Alisha stood looking back at the mirror, her hands on her hips while the bride's mother tried not to stick pins in her. The long pale blue bridesmaid dress was not designed for her, but last night’s phone call changed that. She boarded the flight to witness the marriage of her lifelong school friend and then came the phone call in the taxi. One of the bridesmaids had fallen ill and couldn’t make the wedding. Luckily for the bride, I was slightly thinner than the maid the dress was designed for. She stood still watching the gown slowly being drawn in one pin at a time. I haven’t been a bridesmaid before. “What should I be doing at this wedding?” “Support the bride and help out as needed,” the mother's voice muffled by a mouth full of pins. “Lucky for you most of it is done. Best talk to the other three other bridesmaids.” A couple more pins, “Done, you can take it off now.” The mother unzipped the back of the dress and left the room. She is leaving me to get out of this pin minefield myself. Sucking in her stomach she eased the shoulder straps down her arms. Each move was slow and planned as she stepped out of the dress. Made it. She took a deep breath. Slipping back into her casual clothes was a lot easier. “Done.” The mother returned picking up the dress, “You better freshen up from your flight. The rehearsal dinner is in two hours.” *** The taxi arrived at the hall; Alisha straightened her skirt; her heart was pounding. I have to talk to the bridesmaids before the dinner starts. She scurried up the footpath pausing to let the caterers carry in a crate of desserts. Oh, chocolate cheesecake. Stop thinking of your stomach, dinner is coming. Where are the bridesmaids? Hurrying up the stairs, her heel caught the lip in the doorway. She threw out her hands as her face rapidly approached the floor. A dull thud resonated in the timber floorboards. Crap. Very elegant Alisha . Her eyes darted around the room to see if anyone saw her entrance. A set of black polished shoes stepped in from the side. Panning upwards over his black slacks and jacket, a groomsman held out his hand. “Need help getting up?” Back on her feet; her eyes briefly connected with his as she pulled her hand away. “Thank you.” She dusted off her dress as she stepped back. He held out his hand once more. “Hi, I’m Michael.” “Alisha.” She paused. Don’t let his looks be a distraction, find the bridesmaids. With a quick handshake and nod, she glanced over her shoulder. Found them. The bridal party were all in a huddle at the head table. Pale blue flowers blended with white roses sat on every table. White candles wrapped in blue ribbon stood above the glitter and numerous layers of cutlery. “Ally.” Sandra, the bride cheered with open arms. “What’s happening?” “Just waiting for everyone. I see you have already met Michael.” Her eyes scanned the room, pausing at Michael standing at the door welcoming the guests. “You saw that?” “It was quite an entrance. Hope you don’t plan on doing that tomorrow.” I bloody hope I don’t do it either. “I didn’t plan it today.” “You will be sitting with Michael at the end of the table.” “With him?” “You are both here alone.” One of the bridesmaids leaned towards Alisha and whispered, “Don’t get any ideas. He is engaged.” Ideas? I only just met him and that was from the floor. Why isn’t his fiancé here? *** The music started as the last guest sat down. Alisha’s feet nervously tapped under the table as she panned the room. I don’t know anyone here but Sandra. Everyone is staring at us, bring out the food and distract them. “Smile,” Michael blocked her view as he filled her wine glass. He moved along the bridal table filling each glass. His pleasant manner and warm smile eased her nerves briefly. It didn’t take long for her to empty her glass. Michael returned to the table with a new bottle of wine. He reached for the ice bucket when he looked at her empty glass, “Do you need a refill?” “I can do it.” “Let me.” The glass was full before she could reach across the table. Alisha quietly ate her roast chicken. Sitting near a gentleman like Michael and knowing he was engaged left her not knowing what to say. The three-course dinner ran smoothly. A mix of speeches, alcohol and fine dining. Some of the guests could handle the partying better than others. They are going to have a headache at the wedding tomorrow. Michael turned in his chair, “Alisha, what do you do for a job?” “Sales assistant for a fashion warehouse.” His eyes ran up her body, “That explains why you look so good.” What? Is he hitting on me? My entrance earlier didn’t put him off. Keep it together, nod and smile. “What do you do?” “I’m an accountant at my brother's office,” he leaned closer, “Where are you from?” Well, isn’t he chatty? “Brisbane.” “Cool, I’m just down the road at the Gold Coast.” “If the family is from Brisbane, why have the wedding in Sydney?” “The honeymoon cruise leaves from here in two days,” he topped up his glass, “And it’s something different.” The MC called the bride and groom to the dance floor. Alisha shuffled in her seat as she sculled the last of her wine. Oh crap, dancing. “Can you dance?” Michael asked. “Not really. This is my first wedding.” “This is my second brother's wedding. Just follow me,” he stood up, holding out his hand. Face to face on the dance floor, she held his hand. He slid his palm to the middle of her back drawing her body against his. She placed her hand on his shoulder as they swayed to the music. Trying to dance was one thing, avoiding everyone else on the dance floor was another problem. His warm cheek against hers, “Relax, enjoy yourself,” his smooth voice increased her pulse. Relax. She rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and took a long slow breath. The bridal waltz was replaced with upbeat rock music. Michael grabbed Alisha’s hand, spinning her around and back into his arms. The wine deadened her fears as she started to enjoy the evening. One tune faded as the next one started, she leaned towards him, “I need a break.” Back at the table, the glass of cold water was refreshing. Her eyes followed him across the dance floor as he spun the bride's mother around. So much energy. How old is he? He must work out, his biceps certainly felt like it. “He is taken,” the same bridesmaid from before passed behind her. Who is she? The fiancé’s security patrol. Keep the women off my man. Glancing back at the bridesmaid, Alisha went back to observing the crowd. She looked at her phone, ten o’clock . I’m going to need some coffee if I have to stay awake much longer. But before she could get up the MC declared the night was over and thanked everyone for attending. This night ended earlier than I expected. I suppose the wedding is tomorrow morning. Don’t want the bridal party hungover. Everyone was cleaning up when Michael approached Alisa, “How was your night?” “Good, but I missed out on my coffee.” He glanced around the room as he stocked the plates, “We can grab a coffee after this if you want.” He is certainly friendly. What if his fiancé found out? “I don’t know if that is a good idea.” “It’s just coffee, I don’t bite.” “OK, just coffee.” “Meet you at the café in the next block in half an hour,” he returned a quick smile as he carried the plates away. *** The back streets were quiet, the occasional couple would come and go. Alisha sat at a corner table her eyes running over the menu. Sydney was warm for a spring night. A tall figure came off the street, in the light Michael looked casual in denim shorts and an evening shirt. His face was as cheery as he was on the dance floor. “Have you ordered?” He asked picking up the menu. “No, I was waiting for you. You have changed.” “I wasn’t wearing a suit out here. You didn’t change, still looking good.” Slow down there, mate. It’s just coffee. “I got rid of my heels.” Settling back after placing their order, Michael asked, “So what part of Brisbane are you from?” Taking a deep breath, “Why didn’t your fiancé come with you?” He straightened his back, “Oh, that. I don’t have one, I’m single.” “But--” “Tracey told you I was engaged?” “Yeah.” “She has been hitting on me continuously ever since I got off the plane last week.” He leaned over the table with a smile, “I told her I was engaged to get her off my back.” That explains the snarls. “Well, I got snapped at for looking at you.” “Look all you like.” His smile was beaming. “I was worried you were getting too friendly for someone who was taken.” Her eyes connected with his warm brown eyes, “We probably should keep your secret tomorrow. Don’t want any catfights at the reception.” “Don’t worry about her. I had fun tonight.” He reached out putting his hand on hers, “If tomorrow is as enjoyable as today, I will be happy.” “I hope I don’t face-plant the floor like I did today.’’ “I’ll be beside you to catch you.” Her chest tightened at the thought of falling into his arms. The waiter placing their order on the table drew her attention. Taking a sip, the smell of fresh coffee was invigorating. “Do you have a dress for tomorrow?” He asked pouring another packet of sugar into his cup. “Sandra’s mother is altering it tonight. How are we getting to the church tomorrow.” “Your limo is picking you up at eight.” “You know a lot about this,” she spread the jam on her scone. “I have been helping my bother with the planning all week.” *** Sculling her second cup of coffee of the morning; Alisha checked her makeup, replacing the lipstick she left on the cup. A pale blue ribbon was woven through her long blonde hair and tied at the back with a bow. Any loose strands of hair were firmly stuck in place with hairspray. Standing in front of the mirror as the makeup artist did a final check. A knot grew in her chest . Calm down, I’m just a bridesmaid. How am I going to cope if I’m ever the bride? “The cars are here,” someone yelled from the living room. Grabbing her flowers as she walked out the door. The limo was luxurious, with a white leather interior and flowers. A bridesmaid handed out glasses of champagne. Should I be drinking before the event? She paused before taking the glass. “It will settle your nerves.” The church came into view and then disappeared behind them as they went around the block. The congregation mustn’t be ready. Swallowing the last of her wine, she checked her flowers. I can do this. Following the bride down the aisle and the ceremony didn’t require a lot of work. The bossier bridesmaids made sure they jumped in first. Michael looked dashing in his suit and blue tie standing with the other groomsmen. His short brown hair was perfectly in place and his square jaw was shaven, making him look younger. *** The ceremony is over. The bride and groom headed down the aisle followed by the party. Michael stepped forward holding out his arm. Alisha’s eyes met his as she stepped alongside taking hold of his arm. They stepped in unison out onto the lawn. But there was no time for a break as the wedding party gathered for photos in the church gardens. A wide array of photos, bridal party, grooms party, everyone together and one a bridesmaid paired with a groomsman. Alisha stood quietly looking back at the camera, holding her flowers in hand. Michael was beside her with his arm behind her back. “Get closer,” the photographer said, “And smile.” Michael slid his hand around her waist drawing her nearer as she placed her arm behind him. Being this close to him she was drawn to his cologne, it was subtle and alluring. “Last one,” the photographer called out. Looking back at the camera she smiled, the camera flashed as Michael’s warm lips touched her cheek. Her heart skipped a beat. Did he just kiss me? Crap. Her eyes glanced back at the bridal party. There were a couple of wide eyes. Tracey was looking the other way. She will be surprised when the photos come out. “Next couple.” Alisha turned around and headed off behind the group. Michael followed close behind. Sitting quietly in the shadows she watched the rest of the photos. He returned handing her a bottle of cold water. The photos were over, and the dinner started in one hour. Michael opened the limo door for her. There were only two of them for the trip to the hotel. Buckled up beside her, he handed her a glass of champagne. “What was with the last picture?” she asked. “I was communicating.” He replied with a warm smile. “Communicating?” “It’s a wedding, we are supposed to share their love,” Michael took a sip of wine, his eyes staring back over the glass. “I wasn’t getting much love from Tracey.” He moved closer, “Ignore her. We are going to have fun tonight.” *** Dinner was over, and the speeches were done. Alisha spent the night focusing on the guests or listening to Michael, trying everything to ignore Tracey’s daggers. It was that time of night when the bride and groom were called to the dance floor. Michael rose holding out his hand. Arm-in-arm dancing was not as stressful this time around. As the evening went on, he leaned over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear, “Want to catch up for dinner when we get home?” A date. “That would be nice.” His gaze was strong as he spun her around before pulling her body close to his. Slowly shuffling to a love ballad, everyone around her disappeared from view as he moved in closer. She closed her eyes as his soft lips met hers. The End


