She woke up like every other day. Opened her eyes exactly at 6.15, got up and felt that raw taste in her mouth. Blood. Again. She sighed. Every time the same. She spat into a glass placed next to the bed for this purpose, then grabbed her phone, which was loading on the desk, spat again and fell asleep. 7.05. She woke up the second time and rose from the bed in slow motion as if by mechanical movements. Then picked up her clothes, counting: 1, 2, 3. 4, 5. Underwear, bra, socks. Stand up. Pants, shirt. She went to the bath, looked at her toothbrush, hair combs, customized hairpin, brushed her teeth, and washed down all of the blood-stained toothpaste. Back to the room. Powder, concealer, mascara, lipstick. And perfume. Lots of perfume to overshadow her own smell. She just hated her smell. It was strange. Just going through the day she would forget, but when she would return home and enter the room a big air gush smelling like rotten synthetics would hit her. 7.25. Just in time. She slides into the kitchen. One sandwich and half a cup of tea. Neither more nor less. Overeating - nausea. Not eating at all, no matter how y much she would want it - belching and then a bunch of questions following it. 7.30. Just like every morning, she walked out the door. 7.32. Like every morning she was seen by a neighbour walking a dog, and later the driver of the bus, that arrives at 7.36, saw her sitting in it. Someone else saw her get off. And next ... Next, we have nothing. She won't be at her college auditorium that morning. A couple of classmates will still scoff at the fact that she is probably late but will drop the question by the middle of the lecture, deciding that she is most likely to be ill. She won't be at lunch in the cafeteria, nor will she be on the bus heading home. She won't lie in her bed that night. Instead, her uncomfortably twisted body will lie on the cold ground in the dark. On the other hand, if I were to tell the story from my side... I saw you for the first time in the most bizarre circumstances you might imagine. Fully drunk, you were lying on a lawn next to our house. Your brown hair was tangled, eyes closed, and the head leaning sideways enough to understand that you are asleep. Dressed in a white shirt and high-heels, tie around your neck, all clothes and the major of your mouth covered in blood. Not waiting for any explanation I pulled you in and sat down on the couch. You looked like a full-fledged angel and somewhat jerked through dreams. In the light of the lamp, your eyelashes threw a long shadow on your red cheeks, and your breath was uneven. I cleaned up the blood as much as I could, somewhat trying to hold in nausea. I was so worried about this stranger. A stranger who probably made some very bad choices, who I may have made a mistake letting in. And still, I couldn't convince my mind to go to sleep. Nevertheless, I left you alone, just overlaid with the first blanket that I could found. In the morning you were no longer there where I left you. No "thank you" or "goodbye". Just a couch that still smelled like you. That smell lasted as long as my hopes to see you again. Oh, I was in pain for all these months. How I longed to see your checks blush again, how I couldn't bear to not know you. The Gods much have listened. Just when your traits in my memory were starting to disappear, I saw you again. In the cafe just outside the corner, my safe place, my dark, secret corner. And when you stepped in, my safe place shattered into thousands of pieces. You ran in as if shooting everyone with happiness from the guns in your eyes. I could swear that your smile expanded a little more when you saw me, so I had to let my eyes down. Smiling like an idiot was not on my to-do list today. I couldn't figure out in that twisted brain of mine, if or how you recognized me since you didn't see me that night. Or maybe ... I was never letting go of the idea that that night you woke up and went for a walk around my house. That you were in my room and you saw me sleeping, peacefully dreaming. My doubts were brushed away the very last second before you left the coffee shop; you saw me sleeping. Right before closing the door after you, you shimmered with your hair and winked at me. I thought that my heart will come out of the chest. I swore to myself, that I will get to know you. That evening I talked to Mr Bennet next door, who knew Miss Loveline across the street, who was a cousin of Dr Judy Bass who lived just above Miss Dacota Ling, who moved in house 11 a few months ago, right before me. Dacota. What a lovely name for a girl with such a flirtatious smile. How fitting for sure and how shocking that you lived right under my nose this whole time. I started showing my affection. Left flowers and notes by your mailbox. All titled “The neighbour”. I never thought I was being creepy, I never overstepped the line or anything. I was just trying to make friends, to become known to each other. Well, she must have talked to her neighbours as well since she started leaving gifts for me too. Strange ones, people might say. Over the span of a month, I’ve received exactly three blood-filled jars, a strand of hair smelling awfully like silicone laced with strong perfume and tones of decorations. Cute little figures and candle holders, the same perfume bottles, rugs and pictures. And then one night she moved away. Loudly, in a car with lights on the roof at three in the morning. I saw it through my window upstairs. How they put a bucket next to her, how she filled almost half of it in one bending, how the doctors quietly shook their heads as they drove off. Just as quickly as it appeared, my mystery was gone.


Warnings: Mental health, Panic attack, loss of a loved one. -------- He’s in his brother’s rooms, eyes puffy and aching, throat raw, hair and robes an utter mess, when he finds the trunk. He’d been sitting on the bed, mindlessly turning the jade pendant that usually hung from his belt with it’s finely carved replica of Storm Breaker, his brother’s sword. A sword, his sword, it’s all they have, where was his body, where- Then he’d fumbled and the precious item had bounced under the bed, landing before a trunk he’d never seen before. It’s made of dark wood that shines, with finely carved protective array’s woven with preservation array’s, tucked together so seamlessly that they look more like art than the defense they are. What makes this trunk so important to him, however, are the characters carved into the trunk’s lid. Ylyndar. Ylyndar, look-, Ylander, I’ve got you-, Ylyndar, catch- Now, he sat on the floor, the small trunk before him, wondering why his brother had a trunk with his name hidden under his bed. The arrays are still active and they pulsed as he trailed the tips of his fingers over the characters, following the recessed wintersweet flowers that framed his name. Wintersweet for you, and plumb blossoms for me- There was no obvious lock or latch, but it would not open at his prodding. “Young master?” Ylyndar startled, and whipped his head towards the servant who had called him. “Young master, your father is asking if you will join him for lunch.” Ylyndar, you’ve been studying to long, I’ve brought lunch- “No.” “Of course, young master.” As he returned his gaze to the box, that is when he spotted the one odd flower. Wintersweet for you- He felt the carved plumb blossom give as he traced a petal. “And plumb blossoms for big brother.” A few more nudges and the blossom twisted, with a quiet click and a pulse of energy, the trunk’s lid popped open. He wasn’t sure where the choked whine came from as he stared at the contents of the trunk. His eyes flickered around the box, he could see his hand moving but it was clumsy, there was an odd rushing sound in his ears. His vision was wrong, warping at the edges and his chest felt like someone had reached in and was squeezing his heart and lungs. It was strange really, he could swear he’d felt like this once before, a sunny day in the pond and an unfortunate slip... Ylyndar, Ylyndar wake up, little brother you need to wake up, brother, please, bre- “-ath, young master!” Ylyndar blinked as a harsh gasp tore at his throat. The face of his personal guard swam before his eyes, the side of his face beginning to turn an alarming shade of red. “That’s it, breathe with me young master,” Ylyndar’s hand was pressed against his chest, “can you feel that? Try to match me, alright? I have you, young master, I have you.” The fabric under his hand was soft, but sturdy and warm. He could feel the movements as the other’s chest expanded and contracted and yes, yes he can follow that. He’s not sure how long they sat there, how long he quietly talked to him, only that in the end he’s incredibly tired and the sun has moved a good deal. “...Syvis?” “Yes, young master?” “I’d like to go to my rooms now.” Syvis nodded, and helped his young master stand. “wait.” “Yes?” “The trunk, have it brought there too.” “Yes, young master.” The sun had shown brightly into the room, a faint breeze bringing with it the promising kiss of winter, and the sound of brush on paper. He’d been there for hours, surrounded by books and scrolls, engrossed in his research. When the door opened without a knock he ignored it. “What a welcome.” Ylyndar whirled, eyes wide as he took in the form of his brother, travel robes still dusty and worn as he stood in the doorway. “Ascalar!” He leaped from his seat, brush flying across the room, and Ascalar laughed and caught him. “That’s better!” Ascalar said as he held Ylyndar close. With a gasp, Ylyndar pulled back, “how did it go?” “hmm? How’d what go?” “Brother.” Ylyndar whined. “It went just fine,” Ascalar laughed, “and she’s looking forward to having such an amazing brother as mine too.” “Brother!” When Ylyndar opens his eyes, he’s greeted by nothing but the feel of phantom arms and echoes of a bright laugh. He’d looked at little else the past two days after Syvis had helped him to bed. He stared, unblinking, at the ceiling as he remembered that day, the last day they’d had. ‘You should get her a gift, the festival is starting tomorrow, you should go! Get her something exotic!’ ‘Eh? Will my little brother be coming?’ ‘No no, this little brother will stay here and help with your welcome home feast!’ He’d waved goodbye as his brother had left, a demand for some hard candy making him laugh. “Young master.” Ylyndar turned away from the voice and pulled his blanket up over his head. He ignored the sounds of yesterday’s still full tray being replaced with a new one, and buried his face into his pillow. He spends another day lost in the fog of memories, his father may have come at some point but he doesn’t remember beyond a large warm hand on his back and deep rumbling words. With the night comes a storm, and he’s jolted from his thoughts by a loud crash. He forces himself to sit up, and finds the source of the sound is a window, thrown open by the wind. He scowls at it, intent on huddling back under his blanket when a sharp wind sends loose papers flying. With a curse, he scrambles gracelessly from the bed and slams the window closed with unnecessary force. As Ylyndar turns to return to his bed, his eyes land on his brother’s trunk. The next thing he knows, he’s sitting in front of the trunk once more, a candle pulled close from nearby. He watches the flickering light dance across the wood, watches the lightning flash illuminate his name, and then the trunk is open. He opens the lid much slower this time, his eyes screwed shut until he feels the weight of it leave his hand and a dull thunk as the lid falls behind the trunk. One breath, two, three, four- The first thing his eyes land on, is a small paper lotus, wrinkled and imperfect. There were piles of colorful papers on the desk, as they sat side by side. The summer breeze ruffled their hair and tugged at the colorful papers playfully. With sure motions, Ascalar had begun, ‘first, fold it from top to bottom, now open and fold right to left. Good! Now we fold the corners in one at a time-’ -’aw, don’t be silly Ylyndar, it’s perfect! I love it.’ Ylyndar swallowed hard as he placed the faded lotus to the side. He reached in again, and pulled out a pressed flower, a bright crimson peony. Ascalar’s face was flushed as he looked at the flower in his hand. ‘It’s the first bloom from mother’s garden.’ Ylyndar said. ‘How...’ ‘You’ve been collecting them every year, I’m your twin brother, of course I noticed.’ A small red pinwheel. Ascalar’s grip on Ylyndar’s wrist was firm and tight enough it would leave a bruise, his other clutched a small red pinwheel to his chest. ‘Brother, are you alright!?’ Ylyndar slowly forced himself to look away from his own dangling feet and up at Ascalar, as their eyes met Ylyndar’s eyes blurred and his lips began to wobble. ‘Brother...’ Ascalar blinked before a determined look settled hard on his face, and he shifted to wrap his legs firmly around the tree branch under him. ‘Brother’s got you, Lynlyn, and he will not let you fall.’ Ylyndar let out a small distressed hiccup as Ascalar’s other hand latched onto his wrist and he heaved for all his little body could. Ylyndar let out a squeak at the motion and, as soon as he could reach, reached out with his free arm and latched onto Ascalar, who hurriedly settled him on the branch. ‘See, brother will never let Lynlyn fall.’ Ylyndar still cried, but he was able to hug his brother when he did. A hair piece, worn and now much too small, covered in whirls and swirls. ‘Let me do your hair, big brother!’ Ylyndar said with a wide smile. Ascalar laughed, ‘since it’s your birthday, sure.’ Ylyndar let out a little cheer as he hurried to settle behind Ascalar. He worked quickly and with skill then leapt up when he was finished to grab his brother’s mirror. ‘Oh!’ Ascalar gasped as he saw the new headpiece. ‘Surprise! Happy birthday!’ A purple ribbon that had held closed a painting. Ylyndar fidgeted as he watched his brother unroll the painted scroll, revealing a landscape of fog dusted mountains. ‘Did you paint this? It’s beautiful brother.’ Ylyndar beamed. Ylyndar’s hand paused as it brushed against a long wooden box, hidden at the bottom. Carefully, he wiggled it out of the trunk. The wood is dark, it’s only decoration a lighter wood inlay of wintersweet flowers. As he slid the box open, he was surprised to find it’s contents hidden by a folded sheet of paper. As he removed it, he let out a gasp. Nestled in the box is a long green tassel, with a blue jade pendant carved into the shape of three lilies. It was beautifully made, but Ylyndar did not recognize it. He looked back to the paper, and flipped it open with his thumb. Dear Ylyndar, I’m so very proud of you. You will be the best doctor this clan has ever seen. -Ascalar It was snowing, and Ylyndar was huddled close to Ascalar, who had looked down at him in honest confusion. ‘Why would I be mad that you want to be a doctor instead of a cultivator?’ Ylyndar shrugged. Ascalar snorted, ‘you’d be a great doctor! You’re already so smart, and it’s perfect isn’t it?’ Ylyndar peeked up at him, he was grinning. ‘ I’ll do enough fighting for both of us, yeah? And, whenever I get hurt, you can make me better, it’s perfect!’ Ylyndar blinked up at him a moment before he pulled back and gave Ascalar a firm punch in the shoulder. ‘Ow! What was that for!’ He asked as he rubbed his arm. ‘You’d do better not to get hurt in the first place! I don’t ever want you as a patient! Ever, you hear me?’ Ascalar stared at him a moment before an even bigger smile broke out over his face, ‘as young master Ylyndar commands.’ ‘ack, shut up!’ It wasn’t... ‘Brother-’ It wasn’t fair... ‘-Lynlyn-’ They weren’t... ‘-it’s perfect-’ They weren’t ever meant... ‘-Ylyndar-’ He was never meant to do this alone! They were supposed to be a team! They were supposed to stand side by side! A choking pressure pushed at his throat, he managed only a small gasp and then... He screamed, loud and long, until he was hunched over the trunk. With his next breath, he let out a sob, and then another, and another, until his entire frame was shaking. Distantly, he could hear shouting, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What was he supposed to do now? Big brother- What was he supposed to do without Ascalar? Brother please- How was he supposed to take over the clan alone? You can’t leave me- He couldn’t, he couldn’t do it, not alone, never alone- big brother, big brother I need you to come back, please, please I can’t, big brother please- There was a crash as his door exploded inwards, and a voice sent a spear through his heart. “Ylyndar!” Warm arms wrapped themselves around him and he was pulled against a familiar chest. Ylyndar was frozen as his name was repeated over and over, one hand pressed into his back, the other cradling his head. It couldn’t be... Slowly, his heart seized with disbelief, he raised his head from dirty, ragged robes. “Brother...?” The face was weary, but it still smiled, “big brother’s home.”


A good friend and colleague who knew I had several weeks of summer hiatus from teaching design at Claremont College, asked me if would volunteer to teach a summer school art class for high school freshmen. I agreed and this announcement was included in the Spring/Summer issue of the City Civic Arts Newsletter: ’Scapes: Land and Sea. Learn to draw the world around us. For young artists interested in taking their drawing to a higher level. Explore a variety of subjects, developing an understanding of form, composition, line, light/shadow, perspective, and color. Tuition: $20 + $15 supply fee due at first class. (Class size Limited to the first twelve.) Starts July 5 th: ─ 11:00 to 12:30 - City Library #205 Instructor: Ted Wilson By the middle of June, twelve students had signed up for the class. * * * * I parked my jeep and walked upstairs lugging a dozen totes for the student’s art supplies. I’d made sure that sketch paper, colored pencils, and other drawing materials were already in the locked classroom. Seven boys and five girls were waiting when I walked up. The boys wore cargo shorts and tees. Four of the girls wore cut-off jeans and stylish, scoop-necked tops and sandals - not too different from what kids wore in hot summers when I was their age, about 20 years ago. The fifth girl with noticeably long red hair stood apart from the group. She wore a plain, calf-length skirt brown leather shoes with laces, and a sleeveless white blouse that bared her thin, freckled arms. I said, “Hi. Are you here for Mr. Wilson’s drawing class?” They answered yes, practically in unison, and I said, “Wait here. I’ll see if I can find him.” I looked around and then said, “Oh. Here I am.” They responded with the groans my silly greeting deserved, while I unlocked the door, and let everyone in. There were twenty-five desks for just twelve students so I told them to take whichever one they wanted, first-come-first-served. They grouped in the center of the classroom, except for the russet-haired girl in the skirt and blouse who took a desk in the back row. While they got situated, I put the totes on my desk, unpacked the roll call sheet, and wrote my name on the whiteboard behind my desk. An email informed me that all the fees had been sent in, so I didn’t have to collect any money. I learned that an anonymous donor who called himself, or herself, Patron of the Arts had paid for Emma Garibaldi. The note went on to say she was “Socially Challenged” staying at Child Protective Services and awaiting assignment to a foster family. “Transportation is a problem, so there may be tardiness or missed classes.” The other students chatted and laughed with their friends as though it had been years, rather than just a couple of weeks since they’d seen each other. I looked over what would be my workspace for two days a week for the next six weeks. There were large second-story windows with plenty of north light and a view of the city park that surrounds the library. I spotted several kinds of trees that would serve as models for scenery backdrop or even subjects themselves. An expanse of sky was visible and, with any luck, we’d have a variety of summer clouds to talk about and replicate. At slightly past eleven O’clock, I got attention by tapping the desktop and announcing that it was time for roll call. I told the class my name was Ted Wilson, and that I taught classes at Claremont College of Art and Design. I mentioned that only twelve years earlier I had graduated from the high school they would soon be attending. Blank stares told me the class did not see this as the fascinating connection I’d hoped for. So with that nice try out of the way, I said. “OK, now for roll call. Please say “Here” when I call your name. I paused, and then said, “Would anyone like me to go over that one more time?” I smiled and they laughed. The kid who laughed the loudest had a visored cap on his shaggy head and Rawlings baseball mitt on his left hand. I looked toward him; “So, what’s your name?” He said, “I’m Eddie Gallagher, and nice goin’ on makin’ it through high school. I sure hope I do.” I chuckled at the way he said it, and the others all roared. I guessed they had been laughing at Eddie’s clowning around for most of their lives. His good humor told me I had made a connection and broken some barriers. The rest of them all answered here when they heard their name, and then we passed out the supplies and the tote bags. I saw Emma Garibaldi’s shoulders relax when she realized that there was one for her. So began that first day. All my students except Emma were from families that likely took education seriously - even a summer school class that had no academic credits and no real relevance to career planning. Young students are told that an art class may be useful in developing an appreciation for the finer things. Additionally, that drawing represents an intellectual challenge and an