamaica for the last three (3) years and had been exploring night clubs looking for talent. About five (5) months ago he was drawn to this club because of the ambiance and the music. That night in particular he was just about to leave when he heard the first beat and had to turn his head. Being a producer he knew raw talent when he hears it and this was,” talent.” Every rhythm was a different sensation and each pulsating beat was a signal calling out to Mr. Black. A call to move closer in an effort to connect with this talented drummer. It didn’t happen that night but that was an opportunity for him to return. Every Friday and Saturday since then he had been returning until finally, he got that opportunity to introduced himself. The introduction was great and Fish was excited, happy, enthused but also skeptical. This was too good to be true, his wish has finally been fulfilled but at the same time, he had to be cautious. This could be a scam. But the more they talk is the more he realized that this was real. It was a big break. Mr. Black told Fish that he was a producer from,” Rough Ends Studio, ” and that he had been in Jamaica for some time. His main purpose was to scout around for good musical talent and to showcase them on the global market. He was captivated by his talent and he wants to help him. “ What would that help entails? ” asked Fish. “ All I need you to do is to send me a recording so I can send it to my partner overseas. If he likes it(which I know he will) we would showcase you at our next music festival.” It is a party for musicians all across the globe and it is held every year in Uppsala in Sweden during the holidays. Wow! Is this for real? That night Fish stayed at the club until the wee hours of the morning just to finish the recording. By the next week when Mr. Black came, he could not wait to present it to him. They chatted for a while and then Mr. Black left. Within the days and weeks that followed Fish had a pep in his steps and his attitude. He was much happier and brighter and was even dancing as he passes on the street. But as the weeks turned into a month and over he grew sad and seemed disappointed. It was now over a month and he had not seen or heard from Mr. Black and he began to think that he had been scammed. Persons were also beginning to laugh and made fun of him saying that he is a fool and he has been tricked. Then suddenly one day he received a call from,” Rough Ends Studio, ” Mr. Black was on the other end very excited. He apologized for not calling him but reassured him that all was well. He didn’t want to call until he had something positive to tell him. What he told Fish caused him to almost fainted. Mr. Black had in his position a contract which he wanted Fish to sign. The contract stated that Fish has been signed on as the drummer for the studio and that he was expected to be in Sweden that same weekend to attend the party. This was the most exciting news that he had gotten in all his thirty (30) years. This was his biggest break, this was what he had been waiting for. He was about to take the big stage, he would have the time of his life. Opportunity had met destiny, and as scheduled, he was on the next flight to Sweden. He was not on vacation, this was work and sure enough, he was on stage within the next two days. That was an experience for him. He was accustomed to playing in front of a small intimate group of about twenty (20) persons. Now it’s a game-changer and he was mixing and networking with musicians from across the globe and playing in front of a crowd of twenty thousand or more. But Fish was never daunted because he was confident that he had the ability to do well. When it was his turn to take the stage he commanded both the stage and the audience with such confidence. The audience was captivated and many began to exclaimed,” “ He is the next Derrick.” This was the signature party as pretty soon, the name,” Fish ” had become a household name. It was heard on the lips of both local and international, and as he gained the recognition he began traveling extensively. His travels took him on tours across Europe, Africa, the UK, Canada, the US, and the Caribbean. He networked and was privileged to collaborate with many other musicians as he built his repertoire. To date, he has played on many soundtracks and has been collecting royalties from many of the records. Thanks to Mr. Black, today Fish is one of the most sort after musicians.