Everything happened in a flash. I was just about to go to sleep when I heard the telephone ring. I used a rotary dial phone, which meant that I won't know who’s calling me. I walked over to the phone and held it up to my ear. "Hello?," I answered. "Hello. This is the Glasscam Police Department. I am the sheriff of this town. You have been convicted of the murder of a person named Paul Smith, who was killed this night. I have sent a few officers to escort you to the department," the sheriff replied. "E-- Excuse me, but I-- I haven't done anything w-- wrong.", I replied, stammering. "I was in my home during the evening". "Yeah right, tell that to the judge kid," he said in a sarcastic tone. A knock on the door was heard a few moments later. As I opened the door, a swarm of officers piled into the room, some with guns facing at me. One of them, who I assumed was the chief of police, got a pair of handcuffs and tied them around my wrists. "You have the right to remain silent," said the chief. I tried telling him that I was innocent, but he said the same words that the sheriff said. "What a coincidence," I thought to myself as I was being taken to the backseat of the police car. I don't remember much after that. While I was in the car, I kept arguing that I was innocent, but the officers ignored me. My height and weight were taken after I got to the station, and I was placed in a small cell. It wasn't cozy at all, just the life essentials were there; a bed, sink, and toilet. I was too weak and tired to stand, so I started to lie on the bed, starting to drift into my sleep. I woke up to the sound of an officer opening my cell. I got up and was put in handcuffs again. He told me I was going to a trial. I had no lawyer, so they just gave me one. From the looks of the lawyer's crinkled and dirty tie, his wild hair, and slightly broken glasses, I could tell I was going to lose in this trial. A few minutes later, a car came and I was taken into the backseat. What felt like hours later, I was in front of the judge, who would decide my fate. Looking at the spectators, I saw a group of people in tears. I assumed they were the victim's parents. They saw me looking in their direction. They scowled at me and turned their heads in disgust. I couldn't take it. For all my life I have never made any mistakes, so it would be unreasonable if I was accused of murder. Thinking about this made my head spin. After my testimony and the lawyer's argument with the victim's family's lawyer, it was time for the jury to decide. A few minutes later, the judge said the final statement of the trial. I only remembered a little bit. "The accused, James Johnson... proven guilty... with no chance of parole... no chance of bail... can only be released until further evidence is discovered...oh this mumbo jumbo is gonna take forever, let's get to the point... James Johnson... will serve a life sentence". Then, the gavel was heard. "Snug fit?," the officers joked when I finished switching my shirt and pants to the ugly, bright orange prison uniforms. Cell number 13 was where I was headed. "Just when I thought I had the chance to be released, the number 13 blocks the tunnel of hope!" I thought to myself in a saddened tone. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, especially my friends, family, and the victim's family. But now, that chance was disappearing every second I was in this building. My family came to visit every so often. Mother and my 23-year-old brother came to visit me every day. Father died when I was 12; a few years after my brother was born. Mother always told me that I was going to be proven innocent. Greg, my brother, told me that he will find evidence to get me out. I chuckled. Everyone knows that Greg hated using his brain for education purposes, but this time, he had some hope in his eyes, which I never noticed before. Being beaten up by other prisoners took some time being used to. The food there was the worst. I couldn't be somewhere without at least one person watching me, but most of the time it was the prisoners, looking for a fight. One day, I couldn't take it anymore. That day when my family visited, I asked them that I didn't like staying here anymore. "Just a little while longer," Mother said with hope. I stared at my brother, wondering what Mother said. "Question: Good news or Bad news," Greg asked. "Ummmm, why?" I replied. "Just answer the question," he said in an impatient tone. "Ok ok, calm down," I said. "Bad news". "I found a lead that might prove you innocent, but I hit a dead-end," he said in a sad voice while lowering his head in shame. "But the good news is I broke through the dead end and found some evidence!" he exclaimed, his head now up again. I was in shock. Without controlling it, I smiled. It was so goofy that Mother started to laugh but in a hushed voice. My brother tried holding his laugh in, but he couldn't stop the burst that almost made him fall off his chair. "Your court trial will begin tomorrow," he said. For the rest of the day, the thought of leaving this place made my heart feel warm. The day passed by without me even knowing it. Before sleeping, the thought struck me. "What if the evidence doesn't work, or-- or the evidence proves me guilty again," I thought before drifting to sleep. The next morning, I got up in a hopeful mood. The trial begins in about an hour. I quickly got ready and was taken into the court. I saw Mother, Greg, and the victim's family there. The victim's family was in a sour mood. I guess they were angry because, in their point of view, the murderer of their son was going to testify again, saying that he was innocent after being proven guilty. When Greg's evidence was in the spotlight I thought that this might actually work. It showed that I was in my house the whole time during the murder. It showed what I did on that device during that time, which was mostly binge-watching a series. After the evidence was shown, the jury made their decision and passed it to the judge. The judge read it out loud. "The accused, James Johnson... had previously been proven guilty... had no chance of parole... no chance of bail... and could only be released until further evidence is discovered... but now the evidence has been found... the jury and I have reviewed it... the conclusion was made... the decision is...," exclaimed the judge in a very dramatic and suspenseful moment, "James Johnson is innocent!". I was happier than ever but didn't make any goofy grins this time. The victim's family nodded in sorrow and regret for making those rude faces at me. I was taken home where familiar noises from the house and street filled me up with adrenaline. I walked out of the house and sat on the porch when I saw my family driving their car into the driveway. They hugged me and sat on the porch. We laughed and talked together as if nothing had happened. While enjoying ourselves, I started to ponder. "What will I do next?".