outlet for creative energy; just what every kid needs, or so they say. There are no bad reasons for learning, but I always hope for some student who possesses not just a desire for status or talent for illustration, but that mysterious capability to convey feeling, insight, and passion through art. Years ago, on a high school field trip to the DeYoung Museum, I got emotional and weepy-eyed in front of a painting titled Starry Night . Our teacher, Mrs. Havens, seeing my embarrassment said, “It’s OK, Ted. It’s not unusual to see tears in the presence of Van Gogh.” This only ensured that I had the tag Teary Ted hanging on me the rest of the semester, and beyond. All the same, I can still choke up seeing some beautiful leap of imagination or some exquisite surprise. It doesn’t happen often, but it did that summer session - and from a wonderfully unexpected source. I still don’t know how Emma got to our classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she was always waiting when I arrived, no matter how early. I asked Gayle Snow, one of the popular girls. She said she had not seen Emma arrive either, but she’d heard that her dad was in jail, and nobody knew where her mom was. She said, “I try to be friendly, but she acts like she’s in another world. She’s like autistic or something.” Gayle’s friend, Julia French said, “She’s weird and lives at Juvie, that’s all anyone knows”. I said, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s try to make this part of Emma’s life the good part, OK?” There was no answer in words but as the girls walked away, they nodded, telling me they understood and empathized - good kids, at heart. Emma kept her seat in the back row as though being ignored was something to hope for. When I asked to see her work, she leaned forward covering it with her forearms and elbows with her long, rusty-red hair falling across her shoulders. Treating her in any special way only seemed to emphasize her painful dissimilarity, so I limited my communication with her to a good morning smile. The summer went by quickly, and everyone got much better with pencils, chalk, and sketchpad. We had a lot of fun in the process, but the last day came at the right time. With just a couple of weeks of summer vacation left, my students were concentrating on the upcoming challenges of high school and the intrigues of adolescence; not so much on improving their ability to draw landscapes. The final exam was no exam at all. I wanted the last day to be fun. The kids filed in and watched me write the assignment on the whiteboard: Draw a picture titled: “ A Place I Love”. Following a suitable period of wisecracks and joking around, the students got serious and began thinking and drawing in earnest. We had the room until two O’clock, so I told them to take all the time they wanted. I walked around, watching the drawings develop. The ones doing seashores employed a method for realistic-looking back-lighted breakers and waves I’d taught early on. The rolling, grassy hills all had some version of the bending dirt road and lonely tree I‘d used for demonstration. The students had learned well, but they were drawing places they loved to draw, rather than places they loved. I had hoped to see what came from the heart, as well as from the head and the hand. Emma was absorbed in her work, using every item in her art supplies tote. What I knew of her life seemed so hard, with no rewards, no joys, and no family, or friends to counterbalance the hurts. I was dying to see what had come to mind that she was working on so diligently. Time was up and I walked around the room commenting. The drawing quality ranged from not bad to good, to damn good ─ all except for Emma’s ─ hers was sublime. She stood up, hesitated for just a moment, and then walked to the front of the class holding her 14X16 sketch paper masterpiece. With everyone quiet and watching, she held it out like a gift. It was neither a landscape nor a seascape. It was the interior of a room employing perfect lines and vanishing points. North light streamed in from large windows creating soft shadows and depth. Trees and clouds were visible through the windows, and students at desks, hunched over their work. At the front of the room, she had drawn a whiteboard showing the assignment I’d written almost two hours earlier; just a scrawl with “love” the only legible word. I’d planned to say something about the importance of art and artists in helping us understand our connections to our fellow humans, and to the world we share, but my teary eyes told my students all they needed to know. The End


“Mr. Hunter, are you prepared to present your assignment?” “Yes, Commander Gupta.” “Then proceed to the front of the room and begin.” Calhoun Hunter, Cal to most, had not imagined that life at the Naval Officers Training Academy would involve so much reading. He imagined parade drills and mock battles, followed by fanciful retellings of such deeds at dinner with his friends and the ladies of the town. History was never his forte, especially when the only acceptable sources were official battle records. Commander Gupta was famously strict, and even more famously well-read. It was rumored that he had an eidetic memory, and an amazing recall ability. The cadets that tried to run some unverified opinion past him ended up utterly humiliated in front of his peers. Cal had not been able to find a student that earned an outstanding mark from him. So with slightly trembling legs and a pounding heart Cal stood from his seat and walked toward the lectern. He pulled up his assignment on his holographic tablet. He set it down and raised his eyes in what he hoped was a confident manner. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and began to speak. “The Battle of Europa Planitia was the final battle in the War of Martian Independence. It was notable for being the first battle fought in land, air, and space. The Martian Militia forced the Imperial Navy to withdraw from Martian space, abandoning their land forces to face overwhelming enemy numbers...” “Mr. Hunter, I would remind you to refrain from letting your opinion corrupt your perspective.” “My apologies, Commander, but a force of 20,000 Martians against 1,400 Terrans seems overwhelming to me.” “Again, Mr. Hunter, your opinion is corrupting your perspective. Continue, please.” “Yes sir. Thank you, sir. The Martian Militia used small, highly maneuverable ships to harass and damage our battlecruisers. They focused their attacks on the engines, which resulted in the battlecruisers losing their ability to maintain their orbits. After losing three capital ships to such assaults, Admiral Fleming ordered the remaining fleet to fall back into a higher orbit. The position change allowed the battlecruisers greater mobility, but took them out of range of the planet. It was a grave tactical error.” “Mr. Hunter....” Cmdr Gupta’s tone was unmistakable, yet Cal was prepared for this criticism. “Commander, the Admiral moved his fleet right in the crosshairs of the Phoebus Guns. He lost seven warships in ten minutes. I would call that a grave tactical error.” “Mr. Hunter, that was not an error. An error would be underestimating the damage he was anticipating to receive from a known enemy. No one knew of those guns before that moment. The fleet was ambushed.” Commander Gupta’s face was growing red. It was an uncharacteristically emotional response from the typically stoic academic. “With all due respect, Commander, Naval Intelligence at the time suggested that the Martians had those guns placed there, and the Admiral saw those reports. Now, I will continue with my presentation....” “Mr. Hunter, step down.” That was a tone that allowed no resistance. As Cal walked back to his seat, he had a slight smile on his face. He *was* on the right side of history on that point. Admiral Fleming had all the intelligence the Navy could dig up. It was common knowledge that he failed and that he lost Mars. Only those who ignored history could refute it. Commander Gupta kept his voice level, but his eyes held thinly veiled fury. “Cadets, I had not planned to discuss Naval Intelligence and its use on the battlefield with you today. Nor for some weeks, in fact, but this blatant disregard for perspective demands it. Yes, Naval Intelligence warned Admiral Fleming of the Phoebus Guns. They had other warnings that day as well. Mr. Hunter mentioned that the Martians had mustered 20,000 ground forces. Naval Intelligence told Captain Osaka that there were no more than 2,000. “They also told Admiral Nyugen that the Martians had no space worthy ships. As Mr. Hunter expressed, they had enough to cripple three battlecruisers and force a withdrawal without losing a single ship. “15,000 crewmen lost their lives that day, while inflicting fewer than 1,000 casualties on the enemy. It was the worst defeat ever suffered in Terran space, and every officer in Naval Intelligence was reassigned because of it. Hubris defeated us.” Something about this seemed personal. More curious than fearful, Cal raised his hand to gain the attention of the speaker. “Yes, Mr. Hunter? Please tell me you have a relevant question.” “Yes sir. You seem to be an expert in this battle. None of that information is available from the battle records. How did you know about the intelligence failures?” A dark cloud seemed to settle over Commander Gupta’s features. His shoulders dropped slightly for a moment, then just as quickly, reset. Commander Gupta looked right at him with those piercing eyes and started to speak. “Because it was *my* failure. I was a young intelligence officer attached to Admiral Fleming’s staff. I saw the reports of the guns and *I said nothing*. A fellow officer briefly mentioned it and was ridiculed mercilessly. I could not bear such treatment, so I remained silent. I stood on the bridge of the *Resolute* and watched thousands of my brothers die in minutes.” Those fiery eyes started filling with tears as he relived the memory yet again. “I feared more for my career than for the lives of my crewmates. As the guns trained their barrels on us, the helmsmen were trying to keep control of the ship and steer her away from danger. I vowed that I would never allow my failure to be repeated. I have worked for nearly 50 years to instill in my cadets that one should never ignore nor ridicule any concern that any crewman raises, no matter their rank.” He pulled out his ceremonial knife and in one swift motion, sliced a clean line down his trousers, revealing an artificial limb. “This is the price I paid for my cowardice. I lost my leg as a perpetual reminder of the lives I lost. I gained *this* leg as a reminder of my new responsibility: you.” After he finished, there was a heavy silence in the room. As he surveyed the faces before him, he felt satisfied. The lesson he worked so hard to teach them, had finally settled in. He took a deep, slow breath, then released it. “Cadets, you are dismissed.