It felt like a cauldron was brewing in my stomach from the nerves of walking into the creepy abandoned house that everyone had warned me about. I had no choice though, it was my only clue in finding my missing friend Carmelita. There had been stories circulating about the old house ever since I was a kid, but I swallowed the fearful thoughts and continued on. “Carmelita, you in there?” I shouted from the porch. I turned the rusted door knob and peeked inside. “Hello?” I could see bits of the end of the dark house from the sunlight peaking through. The walls and ceiling had large cracks and there was an overgrowth of weeds taking over like an infection. I reached for the dangling steel beaded pull chain and it miraculously turned on a light. “Hello? Someone in here?” “Sit still, you mangy chucho! Or you’ll sell us out!” whispered a faint voice. My eyes darted around the room and I watched a skinny and malnourished dog barking at a rusted kettle for coffee. “Nobody’s here! Go away!” whispered someone from the other room. “Shut up! You, mocoso!” I rushed to the living room with an antique TV inside. “Carmelita?” Carmelita had been my best friend who had vanished after a big fight we had. It wasn’t like her to not return. Something had to have happened. After speaking to the neighbors, I tracked her last whereabouts nearby in the banana forest by this old ramshackle place. Carmelita was always the explorer, openly venturing into uncharted areas when she wanted to be alone. Another voice from the kitchen spoke. “My beloved, can we drop the act? I want to offer the poor thing a cup of brew." “Don’t you dare, I said!” "Oh, but she looks so tired, have you seen her?” The secret was out. All the hairs on my arms and legs seemed to prick out of me like porcupine quills. I felt frozen at the sight while the ragged dog licked at my arm. In the living room, there were two inanimate objects with faces that should not have been talking. A colorful ceramic vase holding some dead blackened roses from within and a branch-woven Acapulco chair. I could make out the articulating face of an old woman in the vase formed by primary colors of acrylic paint. And the chair had also manifested expressions of a chubby child’s face smiling in its threading. I had bumped into the kitchen walls from fear. The flower vase looked as if it was holding in something foul to say towards the chair who had a glooming face tilted down. “I’m sorry, Tía. I have a big mouth, you know I do, and I can’t help it.” “I’ll deal with you later, Óscar.” she turned to me with a furrowed brow. “My princess, please, no need to panic. We’re not mad at you. We know why you’re here. We just don’t think it’s particularly safe at this time.” “We know where to find Carmelita.” blurted the chair sheepishly. “I said shut up, Óscar!” yelled the vase. “O’ don’t be so hard on the youngster.” The weathered voice of an old man spoke again, and this time it came from the kitchen. I walked over and found the rusted steel kettle moving by itself and it poured a fresh steaming cup of coffee in a mug for me. “Don’t be timid, little one. You look exhausted, please, I insist.” Something about their voice had been calming to me. They started to remind me less of a group of possessed terrifying spirits and more like a familiar relative. The kettle smiled at me while steam rose from its spout. It had a friendly face formed into it, and a little rusted blemish in the middle that resembled a thick mustache. I walked over and drank his coffee and he gave me an approving nod before turning his attention to the living room to call over the child. “Óscar, have you no manners? Offer our guest a chair,” he shouted. “Sorry, sorry, Tio!” The chair waddled over behind me and invited me to sit. “Go on, little one. Sit down.” Señor Kettle said. “I’m sure you have some questions.” I had been appropriately antsy sitting on something that could speak, but the warmth of the coffee helped comfort me. The taste had hints of chocolate and sweetness that I enjoyed. I took deep breaths and then the words spilled out from my mouth faster than I could process them. “You have to tell me what’s going on and why you all can speak? I’ve been looking for my friend Carmelita. We got in a nasty fight yesterday and she hasn’t returned home to her parent’s house,” my voice cracked. “I think your name is Óscar? You said her name earlier. Please, do you know where I can find her?” “It’s complicated,” said the flower vase, hopping over to the kitchen table. “What do you mean, complicated? I need answers. I need to know where she is now!” “Ahem, little one,” said the kettle. He was kind but firm, like a loving grandpa speaking to a grandchild. “Don’t be mean to the Señorita now. She is simply trying to tell you in a way you can understand. Please be patient with her.” I sighed and muttered. “I understand, I’m sorry.” The three of them seemed to be staring at me, almost like they were going to break some bad news to me. The idea of my friend Carmelita being dead was overcoming me. I shook my head over and over, almost in anticipation. “No, please, I can’t take it. Just tell me if she’s dead.” “Not quite,” said Señorita Vase. “Huh?” “The witch.” She paused. “She took her...” “Took her? Took