There is a moment in every college party where the designated driver deeply regrets her decision. That moment, for me, had been precisely the moment we’d arrived, and every moment following. I understood the lure of house parties. Being social is a known human need, so that part wasn’t my issue. Neither was the alcohol, a staple of a traditional college diet. For me, that night, it was the location. Why would anybody want to have a “house” party in a garage, twenty miles south of the actual college, where the only heat sources were a giant electric heater mounted to the ceiling, and a bonfire twenty yards from the building? The decorations were a bonus, I supposed. Halloween always delivered on the decorations. The twenty foot tall skeleton, posed to appear as if it were propping open the garage door, and the glowing googly eyes taped to the tractors--now that was fun. The mountain of horse shit (excuse me, fertilizer) behind the garage? Not so much. And the fact that my ride, my older sister Rachelle, was not at all interested in leaving for at least another couple hours? Also not ideal. The most not ideal , though, was the fact that Elias from Accounting (his name in my phone) was here, in costume, with a date named Maribel. Maribel was not only dressed as the sexiest Albert Einstein I’d ever seen, but she was also nice to me. She’d offered us a drink when we’d arrived, having recognized Rachelle from work (or yoga, or class). Maybe that was the precise moment I had regretted my designated driver status--not because I desperately wanted a drink to deal with her (she, like her date, was frustratingly pleasant), but because Elias had the audacity to high five me for it after giving us an enthusiastic introduction. “Maya, this is Maribel! Maribel, this is Maya, from my Accounting class.” “Of course,” she said, ever-so-relaxed, before asking Rachelle something I didn’t bother to listen to. I would have to deal with the burning hypersensitivity of my hand for the rest of the night, because it had been so graced with the touch of his own. Pathetic, is what this house party felt like. By house party, I meant me. I felt pathetic--pathetically, unrequitedly infatuated. It was a familiar feeling, as I’d been feeling it increasingly often since having met him at the beginning of the semester. We shared a class, and I’d made the simultaneously excellent and miserable decision of befriending him on the second day. My intentions had been purely academic, and they had quickly transformed to impurely unacademic once we’d spent more than five minutes in a room together. There was a commotion out in the field, and I took the opportunity to escape under the guise of investigation. Rachelle’s and Maribel’s voices faded at my retreat, and I was just breathing in a sigh of relief when I felt a hand press against my lower back. “Watch out, there’s cow patties everywhere.” “What?” “Cow poop. It’s everywhere beyond the gate, apparently.” My eyes drifted past the dim, fluorescent glow of garage lights to the green gate before us. It was chained to one side, open, this part of the field cleared of cattle. There was a small group of shadows farther out, all hovering around a ring of firecrackers. “They’re flammable, you know.” “The cow patties, or the firecrackers?” “The, uh, cow patties.” My face felt flammable, my cheeks ablaze with a blush. Finally, Elias and I were talking about something other than the difference between variable and operational expenses and how our weekends had been, and I was literally talking shit. “My sister and I used to roast marshmallows over the dried ones at our Grandma’s farm when we were little.” He smiled, striking a contrast with his furrowed, concerned brow. “Wouldn’t that affect the taste?” “You know, I never noticed a difference. But I don’t think I’ll do it again, now that you mention it.” His laughter came out in a surprised burst, egging me on. “No? That’s too bad, I think there’s some marshmallows back there by the pretzels.” “By all means, go ahead. I’ll support you from afar. I can practically smell the poop smoke now.” “Nah, it’s just the firecrackers.” Slyly, I added, “I don’t think Maribel would appreciate burning-shit-s’mores-breath.” “I don’t think she would appreciate my breath anywhere near her face, regardless of the smell.” “I thought she was your date?” “In words, is all. We work together, and when she found out I had the official social media event invite, she asked if I wanted to carpool after work. I doubt I’ll even see her much for the rest of the night.” “So... not a date-date?” “Not a--” There was a flurry of firecrackers, followed by a loud pop from the field. Fireworks. Smoke began to pump steadily into the air, spreading across the fields in a heavy haze. At first, I thought it was beautiful--flashes of green and white and orange reflecting off the windshields of the tractors. BOOM. The flash was blinding this time, the ground shook, and a wave of heat blew my hair back. It sounded like things were falling to the ground. Then came the screaming. “Something’s wrong,” I said, turning to Elias--only, he was no longer standing beside me. Instead, he laid crumpled on the ground further back, curled on his side with his legs tucked awkwardly to his stomach. I heard a pained groan that broke through in the gaps of screaming. “ FIRE!” It seemed to be spreading exponentially fast, the dry fields kindling to the blaze. As it grew brighter, the smoke billowed out in big, thick whorls. Still, Elias hadn’t moved. “Come on!” I shrieked, and dropped to his side. Roughly, I rolled him over, needing to look at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn tight with pain. “Elias, the fire--we need to go!” He nodded almost imperceptibly and unfurled, groaning with every movement. A dry, wracking cough tried to erupt from my chest. It was almost as bright as it had been at sunset, the firelight refracting in the smoke. It made it easier to see his grimace as he said, “I can’t.” “You have to!” I yanked up on his arms, and though he stood, he seemed incredibly off balance. I ran, trying to drag him after me, but he quickly stumbled and fell again to the ground. One of his legs was jutting out slightly, at an unnatural angle. “Something hit me--a barrel, something--I can’t run on it. My leg--I think it’s broken. It’s broken.” His voice cracked, a hammer to my heart. With a surge of adrenaline, I pulled him up again and threw his arm around my shoulders, taking as much of his weight as I could. We trudged towards where I imagined the cars were parked, away from the blaze. One of the screams sounded familiar now, more like a word than an expression of pure terror. I heard it again, and took a shaky breath. Rachelle was looking for me. She would wait, I knew she would--but how long did we have? The wind was kicking up, flinging embers into my hair. My eyes burned. My lungs ached. My legs began to shudder with each step as Elias grimaced and gasped. “You could’ve just left me,” he hissed as we stepped down into a ditch, another burst of heat rushing over our heads. “And feed your--” I took a shallow breath, followed by a cough. “Toxic masculinity by allowing you to fulfill a dream of--" Another cough, and a grimacing jostle as I readjusted his weight on my shoulder. “--Needless self-sacrifice camouflaged as heroics? I could never.” There, just on the other side of the road, headlights pointed straight at us, was my car. As we approached, I saw the pinched face of Rachelle materialize through the haze. Her head was frantically turning side to side, sweeping the faces of stragglers that had emerged from the smoke. There were no footsteps behind us, no more screams. Only the silence of terror. I cried out, and at last, we met eyes, and she rushed forward to help Elias in the car. My knuckles were white on the wheel from squeezing so hard to stop their shaking, and there was a stubborn scratchiness in my throat and itchiness in my eyes, but we were safe. Mostly. Other party goers had stopped a distance down the road, watching through their windows with phones to their ears and sobered, shocked faces. I thought I even saw Maribel in one, her white wig tinted gray. The rest of the ride to the hospital passed in a blur, except for one bit in the middle, when Elias asked in a dazed voice, “Why could you never?” “Of course I saved you. I like you,” I blurted, no emotional energy left to bother with being self-conscious. “Well, I liked you, too." Was that a grimace, or a grin? Glancing in the rearview mirror, I couldn't tell. "And, now? I definitely more than like you, Maya from Accounting.”


Short story, memoir. (My first one!) “HIM” Those 80s high school dances will forever be etched in my memory. Whenever I reminisce about those dances, my mind immediately wanders to a particular guy that I had an enormous crush on. Although HE didn't know me, I couldn't help but admire HIM and eagerly anticipate seeing HIM at every dance. HE was tall and athletic, with strikingly blond layered hair combed to the side that seemed to catch the lights in a way that made it shimmer and shine. HIS blue eyes were piercing, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my chest whenever I caught a glimpse of HIM. I was too intimidated to even approach HIM. After high school, I attended some classes at a local junior college, and one day, my heart skipped a beat when I saw HIM walk into one of my classes - we were both enrolled! HE exuded an effortless coolness as HE leaned back in HIS chair at the back of the room, HIS long and muscular legs stretched out in faded denim jeans. However, HE still remained oblivious to my existence. A year later, I transferred to a state college, and fate intervened when I ran into HIM at a bar with HIS friends while hanging out with my roommates. I couldn't believe it - we had met again! This time, I mustered the courage to introduce myself to HIM and strike up a conversation. It felt like we hit it off, bonding over our shared hometown and high school experiences. I felt breathless as I gazed into HIS icy blue round eyes, which seemed to pierce through me with their intensity. The contrast between HIS sharp, angular jawline and the softness of HIS eyes made HIM all the more striking. I couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to talk to HIM. We laughed and joked, and talked for hours. It was a feeling of pure connection that I had never experienced before. And as the night wore on, I found myself growing more and more comfortable in HIS presence, grateful for another chance encounter that had brought us together. Later that night, HE and HIS friends came over to our apartment, and I was excited to spend more time with HIM and get to know HIM better. Maybe this was fate finally working in my favor, I thought. Unfortunately, their visit was cut short when one of HIS friends had to abruptly leave, and HE left after him into the parking lot. "I'm sure HE will be back," I told myself. Suddenly, I heard some commotion outside my kitchen window and discovered HE and HIS friends stealing our mini grill and other items off of our patio while laughing arrogantly. Minutes later, when I went to our bathroom, I discovered that HE had rifled through our vanity and taken my watch and other valuables. It was a bitter realization that someone I had longed for and dreamed of was nothing more than a callous jerk. MY memories of him surface from time to time, but I learned that sometimes the person we've been longing for turns out to be the last one we should have been chasing.


Mrs. Watts settled into her desk chair and breathed in the cold air, smiling. The house was one very large room, really; her desk sat against the wall next to the couches in the living room. The kitchen was in one corner, and the bedroom in another. It all felt so cozy to her, especially with a mug of coffee in one hand, her writing pen in the other and a spectacular view of Earth spinning slowly in the window. “Perfect. Just perfect,” she murmured. She took a sip of her coffee, thankful they'd found a way to make houses with Earth's gravity. Mr. Watts suddenly burst through the door carrying two bulky shopping bags. He unzipped his suit and hung his helmet on the hook by the door before stomping over to the kitchen and tossing the bags onto the counter. “Got the meals,” he grumbled. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Watts stiffly. “Anything for you, dear .” Mrs. Watts slammed her coffee down on the table, spilling it everywhere. Mr. Watts stalked over to the couches and sank into the large blue one by the bookshelf. He folded his arms moodily as Mrs. Watts snatched a paper towel off the kitchen counter to clean up the mess of coffee. “That’s enough !” snapped Mrs. Watts. “I’m sick of that tone!” “Well, I’m sick of a lot of things around here!” “Not this again!” said Mrs. Watts exasperatedly, throwing her hands up. “You agreed to this.” “I agreed to a new life, not this--this slow death .” “Millions of people would die to be here.” “And most of us would die to go back!” They stared at each other and narrowed their eyes. This was their third argument this week. Mrs. Watts jabbed a finger at her husband. “ You wanted to do this.” “Who wouldn’t?! Real estate on the moon? It’s all anyone would talk about. Never mind what it would actually be like!” “And what is that? Because I find it incredible.” “ You like it. You . You can hide yourself away all day and write your heart out, while I do what, exactly? Twiddle my thumbs? Tend to the moon rocks outside?” “You know full well that there are plenty of jobs up here. You’re just too busy complaining to apply.” “Because I don’t belong here! Where are the trees? Where are the hiking trails? What am I supposed to do as a park ranger ?” “The whole damn moon is a national park! Of all people, you should be thrilled to live here!” “I only agreed because you brought it up--" “Oh, so this is my fault? You agree to do this, and the whole thing is my fault?” “You were complaining about the city every day! We could have gone to the mountains, or the beaches, but you just had to go ahead and choose the moon !” They were both on their feet, shouting. Mrs. Watts blinked away tears; she hated that anger made her cry. “You know Sarah and Kit Wheaton, at the end of the block?” said Mr. Watts fiercely. “They’re going back at the end of the week. And the Fredericksons have had their space shuttle booked for a month.” Mrs. Watts slid back into her chair and pressed her hand against her forehead. She took a deep breath. “It’s just...it’s perfect here,” she said wearily. “It’s quiet enough that I can concentrate, and beautiful enough that I’m always inspired. It’s a writer’s dream.” Mr. Watts sighed and fell into the blue couch again. “I know. I know, I really do. It’s just...a bit much.” “What are we supposed to do? We just got here. Why can’t you give it some more time?” “I’ve given it six months! Is that not enough?” Their voices were beginning to rise again. Mrs. Watts opened her mouth to angrily retort and then quickly snapped it shut. She didn’t want to shout anymore. “Fine. Say that we don’t move, yet. What would make this better for you?” Mr. Watts looked at her and raised is eyebrow. “Humor me,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe...maybe being able to go for a normal hike again,” said Mr. Watts. Mrs. Watts jumped up to the kitchen table where she’d put the stack of mail that morning. She rifled through the letters until she came across a small pamphlet, which she tossed to her husband. “There. The new initiative by the Council: gravity suits that mimic Earth's gravity. So we don’t have to bounce around when we leave the house.” Mr. Watts looked impressed as he examined the pamphlet. “That’s quite a feat.” “What else?” pressed Mrs. Watts. “Um--I miss food. Real food, like the lemons and avocados that used to grow in our yard back on Earth....” Their shopping bags were full of the freeze-dried meals that Moon Residents ate for every meal. Mrs. Watts nodded toward the window in the kitchen, the one that faced the sun most of the day. Mr. Watts glanced over and widened his eyes. He hadn’t noticed when he’d first stomped in. There, on the windowsill, was a clear container lined with small pots filled with dirt and skinny green tubes. “Supply shuttles brought them in this morning. It’s not much--it’ll still be a while until the farms are fully functioning, they keep running into problems--but it’s a start. Green onions.” Mr. Watts stared at the green onions in wonder. “That’s...that's a surprise, I have to say.” “They call it ‘miniature farming.’” They sat in silence for a moment, not meeting each other’s eyes. “It’ll get better,” said Mrs. Watts finally. “It’ll take time, but I promise. Little steps at a time.” “Sometimes the little steps are the hardest to take,” said Mr. Watts quietly. “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Watts. “I should have thought this through more.” “I’m sorry, too,” said Mr. Watts. “I should have been more open and honest.” “So, what do we do now?” asked Mrs. Watts, rubbing her arms. Mr. Watts picked up the blanket draping over the back of the couch and walked over to his wife. He gently laid the blanket around her shoulders, and she reached up to squeeze his hand in thanks. “I guess...we keep talking."