Dear Hollie,  You were fine that weekend, we played and walked and cuddled like every day. I told you I loved you like I did every single day and you looked at me the way you always did, with eyes that held enough love for a thousand lifetimes and I knew you were saying “I love you too Mama”. You slept between us like you did each night, snuggled up tightly between Mummy and Daddy. To think that night would be our last, I had no idea. Did you HollieBear? Did you know something wasn’t right? When I got up the next morning I knew something was off. I rang your Daddy, but he said you seemed fine when he left for work. You wouldn’t eat your breakfast, which immediately caused alarm, because you loved your food more than anything. So, I decided to keep an eye on you for the rest of the day, hoping it was just an upset tummy, nothing to worry about. Hours past and you still didn’t eat or drink anything. My sweet babygirl, I know now you must have been hurting but you still gave me all the cuddles and snuggles you could. You still looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes, those eyes that had loved me for nine years and would always love me. “I love you baby” I repeated as I sat and rubbed your head, pets were your weakness, I know you could never resist. Instead you would insist on more and more pets until my hand went numb, but I didn’t care. You are my baby and I wanted nothing more than to give you what you wanted. Daddy came home after 5pm, still you barked at the sound of his car and wagged your fluffy tail with excitement as he walked through the door. He knew something wasn’t right, you just weren’t yourself that day my love. Then you needed to go outside so he let you out and that was the moment things got bad. As soon as you stepped foot outside you were sick, blood was everywhere. In that moment of chaos, I realised how much of a good girl you were, you knew you would be sick but still waited until you were outdoors. That’s my HollieBear, always a good girl. The sight of the blood sent fear throughout my entire body, a million thoughts racing through my head, but I rang the vet and they wanted you right away. So, we gathered up some blankets and your favourite teddy bear; I remember as soon as we opened the front door you bounced about with excitement, you thought it was time for a walk. It made me happy to see you bounce about and I thought, everything will be okay. Into the car we went and drove to the vet. I sat in the back with you, rubbing your tummy and scratching your ears, I must have told you I loved you a thousand times on that journey. You gave me kisses and rested your head on my shoulder. Everything will be okay. But then you were sick again, all over me and the car, and you looked at me with such disappointment, but I didn’t care babygirl, I only wanted you to be okay. You didn’t need to feel bad, you couldn’t help it. I tried to reassure you “you’re still a good girl Hollie”, but I felt your unease. You lived to please and make me happy and I know you could sense my unhappiness then, but that was only because I was worried about you baby. We waited outside for the vet to arrive, Mummy and Daddy were both nervous, but you, you were just as playful as ever. Jumping and bouncing about, trying to make us happy; and you did. We forgot you weren’t well for a while. We forgot why we were at the vet. That was part of your magic, you made all the bad things melt away. The vet examined you and we told her everything you’d eaten the past few days, nothing out of the ordinary. She wanted to keep you overnight and get some tests and x-rays done. Of course, I didn’t want to leave you, I never wanted to leave you. You had been by my side since I was sixteen years old, you were always with me, but I knew it was for the best. So, I kissed and kissed and kissed your gorgeous face, I told you I loved you and that everything would be okay. I gave the vet your teddy bear so you wouldn’t be lonely and then I left. I’m sorry that I left you baby, I wish I had known that was the last time I would see your loving face. I’m sorry I left you Hollie. I’m sorry. I worried about you all night, I rang Granny and Grandad and told them what was going on, they passed the news on to everyone else - this family you were part of, each and every one of us adored you. We all wanted you to get better baby. The next morning, I received a call, the x-ray showed your bowel was twisted, you needed to have an operation. I remember constantly telling myself that everything would be okay, I hoped you could sense what I was feeling and that you weren’t afraid. Mummy and Daddy worried all afternoon until we got the call to say the surgery went well! Finally, some good news. You were still sleeping when they rang but they said things were looking good, but because your bowel had been twisted you were still at risk. Not out of the woods yet the vet said. He would ring me again that night and update me. We tried to distract ourselves that day, sending you happy and positive thoughts. Everything would be okay, it needed to be okay, you needed to be okay because I needed you. You were the one constant thing in my life, the past few years had been hard for me, I know you know that because you saved my life more than once. So, I knew you would come home to me. I just knew it. He rang that night and said you ate some dinner. Our hearts were so happy, we updated the family, and everyone seemed relieved. Still had a long way to go though he said. That night I will remember for the rest of my life. I just had a bad feeling and it kept me awake all night. Maybe it was because you weren’t lying there beside me, keeping me safe, or maybe I knew, deep down. You remember the lights in the house Hollie? They were sensor lights and would come on automatically if someone walked by. We kept them on all night, every night in case you needed to go downstairs for a drink. The last I looked at the time it was around 5.45am, then as I was lying there next to Daddy the light on the landing suddenly came on. Weird. That’s never happened before. I immediately woke up Daddy, so he could see for himself, I wasn’t scared exactly, I didn’t think it was an intruder or anything like that. I just forgot for a second you weren’t at home and thought it was you. I hoped it was you. Hoped you came home to me. 8am that morning, I got the call no one wants. You’d taken your forever sleep. I don’t remember much of what the vet said because I screamed, I screamed this inhumane scream, a scream you only make when your heart has literally shattered into pieces. I broke down on the floor and wailed “no, not my baby. Please. Not my babygirl”. I couldn’t breathe HollieBear, the air had been sucked out of my lungs, the panic set in and tears streamed endlessly down my face. I needed you, you were the only one who could keep me calm when bad things happened. But now you were gone. I don’t remember much else from that morning, just this horrible feeling that a part of me died with you and I would never get it back. I screamed and cried and screamed some more, Daddy was crying too. When we calmed down a bit we rang the vet and got the details on what had happened. He checked on you at 2am and everything was okay, you were sleeping, but he told me you had passed away sometime between 4am and 6am. I was so angry he didn’t ring me as soon as he found you because I wanted to see you, hold you. We decided to go and see you in a few hours, after clinic hours - so the place would be empty and quiet. Granny was with me then, she was just as inconsolable as I was, but she tried to be strong and hold back her heartbreak for me. She loved you just as much as I did, and her heart was just as broken, but she comforted me, the way you would normally do. I’ll be eternally grateful for that, you taught us all compassion babygirl. I knew that your life had only ever been filled with limitless love, but in those moments all I felt was shame and anger and sadness, for all the times I was too tired to walk you, too sad to play with you, all the times I lost my temper and shouted at you over stupid meaningless things. Please know babygirl, I didn’t know any better, please know I didn’t mean it. The past few years you were the only person in the entire world I could count on, the days when I considered leaving this earth forever you stopped me; just by looking at me with love in your eyes and a wagging tail you stopped me. How could I possibly live without you now? I still needed you. I wasn’t better yet, I needed you to help me more. When I would wake up at night with a panic attack you were there beside me, wide awake and reassuring me everything was okay. When I decided to leave the house for the first time in six months you were right there beside me, keeping me safe and my anxiety at bay. When I hadn’t showered or washed in weeks you didn’t care, you never judged me, you only loved me. When nothing else in the world could make me smile, you did baby. You always put a smile on my face, because how could I ever be truly depressed or suicidal when I had you, this gorgeous girl I didn’t deserve, loving me so unconditionally, never leaving my side. How could I live now, now that you were gone? Going to see you once last time was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You were lying on those cold, metal tables with blankets wrapped around you. Your pink bandana around your neck and your teddy bear under your chin. Oh, how I hated that moment my love. I fucking hated seeing you there. It seemed like you were sleeping, but I knew you weren’t. I ran to you and hugged you tighter than I ever had before. I told you I loved you, I hoped you heard me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you my sweet babygirl. I’m sorry you were alone. I should have been there for you, like you were there for me. It wasn’t like in those movies where everyone is gathered around and can say goodbye. I didn’t get to say goodbye! I left you all alone! There was no decision to be made, you were just taken from me. I was angry Hollie, for a long time after I was so so angry, especially at myself. I hated that I left you and never saw you again. I hated the fact you were probably scared and wondering where I was. But I was waiting for you baby, I really thought you were coming home. I know that you would have, if you could. I know you would have run a million miles to come home to me. I don’t blame you baby, so don’t feel bad, it was your time to go. I just wish I could have said goodbye and told you I loved you and that everything would be okay, because it is now HollieBear. You helped me overcome my issues more than any drug or therapist ever could. You were my Mary Poppins. You had done your job, you made me safe and loved me and helped me get better. You were my rock, for nine wonderful years, bit by bit you removed the darkness that had consumed me and brought light into my life. I’m going to University now in a few months, something I’d dreamt of doing for years, but I’m going now, finally, because you gave me the strength and courage I needed to finally achieve my dreams. You have a little brother now as well! His name is Finley, you would have loved him Holliebear! Oh, the things you could have taught him, the wisdom you could have gave him! He won’t stop eating the remote controls for the TV, he’s ate three already, I know if you were here you would have taught him how to be a good dog. But he’s learning, he gets better and bigger with each passing day. You honestly would have adored him. I guess that’s why I’m writing this letter baby, I wanted to tell you that I still live with the pain of losing you every single day, my heart may never be whole again, but you taught me how to love and how to never give up. So, I actually live life now, my mental health has gotten so much better baby, all because of you. You saved my life Hollie, I wish I could have saved yours. I will never forget the short time we had together, you will always be a part of me. And although my heart is still broken, I know it can be mended because you brought light into my life and that light will never go out again. HollieBear, I will love you until I take my forever sleep. Thank you for being the best good girl I ever could have asked for. Until we meet again, at the rainbow bridge. Love forever, Your Mama.