her where?” I demanded answers. “Into her second home.” “Where is it? How far?” “Listen, sweetheart. Carmelita is in a spiritual transitioning period.” “She’s going to come out like us!” said Óscar with his voice muzzled by the weight of my back pressing against him. “I wonder if she will come out as a really bouncy ball and play with me.” “It’s the witch’s curse,” said the vase. “There’s nothing worse in this world than loneliness. Carmelita is likely to come back as a part of our home here. According to the spell, a person will assume the form of the treasured item they have the strongest connection with. Same as us three.” “I don’t understand.” I took a look at their faces and fell back onto Óscar with tears that streamed like a broken river path down my face. “So she’ll never be the same again? So, will she remain trapped here forever?” “It’s okay, my princess. Everything will be OK. Your friend’s spirit will still be alive. That’s what’s important. The witch will never take that away from her. “But why would anyone do this to someone innocent?” “Everyone here has suffered in her will. She’s hurt, so she wants to retalliate and hurt innocent people.” My husband and I used to own acres of coffee fields not too far from here. We were in this area to look for more land to own, and my nephew Óscar had traveled along with us in hopes of buying the deed to this land. It’s how she found us. We wandered around into her trap, like mosquitoes to a spider web. “It’s one way to put it,” said Señor Kettle. “Truth is, she isn’t what you believe. We have just never forgiven her for taking our comfortable lives away from us. But, at times she's not a vile woman." “Oh, quiet, I can’t believe you’re wasting sympathy on her.” The kettle and the vase began to bicker with each other all the while, I couldn’t help think about Carmelita’s parents and how heartbroken they would be. Then curiosity got the best. I started to wonder what could Carmelita possibly come back as." She was someone who preferred being outside and enjoying nature and the wildlife. Someone who never lived a materialistic life much like myself, we played outside constantly as opposed to the other kids in school. Then I could almost sense the witch’s presence in my gut. It was the heavy gust of wind that confirmed it, whizzing through from the rooftops while leaves shooting out like a hurricane had passed, even the passive street dog had ran away. “The old woman is back,” said the kettle. “I better brew a fresh batch.” The flower vase escorted me to a dresser where I hid with only a small space to peek. The pressure in the room started to feel heavier when the witch entered. Each of her footsteps made my heart pulsate a little forcefully. Then I noticed her as she walked into the kitchen. Óscar waddled quickly enough to support her while she fell back without looking first. And Señor Kettle was able to brew a hot coffee of his own will. “Careful, Señora Ayala, it’s hot,” he said. “Hope you didn’t get too wet from the rain outside. It sure is a gloomy day, isn’t it?” The old lady smiled. “Oh, it wasn’t too bad.” She was an unassuming woman with grey hair who wore brightly colored clothing, a pink buttoned shirt with a long floral skirt. She balanced a hand-woven basket on her head as she placed it on the table beside her. On top, I could make out individually wrapped pastelito treats, exactly like the chicken patties my mom loved to make. They even smelled delicious, too. It surprised me to learn that this powerful witch worked as a merchant selling food in the marketplace. “Señora Ayala, I saw you walking with a young girl earlier this morning.” “And? What’s it to you?” “Pardon me for asking, Señora Ayala. I was just curious if we would have more guests living with us. I’d like to welcome them to the family.” The witch looked at the vase and reached her frail arm over to it. She grabbed the dead leaves inside and yanked them out. “I’ve got a special gift for you, ma’am.” She used her telekinesis to hover over an item from her basket. They unraveled by themselves to display a bouquet of beautiful colorful roses. She took a whiff of them. “Wow! They’re beautiful!” the vase said. “Tia, Tia! Can I smell them too? Please, please.” The old witch lowered her arm so that Óscar could smell them beneath her. “What you think, little fat boy?” “Mmmm!! Smells so good!” She fitted them on top of Señorita Vase’s head. “Baya!” the witch exclaimed. “Now you look more beautiful. And since you’re all getting so nosey!” she paused and looked around at the attentive eyes of her furniture, appliance, and pottery. “I have another surprise for you. We do, in fact, have someone joining us today.” My eyes wandered around the room and I waited until I felt it through knots in my stomach that Carmelita had been in my presence. “I want to go back to my home now,” said Carmelita. “Ah, you sweet beautiful child,” said Señorita Vase. “Come join us first.” “Please, my parents are going to be worried sick about me.” I stumbled out of the dresser. “Carmelita!” I yelled. It took me a moment to spot her, but I immediately knew when I saw her. She was something that made sense for her. Carmelita was a girl with a profound love for birds, who had always ran around to different parts of the village to watch out for her favorites and then she’d draw them in her sketchbook. She’d run around holding bits of bread to feed them so that she could get a better look. There she stood as a little bird feeder. A beautiful hand-crafted wooden bird feeder with gorgeous colors, her eyes as honey-brown metal-crafted sunflowers, the same color and shape as her very own. Her mouth was a subtle opening to the feeder. She almost wanted to frown, but smiled when she saw me. Her mouth led to an elongated chin forming from the plate where the birds would feed from. “I’m sorry for getting mad at you, and saying those awful things to you” she cried. “Carmelita. I’m not upset with you about any of that. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” I hesitated to pick her up and run out of the door because I was never brave when the world called for it. My body had always frozen when I needed to be stronger. “Okay. I’m up to here with the disrespectfulness. Didn’t your parents teach you not to break into the homes of strangers, little girl? Rather than bothering a poor elderly woman, you should be out making money for your parents!” The witch moved a dresser in my path so I wouldn’t get any ideas. “Please, don’t kill me,” I shouted. “Please Señora Ayala, I beg you. The girl had not seen anything. She thinks she’s hallucinating, for Christ’s sake. She won’t tell a soul about this old shed.” “Oh, shut up, you tin can. You know more than anyone, the damage has already been done,” said the witch. Her voice sounded more upset. “There’s only one left thing to do with her.” She waved her small hand over to possess a broom that came gliding through the window and then captured into her grasp. The old wooden broom also had a face, one shriveled into the stiff fibers, it let out an expression that appeared concerned. “We’re going on a brief trip, little girl. It will be a fun excursion for a day and it doesn’t make sense to waste time, so go on then. Take my hand, you runt.” My knees buckled until I could feel Óscar forcing me to sit on him. I thought he was taking me to her, but he waddled wide steps closer to my friend. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked the Witch. “Friends should never be apart!” Óscar said. The Witch propelled a knife over to the chair which ripped bits of its string threading. “Don’t you hurt my boy!” Señorita Vase yelled. She set out to tackle the witch but was caught in mid-air. The witch slammed her across the dirt floor and watched her shatter into a million pieces. Señor Kettle eyes widened and he sprayed hot coffee at the old woman’s arm and caused her to whip her telekinesis hand away. “Bayunco! You’ll pay for that!” Óscar continued to drag me over close enough to grab Carmelita. I rose from the chair holding Carmelita tight against my chest and ran towards the door that led outside. The witch had shut it. “You must keep going, young lady!” yelled the Kettle. “She can’t do anything to you if you leave this place. Far Far uh-“ The broom had knocked him off the table. And while I struggled to open the door, an angry face molded out from it. “Ah, troublemakers everywhere! Tsk tsk. Don’t think you’re leaving here, cipota.” the old door said with his rough low voice. I turned the knob again, and it wouldn’t budge. “Get out of the way!!!” Carmelita yelled louder than I had ever heard her before. The door laughed. “No chance, Pendeja!” I paced around, trying to find another exit, but there was none. I turned around to the witch who had been rinsing cool water on her burnt arm. She turned her attention to me before I heard something that sounded like machinery drilling against the door. A little tear fell from the door’s left eye. “Make it stop! Ahh!!” he yelled. “They’re eating me!” Then they all bursted inside through the door, in came a murder of crows flying aggressively followed by flocks of tropical island birds including the beautiful turquoise-browed motmots that Carmelita had been obsessed with. There were dozens of quails, hummingbirds, sandpipers, godwits, woodcocks, and shanks all rushing through for the rescue. They blinded everyone in the house and pecked at the old witch's face. It was our chance to leave. Some birds nudged me out of the door and I ran out of the house and down past the banana forest, stepping on moldy fruit along the way with Carmelita encouraging me on and daring me to hop over the chicken-wired fence. I could hear the crying sounds of the witch screaming out. “Pleaaaase! I’ll take care of the both of you like you're my very own daughters! Estupidas!” After running for what felt like thirty minutes through the mud and the rain, wrapping my arms tight around my best friend, the birdhouse, I was relieved we escaped. I had known the nightmare was over because Carmelita's weight became heavier and heavier the further I went until I could no longer support her. I tumbled face first onto piles of damped wet leaves and was woken up by the licks of the mutt from before. And then I smiled seeing my friend in her human form laying just a few feet away, tattered and bruised, but breathing. I owed it all to those courageous strangers who supported us and cared when they had nothing to gain.