One of 100 2 minute Myths I'm in the process of writing here  The men from Branch were high-waisted and took naturally to line dancing. They got their unique physiques from traversing bogs, looking for berries their wives turned into sweet jams that slept in their bones while they fished. And one of their own, Nefarious Power, had spent five years on the professional line dancing circuit up along before the pull of the tides got too strong and he retired. Drawn there by the gentle gravity of his own fate, he’d originally gone to look for work, but was soon recruited by one of the teams and quickly became an all-star. When he retired, Nef was so sick of dry land, the first thing he did was spend a year circumnavigating the globe in an all electric sailboat called *The Some Shocking Good.* After that he built a house with a garage big enough to hold, ski-doos, ATVs and all the other toys a bayman dreams of after he drinks too much Lambs and Coke. But they quickly lost their appeal and soon sat unused, like some people’s common sense, as deep within his heart Nef still longed for line dancing. So, on a beige Tuesday morning in June, he marched himself down to the post office and stuck a note on the bulletin board asking if there were any men in town interested in starting a recreational line dancing league. Within three hours he had enough names to call the school and reserve the gym every Saturday from four to eight. The talent was immediate, especially notable was a young 19 year old named Jobadiah Nash, who could dance any position in the line with ease and a smile that whispered, I’ll see you later if I’m still alive. When Forthright Johnson, the CEO of the largest line dancing talent agency in Texas saw a shaky online video of the teams competing, it was so moving he called everyone he’d ever done wrong and begged forgiveness. Then he sent his private jet up to the island and it returned, laden with 14 fishermen who would compete as a two row, line dancing team in a semi-pro league out of Houston. Because of the advantage their high waists gave them in performing both kicks and pirouettes, they soon became the toast of Texas. Lavished with prize money, adoration and cowboy boots, the men quickly took to drinking and carousing in the local bars until the wee hours, before they staggered back to their hotel and dreamed that they were home. Young Jobadiah Nash, who cursed the air blue when he found out the drinking age was 21 in Houston, was the most unhappy, and even the drinks snuck up to his room did little to dull the distance he felt in his heart. But, even hungover and homesick, the fishermen could out-dance the best of the locals with ease, and soon resentment began to simmer on the surface of the days when they performed. After they showed up to one competition, reeking of rum and nostalgia, but still won handily, the editors at the Houston Chronicle had had enough. The very next issue displayed a front page picture of the team drinking at Shoeshine Charley’s Big Top Lounge, with a headline that screamed, *High-Waisted or High and Wasted?* Nef Power was crushed, as he knew it was his fault the men had wandered so far from the homemade bread and jam they craved in their sleep, so he went to see Forthright Johnson to discuss an exit plan. Forthright immediately offered to double their wages, as he couldn’t imagine letting the team, who moved like their feet fed on the floor, just waltz away, but to no avail. Nef explained that the men were thirsty for the ocean and that that thirst could not be quenched with all the bourbon and beer in Texas. Then Forthright threatened legal action, but Nef would not relent even though he, like everyone, knew how vicious the line dancing gangs in Texas prisons were. After seven hours of heated arguments and coy maneuvering, Forthright reached into a desk drawer where he kept his happy endings and suggested a contract for one show the third Tuesday of each month. Nef, after bouncing it off the others, agreed and the men were soon home again, stuffing themselves on sweet jams and salt breezes. As per the contract, once a month Forthright Johnson sent his private jet up to the island and the 14 line dancing fishermen would head back to Houston. And there, in an always sold out Astrodome in front of 66,000 adoring fans, the bright lights of Texas would shine down on those high-waisted men from Branch.


Private Collins was just coming out of his tent when he saw a group of his fellow soldiers sitting close together, sharing some great news. Curiously he stepped towards the group. As soon as the others saw him, they rushed to their comrade’s side. Collins was confused, as for what could be worth such a fuss. “Collins,” one of them spoke up, seemingly distressed. “You’ve got to come.” “What is it?” “It’s Fletcher, they say he’s a deserter.” “He what?” Collins exclaimed starting to feel the same distress creep up on him. “Fletcher wouldn’t be able to desert the colours if his bloody life depended on it.” The soldier tried to joke. But the smile froze on his face, when he realised, they were telling the truth. “Where is he now?” Collins asked whilst his stomach sank deeper and deeper.  Collins found his friend confined to his tent and guarded by two soldiers from another regiment. Like stone, their faces showed no emotion as their eyes stared ahead. When Collins approached, they reacted by crossing their bayonets. “I just want to speak to him,” the Englishman pleaded. The guards exchanged a glance before replying. “Make it quick,” opening one of the tent’s flaps. Swiftly Collins went inside, finding his friend sitting on the ground. With his knees drawn to the chin, Fletcher was staring at the dirt in front of him. “Fletcher,” Collins uttered relieved upon seeing his friend unharmed. “What trouble did you get yourself into now?” In one motion Fletcher sprung up and clung to his friend. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered with dread. Collins could feel his friend’s body trembling, despite the other man’s efforts to hide it. “They are going to shot me, once the sun stands highest.” Fletcher’s revelation sent Collins’ own blood racing through his body. He looked his friend in the eye before using a demanding tone. “What happened,” but the stubborn fellow just shook his head and sat back down. With a sullen face he continued staring at nothing, waiting for his end. “What about general Green?” Collins tried to get some information from his friend. Fletcher only shook his head again. Fury rose inside Collins at his friend’s lack of will to survive. Without another word he went outside and towards general Green’s tent.  To his luck the general let him inside at once. The man in charge of their regiment was writing a letter when Collins entered. “In a moment,” he remarked without looking up. Laying down the feather he gestured Collins to speak. “Sir, it’s about Fletcher.” A shadow passed briefly over Collins’ superior’s face. “He is been accused of desertion by general Morgan and a sergeant who witnessed it.” Green said in a voice indicating his sincere condolences. “But sir,” Collins continued. “I know Fletcher. He would rather die than become a traitor.” “I believe you,” Green assured him. “But your word counts nothing against a general’s.” “Is there no way to at least lessen the sentence. A flogging.” Collins begged the man in front of him. “It is not in my power to change the sentence,” he replied sympathetically. Getting up from his desk he laid a hand on Collins’ shoulder. “Has anything happened that could have upset Morgan?” Collins remembered his friend’s silence at the topic of what had happened. “I don’t know, Fletcher won’t tell me. Would it make a difference?” “No,” seeing the despair in Collins eyes the general tried to comfort him. “I am sorry, those rules give rise to much suffering for good, honest men like you or Fletcher.” “I volunteer to execute him!” Collins said firmly, although he knew it wasn’t his place to decide that. “I am not going to sacrifice two good men in one day.” “I want to be there for him.” “Be there like the others,” Green dismissed the request and turned to go back to his desk. “I don’t want him to die, feeling like a traitor. I want him to know I am right there with him, until the end. Taking part in his suffering.” The general turned around and took a deep breath. With kindness and worry he looked at Collins. “You can not go back from this. You will kill your friend.” “It is my duty as his friend to share his pain. I will give him mercy, even if it’s not fair.” A hint of accusation had sneaked itself into Collins’ voice. But his superior ignored it. “Fairness is not a soldier’s concern, lad.” Green handed him a canteen, “take it. You both need it more than I do right now.”  Outside Collins looked up at the clear French sky. The sun was almost at its highest. Receiving entrance to his friend’s tent once again Collins sneaked inside. “You shouldn’t be here Collins. It’s almost time,” his friend uttered without moving his head. “Here,” Collins gave his friend the canteen which contained rum. Fletcher took a sip, and another when Collins urged him to go on. “I am not going to leave you, my friend.” Fletcher cast him a questioning look. Taking a deep breath Collins brazed himself for any reaction. “I am going to be part of the firing squad.” At once Fletcher got up, his eyes wide with an emotion Collins could not name. “What? You can’t be serious!” “You won’t change my mind in the last couple of minutes now. Might as well make peace with it.” Collins grinned at how his friend forgot to close his mouth at the reflection of his own stubbornness. None of them wanted to end their last conversation with a fight. Fletcher’s eyes beamed with guilt and gratitude, when he handed Collins the canteen. “You will need it when,” his words faltered. Collins hugged his friend one last time. “I will go with you to the end, mate.”  When it was time, Collins felt the pit in his stomach growing bigger with each step. Fletcher was about to be blindfolded when the two men said their silent goodbyes to each other. A thousand thoughts crossed Collins’ mind in the few seconds between blindfolding and firing. A hundred scenarios how he could try to escape with his friend. But he knew Fletcher was like him, a man of honour. Life might play dirty, but they would face it nonetheless. Collins had a duty to fulfil. And Fletcher would send him to hell if he would abandon it. The private made an effort to remember their best moments together. Remembered his friends smile when they had sat around the fire at night. Or their jokes, when they had marched together. When the order came, Collins pulled without hesitating. Solemnly he thought, how that half canteen of rum would be good company the coming night.