Excerpts from the journal of Ronald McFarthing. ~ May 13 th 2021 The mess was rather a lot more than I expected it to be. More so than any other party I’d been to, which had recently been quite a lot. Shelly did not appear too pleased about it all. She kept pacing the length of her long kitchen, running her hands through her hair and muttering about how she was never going to be able to clean it up. “I’ll help you.” I had told her. She had glared at me. Shelly has a wicked glare. She has these big, almond-shaped ocean eyes that at once appear so innocent and docile, only to quickly slit and pierce into you like the coldest ice. Her glare is all the more powerful because it is so rare. She enjoys parties, revells in them; she is the type of person to smile simply because the moment is good. But Shelly struck me with that glare then, and spat out, “obviously you’ll help. You made this mess.” That was rather hurtful, but she was panicked. It was not entirely my fault that the floor was soaked in spillages, but I understand that I didn’t help. How could I? I felt like a gazelle being swarmed by a herd of lions, there was too many people and too much noise and they were all getting so close and my chest started to constrict and everything became small and shallow and the world slowed and it was me or them and I lashed out and. Well. I grabbed a mop, trying my best to smile at Shelly. But her shaking head and wild eyes were fixed on the sticky mess on the floor. It mattered not. I got what I came for. ~ January 24 th 2021 Today is a good day. The sun is shining and I managed to fry my eggs this morning without setting off the smoke alarm. Agnes will be happy, she’s complained four times now. I’m planning on going on a walk to the river later today. I thought about bringing some bread to feed the ducks, but I think I recall reading somewhere that you shouldn’t feed the ducks? Which sounds odd to me. It’s one of my most prominent childhood memories, going down to the river with mum. She would sit relaxed on the bench with the novel her book club was reading that week, and I would sit at the river bed, gently gathering my host of duck minions with a steady supply of bread. I suppose we used to do that once a week, for a few years at least, especially after dad left. Now I’m told we shouldn’t feed the ducks. Rather makes me feel like a rebel child. I was taking risks without even realising it. It would be nice to be able to do that as an adult, but I suppose adulthood comes with the added benefit of knowing exactly what risks are involved. The added crutch. I wish I didn’t have that crutch. ~ February 2 nd 2021 Someone invited me to a party today. Jeff, from work, is having a bash for his 50 th and has asked me to come and bring crisps. I don’t know much of party etiquette, but I generally thought that the host provided the food. Plus, Jeff is old enough to afford to do so. Even so, I told him I would think about it, and I know you would tell me to go. You’ll probably tell me to go in our next session together, but really, I am only just getting the hang of this journal thing, I’m not sure forcing unnecessary social interactions will help anything. I already have enough stress at work, I do not need more outside of work as well. Caroline called me yesterday. First time I’ve heard from her in months. She sounded good, recently got a promotion to Junior Executive, whatever that means. It’s strange, after all this time I expected myself to miss her, but I don’t believe I do. Her presence always felt like a parasite in the brain: you know something is wrong, but you cannot quite pinpoint what. I still love her of course, I have to. But it is incredibly freeing to know that I don’t have to miss her. She’s gone, and there’s quiet once more. ~ February 20 th 2021 You were right, the party was not the end of the world. I’ll admit, however, that it felt as though it could be when I first got there. There were so many people, do parties usually have 60 people? It was a lot of breathing. Is that a normal thing to notice? I’m not sure. But that’s all I could see for the first half hour. A room of bodies pressed up against one another, the perspiration thick in the air, and chests heaving up and down and up and down and none of them were in time. It was so hot, unbearably hot, and there was just the press of wet air as it puffed from people’s mouths. After a while I started to withstand the pressure, even talking to a few people I knew. I was not quite sure when to leave though, that is not a skill I seem to have mastered. Most everyone else seemed to read these invisible signs, picking up on body language and hieroglyphics and whatever they used, and they knew it was their time to leave. I have no such skills in deciphering. I was the last person there, and since Jeff was passed out drunk on his couch, mumbling about the mess and how hellish his morning will be, I decided to help clean up a bit. That wasn’t right was it? I shouldn’t have done that. You’re going to scold me at our next session, I know. I should have left. Yet, if I’m completely honest with you, and myself since this is a journal after all, I thoroughly enjoyed the peace of it. There’s something blissfully therapeutic in cleaning, in starting small and methodically going through the motions until the entire picture is clear again. The picture has been foggy for so long. I want to wipe it clean. ~ March 5 th 2021 Today began a good day. I managed to go back to the Little Market. It was exactly as I remember it, down to the environmentalists handing out flyers and yelling about the rising sea levels. Judith still has her baked potato stall, even after all these years. Mum would drag me there on weekends, insist on ordering two classics - a baked potato with baked beans and cheese - and we would meander through the rest of the stalls. Mum knew everyone. How did she always know everyone? We didn’t have a lot of money, but mum used to spend what little we did have at those stalls. I even still have my collection of snow globes with me now. Mum favoured the dreamcatcher stall, but I adored the snow globes. It’s a world encased in a sphere, and if I try hard enough, I still can imagine that there is life within them, just waiting to break out. Or perhaps they enjoy their bubble of safety, maybe breaking them free is the wrong thing to do. I’m thinking too much into this. The Little Market is the same, but I’m not. One look at Judith and I fled. I couldn’t even make it to the snow globe stall. But I managed to get there. Caroline called again. I did not pick up. But I cannot stop thinking about it. It felt wrong to talk to her today, she never liked the Little Market. I might message her tomorrow. Although, I’ve been thinking it might be best to not speak with her. She plagues my thoughts enough as it is, talking to her would be overkill. Right? ~ March 17 th 2021 Penelope Yang hosted a modest party tonight. There’s really no other way to describe it than that. It was simple, with 17 guests, platters of food spread out on her marble countertop, and smooth jazz playing throughout. I was getting rather worried that there wouldn’t be much to clean by the end of it, when lo and behold, her reckless husband came home drunk and tripped into the wine rack. Bottles went flying, splashing streams of scarlet across the pristine white floors. It was quite the spectacle. Poor Penelope, she was beside herself, and while she was dragging her husband to bed and the rest of the guests made hasty departures, I readied myself with a mop and got to work. She was so grateful, which I’ve grown to expect now. You were sceptical but I assure you, I really have gotten better at reading people. I’m now not sure that I was ever bad, more than I did not care enough to notice certain signs. But people tend to be quite grateful when you help them clean up a mess in their homes. It reminds them that people care about them, and helps them forget that there was a low point in their role as a host. They were successful, and I am able to clean. It’s nearly 4am now, and I can’t seem to sleep. I haven’t felt this excited in a while. Months. Before, the world seemed to come to me in the way of a far-off ship, flaring with a life I would never be able to swim to. Now, I can simply lie back upon the waves, controlling the one thing I can: the motion of myself. Perhaps I’ll float to the ship one day, perhaps not. I’ll let the waves decide. ~ March 25 th 2021 Today was a bad day. Caroline came to visit me. She looked awful. Her blonde hair was tied up in a tight bun, her make-up subtle and sharp, and she wore a form-fitting navy pantsuit. She just showed up, without warning, demanding to speak with me. “You haven’t been responding to my messages!” She yelled, hysterical. “I’ve been busy.” I had calmly told her. She seemed highly unsure, which I suppose I cannot entirely blame her for, so I told her about all the parties I’ve been going to. It seemed to perk her up, which irked me endlessly. Why must I have to go to parties in order to be okay? When did socializing become a necessity for mental stability? I decided not to tell her about the cleaning afterwards. I doubt she would approve or understand. She forced her leech-like presence on me the whole day, hauling me out to a relentless dinner at this snooty restaurant. She would not stop pestering me for details of my life, as if she is entitled to any of them. “Ronald, I’ve been worried about you.” She would repeat. “You can’t disappear.” “People disappear, Caroline.” I told her. She had flinched at that, and I remember finding it weirdly exhilarating. That I could make her flinch, that after everything I could still affect her. I thought we were beyond that. “Just...let me know you’re alive once in a while. Okay? I’m sorry I haven’t been here, that I wasn’t there. But I want to help. Call me if you need anything.” I agreed. If only to get her off my case. I know you think I should talk openly with her, that I should tell her how I feel. But how do you tell someone you don’t care about them when you’re tied to them forever? It’s not good practise. I had asked if she was going to stay, but even she couldn’t handle that much time together. She left later soon after. ~ April 2 nd 2021 There’s a new girl at my work, Shelly. She’s rather pretty in a chaotic sense, and she’s a young, excitable worker. But where Shelly really shines is in her ability to host a party. At first, I did not care to speak with her, or interact at all, but then she declared to the crew that she was hosting a “ soiree” at her apartment that weekend, and that we were all invited. I haven’t mentioned her yet because I was not sure what to make of her. But where she is faulted in being a chatty, imposing sort of person, she makes up for in her sheer hopelessness at keeping a party in order. The poor girl decided it was BYOB! Oh, it was a travesty. There was crumbs all over the place, drinks spilt, even a bit of vomit caught the edge of the couch. I tested something tonight, as well. I have been wondering for a while, and hypothesised myself, whether it would feel just as good to make a mess as it is to clean. It was midway through the party, people were either wasted or dancing, and I picked up a can of beer and carefully poured it onto the floor. I’ll admit it felt akin to riding a motorcycle with no helmet, exhilarating. I started cleaning at that spot, as if covering up a secret made for only myself. Shelly did not notice. No, she was only grateful to me for helping her wipe away the mess. They are always grateful. ~ April 14 th 2021 It’s been a year. Caroline called, as she would. She asked if I needed anything, if I was going to be okay alone. I assured her that I was not alone, even told her of a party I was going to later that week. She doesn’t understand, and I don’t try to make her. I called the helpline again, but they had no new information. How can a person just disappear? How can they have no leads? I went back to the train station, as if I could find something that I hadn’t seen that day. As if anything would be the same a year on. But there’s no trace of mum. I got home and needed to fix something. It felt like I was spinning wildly, as though the world had tipped off its axis and I was in freefall. I grabbed the bat from under the stairs and went to work. The house was in shreds and tatters by the time I was done. It’s been a year since mum disappeared, since she was supposed to meet Caroline, since Caroline bailed on her to see dad, as she always always has. My house is a mess right now. I’m currently sat in the wreckage with this sick kind of excitement. The snow globes lay shattered at my feet. I wonder how much I can destroy until it becomes impossible to clean. I want to find out. ~ April 30 th 2021 Shelly had a party and did not invite me. I’m not sure what I did, I’ve been nothing but a gracious guest; being out of everyone’s way until the party ends and I help clean up. I am practically a free cleaning service. I even tend to keep to corners of the room, watching for messes, ensuring to keep from disturbing anyone from having a good time. But Shelly did not invite me. It does not make sense. Perhaps I should ask her, question her motives. But I do not want to seem desperate, it is only a party, right? All I want to do is help with the cleaning. I could even offer to come at the end, just to clean. No, that would not do. I’ve come to realise that there is a euphoric high that comes with both making the mess and cleaning it. It is pure control. Unfettered and yet leashed to myself. I’ll do that tonight instead. I bought various staining sprays recently. I’m going to see if there’s anything that I cannot clean. ~ May 2 nd 2021 I cut myself making the mess today. Caroline had called. There was a new lead on mum’s case. She called to tell me that it went nowhere. They always go nowhere. The blood was hard to get out of the white sheets. But the hydrogen peroxide took care of it. ~ May 12 th 2021 Shelly finally invited me to a party tomorrow. I was beginning to become rather worried. She seemed hesitant to invite me. Apparently, I made her uneasy, but I assured her I meant no harm, I just found a weird joy in cleaning. She’s told me to bring a cake, it’s Stuart’s birthday after all. I shall bake the cake today. ~ May 13 th 2021 Continued... The blood was thicker than what I practised with. But I tried not to trouble myself with that. It mopped up easily enough. Shelly was beside herself. Really, it was not such a big deal. The majority of the guests had left. It was only three of them left but they came at me so fast and aggressive and I think one of them tried to pry the knife from my hand. I lashed out. It was foolish, I know, but people make mistakes. Shelly asked why I brought the knife, which I found odd. She requested I bring the cake, why wouldn’t I bring something to cut it with? The trouble came when one of the bodies stirred in the crimson mess. Henry, I think? It was hard to tell. He made a gargled noise and Shelly made a high-pitched squeaking one and I understood enough to know that I couldn’t wipe away this mess. I admitted defeat. I’m sorry. Calling the one person I knew owed me, the one I knew would come at last, I turned to my sister. “Caroline? I made a mess, and I can’t clean it up.” Then, because I had nothing left to lose, “I need your help.” At last, she came.