**Title - Stranger in the mist** Midnight bells rang. The clocktower stood tall, shining in the moonlight. The night-sky was clear, no clouds in sight, illuminated by a million tiny specks of light. A whispering chilled wind blew though the busy streets of the city. The noise lessened the further she ventured away from the center. Streets once illuminated dimmed as they reduced in numbers. Tall dark buildings popped into sight. Small dark alleyways at every corner bereft of moon and star light. She held strong. Brave as normal. She walked these streets daily following the end of her shift. Her steps silent as always. Her gaze widened, at attention of any danger. Her hand in her pocket, clutching a mace can. Tonight...tonight, felt different though. It thumped at the back of her mind. She reminded herself however that this was but a short trip. She only lived a few minutes from the buzzing city lights. She completed this route daily with little to no harm. The media though. The haunting media. Abduction this, killer that, plagued the networks. Views, she thought always. The more tragic a news piece, the more views. It only widened the fear for her. Her hands cupped the mace tighter at that thought. A street light flickered as she walked by it. A strange pillowey mist hugged the streets. A chill kissed the back of her neck. She stopped right in her tracks. Terror filled her mind. Her legs shaking. Her grasp growing weak. Her teeth clacked. She turned her head to look behind her, expecting her end. She was ready. With a wide swing, weakened grip, a fast momentum, a high pitched scream, she prepared herself to act defensively. Her eyes widened. Nothing. Only a flickering light, shining on a soft river of clouds floating just above the ground level. At speed, however, her mace can flung into the alleyway. Bizarrely, the road looked less illuminated as normal. The tall apartment buildings seemed darker. She momentarily paused. Contemplating its retrieval. Alarm bells rung in her head. She turned around and hastened her retreat to her abode. Unnoticed however, a shadowy figure stood. Watching her for a moment. They stood in the mist, appearing as if they were levitating. With a cold breath, they attempted to say “hold on.” The soundwave whispered onto the mist but fizzle away. She reached her apartment doorstep. The mist stronger than before. The illuminated sky dimmed abnormally. She huffed from the hasty pace. Her alertness was high. Her eyes looked for any sudden movement. She siphoned through her bag. A chime of keys clacker. She became relieved. She hurtled towards the front door. Her foot kicked an object at her door feet. A cling sound echoes in the silence. A mace can sat at her door. She let out another eep sound. Rushed though it and slammed it shut. She was staring through the pane of the door. She was very terrified. She heartbeat raced. Her legs clattered. Her hands shivered and sweated. Her eyes widened as she scanned the road. In the corner of the near alleyway, a dark figure vanished in a poof of smoke. Suddenly the blanket of mist, vanished. An air of calm travelled through her. She collapsed in the corridor inside. The exhaustion and terror dissipated as the rising sun meets the horizon. A yellowish orange hue adorned over the sky. Six AM bells echoed from the distant clocktower.


‘Is that the one that took mommy?’ Eszti nodded as she looked up. The sky carried the orange glow of dawn. ‘Yes, that’s what dad said.’ ‘It doesn’t look that dangerous at all,’ Dani whispered as he peeked at the tree that stood between patches of yellow grass, its roots surrounded by beer cans, cigarette buts, and empty crisp bags. ‘Then why don’t you go there alone? I can wait here.’ Eszti lifted her eyebrow as she looked at her little brother. Something she had seen her mother do long ago when she called them out on their lies. ‘No, you must go as well. You always act like the big one, but you’re just afraid. A stupid girl who can only clean, choose clothes and make things look pretty. You can’t do any of the real important stuff.’ Dani wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘I’m just trying to help out daddy.’ ‘No, you are just being nice to him so he won’t get angry because of all your bad grades.’ Eszti took a few deep breaths and play punched him on his shoulder. ‘Okay, I will help you, but you will have to carry the bag. It’s heavy. I don’t like carrying heavy stuff.’ Dani kneeled down and pushed his sister down as well. ‘We must be careful not to wake her up. If she sees you, she remembers you. She always does. And when she remembers you, she knows where to find you.’ Eszti took a good look at the tree. Its branches stretched out far apart, like every single one of them was a skeleton finger that lured innocent people from all directions. The trunk had black marks on it, as if people had tried to burn it. ‘Stop making up things, it’s just a tree,’ Eszti said as she reluctantly followed Dani who was already tiptoeing across the field, dragging the bag behind him. ‘It’s true. I saw her when mommy was sleeping all the time. I heard her footsteps outside their bedroom and her fingers screech over my window. When I looked through the crack between my curtains, I saw her standing there. She looked right inside. She had dark, red eyes and a hole in her stomach. That’s where she puts the children she steals, you know. I was lucky I could hide under the bed before she saw me.’ Eszti took a few steps and inspected the tree from all sides. A breeze was playing with the shiny crisp bags, making them tumble over the dried-out soil. She noticed a circle of rocks with charred blocks of wood in the middle. A cloud of ash twirled into the air. ‘Look,’ Dani called. She walked over. He was pointing at one of the branches. ‘There’s a robe there and it’s torn. That proves what I said. Somebody tried to tie her up so she wouldn’t be able to go out at night, but she just tore it apart and went anyway.’ He jumped and stretched his arm all the way up to touch the remains of the frayed rope. ‘I can’t reach it, it’s too high. Can you try it?’ Eszti shook her head and swallowed while staring at the branch. ‘I think it’s better to leave it alone,’ she said as she wandered closer. She found a tree hollow and put her hand inside. ‘Don’t do that! That’s where she puts the children she takes. She will pull you inside!’ Dani looked at her from a distance. His little fist clenching around the bag. ‘Now you have to stop being silly,’ Eszti said. ‘It’s true! An old lady whose children died was buried here. After she died, her ghost started to take mommies and steal their children. Tomi told me and his father is a policeman so he knows everything.’ Eszti turned around, smiled at him, and put her arm around his shoulder. ‘It’s a good thing we are early then. We still have all day until she wakes up and starts to hunt.’ Eszti remembered the final months. ‘Can you put Dani to bed? Maybe read him a story?’ She had looked up from her schoolbooks. ‘Can’t someone else do it? Every time it’s me and he never wants to go. I always have to read him a hundred stories before he finally goes to sleep.’ Her father walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorpost. His glasses on his forehead, his tie loosened. He rubbed his eyes. ‘You know I have to work Eszti.’ ‘How about mommy. She never does it anymore. All she does is sleep. Everyday! Nobody else is allowed to sleep that much. She does nothing around here!’ ‘Come, sit next to me on.’ Her father tapped on the seat next to him. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead. ‘You know why mommy is sleeping all the time, right?’ Eszti nodded. ‘Because she is very, super tired.’ Her father nodded. ‘Yes, but she is so tired for a reason. Sometimes when people are very sad, a big, black tree starts to grow in their stomach. When there’s enough sadness, it just grows and grows until the branches reach up to inside their heads where they catch all their happy thoughts. That’s when people forget all the nice things and become very tired. That’s what’s happening to mommy. The pills she takes are like tiny little people that try to cut the branches, so the happy thoughts can be released.’ Eszti curled up further into his lap and looked up at him. ‘But what happens if the little men can’t cut the branches?’ Her father closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know Eszti. I really don't know.’ She had been the only child at the funeral. ‘It’s best if we leave Dani at grandma’s. You know how his mind plays tricks on him when he sees things he can’t understand.’ As she looked into the coffin, she was not scared at all. Her mother looked pretty, better than she did when she was always sleeping. She wore a colorful dress, red lipstick and she even seemed to be smiling a bit. The only thing that startled Eszti was the weird bulge in her neck. ‘So...?’ Dani said as he wiped his nose and looked at the bag between them. ‘Yes, yes. You are right. Let’s do this.’ They squatted next to each other as Eszti undid the zipper to release the ax. The blade was covered in brown spots, the handle full of splinters. ‘You do it. You are the big, strong man. I’m just a dumb girl who can only clean stuff.’ Dani stood up straight and broadened his shoulders. ‘Yes, it’s better if I do it.’ Eszti smiled and stroked his hair. She followed the trail the ax was leaving as Dani dragged it through the dirt. ‘Do you think mommy would have left if the tree wouldn’t have taken her?’ Dani asked as he looked up. ‘Well, she was sleepy all the time.’ ‘Maybe the tree also did that to her.’ Eszti laid her hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Yes, probably.’ She shivered as the blade hit the wood and a loud crack sounded through the trunk and branches.


“Welcome! To THE CHAOS GATE!” Nick put on his best booming dramatic voice. His friends around the table stared at him. He ignored the mix of sarcastic and amused looks and continued. “After a long journey, you have finally reached the central chamber of the Temple of Goth-Shinu” Ben spoke under his breath “I stand by that being a such a weird name for a temple.” Nick paused his dramatic speech. “Listen, when you write the campaign, you can come up with the name of the freaking temple okay? I’m not good at naming things.” “Yea, we are aware” Jess mumbled in a sarcastic voice. “Hey!” She blurts out as Kevin gently nudges her shoulder as he gives her a knowing look. The table was silent for a brief moment before a knowing laugh spread around the group of friends. Kevin looked over to Nick “Okay Nick, please continue.” “Thank you.” Nick smiled and looked back at his DM notes. He had spent the last week writing this grand finale for his friends, and he was eager to see their reactions to what he had planned for them. “Okay. In front of you is a large open stone room, bridges connect the center of the room above a deep pit below. At the center of the four bridges is an elevated platform, upon which sits the source of the evil that has been plaguing the land. A large black portal, with purple streaks emanating from the -edges.” Nick imagined the entire room in his mind, he knew this world like the back of his hand, but he knew better than to describe each bit of stonework on and around the bride, even if he could see it all clearly in his head. Ben was the first to speak up. “Well, we made it this far, let’s shut this thing down and go home.” “Sounds good to me, let's do it!” Jess reached over to the table and began moving the small party token across the rudimentary map Kevin had drawn up. A devious grin spread across Nick’s face, pleased with how well he knew what his friends would do. This led to a look of concern that spread around the table. Jess was first to notice. “Oh crap. I know that look. We totally missed something.” Nick ignored her and continued his speech “As you cautiously work your way across the bridge and onto the central platform, a large bang echoes through the room. You look to see each of the four bridges explode into rubble that falls into the black pit.” Nick grabbed his pen and scribbled a few lines on the map to indicate the bridges being out. “Welp, on the bright side, those goblins we avoided earlier aren’t gonna be sneaking up on us now” Kevin consults the notepad on the table in front of him, then continues.” Okay, so if I remember right, the freaky wizard dude we met before we came in here said we would have to...” Ben stands up and cuts her off with the best dramatic voice and arm movements he could muster. “Enter the void and defeat the monster that lies beyond!” Ben smiled, satisfied with the drama while the rest of the table seemed to ignore his performance. He sat back down into his seat, unphased by the mediocre reception and continued. “Question- I know we are SUPPOSED to go in there and I’m sure there is some dramatic monster on the other end that Nick wants us to fight, but like, have we considered trying maybe, turning off the portal?” Nick looked at him blankly, “You could try, I guess. Uhhhh, each of you roll an arcana check.” He scribbles a few notes behind his DM screen as each of his friends consult their character sheets and roll their dice. One by one they speak out the results. “I got a 5.” Ben shrugs. “I put my stats more into strength anyway. Kevin?” “I think I need to get my lucky dice out for this.” Kevin takes the dice set from in front of him and opens the backpack hanging off the back of his chair. He reaches in, shuffles around and pulls out a set of smooth silver dice. He shuffles them in his hands before gently setting them on the table next to his character sheet, before carefully picking up the D20 and shaking it between his hands. “Okay, here we go, nat 20, nat 20, come on natural 20!” He throws the dice with a flair. Everyone watches them roll before quickly settling in the middle of the table. “A 6? Really! Ugh, and that’s only a 7 with my plus 1 to arcana.” Ben retrieves his dice and slouches back into his seat. “You guys are lucky I'm here; I have a plus 5 on my arcana stats.” Jess says confidently as she cracks her knuckles before throwing her own dice. “I got this.” The die rolls on the table, Jess looks at Nick and Ben confidently as the others watch as it rolls around on the table. Then the other three burst out in laughter. “What? “Jess looks down and is shocked to see a 1 showing face up on the table. She sighs. “Dang it. Of course, the one time I get a bad magic roll, at least it’s a plus 5” “Shouldn’t have wasted your luck on that merchant last session.” Kevin joked. Jess quickly shot back “I’ll have you know that roll saved you from getting scammed into a buying a stick that you thought was magic.” “Touché” Jess grabs a pretzel from the large bowl and takes a bite. Nick smiles before getting himself back into character. “You each examine the swirling portal in front of you. You all feel a dark power emanating from it, but none of you can think of any way to turn it off from this side.” “Okay, and just hear me out here. We each have ranged weapons, sooo -maybe before we go in and fight what is sure to be some big scary monster; we just, you know, shoot it from this end for a bit? Maybe we will land a few lucky hits?” Ben gets a proud look on his face while the rest of the friends just stare. “Hey, you have had dumber ideas, remember the bog witch?” Kevin joked. “We agreed to never talk about that again Kevin!” Ben and Kevin laugh, Jess and Nick roll their eyes. Nick waits for the laughter to die down before flipping around a few pages in his notes. “You know what? I’ll allow it. All of you Roll for initiative.” He writes some things down on his notepad and rolls some dice. Jess looks across the table and Ben. “Why do I feel like this is a bad idea?” Kevin just laughs. “Jess, we are shooting arrows into a mysterious black portal that is the source of all evil in this land.” He takes on a sarcastic tone. “What could possibly go wrong?” The friends look around at each other and roll their dice. Nick takes a deep breath and mutters to himself, “Here we go.” So I may have gotten really into D&D and decided to write about it.


The anger, the immense and pulsating feeling that comes with being angry. I don’t know if it’s because of my nature or simply because I exude a presence of being angry but here it is, in the most elegant of colors, prancing around as if it has no cares in the world, the wind from its dance whip stones and gravel in every direction with a ferocity so careless and calm. Yes, anger is alive, and it has no care in the world. You misconstrue yourself to think that anger in its essence is angry all the time, for it cannot be what it already is, water cannot be wet for it is the essence of wetness, therefore anger cannot be angry for it is the essence of anger. In my heart of hearts I knew this to be true but I couldn’t bring myself to understand why in the seven hells such a magnificent creature would be created for such a thing, and then I see myself in a glass reflection of thought coming to the understanding that we are all of something else, we all have a hidden being beneath our cages of bone and skin. I watched as anger continued to dance around the way, seemingly completely engulfed in the trance of the world itself, the dance was futile and carefree, whimsical, and unordinary. Anyone who didn’t have a shred of sense left would know what this was, but most still held onto their sanity for various reasons; be they in hopes to find true love, wealth, prestige, whatever the case the mass of individuals clutch tightly to their sanity, I am different. We are from a place far below, under everything you know to be true, under the world, under your feet, under it all. There is no way better to explain it but to say that I was not of this world and now I am, solemnly watching as anger stirs. You ask of my purpose, of my reasoning for being and I will tell you that it has no relevance to you or yourself, it is only I that needs to know what purpose I serve. Yet, if these are to be the days I live out in this realm of rock and wind then sharing my intentions may prove beneficial to my future endeavors. Where I am from they describe me as obtuse, the failure of an intellectual mind, the break in existence on the coldest of nights, and the deterioration of consciousness on the warmest of days. I am the eerie confusion that wrestles with men and women alike in an effort to subdue the mind and cause mass delusions, I am madness. And I am here to assist anger in bringing the world to its knees. We will mold ourselves together in the dance of our kind and become one to bring about a wealth of boundless destruction in our wake, and only our lack of imagination can be our downfall. Our first order of business is to expose this generation and future generations to the truth of what this world truly is, starting with a girl and an apple.


**WARNING SELF HARM TALK** Zylix wasn't a normal kid but who ever thinks they are? Without the average it's just a sea of average anyway since then the great will be normal. Zylix just liked getting through the day and waiting for Tristan, their best friend on the whole planet. Tristan came late at night, after the sun went down and those gorgeous stars started to twinkle. Zylix adored the stars, there were thousands of them but they were all so unique, so beautiful. Zylix could stare at the stars until the sun came again and still admired the view even as they faded away. Saying goodbye to the stars was one of the best parts of his day, only second to when Tristan came. It was starting to rain that night, a soft drip drop that pattered away but seemed so quiet, so peaceful. Usually Tristan would have come by now and the rain was so soft and gentle sounding that Zylix could not help it- he climbed out of his window and just sat there. The rain dripping down his face, a small smile filling his face. He always felt so peaceful in the rain, like that wind was his breath rushing in and out of him, like the rain was a comforting hug. It was everything and nothing all at once and felt so endless. Tap tap tap tap. Zylix's eyes shot wide open to find Tristan his best friend grinning down at him. " Tristan! You came!", Zylix shouted, blushing when he realized how childish he sounded but Tristan's grin only grew. " Hey Zy, whatcha up to? Sitting outside your window isn't a very good idea, you know. You'll catch a cold.", Tristan chuckled, shifting to sit beside Zylix. Zylix shifted, blushing furiously as his friend settled and draped an arm around his shoulder. " Hey Zy, look at that. Stars.", Tristan sighed, his smile fading a bit. " Yeah, aren't they beautiful?", Zylix shouted happily, already starting to spot the different constellations but forgetting them as soon as they counted them. They were too beautiful to force together like that anyway. " Shhh, hey Zy. I-I need to talk to you.", Tristan started, shifting nervously and he slowly drew his arm back from Zylix. Zylix tried to ignore the absence of Tristan's warmth as he curled his own arms around him, " Sure Tristan wassup?" He didn't turn to look at his best friend. He didn't see the look on his face, the strange mixture of happiness and pain. The way his hands were tightening on his legs, the little bites and dents his nails were making. He should have looked. He always swore he should have looked. He always does now. You never know how much a moment means until it's over. As if he could hear his future self, crying he twisted to see Tristan's eyes, the sadness settling in them. " Tristan?", Zylix asked quietly, confusion clouding his features as he tried to study his friend. " I gotta go away for a while Zy.", Tristan whispered, " I don't know when I'll be back." " What?", Zylix cried, twisting to sit on his heels, " Why? Why are you leaving? Was it something I did? Tristan?" " NO, nononono. It was not you Zy. I promise.", Tristan sighed, rubbing his face. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to be growing with every moment, " I just have to go and do something. For myself. I promise it's for the best Zy." " Well can't I go with you?", Zylix whispered, trying not to cry but he knew Tristan could see the tears glittering in his eyes. He always did. " No.", Tristan snapped. Zylix stared at Tristan, the change in tone shocking him. He'd never done that before. Tristan sighed, his face softening, " Look Zylix I won't lie to you. I'm going to check myself into a mental treatment facility." " A what?", Zylix shouted, his eyes widening in shock. Tristan winced, rubbing his neck as he whispered, " I need to go. For myself. I need to get better. I can't live like this." " Like what?" Tristan stared blankly at Zylix for a moment before numbly pulling up his sleeves. Zylix had no words. The lines etched into Tristan looked like a web, a tree, a net. It looked like Tristan had been drawing to draw something, whether it was to draw something out or to reveal something to himself Zylix didn't know. " Why would you do this Tristan?", Zylix whispered, gently curling his fingers around the back of Tristan's arm. " I-I... I don't know. I never know what I'm thinking when I do it. It happens and then that's it. I clean it up, bandage it and that's that but... it's not healthy. It's not good. I need, I need to get help before I do something bad.", Tristan sighed. Zylix stayed silent for a moment before curling his arms around Tristan's neck. He had no words but he knew Tristan understood. He'd always care for Tristan, no matter what. He'd wait for him to come back. " Hey Zy." " Yeah?" " Don't forget me." " Tristan, I never will. Come back to me ok?" " Course." They stayed silent for a few more minutes before Zylix twisted to sit next to Tristan, an arm draped over his shoulder still. " Are you ok?", Zylix whispered. " No, but I will be.", Tristan chuckled nervously, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. " Good. Then we can go on a proper date.", Zylix grumbled. Tristan's eyebrows just about leapt off his face, " What now?" Zylix chuckled, no longer staring at the stars in the sky, no this time he was going to look at the best version- his best friend. " You heard me Tristan. Owe me a proper one.", Zylix laughed. Tristan shook his head but a weary grin bloomed on his own face, " I really gotta get better now don't I?", Tristan laughed. " Yup, it gives you incentive to try your hardest. Don't forget you owe me that date when you get in there!", Zylix shouted again, before curling his arms back around Tristan's neck. " Ok,ok. I promise." Months later..... Tap tap tap tap.