Just wrote this and wanted to share with someone. So here you go. Based on a true story... "Look at that head of hair! You look better!" I exclaimed gleefully. The man had been suffering from lung cancer. Stage IV, it didn't look good, but he kept fighting. It had been years since his diagnosis. The treatments appeared to have worked. His hair was growing back. "And you look worse, older even." A wry smile flashed across the man's face. "Sit, sit. Honey, could you grab us some tea?" "Of course dear," the man's wife headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I'll let you two catch up." She smiled. She looked happier than I'd seen her in years. "It's so good to see you." I said. "It's good to see you too, son." The man said. Everything was right with the world. It seemed like the dark times brought on by the diagnosis were past. The family could finally move past it all. We had so much catching up to do, it felt like we talked for hours. And then, just like that, things changed in an instant. I saw the man's hair go white and fall out right before my eyes. "What? What's happening?" I asked. His wife brought our tea from the kitchen. "Well, his hair is falling out. Part of the treatment. It can be rough." Her face looked more worried by the second. "I'll call the nurse." I couldn't stop staring at the man. Here I was just joking about how well everything was going and suddenly I had this great despair wash over me. All I felt was hopelessness. "But you looked better, what's happening?" "I'm dying." "But that can't be! I just saw you, full head of hair, everything fine! I'm having trouble comprehending this!" I started to raise my voice. The man lifted a hand as if to calm me. "You saw what you wanted to see, but that is not the way of things." "What is the way of things then? I thought you were getting better? I thought the treatment was working? That is why I came, you know I don't do well around death." "And how would I know that?" The man asked. "But... but, you're getting better! Things are going to be normal again!" "Maybe, maybe not, but will this ever go away?" He asked, knowing full well the answer to his question. He moved toward the window overlooking the balcony and looked down toward the street below. His hands were animated. "These people... These people don't know. They'll never know." "Know what?" So unsure of what might be said that I was almost afraid of the answer. "What I see." He answered. "All that." He gestured towards the window as a bus rolled down the street below. "The bus dies in the same way we all do. We are the same. Parts break one by one, one piece at a time until you just can't fix her no more. Sometimes it goes all at once, but ultimately all that is left is silence; Is where it's been; who it's taken; what it's done. Some of it worthwile, but not enough. Never enough." He stared out the window contemplatively. "That's sad," I said, trying to put his words into a box which I could understand. "No it isn't." He snapped back. "Everything has a history. Everything has its place. Everything has its end... And almost always, things manage to live on past those ends. That's not sad, it's beautiful! The things I see... Like I said, these people will never know. That includes you. Not until the time is right, but by then it is already too late." I wanted to ask, "Too late for what?" But he had already started in, "Too late to truly live. Too late to actually appreciate what you have. Too late to break free from the shackles binding you every day. Too late to realize the beauty that I see. But... hold on." He gazed out the window. "It's so beautiful. They'll never know. And how can they? ...I didn't." He smiled at me. "I do now." "Dad?" I called to him, and suddenly I was awake.


Sammie Harris moved from her home in Georgia to her new home in Cary, North Carolina, due to a multitude of reasons she would rather forget. Moves often meant that she would have to attend a new school, which is why Sammie found herself attending Cary High School for her senior year. Being the new girl in school was nothing new for her, so she didn't even try to make any friends. To Sammie, the move was only temporary. She thought there was no sense in making friends if she wouldn't even attend the school for a full year. Three months into the school year, Sammie started to lose all hope of a nice life and couldn't take it anymore. She broke down into tears in the locker room and slid down her locker once the second late bell rang. Everyone was in his or her first period class at that point...well, almost everyone. Austin Vincent, the school's apparent most popular guy because of his features and kindness, happened to forget something in his locker. When he went down to get it, he heard the faint sound of someone crying. Austin I grabbed a pass and left the room, headed to my locker. As I walked down the stairs to the locker room, I whistled a tune and absentmindedly hit the pass against my leg. For whatever reason, my brain kept thinking Popeye the Sailor Man! over and over . Just as I got halfway through the locker room, I heard a sound. I stopped in my tracks and listened, confused. The sound came again a second later, and I recognized it as a sob. Another sob echoed throughout the room, sounding like it was just around the corner from where I stood. I quietly rounded the corner and spotted a girl scrunched up against a locker, her knees brought up to her head, her arms hiding her face. Her shoulders lifted as she took in a deep breath and nodded, then wiped away her tears and stared up at the ceiling. Transfixed, I tiptoed closer and took a glance at her face. She was beautiful. Her reddish orange hair was like my favorite cinnamon candy, styled in waves that rested on her shoulders as it cascaded down her back. Some of it was tucked behind her ears, a pencil holding the right strands in place. Her eyes were pale blue, much like a sky that is unsure if it wants to release rain or not, and her lips were sparkly and light red. Without warning, she looked in my direction, her expression that of someone who was extremely tired. Her eyes that were once a pale blue turned a stormy gray as she held my gaze. Well this is awkward, I thought to myself. I smiled, then walked over to her and stopped right in front of her feet. An inch closer and our feet would touch. She didn't say anything, just held my gaze. Her neck was tilted so that she could look up at me, which must've been uncomfortable, so I decided to kneel down and sit beside her. Silence passed over us, neither of us seeming to want to break it. Fudge it, I thought. I turned to her and met her gaze once more. With a smile I said, "Hey! I'm Austin. Welcome to our school." I didn't want to seem like I was all up in her business, so I decided not to ask her why she was crying, yet. I could tell that she was trying to regain her composure when she tried to smile back at me and failed. She cleared her throat and replied with a quiet, "Nice to meet you. I'm Sammie." My smile widened as I realized I knew who she was. I nodded excitedly and told her my thoughts. Her face contorted into a confused look and her posture changed slightly, like she was slightly freaked out. She's so adorable! Wait... what? She scooted over a little and looked down, probably in attempt to be subtle, but I caught it. My face fell. She must be scared of me, I thought. I thought what I said over, and then realized how weird it may have sounded. "I-I mean I know your name already because you're in some of my classes." I've always noticed you, I wanted to say. I just never spoke to you. She nodded and the silence returned. Not wanting to seem like a creep, I tried to refrain from staring at her, but it was honestly a struggle because she was just so beautiful, but for both of our sakes, I managed. Who knows how long later, Sammie turned to me and let out a sigh. She sat up straight and let her head fall against the locker. Without looking at me, she asked, "You probably want to know why I was crying don't you?" I gaped and turned to face her. Her question caught me off guard and truthfully, I wasn’t so sure if I should answer honestly. Of course, I wanted to know why she was crying, but I also didn't want to pry. "You don't have to deny it. I know you want to know. Why not just admit it?" I looked over at her in an attempt to make eye contact to see if she was joking, but she was facing forward. I ran a hand through my hair and responded with a sheepish, "I didn't want to pry but... yes. I do want to know." She just nodded her head and started off with her story. "I am not happy with my life--at all. I have zero hope left for doing anything with my life." My eyes widened as I processed her stunning information. I opened my mouth to speak, but she quickly added, "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself or anything. I'm just not happy." I could swear that she muttered, "But it definitely would make life easier if I did", but I decided to pretend like I didn't hear her. She shifted and dropped her legs so that they were sprawled out straight in front of her. "First off, my older sister died because some drunken idiot hit her with his car. She was the closest thing I had to family and she had so much to live for, but her life was taken away faster than a blink. My mom and dad divorced when I was like two years old and my dad got custody, so I barely know my mother. She moves around way too much for me to keep up. It seriously sucks, especially since my older brother lives with her. Well, with my grandma, but he lived with my mother at first. My dad is a bum. He is good for nothing. The only reason I have anything going for me in life is because someone else takes care of his money and I worked multiple jobs in the summer since I was 10. I have a lot saved up, but I'm hoping to only use it as pocket cash and get a full scholarship for college." It was a lot to take in, and how bluntly she explained everything was terrifying. I wanted to intervene and say something, but for some reason, I felt the need to stay quiet and let her speak. She sighed and brought her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. "I only stay with him because if I run away I can be taken back to him since I am not yet 18 years old. Although, the police probably wouldn't bother trying to look for me since I am 17 and my birthday is in five months." She turned and looked at me. "I'm just trying to wait until I'm 18. I want to finish school and get the flip out of here." I had been listening intently, but in this moment, I could feel my eyebrows rise. "Flip?" She made a face at me and muttered, "Yes, flip. I don't curse. Saying fudge is overrated so I say flip." I laughed and smiled at her with a toothy grin. She just rolled her eyes and continued. "My dad is a hopeless alcoholic and my step mom is a disgusting bimbo who uses him for sex and money. She has no motherly instinct whatsoever, so I think it's good that she has never had kids. If they had one together, I would lose my mind. And my dad is always putting me down, making me feel insignificant. Plus, we're always moving around because of his job." She shook her head as tears of what I could only assume to be frustration fell down her face in rivulets. "How the hell am I supposed to make myself significant if we move faster than I can even think of doing anything significant?" she cried in exasperation. Her hands lifted and she angrily wiped at her eyes to remove her tears. "He tries to hit me, but he's an uncoordinated drunk so he never actually