Lightning stuck! Thunder boomed moments later! The birds scattered around, crying to the others. The air buzzed with energy as the battle begun! The I stopped writing. Writer’s block, fun. I tapped my pen against my notebook, which was sparkly and had a bunch of mythological creatures on it. At little childish for someone in their twenties, but I find it inspiring sometimes. Unfortunately, right now is not one of those times. I’m a hobby writer, my actual job is that I am an on-call CSI. Not the most well paying job and it gets traumatizing sometimes, but its a job I like. Ish. I’m going to do this for a few years until I can afford a Ph.D. and become a whole forensics scientist. Its a little different that the career choices my parents told me to follow, as all Indian parents do: doctor, engineer, lawyer, or businessman, but after they gradually understood. I groan in frustration. I can’t seem to figure out how to write this stupid battle scene. Its taken me weeks to even write one measly chapter. I used to be able to write like 2 chapters a day on WattPad. But then again, that was fan fiction that I’d stop writing once exams hit and I got writer’s block. To this day, I’ve never finished writing a book. That’s why I never took it up as a career. That and its not a steady job, unless you’re lucky enough to sign on with a publisher and end up on New York Time’s bestselling list. Or BookTok. I stand up and pace around my small living room. My cat meows loudly, probably thinking I’m the one with zoomies. She does that when I anxiously pace around like that. Suddenly my toe crashed into one of the table legs and I cried out. “I HATE EVERYTHING!” I plop back into my chair and put my head down. Why am I so frustrated? “Why do you hate everything?” A high pitched voice asked. My head jerked up. “Who said that?” I look around but nobody was there. I don’t have any roommates. “Me.” The voice said. I look down to find that my Ticonderoga Smart Mechanical Pencil standing up. I blink. Did I suddenly develop dementia? Am I hallucinating? I had a migraine earlier and took my migraine medication, is this a side effect? I stand up and back away. “Hey why are you backing up? I just asked you a simple question.” “No no, you’re a pencil, I’m hallucinating that you’re talking and standing and-” “Trust me, this is real, calm down, would you like to do a grounding exercise with me?” “Wha- no- I need to call my therapist or maybe 911-” then I remembered I stopped seeing my therapist because it got too expensive since she stopped accepting my insurance. I found out that the hard way when I was sent a bill for $1000. I had to donate plasma twice a week for a month to pay it. “Okay maybe not my therapist-” My cat, a ginger cat named Gingermelon, jumped up on to the table and pounced at the pencil. “Hey! Get off!” It cried. The pencil rolled off but I stepped forward and caught it. “Nice catch.” I stared at the talking pencil in my trembling hand. “If my cat attacked you because you were standing up... I guess I’m not hallucinating... unless I hallucinated Gingermelon attacking you.” “I can guarantee you I’m real. I know its crazy, but its true.” “I didn’t think a smart pencil means it could talk, not just automatically push out lead. How come you didn’t talk before? I bought you months ago.” “Oh well uh.. Let’s just say my spirit is here now.” “You’re a ghost?” “No-no ghosts aren’t real... Look I can’t explain a whole lot, just know I’m not an Earthly Spirit and I’m not a ghost. I like to find artists and talk to them. Your energy brought me here.” “My energy?” “Yes, well, you seem very anxious and frustrated.” “Right but I’m not an artist, I’m a CSI.” “You write, right? Writing is an art.” “Yeah.. well I don’t write a lot... I like to write as a hobby... I’ve never finished writing a book.” “Why do you think that is?” “Its never been the most important thing in my life. I love writing, I really do, but I get writer’s block and I find that I give up on a story, sometimes I go back to it, and then I remember I have to make actual money. My parents even said writing is a waste of time because it doesn’t help my career. Like in school and even in college, I was juggling assignments and extracurricular. Now I have my job, and sometimes I’ll side hustle so I can make a few extra bucks just to afford something nice or medical bills.” “That sounds stressful. What got you into writing?” “Hmm..” I sat on my sofa and put the pencil down on coffee table. “I was in elementary school. I just moved, and started writing about magical tales, involving me. I’d be a superhero or something. As I grew up, it became something to escape reality, like reading books. Only when I write, I felt like I could control the story. Especially when I got bullied.” “So maybe you wanted to control your own story, but since you couldn’t, you wrote stories. Perhaps with some version of yourself that was someone you wish you were and with a happier story?” “Yeah..” realization hit me. “I guess so. I could write myself as a cool, better looking version of myself. I once wrote about a spy who stopped a cyberattack. That was during a time where I got bad grades and my parents called my useless.” “Did you feel useless when they called you that?” “Yeah.. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right.” “And the spy in your story, they were probably very smart, and was praised by an authority figure after the spy stopped the attack, right?” “Spot on, pencil. What should I call you, by the way? I feel weird for calling you pencil.” “Umm..” the pencil wobbled a bit, as if to be thinking. “Call me Dixon, I guess. That’s the brand right?” “Yeah.. Okay well my name is Hemadri.” “Nice to meet you, Hemadri.” “Nice to meet you too.” “Lets get back to what your parents were saying about you.” “Oh.. we don’t have to go back to that...” “It sounds perhaps your parents hurt you a lot?” “Wha- yeah.. but aren’t you supposed to be helping me with my writer’s block? Not therapy me-” “You said you never finished writing a book. You also said your parents thought writing was a waste of time because it didn’t help your career.” “Yeah...” “Writing is not just a hobby for you, its a release, its a coping mechanism. You get to take control of the story, give it a whole universe of your design. That’s what art is, really, creating something from your own inspiration. It may not be as important in your life as your career but its something beautiful and important for your soul.” “Huh.” For a formerly inanimate object, Dixon is quite insightful. “Perhaps its time to look within yourself and think of writing as important. Now, you shouted something earlier, which is when I-I uh woke up.” Dixon hopped to the other end of the table pointed toward the dining table where I was writing. “Oh I stubbed my toe-” “There’s something more going on right? What in your life is stressing you out? I assume you were stressed out because of something in your life and you were writing.” “What- oh- well what adult in their twenties isn’t stressed. I got rent to pay- OH CRAP-” I flopped up and yanked my phone out of my pocket. “What happened?” I started tapping buttons. “My paycheck was delayed by a week, and I didn’t get a lot of hours this month, so I couldn’t pay rent earlier. In fact, I’ve been charged a late fee of $50 already. If I don’t pay in about 3 minutes, the landlord will add another late fee of $150. Plus electric bills-” “Did you tell the landlord about your situation?” “Yeah. And they said to try the Flex program next time. But that requires a credit score of 650. And mine is 522. Student loans man.. Ugh stupid internet.” My internet always chooses the worst time to slow down. “Wow.... I can see why its frustrating. Did your paycheck come in?” “Nope. Gotta overdraft.” I clicked pay and the rent was paid. I do not want to look at my bank account. “I’m going to have to skip milk in my coffee for the next few weeks. And maybe donate plasma again. So many bills ugh..." “That’s stressful.” “That’s reality. Which circles back to why I like writing new realities,” Gingermelon hopped on to my lap and started purring. I felt a little more calm. “I could write a world where landlords are more fair or where alien’s drop cookies at my doorstep because I helped them solve a problem or anything... I’m just so lost in life. I mean yeah I have a job and I repaired my relationship with my parents and my brother thinks I’m cool but I just.. I don’t know. I want to escape my reality.” “Why don’t you try writing again, but maybe this time think of your predicament, write it into your story metaphorically. And then get your main character out of this predicament.” “Why?” “Like you said, escape your reality. Write one where you fix the issues you’re facing. It might not be the answer to your problems, but you can get a break from it, even if its a short break.” “Hmm.. you’re right...” I got up, picking up Dixon and going back to the table where I was writing. I look at Dixon and smile. “I hope there’s no copay for this therapy session.”


The sword sat collecting dust and cobwebs in the corner of the dingy, dimly lit room. Its formerly ornate scabbard was chipped and cracked in places, from years of misuse and neglect. Layers of grime covered the sword’s once beautifully intricate pommel, the flickering firelight in the room now danced across its smudged, grimy surface. This was no longer a weapon of war, no longer a mighty instrument of justice and glory. Now it was nothing more than a forgotten remnant of a time gone by. The firelight cast its glow upon another forgotten object in the room, another tool of war, cast aside and left to decay in an empty derelict room of an equally abandoned house. The half illuminated figure was seated in a rotting wooden chair, sunken eyes reflecting the weak flame of his dying fire. The knight, like his sword, had lost the meaning of victory and valour to the passing of time. The howl of battle and carnage that had rang so readily in his ears before now echoed through his soul, when once the cry of conquest made his heart soar, the memory now brought only anguish. The war was in the past, but the battle continued to rage onward in the knight’s heart and mind. He had lost his family to the battle, victims to his unending despair. Never again would see them, for he had built a wall around his heart. A wall made from bricks of horror and carnage. His house, his castle, yet remained, but it was as broken as the spirit who dwelled within it. Its foundations were crumbling, and a single leaf might well bring the whole structure crashing down. The knight, once a mighty and noble warrior, the very picture of heroism; now he sat, a testament to the truth of war. His once broad shoulders, capable of bearing the weight of armour for days, now struggled to hold themselves up against the ragged clothes he draped over himself. His mighty arms were atrophied from disuse, and his legs couldn’t hold him for long. The fire flickered, but no spark reflected in the knight’s eyes. Soon he too would collapse, for his spirit had crumbled ages ago. He would collapse along with his empty and forgotten house, a tomb he had lived in since he had returned from the war. All that would remain is a sword collecting dust and cobwebs in the corner of the dingy dimly lit room.


"I pity you." The Hero said through the blood and ash. A half-delirious chuckle slipped from their lips, soft and melodious and just the tiniest bit unhinged. "Truly, I do." The Monster snarled in return, golden eyes alight with furious hatred. Its jagged maw released a guttural growl, sharp and deep and wrong in all the ways that matter. Like the world cried with every breath it took - became lesser with every second of its existence. **"Pity me?"** It sneered in contempt, obsidian fangs glinting wickedly like daggers made from deepest recesses of the blackest oceans - a void that devoured whatever it touched, light and all. **"You are broken, Hero! Forsaken and alone. Here you stand, without allies and without hope for victory. Fighting for people you do not know - for a cause born of naivete and self-deceit. Yet you dare pity me? You? Who raised their blade against fate? Who lies bloodied and beaten like swine?** A bark of laughter rose from the Monster's throat - a misshapen mold of a growl and a bellow that distorted the skies. It pounded its tail and fractured the mountains with its every corroding step. It spread its titanic wings and blackened the sky with its every deafening roar. It bared its cruel and blood-soaked maw in a vindictive grin and poisoned the air with its every rancid breath. **"Fool! I am the abyss! The oblivion! The endless night! I am inevitability. And you? You are a mere grain of sand hoping to dry the seas. A speck of cosmic dust seeking to devour a star. You are nothing."** Hoarfrost spread with its every word, biting and chilling ice that sapped the life of everything that it touched. The shadows seemed to beckon from its feet, stifling and tempting, and ah, would it not be so much better to simply lay down and rest? Would it not be easier to find peace with it all? Just let go. Let it all go and there would be no further suffering. But the Hero does not fall. The Hero does not submit. The shadows writhe and curl and lunge but their taint breaks under the Hero's steadfast form like waves parting before the cliff's edge. And as the darkness recoils, the Hero speaks again, "And that is why I pity you." The Hero stands - armored hands dragging like lead weights and strained muscles screaming in agony with every effort, yet they stand, regardless - and then smiled beautifully at the Monster. "You, the abyss, who knows of destruction and nothing of creation. You, the oblivion, who knows only solitude and nothing of existence. You, the endless night, who knows only of cold and nothing of warmth." The Hero leveled their sword at the beast's chest and granted it the sight of their derisive smirk. "You, the inevitability, who knows only of resignation and nothing of rebellion against the chains that bind you. I pity you. Born without choice. A slave to your own nature." The Monster snarled, caustic spit dripping from its pitch-black jaws. **"You are insane."** The Hero tilted their head and shrugged. "Heroes often are. We are a confusing bunch, no? Though at this very moment, I can assure you. I am the sanest I have ever been in all my life. There is nowhere in this realm that I would rather be than right at this very spot. The Hero spread their arm with a grand flourish and released a melodic laugh - warm and carelessly wondrous as a summer breeze. "Standing here, I have never before felt so alive." Two hands rose, gripped the pommel of a glowing blade. Light hummed steadily from its hallowed edge, glowing then dimming then glowing again like a heart of forged steel that had come to life. "So, I should thank you, beast. For this...this feeling is the finest gift anyone could have ever granted upon mine self. And I can only think of one suitable way to repay mine debt to thee." The Hero closed their eyes and began to pray. Not to any god. Not to any demon. This was not a prayer that would touch their unworthy ears. These words were only meant for those with the potential to be so much greater. "Hear my voice and acknowledge my call, my brothers and sisters! Let all of creation bear witness to our kin of flame!" The winds began to thunder furiously, carrying a valorous war cry to the corners of all of creation. It swirled and converged as if the very air was dancing to the Hero's orchestration. The light that had once been so dim became a beacon, piercing the veil of shadows that had fallen upon the land with its resplendence. Rays of luminescence crashed against the tide and began to push back. The Monster roared in outrage. Titanic claws called down curses that poisoned the Earth. Its voracious jaws raged and spewed spells that sundered the soul. Its wings swept forward a darkness that eclipsed the very stars. Yet the Hero stood against the tide - proud and stalwart in the eye of the growing storm - unbowed, unfaltering, and unforgiving. "Oh, divines above! Look down and tremble before your usurpers! Oh, mortals below! Awaken and rage against the Fates that imprison you!" The Hero's blade rose higher in a solemn salute, and Death wavered in fear. "Follow me unto the great beyond and bear witness to a miracle. Now and forevermore, let this moment be our song! A Gloria that will echo throughout all of time!" The blade was swung. And the world was bathed in radiant light.


(I haven't wrote any fiction in a LONG time, and this barely counts, as it took me 10 minutes and I don't know what to categorize it as. This is also my first attempt at this style. But regardless, here it is.) This page is blank. How is this so? You ask yourself. There is clearly writing on the paper. By the conventional denotation of the very word, this page cannot be blank. You ponder. You ponder deeply. You study this conundrum. Perhaps this single sheet of paper is simply a stand-in for your feelings, a medium for which to paint your deepest thoughts! It shall be the tome of knowledge over which you shall study. It will enable you to unlock the very meaning behind itself. No, no. This cannot be right. The very idea is profound. The page must have an author, you think. Whoever created this page gave it to you for a reason. It exists for you. This page exists to serve, it is the lantern you shall carry with you through your journey for meaning. You have been enabled to do something noble, you have been called to action! You quickly dismiss the idea. The page mocks you. It's meaning is somewhere, you know it. It's simply hiding from you. Yes, that is the key. It's some sort of cipher, of course! You must crack it's code to see the very meaning that lies within! Science is the hammer and chisel with which we will sculpt meaning from this page! This is futile. You cannot deduce any sort of code from this page. The truth is, dear reader, this page was simply a surrogate to distract you from your fears. It was an elaborate ruse, you see. The page, in fact, was not blank! You dug so deeply to find its meaning, to find its purpose. To find why you came to possess it originally! In truth this page is not anything more than a wrinkled, dirty piece of printer paper, measuring 8 inches wide and 11 and one half inches long. Yet you convinced yourself that there was more to it. It was a noble effort, I must admit. But in the end, your mortal quandary is insignificant, and does not concern me. It is time for us to depart. Return now to your own story. A blank page awaits your return.


It started at around 11pm; I was aimlessly looking through BBC iplayer contently browsing top gear, Sherlock etc looking for something to fill the volatile silence which consumed my bedroom. I bought my TV 4 months ago ish, off an ad on eBay, it was cheap for a smart tv. The remote isn’t the most amazing and the tv sometimes crashes which, as expected, comes with an older tv- but I don’t think this thing has come from the previous owner. It was a quiet night, the best way I can describe it as the quiet before a thunder storm, the gut wrenching quiet in which you know something is coming but you don’t know when, a foreboding sensation. All of a sudden my tv crashes, not exactly unheard of, I start to reboot it as usual and all comes as expected however I hear a tapping at the window, a patterned tapping which almost makes me jump out of bed- I am the sceptical type so my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. I turn the light on and wait for it to go, it did after maybe 20 seconds and I assured myself it was rain coming, the weather did say scattered showers and my window was shut, along with my blackout curtains. I shook it off and returned to my tv, turning on BBC iplayer when all of a sudden the screen becomes distorted, the suggestions all scattered in disfiguring pattern with the words taken from the top suggestion spotted amongst the random colouration of different shows, the words “seeing is deceiving” in red moving In an unusual way, almost as if the words were trying to escape whatever was holding them capture. As you can imagine, I was horrified and immediately tried turning off my tv, it wouldn’t budge, trying and trying again for a good minute, hearing my heartbeat course through my eardrums, until finally the tv turned off- I again, trying to reassure myself and keep that part of my mind from overthinking at bay I turned the tv on again, holding back my stomach from turning itself outwards it turns on as normal and I was happy again. I switched on an episode of top gear and it played as normal. Now I am an insomniac and I really struggle to go to sleep at night, I try to drown myself with boring stuff to help me sleep as part of my routine and at this point, maybe 11:30/11:45pm I was not tired, like, at all. Sitting bolt upright in bed I get the urge to go to sleep, which is unfamiliar, and if this happens I would usually thank the lord and try go to sleep but for some reason, my gut kept telling me not too, this time I listened to that but I just couldn’t help it and I shouldn’t have fallen asleep but I did, still completely upright in bed I passed out I don’t remember what time but god, god I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with the tv still playing. When I woke up, it was maybe 4am, still that quiet, still, humid darkness outside my bedroom that I had grown familiar with, I was confused and out of it and realised was still sitting upright (absolutely unheard of, I never sleep upright- not on planes, cars, chairs, anything) the glaze over my eyes started to fade and a horrible realisation came over my body and I started to tremble, my organs in my body swilling around in there like they were in a rollercoaster, instead of top gear still playing, there in my tv, was a face, staring at me. A face I can best describe as human, however the features were pervert and warped in a way a child would draw a human, not quite right but with the intention of looking like a human, it’s smile was too wide, blonde hair sprouting out like a scientist, glaring black eyes that were not level nor the same shape staring into mine, I knew it was looking at me, analysing me; with the same red words bouncing around the screen “seeing is deceiving” I leapt up and scrambled looking for the remote, bedsheets flying through the air, clothes going every way possible until I spotted it, underneath that window which made the tapping noise. All while that thing, that creature, analysing and evaluating me through the screen. I grabbed the remote, breathless and exhausted frantically turning the tv off. It is now 5:30am while I wright this, I haven’t turned my tv back on and I want to burn it. I don’t know what to do, that gut curdling feeling hasn’t left my system and my parents will look at me like my last brain cell has left if I try to explain to them what’s just happened. But for some reason, deep down, that thing wants me, I don’t know what for, but it wants me, and I feel like it’s already advanced; I just don’t know what into yet.