touches me. That doesn't stop him from trying most of the time though." My eyes widened in surprise at the way she was explaining things. She was saying things so nonchalantly, as if a father trying to abuse his daughter was a normal thing for her. I suppose it is, I thought sadly. "Then there's this hell," she said, motioning around her. "School. A place where I can escape my dad and stepmother, only to be bored out of my mind by schoolwork and irritated by people that look at me like I'm an alien." I opened my mouth to say something, but she gave me a pointed look that clearly screamed 'shut the heck up.' "School, the place where people pull you into false relationships and friendships because too many people have raging hormones. Like seriously, hormones are freaking raging here!" This earned her a chuckle from me. She glanced at me and shot me a small smile, the first genuine one I had ever seen her make. It was so nice to see. I almost wished I had a camera to capture the moment. A beat passed. She stood up and wiped dust off of the seat of her pants and held out her hands to help me up. I placed my hands in hers and she yanked me up. I was not expecting that strength from her, and my face must've shown my surprise because she rolled her eyes at me as she picked up her backpack and swung it over her shoulder. She started walking away and yelled over her shoulder, "I gotta go to class and I'm sure you do too. Thanks for listening." With that, she threw up a peace sign and ran to her class, leaving no room for me to speak. ~~ We began to hang out more after that day, mainly because I hunted her down and started to greet her in the hallways and sit with her at lunch. I even went as far as to follow her to the library whenever she skipped lunch or had work to do. Of course, she never told me anything more about her family or her past, but I respected that. Sammie wanted to let her past go, clear her mind of it, even if only temporarily. I understood that. People have various ways of achieving temporary highs and keeping things out of their minds temporarily. We were seen together almost all the time at school. People started to notice Sammie, which freaked her out a little, but she couldn't get me to leave her alone, so she eventually stopped trying and gave in to what I like to call my “irresistible” charm. She just liked to call me annoying, but I never minded. Now she was seen as the cool, calm and collected, hilarious girl who hung out with me. Eventually, she became best known for her humor and silliness. She wasn't just the girl who hung out with me all the time, but the girl with her own personality that people liked. It was really amazing to see her feel more comfortable and happy in school, especially since it meant I got to see her smile more. January rolled around, and so did her eighteenth birthday. She told me that it was the happiest day of her life, which made me happy that I went through so much to plan it. I had thrown her a small party at my house and took her to the movies to see Dirty Grandpa. I had even bought her a huge easel set with paints, considering how she was quite the artist. I suggested that it be kept at my house, one because I didn't want anyone at her house to mess with it and secondly because I wanted an excuse for her to come over more often. Four months after her birthday, we graduated. After graduation, I went home from school and celebrated with my family, but my mind was elsewhere. Of course, it was on Sammie. I wanted to celebrate with her. After my mother stopped bombarding me with kisses and my family let me loose, I ran to my room and called Sammie, but the automated voice told me that her number was disconnected. That's weird, I thought to myself. Maybe I called the wrong number. I tried again four times, but each time I got the same result. I was so desperate to reach her, especially because I had begun to get scared for her. I was so scared in fact that, despite her warnings to never call her house, I called her house. No one answered. My fear grew. I hadn't seen her since she got her diploma, which was a few hours ago. I quickly changed my clothes (I hadn't been able to get out of my graduation outfit because my mother insisted on taking fifty thousand pictures) and started to leave my room and head over to her house, when I bumped into her easel. The protective cover fell off and revealed a painting of the two of us laughing while sitting on the roof of my house. I smiled. The picture was taken on her birthday. I had taken the picture with my camera and it was by far my favorite one of us together. Somehow, the picture was the only one that I really felt captured her at her happiest moment and I at mine. I stared at the painting, mesmerized by her skills. Sam hadn't told me what college she was going to, but I knew she got a full scholarship to study fine arts at multiple colleges, and I could definitely see why. The painting looked like it had taken a lot of time and effort and I loved every bit of it. It was amazing how much Sammie could accomplish. I lifted the painting to see if she drew anything new, but I was surprised to see a note. I had given her a key to my house so she could slip in whenever she felt the need to, so that explained why there was a note, but she would've had no time to do it unless she wrote it sometime earlier today. With a shrug, I began reading the note: Austin- I'm leaving. In fact, you're probably reading this while I'm on my way out of here. Thank you so much for being kind to me that day in September. I will never forget it. You're the reason I feel like I can keep moving on with my life. I never thought I would amount to anything, but you showed me that I could do whatever I wanted. I never thought I could do anything with my art, but I got a full scholarship! Isn't that crazy? Thank you so much for everything. Really, I do appreciate it. I'm going to miss you a lot. Hell, I miss you even as I write this note while you sleep just inches away from me on your bed. You were also the first person to show me what love felt like, so thank you. I know we never dated or anything and I have no idea if you feel the same way, but I decided I should tell you anyway. I'm sorry for not personally saying goodbye to you, but I... I just couldn't do it. It'd be too hard. Just know that I really do love and appreciate you. I hope you understand. Maybe we'll meet again later on in life. Maybe I'll really amount to something like you said and you can prove me wrong. Keep following your dream of being a famous guitarist with your band, I'm sure you guys will be even more popular than you are now and go down as one of the best boy bands in history. With love and joy, -Your best friend (and hopefully first love) Sammie. By the time Austin finished reading the note, he was full on sobbing. Because nothing hurt more than losing his best friend, the girl he had fallen in love with his senior year of high school. Some would even call it love at first sight.


Mark Reinhold was jolted from sleep when the house alarm went off. Shooting to his feet from the sofa, where he had been banished after his fight with his wife, Nancy, he looked around the living room confused. He didn’t recognize anything: not the coffee table, the TV on the wall, not even the sofa where he was spending the night. Where am I, his sleep-fogged mind wondered? “Mark!” Nancy yelled over the incessant beeping alarm. He blinked and everything came into focus. He was not at home, he remembered now. Nancy had rented them a house from an online site called R&R (Rest and Relax) for a secluded weekend getaway to try and work on their marriage. Just the two of them. No kids. No distractions. It was Nancy’s idea. Mark just agreed to avoid another fight. “Mark?” Nancy said from the second floor of their rental home. “What’s going on?” Stepping away from the sofa, Mark’s foot caught in the throw blanket he used to cover with, and he nearly fell into the coffee table but retained his balance before he cracked his skull wide open. Nancy probably wouldn’t even care. “Can you shut that thing off!” Nancy shouted. “Mark!” The beeping seemed to be getting louder the longer it was going off. “I’m getting it!” God forbid you’d walk down the steps and punch in the code yourself. I have to do everything! The tile floor in the kitchen was cold on Mark’s bare feet, and he wished he would have slipped on his flipflops before heading to turn off the alarm. He glanced at the rear door as he passed to make sure it was locked. It was. “Mark!” “I’m coming!” Beside the front door, Mark reached for the keypad to punch in the code for the alarm but stopped. What was the code? It started with a one, right? Mr. Hendershot, the home’s owner, had met them earlier that day to pass along the keys and to give a tour of the house and property. After the tour, Hendershot told them the alarm code. But for the life of him, Mark couldn’t remember what it was at the moment. “Well? What are you waiting for?” “Do you remember the code?” Mark turned and looked up the steps where Nancy stood in her nightgown, her strawberry blonde hair a tangled mess, eyes puffy from being woken from sleep. “Jesus.” Nancy rolled her eyes condescendingly, something she always did when he displeased her one way or another. “One-one-three-four.” He punched in 1-1-3-4 into the alarm’s keypad. The beeping instantly stopped, and the house fell into a heavy silence. “What set it off?” Nancy asked. “Don’t know.” Mark looked through the front doors wavey glass window to see if he could spot anything or anyone who might’ve triggered the alarm. But all he could see was blackness, except for the small circles of light on the ground from the walkway lanterns. The woods surrounding the house were so dense even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the thick canopy of green leaves. “Could’ve been an animal.” “Is the front door locked?” “Yes.” “Go make sure nothing got in somewhere else.” Mark hung his head. All he wanted to do was return to the sofa and go back to sleep. He was exhausted from the four and half-hour drive from Pittsburgh to the house in the Poconos, bringing their luggage in, and then making them dinner - which he did while Nancy sat on her butt sipping wine, eating bites of cheese, and texting. Who was she texting? One of her friends? Jean or Megan? No. She never looked like a giddy schoolgirl when texting either of them. Someone else? A male friend perhaps? “What are you waiting for? Now, Mark!” “I’m going.” He turned but was stopped in his tracks by what he saw. What in the... In the foyer, was a small table with a guestbook on top. Mr. Hendershot had asked them to sign it before they left. The book was open. “Nancy?” “What?” she snapped; the throngs of their earlier argument still prevalent in her tone. “Did you close the guestbook after you signed our names in it?” “I believe so.” “You believe so?” he looked up the steps at her. “You either did or you didn’t, which is it?” “You know I did.” “No. I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.” “I...” Nancy’s eyes dance with uncertainty. “What does it matter?” “Because if you didn’t leave the guestbook open. And I didn’t touch it...” Mark looked to his wife at the top of the steps. He watched her face go from annoyed to confused to mortified in a blink of an eye. Gathering her long nightgown up in her right hand, Nancy started down the steps and stood next to him in the foyer. Mark looked back to the guestbook. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it open?” She nodded. “There’s something written in it. You see it?” Mark asked. Slowly, Nancy inched closer to the table, like she was afraid something might leap out at her. A message had indeed been scrolled across the entire right page of the guestbook in large black letters. Nancy sucks in an audible breath and Mark swallows - his throat made a grinding sound it was suddenly so dry - reading the message. YOU’RE GOING TO DIE TONIGHT! “Where’s your cellphone?” Mark asked, feeling his throat tighten. “Upstairs. Beside the bed.” “Go get it. Call the police. I’m going to check the garage to make sure no one got in.” Mark started down the hallway while Nancy bolted up the stairs, her footfalls on the wooden steps sounded like thunderclaps. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Mark moved to the door leading to the garage. He pulled it open, slowly, and peered into the blackness. Can’t see anything. His fingers fumbled up the wall for the light switch. Thoughts of something lurking in the dark, reaching out and taking hold of his wrist, wiggled into his mind uneasily. Stay calm. Finally, his fingers found the switch. The overhead lights blinked on, and the garage filled with the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. But the garage is empty. The doors are down and secured. No one was getting into the house through there. Is this some kind of joke? “Mark!” Nancy screamed from upstairs. Something about her scream caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. “Yeah?” He heard her feet pounding on the steps again, coming back down. Then, a quiet stillness enveloped the air around him as if Nancy had suddenly vanished. “Nancy...Nancy?” Not getting a reply, Mark started back to the hallway, worried why she didn’t respond. He found her standing in the foyer; her eyes are wide with terror, and all the color had drained from her face, making her look like a corpse. “What is it?” Without saying a word, Nancy raised her right hand and pointed her index finger at something he cannot see. Not understanding what she’s pointing at, Mark started to her, and followed her outstretched finger back to... The guestbook. This time, Mark sucked in the audible breath and his hand involuntarily shot to his open mouth, covering it. Another message was written in the guestbook, right under the one they had found earlier. YOU HAVEN’T CHECKED THE BASEMENT. “Call the police. Right now,” Mark said, his voice breaking. “My cell...it’s...gone,” Nancy replied. He shuddered. The tips of his fingers and toes began to buzz uncomfortably. What’s going on here? “Gone? What do you mean it’s gone?” “It’s not on the nightstand where I left it.” “Maybe you dropped it beside the bed. Go look again.” “I didn’t drop it.” “It has to be up there.” “It’s not.” “It has to be. You just didn’t look! Typical.” “I looked, damnit! It’s not there. If you want to look, be my guest. But I’m telling you it’s gone.” He slowly turned to face her. If Nancy was lying to him about her missing cellphone, it didn’t show on her face. In fact, what Mark saw was a woman scared out of her mind. Unless... He thought back to Nancy texting earlier that evening. Was she in contact with someone who had followed them up there? “Are you doing this?” he asked. “What?” “This.” Mark pointed to the guestbook. “There’s no one in this house. All the doors are locked. So that could only mean someone in this house could have written the messages, and I know it wasn’t me.” “You think I wrote those?” Nancy asked, pointing at herself. “Just answer the question.” “This is crazy.” She walked past him. “Where’s your phone? I’ll use it to call the police.” “What’s in the basement?” Mark asked, following her into the kitchen. She surveyed the kitchen for Mark’s cellphone. When she didn’t find it on the counter or table, she moved into the living room and started to look there. “What’s in the basement?” Mark repeated, watching her stuff her hands between the seats of the couch cushions. She looked like a treasure hunter searching franticly for coins in the sand, hoping when she brings them up, she’ll have the booty. “What’s in the goddamn basement, Nancy!” Mark shouted. “I don’t know!” Nancy hollered back. She cupped her hand over her mouth and tilted her head into her chest, something she always did when Mark pushed her too far during one of their many arguments. For a moment, Mark felt the need to apologize. And he knew he should. It was stupid of him to think that his wife of ten years, the mother of his children (two boys 8 and 10), would do something this maniacal. They had problems in their marriage, Mark didn’t deny this, but nothing that warrented her wanting to harm him. “I left my phone on the coffee table,” Mark finally says, his voice calmer. “It’s not there.” “Maybe it fell -“ “It didn’t.” Nancy sounded defeated. But Mark knew she was right, and he hates that she is. Someone had snuck into the house, scribbled in the guestbook, and took their phones while they were asleep or distracted. There was no way for them to reach anyone and the house didn’t have a landline. “Where are the car keys?” “In my purse. Upstairs. On the dresser.” “I’m going to go get them.” “Maybe I should go with you?” Mark thought about it. It made sense to stay together, especially if someone was in the house trying to harm them. But Mark was concerned about being able to get out of the house. To make sure that happened, they needed to have a clear path of escape and the front door was their best option. “Stand by the front door and wait for me while I go upstairs and get the keys.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want anything to slow us down getting to the car. You stay there and watch the door until I get back.” Moving together as a couple, the first time they actually worked in tandem in several years, Mark realizes, they started down the hallway. At the front door, Mark flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open a crack; he felt the warm summer air on his skin and heard the crickets and cicadas singing their nighttime music. “I’ll be right back.” Nancy eyes glistened with tears, but she bravely agreed to hold the line. Mark thought about embracing her. Giving her a reassuring kiss. Or whispering in her ear that everything was going to be alright, just like he had done many times in the past after losing his temper during one of their fights and blew up like a stick of TNT, leaving her a sobbing mess in the wake of his emotional destruction. It’s alright. It’s okay, he would croon in her ear. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But you shouldn’t have pressed my buttons either. At the top of the stairwell, Mark looked back down at his wife. She looks as scared as a lamb being led to the slaughter, he thought. It was a look Mark was familiar with, one he had put on Nancy’s face many times in ten years of marriage. He didn’t want to be that guy , but she made him into that guy from years of whining and complaining, not to mention all the ball-busting, man-hating garbage she puked up day in and day out. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror at himself, he didn’t even see Mark Reinhold anymore, but a rundown old man hanging on to his sanity and marriage by a thread. Turning away, Mark hurried down the hall and into the bedroom. “Nancy?” “Yeah?” “Just checking on you, babe.” He found Nancy’s purse sitting on the dresser like she said it would be. Pulling it open, Mark found the car keys inside the small front pocket of the purse, where Nancy always kept them. “Nancy?” Silence. “Nancy?” More silence. With purse in hand, Mark hurried back to the stairs. “Nancy why didn’t-“ His words caught in his throat when he saw Nancy wasn’t by the front door, where he left her only moments ago. “Nancy?” Hurrying down the stairs into the foyer with the purse tucked under his right arm, Mark’s eyes are drawn back to the guestbook. An icy hand clasped around his heart and squeezed, freezing him in place; eyes locked onto the guestbook. Another message had been left. YOU STILL HAVEN’T CHECKED THE BASEMENT! What was in the basement? And why in god’s name... He forced the frightening message from his mind. All Mark wanted to do was get out of there. He hurried back into the kitchen, hoping to find Nancy waiting for him. He was going to give her a piece of his mind for abandoning her post by the front door. But what he found instead caused a yelp to escape his mouth. The door to the basement was open; a waiting black hole leading down into the earth. And then it hits Mark like a lightning strike what happened. Nancy’s in the basement! Whoever was doing this, wanted them to go down there. But why? What’s in the basement? And why did Nancy think it was a good idea to go down there on her own? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe someone took her down there. Swallowing his fear, Mark stepped into the basement’s threshold and looked down into the abyss. He can feel himself shaking with fear. The first five steps are visible, but the rest are hidden in the murkiness. A foul smell - a mixture of moldy bread and rotten eggs - emanates from the blackness, gagging him. “Nancy!” he called out. “Nancy, can you hear me?” He knows a brave, loyal husband would rush down to save his wife from imminent danger. But Mark’s not that kind of husband. You have the keys to the car. Just leave and never look back. He’s sure the police will have questions about why he fled. Why he didn’t try and save his wife. But he’ll tell them the truth: someone broke into the house while they were asleep, took their cellphones and kidnaped his wife. You can take the guestbook as proof that you had nothing to do with it. He wondered what life would be like without Nancy’s constant yipping. Peace and quiet for once? He was almost giddy with the idea of being this close to regaining his freedom. The door to the garage suddenly burst open. A gurgling scream erupted from Mark’s throat as a figure charged from the blackness at him. He tried to get his hands up to protect himself. But he’s too late and he’s shoved backwards, towards that waiting dark hole leading into the basement. Falling through the threshold of the basement, Mark tried to grab hold of the doorframe, but his hand missed, and gravity took hold of him. He came down hard on his back, the wooden steps punching into his spine at the base of his neck. He hears something crack in his ears that reminds him of a tree branch snapping and a flash of intense pain sets every nerve ending in his body ablaze. He rolled the rest of the way down the steps and slammed into the basement wall at the bottom, bounced off, and came to rest on his back, bathed in a square of light from the open door above. Dazed, disoriented, and severely injured, Mark’s eyes lulled back to the top of the basement stairs. Someone’s standing there. “Oh, Mark, you fell down the steps of a strange house.” Nancy? “You...did...all of this?” She’s beaming with delight. And for the first time in years, Mark saw her smiling. Truely smiling. “Did what? I was asleep in bed and didn’t find you until morning.” “Please...you must...help me,” Mark choked out. He didn’t know specifically what was broken - something in his neck - but it left him unable to move, unable to pull a full breath. Somewhere internally, he knew if he didn’t get medical attention immediately he would die. “Nancy...please...” “I brought us here for the sake of our marriage,” she says, her voice cold as ice. “Consider this our divorce you abusive bastard.” Nancy took hold of the door... “W-wait-” ...and slammed it shut.